Everybody Loves Saturday Night

Did I scare you?

Thank you all for your insightful comments over the past two days. OK, maybe not insightful...but y'all did have me cracking up in my office at school yesterday.

One of my students referenced "The A-Team" yesterday, as we were brainstorming specific topics to explore in the general area of "violence in the media." He said, "What about the fact that none of the members of the A-Team ever got shot?" I busted a gut. God bless cable for ensuring that we will never forget such quality TV.

And speaking of cable...I may have to cave in and fork over the bucks within the next year, only to be able to watch The Daily Show's take on the 2004 election. Honestly, I can't think of anything else that will get me through that year.

I love Halloween. I'm a little miffed at not having a costume this year, although I may throw something together last minute before Mike & I head off to the Greenwich Village Parade. I could pencil in a unibrow and go as Frida Kahlo. Or Bert. It would be in keeping with the discussion of hair, wouldn't it? I haven't tweezed my eyebrows in years, but yesterday I looked in the mirror and realized that they're getting a little out of control. Not Peter Gallagher out of control (YES, I'm slumming in "The O.C."), but perhaps it is time for a tweeze or two. Thing is, I hate doing it. It stings. And I'm afraid of making my brows uneven. Aren't there devices one can purchase, outlines of brows or something, that help you make them come out symmetrical?

So much to say about hair.

My first Halloween costume was Snoopy. If I'm not mistaken, Snoopy was also my first stuffed animal, who wound up coming to college with me sans one eye and pretty badly roughed up, but is now sadly missing or thrown away or something. There's a picture somewhere at my mom's of the group of kids I went trick-or-treating with that year--all of us around the age of four, and most of the girls dressed up as princesses, with these really unhealthy-looking plastic princess face masks. Ah, the 70s.

I feel very random and scattered. It might have something to do with the 45 papers in my bag that need grading. I don't feel like doing them right now, but that pretty much derails my whole schedule for getting them done on time. What to do, what to do.

I hear Rosedale calling. I worked on it last night but it still looks pretty much the same, just a few rows longer. I'm three-quarters of the way through the initial decreases, and I decided to end the rectangle on the back earlier than the pattern calls for, because it was looking puffy and unneat, and the color contrast wasn't happening either. I may start it up again after a couple rows and try a different technique to make the rectangle lay flatter. But other Rosedalers--did you have that problem too? How did you work the rectangle in?

I'd been cruising around the knitting blogosphere, putting off writing my own entry, until I started babbling on Rachael's blog about leg hair blowin' in the wind. I realized I have quite a bit to say on the subject of "unsightly" hairs.

My ancestry is roughly half Polish (both my paternal grandparents) and half Russian/Eastern Bloc countries: Latvia, Lithuania, etc., etc. This means that when I reach a certain age the hair on the top of my head will be white (and trust me baby, we're gettin' there) but I will have no fewer than five thick, jet-black hairs growing out of my chin.

While I'm on the subject of chin hair--we all have this, right? Is there any woman out there in blogdom that doesn't have to, at least once in a while, pluck hairs from her chin? ARE YOU SURE?--I have taken to carrying an extra pair of tweezers around in my bag. The lighting in my apartment is not very good and I am too lazy to remedy the situation by installing a better system. My bathroom is particularly dark, which meant that I had to resort to the system of touch in order to find the little spiky hairs that needed removal. This was not ever high on my list of priorities. And then, one day, I went to the movies by myself. I don't remember what the movie was, but I do remember that I had a medium-sized soda and that after the movie I needed to pee. It wasn't like I was taking advantage of the grotesque fluorescent lighting to check my chin for unsightly hairs, it wasn't like I had planned to go look. No. I went to wash my hands and casually looked at myself in the mirror--yeah, so it wasn't like I was leaning in, as if I were applying makeup. I was at a reasonable distance from the mirror and I could see it from there. A wiry black hair about three-quarters of an inch long, growing from the middle bottom part of my chin. My own little emaciated Fu Manchu. I was mortified, and I still had a 20-minute, very public subway ride to go through to get home, which I did with my hand over my chin in the most unassuming "I'm not covering anything up, no, why do you ask?" way I could manage.

I realized on the way home that while my friends and I have certainly discussed the ick factor concerning chin hair (and its kissing cousin, boob hair...oh man, do I even want to go there?), we had never, not once, thought of giving each other a heads up if such hairs were spotted. I suppose this is because it's assumed that we take care of them on our own time. But I believe a good friend would do such a thing. Not out loud in public, not, say, in line for a Knitting Factory show or a movie theater or some place where other people would turn around and stare because your friend has announced the appearance of a single chin hair. A good friend would lean in and whisper something, either "you got another one of those hairs growing" or "you might wanna use the tweezers"...or you could even develop a hand signal (I remember discussing this with Col, but I can't remember what our signal is) so that words are not necessary. You should have this kind of understanding between you. And one of you should always carry the tweezers.

So now, fess up: how many of you read this while stroking your chin, feeling for hair?

When I am an old woman I shall cease to pluck. I have an image to live up to.

I once discovered a rather long and completely white hair growing out of the middle of my forehead. At first I thought it was lint, so I kept trying to flick it away, but it refused to be flicked. It was weird enough to think that I had lint on my forehead, but to realize that it was actually attached to my head was more than a little disturbing.

A gazillion bonus points if you can name that tune.

Mmmm...I got a cup of Calming Tea steeping and P-Funk in the rotation...life is good. I am going to give you the rundown of my day. It's not exciting, but many of you commented that the mundane would excite you, so I'm callin' yer bluff. And as I type, I shall inform you of the current song playing on my computer. I got about 40 hours of music on shuffle.

(the strains of "Aqua Boogie" fade out and Camper Van Beethoven's "Where the Hell is Bill?" comes on)

I wake up around 6:30 am, the way I usually do, with Scout walking all over me, purring and mewing for his breakfast. I think I only wrestled with him twice, as I was feeling particularly restful and alert. Feeding the cat has become more complicated than I would have ever thought possible. A year ago I walked into a pet store called "Whiskers," on 9th St between 2nd and 3rd (or 1st and 2nd? I forget). I'd passed by several times and was always intrigued because the place advertised itself as a "holistic pet care store." What did that mean? I wondered. [Pixies: "Gigantic" and I just took a mini break to leave a comment on Rachael's blog] Healing crystals and therapists? When I finally walked in I had a specific question in mind, because Scout's hair had been tufting and clumping and I was looking for a good brush. I wound up walking out with kitty vitamins and information on how to start him on a health food kick. Turns out that the best combination for cats--or, at least, tubsters like mine--is 75% soft food and 25% dry, all mixed together. I've since switched to a neighborhood pet store that carries similar healthy food for cats, but the routine involves me opening the can of soft food, spooning some out, then going to the tupperware for the dry food, spooning some of that out [Billy Bragg: "Ideology"] and mixing it all together...all the while Scout is demanding that I move faster.

I set up the coffeemaker for the coffee--also from a neighborhood store--by filling the carafe for 7 cups and filling the filter with 8 scoops of coffee grounds. Then, while waiting for the coffee to brew, I go to my office to write my morning pages. The pages done, coffee brewed, I go to get a cup...and by "cup" I mean one of those 20 oz. travel mugs one sees in gas stations. This one is indeed from a gas station--a BP, to be exact. I pour a little french vanilla flavored creamer in and walk back to my office to go online, check my email and read some blogs. [Departure Lounge: "Late Night Drive"] I used to spend two or three hours doing this, but now that I have teaching obligations I confine my blog reading to just while I am drinking my coffee. Sometimes I sneak another half cup in just to get more reading in. I leave a couple comments, nothing profound, just to check in or leave a pithy remark or sometimes just to shout an amen sister! I read the comments that have popped up on my blog overnight, like wooden shoes cobbled by elves. They make me giggle. They make me think, "hmmm...an entry on Romantic Poetry garnered a mere 3 comments. An entry about busting my kneecaps garnered 5. Hmmm." [Robyn Hitchcock: "The Green Boy"--that's appropriate, as Departure Lounge opened for RH a few years ago and that's how I found out about them]

My online business complete, I turn to the pressing business of the morning: creating the outline for my NJ students on how to tighten sentences by eliminating unnecessary words. Later I will talk with a sister adjunct about my aim in life to rid the world of "Because of the fact that" and "Another reason is because."

