a bit of swank

What I want is to complain about how overwhelmed I am with the new jobby-job, because, damnit, I am. But I haven't held my new position long enough to be that ungrateful. Besides, it is because of my overwhelming but much-appreciated job that I was able to afford a trip home last weekend. In between celebrating my sister's AS degree in nuclear medicine technology (yeah, she's smart like that), sitting with my grandmother who's battling cancer, attending a longtime friend's baby shower, and hanging out with Mister Stevens and THOASKATB (The Husband Once Again Sometimes Known as The Bubba) I asked myself, Hey, what would a Toledo yarn store look like?

I kinda expected Toledo's premier (and only, as far as I can tell) yarn store to lean on the acrylics with a heavy elbow -- from its post in a strip mall. But it turns out swank has come to town in the form of the Yarn Company. Check out the rag yarn. I bought the second ball from the left in the front row for an embarrassing amount of money (thanks, job!) seeing as it's just strips of fabric tied together, but I couldn't resist the colorway, or the idea of whipping up a fall scarf on 17s and setting it off with a bright and lovely aurora borealis brooch (okay, except for the aurora borealis part, I stole the idea from someone on Craftster. In fact, this person). Sure, I could sit around tearing up my own fabric, but I'm not that stressed.

Mister Stevens and his underwear welcome us to the world of fiber.

Don't I love it when they behave themselves in the presence of yarn.

The Yarn Company is a pretty sexy place. The owner wasn't in, so I couldn't ask where she got the inspiration for the decor. One of my favorite elements is the checkout counter, shaped like a horseshoe, which doubles as a scarf burlesque show.

A couple more, because, Oh, why not?

The requisite "Take a picture of me! I'm in yet another out-of-town yarn store!" But this one's all about my new best friend, Clapotis.

Yarn really brings people together.

a little corner all my own

I'm obsessed with flickr's Corners of My Home group. I can't seem to get enough of peeking into other people's corners, yards, work rooms, bedrooms, porches, drawers, kitchens, broom closets -- you name it. This photo is my contribution to the group. If you check it out on flickr, you can read my notes. You can also visit the rest of the Corners photo pool. It really evokes the stuff of life. There's some beautiful and moving photography there, not to mention a smorgasbord for you if you happen to be nosy like me.

neither fast nor easy

In my blogging absence I've had a wonderful 40th birthday party, gotten myself a full-time teaching job, decided that one of these old days I'm going to move to Austin, and had a noticeable downturn in finished knitting projects (and a serious upturn in new projects cast-on but not finished).

Lots of highs, some managable lows, and the job is the biggest thing. It's hard to craft when you don't know where your next meal is coming from. I shouldn't say that (of all the things I've missed in my life, a meal is not among them), but it sounds sufficiently dramatic. I've come to know that the bigger issue is that, in not having a job, I felt purposeless and idle, even more so than I felt broke.

I've long fancied myself a free-ballin' artiste and, as such, pooh-poohed any sign of structure. Funny how turning 40 is like a kind of flashlight, illuminating the dark and muddy places in your thinking and allowing you to see what's been hiding in those corners all along. The truth of the matter -- and I'm working to accept it -- is that I need structure, and I need to feel useful. This need for structure has duked it out with my need to just, as the rappers say, flow. The grace of clarity that 40 has brought has shown me that it's fine for me to claim my place as a writer and to keep seeking opportunities to live in that place, and that this does not have to be in conflict with working for The Man. That's the part I had trouble with. Jobs have always given me the sense that somebody was trying to yoke me. I've worked a zillion jobs, like anybody else, but only now am I coming to understand that the key is to accept my employment choices, and everything that's come with them, as my own. I will cut myself enough slack to admit I've had some sucky jobs. Most of the time I've worked as some kind of admin assistant, which happens to be the kind of work I admire other people for being able to do but absolutely hate to do myself. Some twisted part of me (stemming from my damaged childhood, no doubt) preferred the kind of job where I could hide, and doing admin work, temporary at that, kept me anonymous, like a migrant tomato picker. All the while something inside me cried out with the need to do work that made me feel connected.