Then I shower. [Thingy: "Revolution in a Box"--I must stop to bounce] The water pressure almost makes it all the way through my shower. Y'know, I don't take very long in the shower. It's not asking much for the water pressure to stay good for the duration of my showering. [how appropriate: Badly Drawn Boy, "Pissing in the Wind"] I'm in the middle of shaving my legs when it happens. I've gone from shaving my legs every day to shaving about once a week, because I have a mere stand-up shower and shaving is a massive hassle these days. I really dislike my bathroom. I turn the shower off, finish shaving, then turn it back on and the pressure comes back. I wash my face and then rinse the conditioner out of my hair (another part of my routine: conditioner has a chance to work in if I leave it while shaving/washing my face).

As I pick out clothes, I realize that it really would have been a good idea to at least drop my laundry off yesterday.

[Mos Def: "Mathematics"]

I leave the apartment about 9:45 am, but get a block away before doubling back upon realizing that I've forgotten my ID. I don't need it every day at NJ, but I got paid on Friday and need the ID to pick up my check. I make it to the subway station just in time to watch a train leave. I go to sit on a bench and I pull out a sock to work on. A new, heretofore unmentioned sock, made from Regia 1956 received from Threadbear, destined for my uncle and his far more manageable size 9 feet. No, I haven't finished the size 11.5 socks.

The subway ride is uneventful, although I am pretty psyched to find a seat at 10 am in the morning. [Elvis Costello: "The Other Side of Summer"]. I get off at 6th Avenue, and walk up through the F/V platform to get to the 14th Street PATH stop. I have just missed my train to Jersey. Good thing another one is by in 5 minutes.

I'm getting a little tired of writing about the past using present tense.

I got to the university at 11:15 am, and walked up the three flights of stairs to the English Department office. Walking is not painful, and climbing up stairs is not painful. Walking down stairs, on the other hand, is a little hard on my bruised knees. Not sure why that is. I photocopied the unnecessary words handout, and then left to go pick up my check. Payroll informs me that they have decided not to hold the adjuncts' checks, but mail them out, although I am welcome to sign up for direct deposit. This is the fourth time Payroll has changed their policy about adjuncts' paychecks. At first, someone from the department was going to pick them up, and leave them in our mailboxes. [Rilo Kiley: "The Frug." YAY! This song makes me so happy] Then they decided that they were going to do that for everyone BUT the adjuncts (does that make sense to you?), but I could arrange to have mine held. Direct deposit was not an option. Then they said they weren't mailing them at all but holding them for all adjuncts. Then direct deposit became an option. I don't trust them enough to go with the direct deposit option at this point.

[Robyn Hitchcock: "Zipper in my Spine," live from some BBC thing]

Class was fine, I guess. I'm just torn at this point between really wanting to rally and get them to rally, and not so much giving in and giving up as just relieving myself of all responsibility for getting them through this test. It was a practice test day, and one student decided to go eat in the middle of the test. Seriously--she left the room and came back after 15 minutes. Then her cell phone rang--and she took the call. I stormed over and told her to hang up or leave for the day. She hung up. Turned back to the test, which was to identify the famous person they would want to be (I know, it's a total bonehead stupid question and a lot of them resisted it, which was exactly the point--I said repeatedly that it didn't matter who they chose because they would be tested on sentence structure and organization). This student decided to do some online research to fill in her paper and spent most of her time looking for song lyrics (her person: Celine Dion). Just...and the thing is, she came to me and asked if she was in good shape to pass the test. I am SO going to write on her paper, "You will not pass the test if you persist in treating these practice tests as optional, and do not put the time into them that you should." I honestly think that they honestly think that it's all going to somehow work out even if they don't put any effort into it. None of them wanted to be there today, I could tell.

The day was saved by [Badly Drawn Boy, again: "Disillusion"] the aforementioned sister adjunct, whom I met at the bus stop after class. We rode the bus to the PATH terminal and then rode the same train into Manhattan, commiserating about the university's bureaucratic apparati and our students' apathy and passive-aggressive challenges to our authority. We made plans to meet over the weekend for coffee and paper grading.

Then I came home, made a couple sandwiches for dinner, and sat down at the computer to read through more blogs while I ate. And then I made some tea and turned on some music and began to write about my day.

And as a bonus for making it through this far...

[King Missile: "Sensitive Artist," the song that inspired a Halloween costume my junior year of college. No one got it.]

[...followed by Beta Band's "Dry the Rain"...]

[...followed by Tenacious D's "The Best Song in the World"]

[...followed by Beck's "Soul Sucking Jerk"...can you tell I'm working on something here?]

[...followed by The Avalanches' "Frontier Psychologist"]

Scout seems to like Rosedale.



Since I just love the intarsia rectangle concept for this jacket and this yarn, here's another shot of it (them) so far, as the Beastie Boys bring us "Shadrach":

There are times when you regret not having a camera, like when it's late at night, and you're in bed, and your cat comes up to settle in for the night, and chooses your head for his bed.

Then there are the times when you pray to whomever or whatever you pray to that you're not being picked up by satellite.

Mike and I had gone to a relatively new neighborhood bar/restaurant for dinner last night, killing time before meeting Col for a movie in Manhattan. Dinner was good--I had a portobello sandwich with roasted red papers and mozzarella, very tasty, if a little on the pricey side. The beer was tasty as well.

On our way to the subway station we were engaging in that kind of flirtation that long-term relationship couples don't usually engage in, by which I mean we were acting pretty goofy, by which I mean I was acting pretty goofy, and doing the kind of stuff you usually do with your good friends with whom there is a sexual attraction that never gets acted on. Specifically, I was doing that thing where you swing your leg back and to the side to kick the other person in the butt. I should probably mention here that it's only been fairly recently that I figured out how to make my legs do that thing. I am not the most coordinated person.

And it wasn't the first time we've done that thing. In the past, there has been a clearly understood "I just had my turn, now you take yours" rotation of butt-kicking: step step butt-kick Mike, step step butt-kick Michelle, trash talk trash talk trash talk, step step butt-kick Mike (I always get the last word). Last night it went down a little differently. I swung my leg back as Mike swung his leg back. My leg got entangled in his leg. He managed to stay up. I fell down. In such a classic action movie style that it could have been choreographed and then shot in slo-mo, I fell down hard on both my knees. Ow. Owieowieowieowieowieowieowieowieowieowieowieowieow. Reason number 2 that I don't have any tattoos? My incredibly low threshold for pain. You'd think that after the number of times I have banged up my knees or elbows or hit my head getting out of cars that I wouldn't feel it as much anymore, but I do.

(Reason number 1 is that I can't think of anything I want to permanently ink on my body)

I tried to brush it off--I trip all the time, and most often over my own feet while I'm doing nothing more complicated than walking. If I fall, though, I usually fall on my butt, which has enough padding on it that it doesn't register as much as with my knees, which were throbbing and stinging at the same time. Ow ow ow ow ow. I got up slowly, nothing seemed broken, but I realized why on TV and movies you always see paramedics or doctors yelling at a crowd to get back and give the injured person room. It's because there's a palpable shortage of air once you go down like that. Mike leaned in to help but he was too close. I got a little dizzy but we made it to the subway station so I could sit down, all the while feeling incredibly foolish, while Mike felt absolutely awful.

Oopsie.

Both my knees were pretty swollen when we got back to the apartment after the movie (Intolerable Cruelty, a silly movie, very uneven and overall meh. Now that I've thought about it, it didn't feel like a Coen Bros. movie at all). No, I didn't ice them, even though I probably should have. Icing them would've required something actually touching them and I was having none of that. My legs are incredibly stiff today and they look pretty bruised up, but now I'm joking about Mike being a member of the Irish Poets' Mafia without telling me.

I have used this as an excuse to not leave the apartment today, but instead herald the return of Lazy Sunday. I've watched the second and third Indiana Jones movies (yup, still really dislike the second one) and part of the documentary "making of" feature on the bonus disc (touted as including OVER THREE HOURS of material...it's 187 minutes. Sometimes ya just gotta admire the chutzpah of marketing), while attaching Rosedale's sleeves to the body and beginning the raglan decreases. I keep thinking about Cari's struggle with her brother's monster sweater, how she kept decreasing and decreasing and decreasing but it never seemed to get any smaller, and that's kinda how I feel now. I worked on this sweater for over four hours today and it doesn't feel like I've made any progress. Maybe by the end of the night. It's not like I'm giving up or anything. I'm just getting impatient to wear it!

First, a close-up of the corrugated ribbing on the body. As you can see, I went a different way than on the sleeves. I wanted to use the teal for the knit stitches and the burgundy for the purled to start with, but then the teal only lasted for one row after the cast on, so it looks like a border. Not what I had imagined, but it works for me.



And now, may I present 11 inches of Rosedale's body:



I just realized that my cousin's socks are also 11 inches long.

Here's a close-up of the intarsia rectangle side:



I love that the rectangle starts with the bright colors, especially after the rather dark ribbing. Last night I reached the point where I break the rectangle--and I cheated a bit. As you can see, the stripe pattern has the teal following the burgundy. At exactly 11 inches, when the pattern calls for the rectangle to end, I was still in the midst of the darker burgundy stripe on the main part of the body, and I didn't want to have the rectangle appear to go from burgundy to teal back to burgundy and then teal again. I went a couple extra rows so that I could carry the teal stripe on the main body all the way over so that it wouldn't look like the rectangle had broken at all.

Happy Friday!

One of my current favorite commercials is the one for Sprint PCS/camera phone with the two women snarking over the guy with serious eating-in-public issues. It makes me so happy that a commercial has finally captured the way I used to talk with my friends.

I highly recommend this week's New Yorker--fantastic article on Toni Morrison (see yesterday's brief post), short story by Louise Erdrich, and a really nice write-up of John Clare, to coordinate with the latest biography of him, which also got a nice write-up. Clare, for those who might not know--and I'd never heard of him until my final year in grad school, despite studying 19th-century British Literature since my sophomore year of college--was a contemporary of the Romantic poets, and wrote a lot of poetry about nature, not the kind of Wordsworthian capital-N Nature, but nature the way he saw it...so he was also kinda Victorian in seeing nature clearly, seeing it whole. I like what I've read of his poetry, which isn't much, but he's best known for being incredibly poor and comparatively far less educated than his contemporaries.

Grammar Avengers might find this humorous, quoted in the New Yorker but not cited (shame on them): "I am gennerally understood tho I do not use that awkward squad of pointings called commas colons semi-colons etc."

Ah, the Romantics. Funny how all this effort has been made to incorporate women into the English literature canon and yet we--or at least, I--still only think of the Top Five Dead White Male Famous Romantic Poets. I've always adored Keats above all of them--couldn't tell you why, but "Eve of St. Agnes" gave me chills when I first read it. Byron follows Keats. Then Coleridge. Then Shelley, and then--and only then--Wordsworth. He bugs. Tragically bugs. Apparently when I was two years old I tore out some pages of one of my father's many volumes of Wordsworth (the Romantics are his speciality) and ate them. That was enough for me.

Blake, of course, exists in his own special category.

I got a memo in my mailbox from the chair of the English department in NJ, listing the courses that are still open to teachers and asking all faculty, including adjuncts, to check the ones they would be interested in teaching. That surprised me. I had only thought so far to know that I did not want to teach this course again. I wound up checking a couple other courses that meet earlier in the day. They were all composition courses, but ones that I think I am more prepared and competent to teach. Unfortunately, the two Brit Lit courses meet at night, and there's no way I'm making that commute in the dark.

OK, so my battery is recharged but now it's too dark to take pictures. I am almost 11 inches into the body of Rosedale. Hopefully it will be sunny tomorrow morning and I can sneak a pic in the midst of my grading and preparation (I took the rest of the day off after coming home. Mental health. You know how it goes).

Youse guyses comments have put me in a good mood all day.

I managed a whopping 2 rows on Rosedale today. Do you think that I would knit faster if I didn't stop after every row to admire the colors? Something to think about. Must recharge camera battery.

Here's inspiration for you:

Toni Morrison published The Bluest Eye when she was 39.

Today's class went well. Better than well. Almost everyone showed up and those who did stayed the entire period. Three people admitted to not having the assignment ready, which prompted my announcement of the new policy: do your work or you will be turned away from class, to return when your work is done. That on top of the "Speech of Doom" made me feel like the ultimate in totalitarian dictators, but if it gets us to the point where we're all on the same page, then it's worth it. Besides, have you noticed that totalitarian dictators all wear fabulous boots?

The assignment was to brainstorm all weekend (we went over several strategies) and come up with a topic and a purpose for writing the next paper. We were to work on composing effective outlines from that. Most of them put in an honest day's work, but we're still having a hard time with directions and what they mean. After going over and practicing what form outlines should have, using a handout I pulled from Purdue's Online Writing Lab (a fabu site that I found thanks to Rob, I told them that their first task was to generate a list of ideas that they wanted to include in their papers, nothing more or less. From there, they were to group all the related ideas together, and from that they were to order them from most general to most specific. A lot of them jumped the gun and started their outline from scratch, and then called out for help because they got stuck after capital letter A, because they had nothing to group together. I had hoped that everyone would have an outline by the end of class so that they could start writing, but so many of them had difficulties that I switched gears and said that all they had to do was complete the outline for Wednesday. They're going to swap 'em and evaluate each others' outline from there.

I think this is the key to getting them prepared enough to take that dang-blasted exam. If they can generate a brief outline and order all their ideas before they start to write, I honestly believe that a lot of the writing will take care of itself. A lot of them are mistrustful of their own capabilities. One of the students I had warned last week called me over to plead that I tell him the way I want him to write. "I cannot fail this class," he kept repeating. I told him the first thing he had to do was to stop thinking of it that way, and start repeating, "I will pass this class." We worked out a game plan for meetings and paper revisions. When I went by his desk to check on the progress he was making with his outline, he was just zipping along. The other student I had talked to last week was making excellent progress as well. Her paper is practically writing itself because she's got the tools to organize her thoughts.

As for me, well--I need to start taking my own advice, and I need to start using the same tools I'm giving my students. I spent the way home thinking about that pesky introduction to my dissertation, knowing that it's not going to write itself but so earnestly wishing that it would. I was actually motivated to get home and start working...just as soon as I had some dinner and wrote a little something on my blog.

See, that did it. I read a few blogs while I ate, and then opened up the Blogger page and stared at it for nearly two hours. I had nothing. That's not exactly true: I started writing about six paragraphs and I deleted them all because I wasn't happy with them. I didn't want to write about school because it was boring, I didn't want to write about how I'm pledging to eat better because it was mundane, and I didn't want to write about how much I didn't want to write because...well really, how very hip of me. And all of that negativity just killed the motivation to write anything, blogwise or disswise.