Finding my current job was tricky as all hell and it took a long time, but when it came, it came without a hitch. Two interviews, a couple of weeks, and bam, I'm an English instructor. Full-time with benefits. Oh, and a gang of students I can't hide from in the least. I started this month and so far, so good. I'm sure I'll be posting about my many triumphs and tribulations here, alongside the things I make while living through them. What I can say now is that this is the first time I've had a job and felt self-directed at the same time. (Possibly I felt this way during my Pizza Hut years, since I was working to support a kid and get through college. I thought of going back to the Hut a few times, but I think they still wear polyester and sun-visors.) It's too early to say if it'll come, but the ultimate gift from me and God would be for me to have the balance to hold this job while doing serious writing of my own. If I can get both plates in the air, I'll feel like a real true grown-up.

Now let me ask, What's work without a little play?

One of the best birthday gifts ever is the sewing machine I got from my lovely friend V. My birthday was in May and, with the new job, I didn't think I'd get a chance to use it for a few more months. But last weekend, on the shopping outing that yielded the Yarn Ball that Ate New Jersey, Natalie and I stopped in F&S Fabrics on Pico Blvd to check out the stock and inquire about sewing classes. We'd gone to Sewing Arts Center in Santa Monica (which is how we wound up at Stitches from the Heart, right next door) but decided against having to take a fixed number of classes, on week nights, where we'd have to use the shop's machines and end up saddled with "lounge pants" (think pajamas) as our finished projects. UGH. F&S provided the solution, with its 2-hour class sessions with ample time slots on weekends. Each class is $35 and you can take as few or as many as you'd like. I think $35 is a good deal, especially now that I've been to my first class (yesterday). Years ago I looked into classes in Manhattan. At the time, they ran about $70 for the same amount of instruction I'm getting at F&S for half that. Plus, the staff at F&S is a real trip, from a diva who has apparently fallen on hard times but still can't be bothered to wait on you, to a brother who looks like he ambled in off skid row and never left (you'll possibly want to look down your nose at him, but you'll find its too late, he's already busy snubbing you), to Shirley, who appears to be the manager but maybe isn't but is absolutely sweet and sassy. Then there's Christina, the Goddess of Sewing Instruction (I don't think it's any wonder that "Christ" is in her name):

Brilliant, patient, kind and funny. She really knows what she's talking about and, equally important, how to get it across to people who have no clue about sewing, fabric, machines or anything but want to make cute skirts.

Here's a little essay to illustrate the day:

How was I supposed to know a pattern is no place to jot my sonnets?

At least I'm planning to use fabric to make my skirt, unlike some people:

A few more (see the rest on my Flickr site):


Moment I'm most proud of:

And a surprise visit from a season 1 "Project Runway" star. (There's gossip behind this photo, but I'll save it for another day):

excuse me while I kiss the ball

Here I am giving love to my new boyfriend, the yarn ball that ate New Jersey. Natalie and I went out last weekend and, naturally, found ourselves in a yarn store. Nat's declared No Yarn Summer, but at Stitches From the Heart in Santa Monica, we lucked upon this Interlacements El Paso yarn that came in a 1058 yard, 16 oz skein. It's made of rayon, cotton, silk, and linen and would make all kinds of crazy Lady Eleanor shawl goodness. There were two skeins, priced at $24 each. There was no way either of us could resist, but during the 2 hours it took me to wind it by hand, I kinda wished I had. Still, a ball of yarn big enough to take a girl out to dinner can't be all bad.

happy birthday, ellen bloom

Here's to you, Miss Ellen. Your devotion to art is an inspiration, your joie de vivre, infectious. You are generous of spirit, fabulous of taste, and a downright hoot to craft with. Sure, Mr. Larry comes to the party every now and then. And yes, he knows how to spark things up (see Maserati Ken, below), but it's you who packs the house week after week, keeping a couch potato like me coming to see what you've made, hear what you'll say, and bask in your presence. Tell Mr. Larry I say he's lucky indeed, because, Ellen, you're simply the best.

and she shares, too

Ellen shows me, Natalie, and Darcy around the granny square.

maseratis, malibu, and martinis

Oh, to live the glamorous life.

long time no see

I am alive and very much wanting to do some furious blogging, but, alas, my replacement hard drive has yet to arrive from Dell, and my desktop decided it's not much interested in going online anymore (causing it to have a run-in with a hammer, but that's neither here nor there). This puts me at the mercy of la biblioteca, which gives me one measly hour to gather my thoughts and spin my tales here at Portland's Central Library. Since I haven't blogged in so long, it's a task I'm hardly up to, so I'm dropping in briefly to express gratitude to everyone who commented on my last entry.