This week I want to develop a schedule I can stick to. Even if it's a free form list of things I need to do before the day is over, no matter what order they're in. Feel more like blogging in the morning? Then do it, as long as I make sure to work in the evening. Trust your instincts, Luke. Don't force it and don't be rigid.



Sunday morning conversation:

Em: Oh! I just ordered the Indiana Jones DVD box set.

Mike: I love you.

Em: I know.

~~~~~

This seems to be making its way around the blogverse. I got this from Colleen, who got it from here:

Sir Mix-A-Lot's "(I Like) Big Butts." In Latin.

magnae clunes mihi placent, nec possum de hac re mentiri.
(Large buttocks are pleasing to me, nor am I able to lie concerning this matter.)
quis enim, consortes mei, non fateatur,
(For who, colleagues, would not admit,)
cum puella incedit minore medio corpore
(Whenever a girl comes by with a rather small middle part of the body)
sub quo manifestus globus, inflammare animos
(Beneath which is an obvious spherical mass, that it inflames the spirits)"

~~~~~

I have been less than impressed with Alias so far this season. Last night's episode was an improvement, but they blew the ending. DUH--she totally fake-stabbed Vaughn and the sucker line she delivered, "You shouldn't have betrayed me?" Subtext much? They've got Sydney utterly confused and distraught over the videotape of her in a hideous blond wig that's been stolen from Jamie Lee Curtis's trailer from A Fish Called Wanda set, slitting someone's throat without any provocation, all during the time she doesn't remember and everyone thought she was dead, and yet last night she had no problem at all ruthlessly killing two people just to get a necklace in order to prove herself worthy of a gang of ruffians bent on releasing a mutated super virus on the unsuspecting public. And I see they've decided to go with Mrs. Vaughn's British accent that she didn't have in the first and a half episodes.

Momala left this afternoon, at which point I tried to get back to work but wound up falling asleep beside Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (second reading). Still getting over this cold thingy.

Friday night Mom, Mike and I went to this little Italian restaurant called La Locanda. It's nearby a "members only" building with Italian signs, which means every time I enter La Locanda I am transported by mob film references, aided by the fact that every man in the restaurant has mysteriously lost his neck. The food is pretty decent, too--although I once had an eggplant parmagiana that was a little soggy. This time I had lobster ravioli and it was superb. After dinner, we detoured over to Fortunato Bros., a little cafe/pasticceria that I absolutely adore but hardly ever enter because I'm all too liable to get a dozen cannoli and eat them all within a half hour. And then go back for more. Mom's been in an eating slump lately because my stepfather is on some version or other of the Atkin's Diet and won't eat interesting food anymore. What's a vacation for if not to splurge? so off we went to Fortunato's to buy three cannoli (the woman behind the counter asked me, "mini-sized or regular?" That's how you know I'm not a regular customer--she wouldn't have to ask otherwise) and, as long as we were there, a little something extra. I got a mocha creme-filled cookie and Mom got a marzipan strawberry. Mike held off, feeling very foolish about his lack of sweet tooth.

Saturday was packed with all things wondrous. We met up with one of Mom's college friends, who now lives in the Upper East Side, and had lunch. Colleen joined us as well. Then we went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and walked through the El Greco exhibit, a stunning exhibit of 17th-century Chinese landscape paintings, and an exhibit of Italian manuscript painting from the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. Mom got herself a membership to the museum, which I take to mean that she's planning many return visits. I offered to keep her membership card safe for her while she's at home in Minnesota. Heh.

Mom is a huge fan of musical theater. I once was myself--I think I mentioned once that I sang in high school. I even starred in a couple musicals in high school. Somewhere between college and grad school I sort of soured on the whole musical experience, save for Rent. I'm not entirely sure why, but it might have something to do with lackluster music, lackluster songs, and overly repetitive second acts. Again, save for Rent, which had its share of repetitiveness but the music was just so good that I didn't care. Back to the plot: I wanted to take her to see Urinetown, about which she had previously expressed reservations, citing nothing but the implication of the title. This is a woman who had no problem watching naked Stanley Tucci and Edie Falco when she came to visit me last year. Bodies: no big deal. Bodily functions and fluids are clearly another matter. I love my mom.

The only tickets available for Urinetown were $95, so we had to find a backup plan. I flipped through the theater section of Time Out and realized (I'm so out of the loop these days that I didn't realize this was even happening) that there's a new musical in town. Wicked. Based on Gregory Maguire's book. For those who don't know, Wicked is the back story of the Wicked Witch of the West--how did she get to be so wicked? It's fabulous. Read it.

Wicked the musical stars Idina Menzel as Elphaba and Kristen Chenowith as Glinda. Musical fans will remember Menzel as the original Maureen in Rent and thus can attest to her amazing, powerful, goosebump-raising voice. Chenowith was Marian the Librarian in ABC's recent adaptation of The Music Man--the one with Matthew Broderick as Harold Hill. I had to watch it because I was in it in high school (see above). Chenowith's voice is blissful and pure. Did I mention that, um, the role of the Wizard was played by Joel Grey? Yeah. It was that cool. The musical itself is worth seeing only if you can see these actors in it. There's great chemistry between the women and their voices blend perfectly. I would fear that other singers would not be able to make the songs as exciting--ultimately, the music is not that impressive or memorable (the two exceptions being Elphaba's "Defying Gravity" and Glinda's "Popular"), the lyrics a little too cutesy, and the second act falls victim to the same kind of repetitiveness as so many other musicals do. Overall, I enjoyed it--there's a great mechanical dragon overlooking the stage that moves and blows smoke (in reference to the dragon clock in Maguire's book), and the first creatures you see on stage are the monkeys, pre wingedness. Glinda makes her first entrance by floating down in an ornate steel circle, meant to represent her bubble. The book is pared down to focus on the friendship between the two women, and I think it's a good adaptation. Several clever little references to the original book and movie. Best line: "Who steals a dead woman's shoes?!"



Mom's a crafty lady and brought work of her own, so I was able to sneak in a few more rows on Rosedale. Here's a partial shot of what I had done before this morning. The background is the quilt my grandma made for me when I was in college.



I've since added about 10 more rows. I'm well into the first rectangle and just loving it. It didn't hurt that I had mom right next to me oohing and aahing. She always takes great pride in the work she does, and her appreciation of my work means a lot.

I also got my order from Threadbear and it's all scrumptious! When I have more time I will take a glamour shot.

Didja hear about the massive water main break in Washington Heights? It happened somewhere around 179th St. I have a feeling the place I teach at 185th was untouched by the water, although the water supply surely stopped. Good thing I'm on break. I go back next week, and students will be returning next week. Hope we've got water.

Baseball: feh. Neither of my adopted teams made it to the Series. I can't bear to watch now.

Sick yesterday. Figures. I'd planned to get a whopping amount of work done but I wound up sleeping most of the day.

During one of my breaks from sleeping, I finished the first Autumn is Your Last Chance sock. Watched Frequency as I knit. It came out a year or so ago and as I recall, not much was made about it. The plot is slightly hokey: son in the 1990s makes ham radio contact with his father in 1969, because of the aurora borealis which even in 1969 I would doubt would be visible from Queens, but I suspended my disbelief for that, son saves father's life--a lot of stuff about time travel except that people don't do the travelling, information does. Son warns dad that he's about to die in a fire, so dad changes his game plan and survives, touching off a series of events that lead to a completely different present for the son. Not a bad movie, but it ends with a completely unnecessary scene set to an incredibly schmaltzy song, looks like a music video, supposed to make you feel really good about things, but since I already felt good about things, it just seemd like overkill. Still, Dennis Quaid is yummy. I have always thought so, ever since Innerspace. Need I even mention The Big Easy? In Frequency, he plays the perfect man: wonderful husband, caring father, heroic firefighter. That Queens accent was questionable, but I was too busy swooning to really care.