The whole to medicate or not to medicate issue is fraught with opportunity for debate. My personal opinion is that pills are overprescribed. I went to my gyno, a general practitioner, a couple years ago for an annual examination of my lady parts. He asked me how I'd been feeling. I told him I wasn't sleeping well and felt inexplicably tired all the time. He said I was suffering from mild depression and asked if I wanted a prescription. I'd been against the idea but mulled it over, thinking I could possibly be missing good times and fun feelings and the solving of every single problem I'd ever had (perhaps even the resurrection of my dearly departed mother) by refusing. I came to my senses after a few days and decided the pills weren't for me. For one thing, should they really be that easy to come by? No referral to a shrink? No Rorschach-like evaluation test? This particular doctor had only seen me once or twice before so it wasn't like he even knew me well enough to say, Hey, I see you're not yourself lately, before offering meds. Like Sahara, I became suspect of drugs, especially as they are doled out to women.

But then, I see Faith's point, too. In some cases, depression can be debilitating. I'm not one to stand against pills when they're absolutely necessary. Problem is, often times so little is done to make the determination. I pictured my doctor out on some junket, floating on the turquoise waters surrounding St. Kitts, holding up his champagne glass in salute to the pharmaceutical company that put him there. Like in a movie, my mind's camera pulls out to reveal the words painted on the boat: "The Good Ship Zoloft." For now, like Lady Lino and Ellen said, I'll stick with making stuff. And, Sahara, friendship certainly helps, too.

I'm almost down to the last ten minutes of my allotted time and it's hard for me to write under this kinda pressure, but I'll be back here on a regular basis pretty soon (won't I Dell? Won't I?). I've been traveling some, and I've got the pictures to prove it. San Francisco, Tucson, Portland. Tales of yarn all over the place.

blogging is the new ceramics

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest came out and suddenly it was okay to talk about the Nut House, and the nature of things that go on there. The landscape has changed, of course, and now most crazy people wander the streets of New York and Los Angeles, but there was a time, a very very long time, when losing your mind in America meant some well-meaning friend, relative, or state official would sign you into a facility for some shock treatment and strait jacket action. That doesn’t sound so nice, but the good part is that once they’d calmed your crazy, they’d set you loose on the rec room where you could sit around in a sweet sweet daze engaging in the craft of your choice. I can’t say why without doing some actual research, but the craft of choice for most certified people was ceramics. People worked themselves into a tranquil frenzy making those handy little mosaic plates to set hot pots on without burning the counter. They made ashtrays and vases -- things whimsical and utilitarian and having seen the handiwork of a few nutty folks myself I am qualified to say this, quite pretty too. And so it is no wonder that when I think of the Funny Farm, I eschew the dark vision of post brain-fucked Jack Nicholson in favor of the extra sitting in the background whipping up a nice lopsided candy dish.

This is the Age of Zoloft and I say it’s a damn shame. It’s a cold thing to be handed a slip of paper with a prescription scribbled in Latin and not also be given the warm comfort of time to sit in the sun and make stuff. Or, in my case, to make stuff and talk about it, which is why I come here and why, when I’m done, I go around other people’s blogs to see what they’re making out of yarn, and out of life.

I have yet to go down the pill road because I’m crazy enough to think I can handle my crazy on my own (if you knew half the things I’m up to these days, you’d know how crazy that is). Maybe the end will prove me wrong, but for now coming here and sharing the truth of my life feels like a better place to start. It ain’t ceramics, but it’s close.

So picture me sitting in the corner of a sunny room, wearing a bath robe and fuzzy slippers in the middle of the day, tinkering with tiny glass tiles as I offer this: The husband formerly known as The Bubba and I now find ourselves on new soil, I believe it’s called shaky ground. I am searching, searching, searching, for a different way of being in the world and I have already found myself going in circles, running up dead end streets, stumbling out into traffic. But whether I like it or not, and believe me when I say I don’t, this is what my life is, this is where I am, and I am grateful to have a space to hold it up to the light and not hide from it.

an affair of the heart

Here it is, the project that just might restore my faith in fiber. What is it, you ask? You'll know when you see me sporting it around. La la la. In these photos, it's hanging out in a stumble-bum town outside Vegas. I think it had more fun than I did. If anybody can guess what it is before I post finished pics next week -- not just what kind of garment it is, but the name of the pattern, too -- I'll send you a little prize.

every little bit hurts

Of course once I got a digicam, my computer went on the fritz. Had to send it back to Dell. Thank goddess for extended warranties. In the meantime, I've dusted off the old desktop and after a day of installing system updates, I've magically made it online. The odd thing is that this machine seems so ancient, but now that I've done the math, I realize we got it in the summer of 2003. That, my friend, is how fast technology is a-changin'.