I got through the ribbing on Rosedale's body last night, when it was too dark to take good pictures. It's once again cloudy and gloomy (the down side of autumn, I suppose, but it does make the crisp, sunny days of autumn that much more pleasurable) so I will not attempt pictures this morning either. Perhaps after I retrieve Momala from the airport.

Time to do some last-minute cleaning.

I don't really feel like blogging.
It feels like I have very little to say.

I often feel the same way about coming to the Morning Pages. I come up with all sorts of excuses: no, I'm really too tired and drained...no, I really need to get these comments on my students' papers written...no, I really need to figure out a game plan for today's class...no, if I write the Morning Pages I won't feel like working on the dissertation chapter.

I work through the objections in the morning. I should treat my blog the same way. It may not always be amusing, or insightful, or eloquent (or that rare combination, all three at once), but at least I will be checking in on a regular basis. The more I command myself to show up at the page, or the screen, the easier it will be.

Writing my own blog in the limited time I have means I have less time to read/respond to other blogs or answer email, and I just realized that I've left some commenters stranded for a while. I am trying not to feel guilty about that. I need to take the time to recover from this week--this week that has taken a larger piece out of me than I had thought it would. Know that you are in my thoughts and that I really wish we could all just, like, hang out.




I am tired and drained. Coming off Monday's "shape up or fail" lecture, I was compelled to deliver The Speech of Doom to the entire class. Rather, the 8 students that felt compelled to show up/stay for the whole period. The Speech of Doom went a little somethin' like this: "I know you don't want to be here, but that does not change the fact that you have work to do, and if you do not attend to that work with care and sincere effort, you will not succeed--in this class or any class. You may think my standards are too high, but I am not the one who will be kicking you out of school if you do not pass this test. I am not the one responsible for the test at all. I am responsible for getting you to the point where you can pass the test, but I cannot do my job if you are not willing to work as well."

(This is known as the Speech of Doom because, as you may recall from your own school days, it generally left a hollow "Oh Crap!" feeling in your stomach even as you knew that you were pulling at least a B and hence were in no immediate danger. Sure enough, the one student who stands a very good chance of working her way up to an A was the one student who came up to me after class, scared to death that I was talking about her.)

Then I talked commas. I talked commas for half an hour. I made them go over sentences without commas that needed commas and explain why they needed commas. It is incredibly difficult to talk about why you put commas where you do. And then I was struck with an inspired thought: punctuation is the percussion of the music of language. I told them that commas are generally used when you want your readers to pause, and the best way to figure it out is to read it out loud and get in tune with the rhythm of your writing voice.

So we're going to try that next week.

Then I handed papers back. For the first time in two months, I had a line of students waiting to talk to me about revising.

Success.




Colleen's fabulous sisters were in town over the weekend, and I finally got the chance to meet up with them last night, slummin' as they were in Billburg. We went to Diner, a charming little place but best left alone by those who fear low ceilings. I got there a little early, and when da goils showed up it was another round of squeals and hugs--'member that Col and I hadn't seen each other in 15 or so years, so the same pretty much goes for her sibs as well. I had such a great time hanging out with them again--and just in case they're reading this now, HI!

Thank you so much for the nice compliments on the Sleeves de Rosedale. Rachael's right (is it bad that I'm too tired and lazy to deal with the a href's tonight?)--Kureyon is all kinds of edible, and the fabric it creates? Dreamy. I've got more of it coming for a Booga Bag, but it almost seems a shame to felt yarn this wonderful. Almost. Mike could tell you that I finished the second sleeve, and then pulled the first one out to look at them together, and then pressed them very close to me and whispered, "I love you."

I'm going to take the rest of the night off, have some rum, and get cracking on that corrugated ribbing.

For my pleasure.

Snort.

Again, the colors are darker than in real life. It's gloomily cloudy today. I photoshopped some brightness in there but it still doesn't look as vibrant as it does in real life (yeah. what does?).

I am pleased with the way the second sleeve came out, and I like the imbalance going on between two orange stripes on one sleeve and one orange stripe on the other.

I cast on 209 stitches for the body of Rosedale last night and was able to knit two whole rows of corrugated ribbing before the Red Sox won. After reading someone's (probably Steph) comment about the ribbing on the body being looser than on the cuffs, I decided to go down to size 6 (US) needles for the ribbing. Corrugated ribbing + 209 stitches not worked in the round = OY. It will be worth it. It will be worth it. It will be worth it.

Back to grading.

Today I informed two students that if they do not work very hard to improve their writing skills, they stand a good chance of failing out of the course. I've never had to tell anyone that before. "You won't do well," sure--but not fail.

Yeah, add that to the list of Reasons My Neck Hurts So Much.

They took it well--much better than I would have. That makes me feel worse, actually--I got the sense that teachers have told them this before--or that teachers have told them worse (did I tell you about the new friend I made, the 35-yr old woman returning to college whose composition instructor said on the first day of class, "Well, you're either lazy or you don't know how to write"? Yeah. I know). Call me an idealist, call me naive, call me too lefty-liberal, call me Michelle Pfeiffer in Dangerous Minds even (or don't--I would have to hurt you), call me irresponsible (doo-be-doo-be-do)...tell me I don't have to make it my problem, tell me I shouldn't stress so much over two students, tell me that no one can force students to learn, tell me anything you want about what you think my responsibilities as a teacher are or should be...

Wait, where was I? Oh yeah...the way I see it, what makes me a good teacher--strike that, excellent teacher--is that I do feel responsible for my students. Of course they need to be responsible too--they need to show up, pay attention, learn stuff, turn things in on time, engage in thoughtful and critical discussions with classmates, all of that--but those are responsibilities, which are slightly different. What all teachers must understand is that their students are and should be treated like people. Fully-fledged human beings. They had little choice in coming to my classroom; now that they're here, they have to be treated with respect and care.

I understand that these students will take my pronouncement and do with it what they will. And I'm much less upset about the situation than I may seem. It's just...I think a lot about what my role as a teacher is, and why I continue to come back to it, even as it wreaks havoc on my sense of well-being. Something for the morning pages, I think.

I'm not sure what chance I'll have to write entries this week--I've got lots of work, and Momala's coming for a visit on Friday. I will throw in pictures of Rosedale as the occasion warrants.

I have a fairy godmother. Or a guardian angel--but between you and me, I'm not all that into the whole concept of angels and how they've been completely co-opted by the capitalist marketplace and stripped of their glory and spiritual power so that they can be sold as packaged sterile and harmless trinkets...ahem. I much prefer the concept of a fairy godmother, or godfather in drag. Yeah, that's it.

"Sometimes just by tossing the wish up in the universe a solution comes floating down," wrote Pioneer Melissa in my comments yesterday. She couldn't be more right. The very day after I expressed the desire to be able to afford to go to a massage therapist, I received money.

About six or seven months ago, I received a letter from a lawyer informing me of a class action lawsuit against a group of car dealerships that had engaged in some shady contract writing--something about a third-party warranty that wasn't actually there. I had purchased a used car from one of these dealerships back in 1999 and so was entitled to be a part of this lawsuit. I've gotten a couple similar letters before about other suits and nothing ever came of it, so I duly ignored this letter as well, but filed it away in my "Legal Crap" file--but not before noting that by doing nothing, I would be automatically entered as a claimant.

Laziness pays, kids. Don't listen when your parents or guardians tell you otherwise.

I am now morally obligated to follow through on my promise to take care of myself. And if this isn't a sign that I am doing the right thing by starting up with The Artist's Way again, I don't know what is. I will not spend this money on yarn. I will not spend this money on yarn. I will not spend this money on yarn. I will not spend this money on yarn. I will not spend this money on yarn. I will not spend this money on yarn. I will not spend this money on yarn. I will not spend this money on yarn. I will not spend this money on yarn. I will not spend this money on yarn.