Anyhow, notes from the whup ass path.

I went after Lake Erie with a vengeance (a big thanks to everyone who commented, just the boost I needed) and added a whopping 2.5 inches to the thing. That's 2-3 hours of work, so I could feel worse. The problem is that session took place on Tuesday and every time I've looked at it since then, I've felt my intestines rise up in my throat. After much consideration, I've decided I've been paradigm blocked, as my first boss out of college was fond of saying (never mind that there aren't many paradigms one could choose in filing CPR cards and typing nursing certificates).

A reframing is in order here. My new plan of attack is to consider the yarn, not the scarf
itself. In other words, I'm knitting up the ball in the picture and after that, I'm taking Ellen's advice and blocking like there's no tomorrow. If it doesn't come out long enough, my dad can seam it and wear it as a muff. Speaking of Dad, there he is in the background photo, next to my mother and a baby who shall remain nameless. The amount of remaining yarn is about 3/4 of a skein of Cascade 220 Heathers. I usually wet myself when I think of all that yardage for the price, but skein 3, 660 yards, on the same scarf is, to say the least, no longer appealing.

I did say I am out to reconcile my relationship with knitting and while Lake Erie hasn't prompted me to sing along with Peaches & Herb -- "Reunited and it feels so good/Reunited 'cause we understood/There's one perfect fit and sugar this one is it..." -- I have been working on a little sumthin' sumthin' that's got me feeling swoony again. What I haven't figured out is how to upload a picture in under 30 minutes via my current means, so I'll post a visual tomorrow.

look who stayed for dinner

Major life changes are underway for me. The kind that already have me whirling like a dervish, wondering where I'll stop, hoping it's a place of grace. At a time like this, a girl needs a friend, and I am on a mission to make amends with an old one.

Starting Monday, I'm going to open up a can of whup-ass on my UFOs. I've considered moving on without them, but the Bad Voice started screaming at me, You're a bum! You never finish what you start! You're so fickle! Who do you think you are, wasting all that money?! So everything I've started is either going to get frogged or finished, so me and knitting can make love like we used to do.

First on the list is the dreaded Lake Erie Scarf (look at it, laying there trying to act all blameless and innocent). Yes, my father's birthday was January 29th. Yes, I've been working on the scarf since mid-January. Hell yes, I'm bored with it. Which is why I've only managed about two man hours on it this month. If anyone ever opens his trenchcoat and says to you, Psst, I got your reversible cable knitting patterns right here, run. This scarf eats yarn like a starving baby sucking on a teat. You knit and you knit and you knit and learn that it is indeed possible for time to go in reverse. Every time you work on it, it seems to get shorter. But next week, one of us is going down. And it ain't gonna be me.

what happened in vegas

And so I was in Vegas last week, visiting a certain someone and seeing his show. Before I went, I got a new digital camera, so here is a visual expression of the trip:

Out behind the hotel, I stopped, framed the image I wanted, pushed the button. When I looked at the photograph, it wasn't at all what I expected. I almost deleted it in favor of a tidier, prettier version, but it crossed my mind that perhaps it holds some kind of lesson.

Not much else I can say, except that life is hard and sometimes you see a new vision that forces you in a direction you never anticipated.

dreaming with my hands

Something happened along the way and knitting got to be just another brick in the wall of mundanity. The list of chores: Do laundry, wash dishes, organize desk, grocery shop, pick up library books, return phone calls, cook dinner, knit like a slave.

I noticed the transition, of course, and developed a very practical attitude about it. Everything new becomes old. You can dream of living in a place your entire life, but once you finally arrive, set up a sofa and hang up some curtains, you stop noticing the skyscrapers. The mountains that told you you weren't in Ohio anymore, Dorothy, barely register while you're driving the boulevard, lost in visions of what you have to do to get all the other things you want and will, no doubt, acquire and forget in favor of new things (unless you go to sleep one night and wake up Gandhi).

And love. Those who traffic in the ways of the mind are close to convincing us that this whole romantic love vs mature love thing holds water. Meaning that even the boy who made you leave the skyscrapers in favor of the mountains will start to feel more like your brother than your lover, once you get used to him. And you'll have to be okay with that, because what did Bruce Hornsby say? That's just the way it is.

Ah, but don't you believe them.

When I started knitting, it was so much like the beginning of my love affair with The Bubba. My life before was okay. Good, even. But when knitting showed up it was like somebody turned on the sun. I had never known such brilliance, such startling illumination, in my life. Except with The Bubba. Every little bitty thing changed. My senses, previously blunted by my acute inability to stop chasing my own tail long enough to really notice anything, sharpened. People talked, and rather than just seeing their lips moving, I heard words coming from them. Patterns and textures sprang at me out of nature and man-made edifices. My impression of the color orange changed. Orange went from a fair to middling color to a color that added kick and spirit to just about everything. And on its own -- wow. And green. Who knew how lively and soothing this color could be? I'll be damned if there's not some shade of green that looks good on every soul on earth. Knitting lifted me out of my blacks and browns and sometimes grays and catapulted me into a kaleidoscopic world of pigment.

When something makes you feel like this, don't you want more and more of it?

Of course you do.

I did.

I went from an eBay unknown to an eBay star building up my knitting needles, supplies, and oh yes, yarn. If I wasn't knitting, I was reading about it. I took knitting wherever I went, restaurants, dinner parties, movies, plays, road trips, plane trips, you name it. If eating and sleeping even looked like they were going to interfere with my knitting time, I'd skip them. Whatever. I'll sleep when I'm dead, I figured.

In the process of all this, I learned about my own generosity and compassion. I've said before that most of what I've knit I've given away. If I hear somebody's in a tough spot, I immediately want to knit him or her a little softness. I am lucky enough to have many friends and family members I dearly, dearly love, and who have supported me beyond words all my life. Straightaway I recognized knitting as a way to express my love and gratitude to them. In showing adoration through fiber, garter stitch scarves for everyone won't do. I chose projects based on the people they were intended for, even if it meant having to learn new skills in a pinch (which isn't all bad), buy yarn I couldn't necessarily afford at the time of purchase, or work on more projects at a time than I otherwise would choose to so I could meet birthday/holiday deadlines. It is true that no one was standing over me with a whip. But I am the rabid-eyed obsessive type, often worse than any external master.

Marry the way knitting made me swoon with my determination to swaddle the world in wool, and you get a shiteload of works-in-progress.

I cannot tell you how noise-making having a bunch of projects going on at once is for me. Stash yarn I can deal with, but yarn specifically earmarked for patterns, sitting around in various states of UFOness, that there's my idea of purgatory. You see, I have enough unfinished business, enough things I need to get around to doing before I make the grand exit from the stage of life, in my regular everyday dealings. I do not need this in knitting.

What I need, and what I have decided to return to, is to dream with my hands. I need knitting to be that place where I birth my own creativity. I need it to be a pressure-free ode to pure hedonism. I need it as my haven. I need it as my place of discovery and daydreams and light. I need it as my friend.

Just like I refuse to go gently in to familial love with The Bubba in favor of keeping the romantic, the dreamy, the unpredictable between us, I refuse to continue knitting like I'm working on somebody's chain gang. I alone have managed to make knitting another form of toil. I alone can restore it to its former celestial glory.

word cloud

sometimes people have to go

The regular writing has taken over and by the time I get home from my office, aka the library, I don't feel much like blogging. Today I came up with the genius idea of blogging before I head for home. So, here I am. Back on the blog. I wrote this entry last week and have decided to post it today. Imagine it's still Monday, January 30th:

Today I am deeply saddened by the death of playwright Wendy Wasserstein. I logged on to the New York Times this morning like I always do when I want to make sure the world is still standing, and found a picture of Ms. Wasserstein on the homepage, with the caption "Wendy Wasserstein, Chronicler of Women's Identity Crises, Dies." She was 55.

I've been an admirer of Wendy Wasserstein's work since I picked up her book of essays, Shiksa Goddess (Or, How I Spent My Forties) from the library several years ago. I read it. Loved it. Tried to understand where she was coming from. One of the essays details her quest to have a child, which, at 48 after having undergone numerous painful and disappointing procedures, she did. It's difficult for me to comprehend this kind of longing for motherhood (see "I had Schmin at 18," below) since I have spent my entire adult life trying to avoid the having of more children, but Wasserstein wrote of her experience with such clarity (I want a baby), candor (This is how and where it hurts in doing this at my age), and wit (The baby's here. We'd both better live through this) that my understanding and compassion for women in her situation squeaked open. I'll never be able to relate on an experiential level, but I know what it's like to want. When I consider Wasserstein's journey, I can see the joy that happens when this aspect of a person's life vision is fulfilled.