Now I need to find a reasonably-priced massage therapist that comes with good recommendations. Or an acupuncturist--I've never tried that. Anyone got any leads?




Corrugated ribbing is indeed knitting with one color and purling with another. I purled with the orange and kept that strand on top. The back looks like this:



I finished the first sleeve:



(note the obligatory straight-needles-in-vase on the shelf behind my arm)

The picture came out dark, because it is rather dark outside this morning. Autumnal nip in the air, too.

Here is a close up which brings the colors out more. I started a second skein of Kureyon after the first orange stripe, so I have two orange stripes in close proximity. I wasn't sure about it until I finished the sleeve, but I love it.



I am also much more taken with the non-descript goldish color than I was when I started. It has its own subtle striping, with green flecks and red flecks.

And natch, I started the second sleeve while watching October Sky (decent family feel-good movie). I tried going with a couple different color combos than before but none were as striking as the orange and burgundy for me. The teal-orange combo reminded me too much of the Miami Dolphins, and that reminded me of the Florida Marlins, and as a Cubs fan, I couldn't have that. So, at this point, I have 34 rows of a sleeve that looks exactly like the first one:



I am going to deliberately mess with symmetry when I get the chance. I'm not stressing too much about the way the colors are coming out--with the first sleeve, I just picked up a second skein at random. I enjoy the zen-like quality of the yarn, the opportunity--a gift, really--to just sit back and not worry. If I'm not sure about something, I just let it happen. Total abandonment of control which, for those who know me, is a difficult thing for me--and yet, it is positively luxurious when it happens. Check that--when it happens to my liking. Still, I have a general idea of the way I want this jacket to turn out, so I will gently nudge it in that direction when I get the chance. OK, so it's not total abandonment.

And yes, that is my prized "What Would Joan Jett Do?" t-shirt.

I took a whoppin' ibuprofen last night before bed in the hopes that it would help me sleep a little better. It hasn't helped matters that all week, someone whose walls, ceiling, or floor border my apartment had decided that 11:30 at night was the perfect time to kick it with a powerful woofer/tweeter system that sent reverberations of thumping bass lines over our way. I think that had something to do with my bizarro dreams lately (I didn't tell you about the first one, which involved me desperately trying to bury a dead body that I may or may not have killed). Mercifully, the apartment was silent last night. I fell asleep around 1:00 am (late for me, but you'll see why shortly), and about an hour later I awoke to scuffling noises coming from the kitchen. It sounded an awful lot like Scout scooting something around with his paws. I sat up and called to him, and by the light of my computer screen in the next room I could see he had a little something in his mouth when he came trotting in.

Scout's only caught one other mouse in this apartment, and it was almost exactly one year ago. October seems to be the month they all want to come visit. Kinda like relatives (ooh, smack!). When I gushed about this to my New Yorker friends, they abruptly cut me off with, "I can't deal with rodents. Don't say anything more! EWWWWW!" I understand their position--and if you've ever seen the size of the rats that inhabit this city you'll never again be able to watch The Rats of NIMH and think, "aw, how cute." But I spent four years in grad school living in a gigantic house out in the country, and we had lots of mice, especially in the winter. They were little things--some no bigger than my thumb, and they were pretty cute. Of course, I would often find them dead and therefore not that cute, but still. Considering that Scout has always been an indoor cat, I kvelled every time he trapped and/or killed a mouse. He never left me one as a gift on my bed and he never tried to eat one. Best of all, I have never had to resort to killing the mice myself, because I'm positive I am not capable of that.

The mouse last night was a wee little thing, and I find it hard to get all worked up about it. I would take the occasional baby mouse over the occasional cockroach any day. Still, it was pretty difficult to get myself out of bed to dispose of the mouse, and once that was done, I had to comfort Scout over the loss of his "toy." He tends to wander around looking for it after I've taken it away. It took me a while to get back to sleep after that. Slept in til 9 this morning, and that felt great.



And I am in love.

I swatched as quickly as possible for Rosedale, using both my US 8 Boye Needlemaster needles and my size 8 Clover circs--I wanted to make sure I got a similar gauge using the two different needle types because I'm using two 16" Clovers for the sleeves. Note to self: purl looser than you normally do with this one.

My neck was still stiff and sore last night, but I was able to keep knitting by using one of those neck pillows one uses for airplane travel. Nothing was going to keep me from starting Rosedale.

Cari and I had discussed the merits of knitting socks on two circular needles--the main one being that you only need to deal with two joins, instead of three or four. Starting top-down socks on dpns is a pain in the ass for me, another reason I love the toe-up method. I was looking forward to trying the two-circ method on the Rosedale sleeves...until I actually started. After two botched tries, I went to the web to look for the page that I remembered looking at so many months ago, found it, and realized that I had been trying to knit from one circular onto the other, using the needles like I would double-points, instead of knitting first on one, then the other.

I have gained a great deal of patience over the last few years, but I've realized that I still have very little patience with myself. Not being able to pick up this technique right away caused me a lot of frustration.

Once I figured out the correct way to knit on two circulars, I cast on my 45 stitches again...and after almost getting the hang of it, ripped back and cast on 45 stitches yet again. Bingo.

Here is the close-up shot of my very first corrugated ribbing:



I went through all 13 skeins of Kureyon to find the combination of colors that I wanted to use--the deep burgundy with the bright orange. I wish the bright orange had stayed around through all 3 inches of the ribbing, because it goes into this rather non-descript limbo color right afterward.

I've read on other blogs that corrugated ribbing is a bitch. It's definitely slow-going, but I liked doing it, especially once I really hit my stride on knitting with two circulars. I love the denseness of the fabric it creates. These cuffs are going to keep my wrists toasty warm.

So, I had to stay up to finish the ribbing. And then I had to see what color the orange was going to turn into, so I wound up knitting until the end of Letterman (George Clooney was a bit of a disappointment, someone needs to inform the writers for the show that Hooters is over, but Merle Haggard was incredible), and through two increases.



See what I mean about the non-descript gold-ish color? It has all those flecks of other colors in it without committing to any particular one. Not thrilled about that, but I am eager to see what the next color will be, whenever it decides to make an appearance. Looks like it might be that burgundy color again.


Thanks for the comments from yesterday. I woke up this morning still feeling stiff, but better and less burdened. As for health care, well, uh...I don't have a plan. I'm a part-time college-instructor and we are not offered such "perks." I know I should take the time to research alternate methods, but I haven't yet. There are a lot of things I've been meaning to do for the past six months that I haven't gotten around to yet.

In the meantime, I've got to get back to work today.

Last night I dreamt that Gene Wilder was my academic advisor. I went to him to get the list of questions to answer in my comprehensive exam, and they all focused on either Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory or Young Frankenstein. Instead of jumping up and down with glee, I freaked at the amount of stuff I would have to look up in order to ground my critique in media studies theory. In real time, I took my comprehensive exam back in 2001.

The night before, I dreamt I told off the owner of the much-reviled yarn store in Manhattan. The woman who owns it is a textbook-case Snob. I believe I told her as much in my dream. In real time, I went to this store once, and only once, about a year ago.

A couple years ago, following a painful and stressful event, I treated myself to a few massage sessions. The woman was a gift, unbelievably gentle, kind, and witty. At the first session I burst into tears and she told me that our bodies store memories like our minds do, so that any kind of traumatic incident stays with us for days and months and years, and that I was most likely releasing a lot of emotion not just from the most recent event, but from all the past experiences that made me sad or angry.

Of course, our bodies store joyous memories, too, but I have a feeling that those aren't the ones that make it painful to turn your neck.

This is all to say that I would give anything to have the money to go back to a massage therapist. Nothing traumatic has happened, trust me, but I woke up this morning feeling like I had the burden of a thousand adjuncts on my shoulders. I cannot seem to hold my upper body in a way that is comfortable. Before anybody jumps in with suggestions like yoga or pilates or anything else that would require me to sign up and pay for classes, or that requires more room in my apartment than I have, believe me--I would love to find an affordable, conveniently located, conveniently scheduled place to go. I know, saying "I have no time to treat my physical well-being" is a lame excuse. But I think I've gotten past the point where a simple exercise class is going to help. I'm on the verge of using words like "chakra" in logically-ordered, syntactically-sensible sentences.

Then again, I might just need to buy new pillows.

"Please enter your ten-digit account number, followed by the octothorpe."

::sigh:: I love language.

I'm a wee bit boneheaded and I forgot to pass along the URL for 97X, in case anyone wanted to check it out:

The Future of Rock and Roll

Here's a bizarre confluence of events: shortly after I wrote yesterday's entry, I went down to check the mail. The new issue of Bitch was in my mailbox (yay!). I opened it up, began reading the letters from readers (this is one of my favorite things about the magazine), and lo! the first letter is from a woman in Oxford! And yes, I knew her. And she rocks.

I had a lovely time at Chez Cari last night (Hi Andrea! Hi Sarah!). I worked a couple rows of Lazy Sunday (I plan on finishing that up tonight), a couple of rows on Purple Rain (thanks to Andrea, who demonstrated what she does when working two colors), and a couple rows on the first Big Tears Sock. Not a whole lot of progress, but a lot of mini progress.

I came home and put the finishing touches on another order from Threadbear and, more importantly, began the Rosedale journey. I printed out the pattern and highlighted all the numbers for the size I'm making. I think the medium would fit but I'm making the large so that I'll have room to wear a light sweater or something under it. I'm swatching on Thursday.

I miss exactly two things about Oxford, Ohio. The first is Jungle Jim's, a ginormous warehouse supermarket about which my mom says, "If they don't got it, folks don't eat it." (NB: my mom speaks better English than what I have just implied.) As the website says, this place houses FOUR ACRES of food. One of those acres is dedicated to reasonably priced produce. Once you get past the produce and the fresh seafood nook, you'll find aisle after aisle of foods from around the world, organized by country/geographical region. Thailand has an aisle. India has an aisle. Mexico has its own corner. Germany and France have their own nooks. There's an entire aisle of hot sauce. On top of that, there are Chuck E. Cheese-esque animatronic animals that sing oldies. The lion, for example, is dressed like Elvis Presley and sings "Hound Dog" every five minutes. It's the happiest place on earth, and I used to live 40 minutes away.

The second thing I miss is the radio station, 97X. 'Member that scene in Rain Man where they're driving in the middle of nowhere and Dustin Hoffman is playing with the radio and he keeps saying "97X BAM! The future of rock and roll. 97X BAM! The future of rock and roll..."? No, of course you don't. Well anyway, that station exists and it exists in Oxford, OH and it's by far the BEST radio station I've ever listened to. Yes, that includes 93 XRT in Chicago. Management had shifted slightly while I still lived in Oxford and the station started to play slightly more "mainstream alternative" music as opposed to the stuff you NEVER hear on the radio...but I still loved it. If I had a DSL line I would keep my computer tuned to 97X all day. Until I get a DSL line, I can only dream about hearing new music I actually like.

I bring this up because I've been thinking about music and how I used to be ravenous for it. I hardly buy any new music now and I hardly listen to the radio anymore. The music I listen to the most is stuff I listened to when I was in high school and college. And who do I blame for my musical retardation? The RIAA, that's who!

I've also been thinking about our pending virtual slumber party, because music is an essential component of any successful slumber party. Here's what I can contribute:



Is there any better slumber party music than Beauty and the Beat? I sure don't think so.

This is only a small selection of the huge crate of vinyl that I own, most of which came from my grandparents. The two soundtracks up at the top is only the tip of the iceberg--name a musical, I probably have the soundtrack on vinyl. I also own a lot of the classics: Ella, Louis, The Mills Bros., early Nat King Cole.

I don't own a turntable. I can't bring myself to get rid of/sell the albums. I keep telling myself that eventually I will get a turntable, but it's been six years of me lugging these albums around.

I used to own two copies of Thriller. I got both for my twelfth birthday (which was, incidentally, one of the last parties ever held by my age group at Saints West, the roller rink. It's fun to skate to the Y-M-C-A!).

Living with my grandparents and sharing a room with my mom meant that hosting slumber parties was out of the question for me. The only slumber party I ever gave was actually hosted at my dad's sister's place, which was around the block from my house. It was my Bat Mitzvah party. We ate Cheetos and watched Flashdance. I used to have the Flashdance soundtrack on tape, but alas, it is nowhere to be found.

So you'll excuse me if I seem a little too excited about the prospect of a virtual slumber party, and if my music selections are out of date. I have a lot of catching up to do.

I think Scout's excited, too. What do you think he's saying here?

I decided on Saturday that I deserved a holiday from work. All weekend, nothing but knitting and watching TV. And cursing the Twins. Shameful. Disgusting. There's always next year, what-EVER. I watched most of the two Cubs/Atlanta games that were on FOX over the weekend and even though I would be rooting for any team playing Atlanta (my loathing of the Atlanta Braves is slightly irrational and contains some residue of my loathing of the Atlanta Falcons. I'm sure the city of Atlanta is lovely and I have nothing against the people who live there. I just hate their sports teams), I was quite enchanted with the Cubs. I want them to make it. And I want Boston to beat Oakland and then beat the ever-living crap out of those Damn Yankees. Smug l'il bastards.

Ahem. Ah yes, the Weekend of Knitting (WOK). Click on the thumbnails for da big picture. (I did thumbnails because there are so many pix; they should all open in new windows.)

First, I finished The Real Em's Over the Rainbow Socks. I started with 60 stitches. After the short-row heel (gawd I love doing those), I switched to a k3p2 ribbing. After about 6 inches I added one stitch to each needle (total of 64) and did a k2p2 ribbing for 2 inches. I've been training myself to bind off socks very loosely (there's one Regia sock I made myself that I cannot get on), so I used one size 5 (US) needle to do the bind off. It looks a little frilly, but I tried them on and they fit better than any of the other socks I've made myself. Tempting to keep them, but no! To my sweet coz they go. One pair down, six to go!



Then I finished the sleeves of the long-suffering Pinup Pullover. I must have started this sweater some time in February, or maybe March. It went quickly enough, until I got to the sleeves. I worked them both at the same time and, much like Carolyn, I got stalled and bored with the seeming lack of progress I was making. Then I got more yarn, and more projects, and I went with the sparkly new thing(s) rather than finish up with the thing I'd started. The sleeves are just simple k2p2 ribbing, with a funky little pattern at the cuff that wasn't coming through in the close ups. It's really simple--just purling on the right side on a couple of rows--but it looks complicated.


I'm not sure I need to go back and redo the front, though. I pulled it out and checked and it looks OK to me. Well, the neckline--what I was most concerned with--looks all right. Overall, the front looks like it's about 6 sizes too small. Check it out:

It looks totally weird, but the top part is supposed to stretch out to either side. What concerns me is the bottom part. Granted, the ribbing pulls in a lot, and this is supposed to be a form-fitting sweater and I cast on for the size that's my bust size almost exactly. But when I pull the front across my torso I have to stretch it w a a y out to get it to the right width. Now, I have put on a fair amount of weight since I started this sweater--the quitting-smoking weight that I have yet to take off. But I'm not sure if I should block the front and see how it goes, or if I should just start the front (and back) over in the next size up. I believe I have enough yarn to do that--it's just a question of motivation, and a little pride. I don't think the sweater is going to look that good on me at my present size anyway. It's quite possible that the whole sweater will go back in the bag for a couple of months--and then I'll see what happens.