I did the book and then, as a new playwright, wanted to find out what her dialogue was all about. I haven't had an opportunity to see her work performed but I have a very, very deep appreciation of it. My favorite is The Sisters Rosensweig for its humor and spirit. I've read the Pulitzer Prize winning The Heidi Chronicles and found it problematic. Okay, I borderline hated it. I felt that the eponymous heroine gets lost in a shuffle of ideas, didacticism, and stronger, more colorful characters. Even still, I applaud the play's thoughtful exploration of what it means to be the last feminist standing in a post-feminist world. As a woman of color from the modest side of the tracks, not every one of Wasserstein's concerns resonates for me (her family includes a brother who owns New York Magazine, for crying out loud) but the conviction with which she depicts them does. One of the smartest playwrights I've read, her bold intellectualism and fierce humor will be missed. Her death, along with that of August Wilson's last October, has left me a little weepy for American theater, replete as it is with Disney adapations and star chasing. Wasserstein and Wilson were original voices, both dogged in their determination to open up the doors and stages of the theater for a more expansive view of American life.

I'm glad I went to church yesterday, where the Rev discussed his "team," the group of people he imagines surrounding him and cheering him on while he meditates and prays. They include Martin Luther King, Mahatma Gandhi, the Buddha, and Jesus. Hearing this, I thought, Some nerve! How does he have the balls to deem himself worthy of such company? As he kept talking about striving for excellence and doing things that have no precedence, I realized that if you want to be into derring-do, you'd better get the best help your meditation can buy. That said, the next time I can stop chasing my thoughts around long enough to imagine my own team, I'm going with Wendy and August.

By the way, the picture of Wendy Wasserstein was taken by Jill Krementz, whose book The Writer's Desk is my favorite photo book. If you're a writer or you like writers or photography or even desks -- Pablo Neruda's is particularly stately, Eudora Welty's, most imposing -- check it out.

it's my turn

I've been tagged for a meme. Actually, the same one by both greyhoundchaos and Terri D. I'm ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille. Here goes:

Four jobs in your life [best to worst]:
1) Writer -- I'm now doing my thing full-time, but have also done freelance entertainment writing, which has its own rewards and pitfalls.

2) Adjunct university professor -- Last year I worked at my alma mater, teaching English and screenwriting. I also taught as a grad student. Ah, the youth of today.

3) Landscaper and house painter -- You know, I actually like this kind of work. I did it back home in Ohio, but imagine the good times I could've had doing it out here in all this sunshine.

4) Coast to coast office temp -- Anyone have a sharp object I can throw myself on?

Four movies you could watch over and over:
1) Carmen Jones -- I just loooves me some Dorothy Dandridge and Harry Belafonte together. I so wish they'd been a couple in real life. Or at least that Harry was my dad.

2) Stranger Than Paradise -- Jim Jarmusch at his finest. Years ago when I taught College Comp II: Film, I drove students crazy by using this film, which is hard to categorize and sometimes even hard to know why you're watching. I love it.

3) Angels in America -- A masterpiece. Don't know what Tony Kushner was smoking when he wrote it or what Mike Nichols was drinking when he directed, but this film is the shiznit.

4) What the Bleep Do We Know!? -- A mind-bending exploration of quantum physics and spirituality that demands multiple viewings.

Four TV shows you love to watch:
1) "Sanford and Son"
2) "Mary Tyler Moore"
3) "All in the Family"/"The Jeffersons" -- Since The Js is a spin-off, figure I can list both.
4) "City Confidential"
I also love HGTV to death and will watch whatever comes on.

Four places you have lived:
1) Toledo, Ohio
2) New York, New York
3) Harlem -- it's a separate city, take my word for it.
4) Los Angeles

Four places you have been on vacation:
1) London
2) Toronto
3) Barbados
4) Bahamas

Four websites you visit daily:
1) Mr. Stevens
2) Craftster -- I need an intervention. I really really need an intervention.
3) New York Times
4) craigslist

Four of your favorite foods:
1) Pizza
2) Anything with ginger
3) Peanut butter cookies
4) Banana nut bread
No. I don't have anything against carbs.