Spurred on by the completion of the Pinup sleeves, I cruised my way through the Lazy Sunday sleeves. Sleeve #1 was completed during Waiting for Guffman, my favorite of the Chris Guest/Eugene Levy mockumentaries. I know most people pick Best in Show as their fave, and I dearly love that one as well--but there's something about Guffman...besides the My Dinner With Andre action figures, I mean. I breezed through Sleeve #2 while listening to Wes Anderson's commentary for The Royal Tenenbaums. Really good commentary--a nice balance between techie stuff (how they set up shots, finding the sets & locations, etc.) and people stuff (collaborating with Owen Wilson, working with Gene Hackman, how many old friends are in this movie, etc.). Originally I thought about doing a diagonal rib on the sleeves, but once I got going I opted for the simple cable in the middle of the sleeve. The cable goes over 4 stitches--a mini version of the 8-stitch cable on the front (which I started yesterday), and on one sleeve goes to the left, and on the other goes to the right. Just to mix it up a little.



Here's a close-up of the cable--the color is slightly off but the detail is pretty good, at least on my monitor:


In other WOK news, I turned the heel of the first Autumn is Your Last Chance sock, and since the sock really looks more like a small boat I'm putting it aside until my model can try it on so at least I have some perspective. It just looks so HUGE. I got a little more done on the multi-direction scarf. I also started another sock: this time with Opal CR-9, one of the Crocodile 2 collection. Just doing the toe increases now.

I also took a picture of the Colinette Point 5 scarf I did a little while ago and never said anything about. Cast on 10 stitches and garter stitched the whole thing on size US 15s. This is two hanks worth. LOVE the colors--this is the Cezanne colorway. The ends look a little ragged so I will probably block it. Boy, is blocking in a NY apartment FUN.

I have arranged the scarf so as to hide the ends that have yet to be woven in. I have yet to find a crochet hook big enough for the job.



What of Purple Rain? I'm bringing it to Cari's tomorrow in the hopes that someone can illustrate at least one method of fair isle knitting that will not result in the lighter colored stitches getting lost. I learn quickly, but I need someone to show me. If not, then, well, at least I'll have something to work on.

So, that's it--my WOK. No deep thoughts, no writing, no work of any kind, but utterly enjoyable and productive. It's taken me two hours to surf through blogs and compose this post, on a day I'm supposed to be fasting and reflecting. A good friend of mine was supposed to be here over the weekend, through Yom Kippur, and we were going to observe the day together. Then something came up and she couldn't make it, and I'm left with not knowing what to do with myself, other than cleaning the apartment a little or working a little or something. I'm not observing the day and I feel a little guilty for that, but it's just not the same when there's no family or friends. Maybe I make another challah?

Been monkeyin' with the site a bit. When Photo Navy becomes operational again I'll link to the gallery so you can see pictures. Speaking of pictures, I'll have a shot of the completed Regia socks later this weekend.

Also pulled the Pinup Pullover out of retirement. I only have a few more rows on the sleeves to go. I need to redo part of the front but all I want right now is to finish the sleeves so I can use the needle cable to start Rosedale. I am shameless. It's the only way to be.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays I take the L train to 6th Avenue and transfer to the 1/9 to go all the way up to Washington Heights (taking the express to 96th is a gamble. I often don't save that much time, and besides, I like having that long trip in order to knit. On a single trip, I can get an entire stripe pattern repeat done on a regular size 8 sock).

The transfer involves walking through an incredibly long, low-ceiling tunnel. I dislike this journey. Everyone dislikes this journey. Sometimes the burden is lightened somewhat by a busker--talent is of no consequence to me in this case, because the sound gives me something to think about in general. The guy with the guitar who sounds like he stepped right out of the 50s? Love him. On Tuesday morning there was a guy with a guitar singing "Knockin' on Heaven's Door," and yesterday he was singing some Guns 'n' Roses ballad ("Don't Cry"?), and it occurred to me that he might be going through the entire Guns 'n' Roses discography (his version of "Heaven's Door" was awfully similar to their cover). There's a saxophone player I particularly like.

The man I am particularly drawn to is usually in the tunnel in the early evening, on my return home. He sits up against the wall on the right side (walking towards the L from the 1/9), almost at the very middle of the tunnel. He focuses intently on drawing pictures with colored pencils. The pictures he has already completed are lined up beside him. I'm not quite sure how to describe them. Some are portraits of people that I find very interesting--are these people he knows outside of the subway, people from his past, or people he notices on their way from one train to the other? Some are idyllic suburban snapshots. Mostly, however, he draws alien attacks on urban areas. They're the kind of pictures you wouldn't be surprised to find in the notebooks of prepubescent boys--at least, that's what I'm reminded of. Tall buildings, scattered lights of late-night workers, the Ur-UFO image with single lines drawn from it to the buildings, some things on fire...you get the idea. Over and over, this is what he draws and colors. It fascinates me--I've been trying to find a way to talk about this without coming across as condescending or glib and I'm not sure it's working. I absolutely love the fact that he makes pictures of aliens attacking the city. It occurs to me that he might not be perfectly healthy in mind, but I never hear him speak and as of yet I've never attempted to speak to him. I look for him when I walk through the tunnel on my way home. One night he wasn't there and I missed him; I missed seeing those pictures. Tuesday night I walked by, and noticed that one of the completed pictures incorporated blinking lights on the UFOs--real blinking lights! It was so cool. One of these nights, when I have extra cash on me, I'm going to ask how much he wants for one of them. I've put it on the list of "things to do this year."

Alias: Marshall had sex! Dixon's the new head cheese! And Sydney got to blow up a coupla guys and tear into Vaughn for getting married, in what had to be the best "fuck you" speech on TV ever.

Everwood: I can't decide which character I love the most. I usually lean towards Edna, but lately Pa Abbott and Bright have been growing on me. This show started out as a guilty pleasure (as most WB shows are) but I've really come to love it.

Gilmore Girls: Meh. I am not impressed with the new season thus far. The season premiere was a bundle of annoyances in which nothing of import happened, and now that Rory's finally at Yale I couldn't care less. The new girl, Tanna (played by the girl who played Cindy Brady in the Brady movies), strikes me as a young female Kirk who's only slightly more self-aware--except that Kirk's whole charm is that he doesn't think he's weird at all.

Smallville: Eh. Bad Clark gets old pretty fast. 'Cept the newly enhanced Pa Kent (since I was a huge Dukes of Hazzard fan, I'm calling him Super Bo) was pretty cool.

The Bachelor: I could really not. care. less. I'm always curious about these dating reality shows, but then when I watch them I am absolutely horrified on so many levels I lose count. I much prefer the reality shows of the running/jumping/climbing trees ilk.

Too tired to really do any long stretch of knitting last night, but I did get a couple of rows done on the Purple Rain fair isle band. I am not having any luck coordinating my hands to do the fair isle. I would really like to be able to hold both strands of yarn in my left hand but I'm too clumsy with it and can't get the right tension on the second strand. I'm slightly better at the two-hand method--and I like that the yarn doesn't get all tangled up that way--but it takes forever, especially on the purl side (I can't wait to try fair isles in the round, the way they're supposed to be). I don't really know what I'm doing. Good thing it's only 9 rows. I will have to practice for the next fair isle, whenever/whatever that will be.

Alison asked if the multi-directional scarf was soft and drapey. It's definitely soft--softer than the scarf I made for Mike last year (the first thing I made in the second stage of my knitting life)--but it's maybe not as drapey as scarves should be. It's definitely going to keep the wind out, that's for sure!