Four places you'd rather be right now:
1) With my husband, leaving Nevada and heading for Arizona
2) Knitting on any beach in Barbados
3) Visiting Schmin, my dad, and my grandmother in Toledo
4) Climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro -- This would mean I have money, time, and stamina.

Four bloggers you are tagging:
I think I'm supposed to tag new bloggers, so here are some folks I found while traveling the knitting highway. The first is Lori, my buddy from WeHo SnB. Her blog's great. Do check it out.
1) my good friend Lori
2) jemadiknits
3) Elizabeth
4) halfwaynowhere

This meme business is hard work!

less bitchin', mo stitchin'

(But maybe a kvetch or two.)

Let's get down to brass tacks and take a look at some things I've knitted. Yes, the photos are crappy. I used a disposable, excuse me, one time use, camera. And then there was Lacoste the aforementioned surly photo boy at Walgreens. I like to call him Lacoste the Insolent, as in Ivan the Terrible. He put all the pics on my disc upside down, twice, and told me I could just turn them around on my computer at home. Well, yeah, of course I can. Or, you can do your job and put them on the disc the right way. Anyhow, surly people who look at you like you're pitiful when you try to assert your right to a decent existence scare me. Even if they're only 17. So he won. Which means I lost some of what little resolution I had because I had to reorient the pics. So bear with me.

This little lovely is a feather and fan shawl that I did for my friend Andi's mom. Her mom's name is Flavia, which I find cause enough to bestow a handmade gift, and she's one of the nicest people I've ever met. Salt of the Earth. And funny. Last year she began a heartbreaking battle with a rare form of lung cancer (she's a non-smoker). I'd just learned to knit and figured maybe I could give a bit of comfort, so I offered to make a shawl. All I knew how to do was knit and purl, so off I went to Stitch Cafe to try to find a pattern. The owner, Lisi Grinstein, was making a little feather and fan dealydo herself. Bless her, she took the time to sit down and show me how to do it. I bought the yarn from her store, the wondrous Premiere from Classic Elite, 50/50 pima cotton and tencel (I don't know what tencel is but it knits so nice I could eat it). I chose red because it's happy, and Flavia approved because she is of Chinese descent and we all know that's a culture with enough good sense to deem red a lucky color. The Flavia Shawl turned out beautiful, with a mistake or two here and there, which I've also heard is lucky. Like the incredible person she is, Flavia wrote me a thank-you card so kind and thoughtful that it almost made me cry. I'm happy to be able to say that today she is doing well.

Another view. This photo was provided by my good friend Ellen (aka LA El).







Here, me modeling (picture a woman of style, like Flavia, instead of a chick in twisty pants).













Moving along to birthdays, I tried to cover maybe one too many last year, but I managed to hit a few with my sanity intact. One of them was my good friend Carol's (I know, everybody's a "good friend," but what can I tell you? I know a lot of fantabulous people). Her birthday was in August. It was a landmark birthday that I'm not sure she'd want me blabbing all over the Internet but then that right there probably tells you she didn't turn 21 (Hi, Carol!). For this birthday of a friend I've known and loved for 10 years, I chose silk. Fiesta Yarns' La Luz in Wild Oak. Oh, the pleasure of fondling this stuff. Carol wanted light blue and at first I picked Blue Sky Alpacas' Alpaca Silk in Ice (pale blue). Perfect name because it left me cold. It's a fine and upstanding yarn but not landmark birthday caliber. Plus few colors bore me more than pale blue. Nice to knit with something else, but on its own? I'm sorry but it ain't real excitin'. I tried to knit it in their free Opera Scarf pattern but found it a lot of work with very little payoff. I frogged it and stashed the yarn for another day. Then I found this Fiesta stuff. It reminded me of the ocean surrounding my favorite place on the planet, Barbados. Ahhh. I hoped it would ferry Carol back to happy times in her native home, Jamaica. I used a simple eyelet lace stitch and size 13 needles for a quick 'n dirty knit. Bellissimo! Here it is:

All that beauty. I gave it to Carol on her birthday (I like to sign birthday cards: This gift would've been on time, but it's from me!). She loved it. Wore it proudly. Then something HORRIBLE happened to it, which I will photograph and show you in the near future. Make sure to have a box of tissues handy.

This here's a friendly duo I made for Mr. Stevens, just because. I'd already done the set you see the Bubba wearing several posts ago and since they're two of my favorite menfolk, I like to dress them alike to mark them as my minions. The color of Steven's set isn't as reminiscent of a trip to the twa-lay (French for toilet) as it appears to be. It's Cascade Pastaza and I've got it in a different color to make a third set for a fella who shall remain nameless until I get it done. It'll be a minute because I'm fried on the 2x2 ribbing right now.

This is what happened the night I decided I am an artiste. But doesn't a candle in a photo say "I have vision"? And check the rocks. I collect rocks. By that I mean I pick them up and bring them home from all over the place. Don't ask me why. As an artiste, I thought it would be very powerful to pose two of my favorite things, rocks and knitting. I call it, "Still Life With Rocks." I'll leave you to your admiration.

sisters are doing it for themselves

Not a song I liked, in spite of the dynamic duo singing it.

Here I was, lazing around after a writing day, thinking, Geez, how hard could it be to post a freakin' link? Why not call in the Big Gun when I know I really need her? Truth be told I hadn't even tried to link. This is a shame, because one of the big lessons I told myself I'd take from knitting is to practice. Have a little patience, maybe a glass of Jim Beam, read instructions carefully, and dive in. Mark Victor Hansen suggests we make it a point to learn one new thing a month. My thing for this month is linking and I believe I've got it licked. Funny how after you learn something you see how much time you wasted being intimidated by it.

be careful what you walk for

Ah. Life. Yesterday I said to Natalie, You never know how the day is gonna turn out when you wake up in the morning, do you? Nope, she said back to me, It's pretty much a surprise.

Yesterday was the day that my car bit the dust. All this talk of walking the neighborhood. For the time being, I don't have much choice.

I went to a motivational seminar after church on Sunday. Mark Victor Hansen, co-author of the endless and everywhere Chicken Soup for the Soul series, gave us listeners a little talk on how to manifest our financial desires. I went through my big self-help phase about ten years ago. That's the phase where you buy and read all these books, attend all the talks and seminars you can afford, subscribe to O-like magazines, and take in as little of it in as possible. Because what you are really addicted to is the seeking. Not the answers. I still, however, firmly believe self-help has its place. And because I didn't have any plans for Sunday after church and am looking to kick hermitude to the curb whenever appropiate, I went. The seminar was free and good. There were hints that we should sign up for some of Mark Victor's paid seminars so we could learn how to become One Minute Millionaires (the title of his new book) et cetera et cetera. But I am sharper than I was ten years ago and I know that if I just follow what he said on Sunday (mostly the kind of common sense that we all struggle to apply because it would make life just too darn simple and we'd be free to embrace the happiness we're not sure we deserve: return phone calls in a timely fashion, never think "I can't," honor your ideas by writing them down along with your goals, practice staying in the moment, join up with people who are doing the things you want to do. In other words, Hey, try taking yourself seriously) I can have all the money I want. Sunday's talk was chicken soup enough for me. Lately, in my own life, I have seen specific examples of many of the things he discussed. Like this:

What we think is meant for our harm is most often meant for our good.

How many times did I think of myself as "suffering through" a walk to The Grove? But now that it's a necessity, I'm already used to doing it. That's handy. And living here at Chez Hotspot, which I wasn't too sure about at first. The building might be hot but so's the neighborhood. I can sneaker pimp all this: Fairfax library, Pan Pacific Park, Trader Joe's, Whole Foods, Citibank, Washington Mutual, Office Depot, Staples, Ralphs, Rite Aid, Walgreens (don't go to the photo department. There's a surly kid there named Lacoste, yes, like Izod, who will screw up your photo disc and not be the least bit sorry), Koo Koo Roo, Kinko's, K-Mart, Ross, Smart and Final, The El Ray, The Grove, IHOP, Suss, 2 post offices, the LaBrea Tar Pits, Baha Fresh, the SAG office, LACMA, Mani's Bakery, 20/20 DVD, the Goodwill, and Clover Nail Salon. I could go on, but you get it. Everything's here.

And so I am grateful. If my car had broken down while I was living in Hollywood like a fatted calf, walking would've made me feel like I was indeed headed for the slaughter.

I haven't forgotten my promises of talk of WeHo SnB. Mama needs to be able to post links to some of the fabulous people she's met there, and she don't know how to do that. So Mama's good friend Summer is going to help Mama out. When you start seeing links and buttons on this page, you'll know it was Summer to the rescue.