Mercy Me

I am loath to say that I have never been a particularly merciful person. My "buck up and get over it" upbringing created a strength and fortitude in which I took enormous pride over the years. Though I have never parked in a handicapped parking place, I would recoil at the seemingly "healthy" woman in the Corvette who waltzed into Nordstrom, with little sympathy to her hidden body limitations, assuming she had one. And to me, there was just "something fishy" with the local woman in a wheelchair who stormed the doors of the Squeeze Inn and other local establishments, lawyer in tow, only to sue them for lack of ADA compliance.

That was before I broke my right arm...my jewelry making hand, my treble clef hand, my risotto stirring hand. Okay, it's not the same as being a paraplegic confined in a wheelchair, or a man being chained to a dialysis machine four times a week, or a women loosing her hair to cancer treatment...I know that. But even the slightest impairment or loss of your usual physical abilities can be painful, frustrating, humbling, and yes, even illuminating. Our bodies are so fragile and we take them for granted. It's a wonder the majority of us stumble (literally) through life without an injury or serious disease. And as one of those people, I never realized how profoundly your life can change in just the blink of an eye.

The little imaginary man on my shoulder who says "buck-up, Laurel" must be the same little creep that said "you can cross that creek, chicka..you're a country girl!" But he is wrong, and I have had a hard time not feeling sorry for myself in what has seemed like an ordeal to me. And those of you who know me well, know how easy it is to slip into the morbid places...i.e "what if I had a stroke? I'd never be able to cope with that!" Life function limitations like not being able to shower properly, wash your hair, brush your teeth properly (forget flossing!)are difficult to cope with for a mere six weeks, but what if you couldn't do it for an extended period? What if you never could?

God is ever gracious to us in our hour of need, and I am grateful for my broken wing. It opened my eyes to people who must struggle with limitations every day just to survive. I am blessed that my injury is only a temporary inconvenience, and not a life sentence. I am blessed that other people have been more "merciful" than me by their willingness to help me out, wash my hair, carry this, open that. Life is not about bucking-up and getting over it. It's about letting others share your pain and struggles and giving you mercy and grace, and it's about giving it back in return. Thank God that He has given us the best example of grace and mercy in Jesus Christ. Why does it take so long for so many of us to get it??

From the Internet - LMAO! "The Dummy from Hell"

I have been seriously considering buying a professional Dress Form after getting hooked on Project Runway, a quasi reality TV clothing design competition I have sewn for years and have always wanted a dress form so that I could make my own patterns. I started researching different types on the internet, and thought the Uniquely You brand might suit my needs. Upon researching comments from owners of this product, I came across this post from a would-be consumer who had a less than an optimal experience with the Uniquely You Dress Form. I have never laughed so hard in my life...and suffice it to say I will not be buying one of these. Thank you Peter Leppik, Mirabelle Severn & Thames, whoever you all are!

The Dummy From Hell

For the sewing-impaired, a Uniquely You dress form consists of a foam core shaped like a well-endowed woman, and a cloth cover which you sew to fit your own dimensions, then stuff the foam core inside, yielding a dressmaker's form with your own measurements.

From: close@lunch.asd.sgi.com (Diane Barlow Close)
Newsgroups: alt.sewing
Subject: Re: Problems fitting Uniquely You (long!)

Mirabelle Severn & Thames writes:

I recently bought the Uniquely You dress form, and my mother agreed to fit the cover for me. Well, about 1/3 of the way through the fitting, she is running into problems she didn't expect, and doesn't feel secure trying to finish the project. Can anyone give advice?

Okay, I think I'm brave enough now to tell everyone about my experiences with” Uniquely You". I ordered mine from National Thread and Supply Company (in Atlanta, Georgia) who, in turn, get their supply directly from the UY folks but arable to discount it quite a bit. I ordered the "extra small" form and from the measurement range given it should've been just fine. Unfortunately for me, I ordered at the time that the U.Y. folks were trying out a new foam extrusion mix. Somehow I got one of the "test" dummies instead of the real thing. The problem with the new mix was that it discolored and expanded (greatly) when faced with humidity. I didn't know that when I got my dummy; I just knew it looked a bit mottled and way too big to "squish" down to my size. In fact, the dummy had a 44 DD bust! I called the UY company about this but they assured me that I must be wrong, that the bust couldn't be that big and that even if it was it would shrink once the cover was applied. They explained that the foam was much bigger than the cover, but that the foam would compress greatly and that Should just go ahead and make my cover and all would become clear soon. They explained that a lot of force was needed to compress their foam, but compress it would and I should just try it and see. After I got off the phone, I remeasured the bust and it was, indeed, 44DD (it was HUGE). It looked like some bizarre, life-sized headless Barbie.

Encouraged by the phone conversation with the UY people, I started sewing up my cover. I fitted the top half, on me, just fine. I zipped it off and tried to zip it on the dummy. It wouldn't go; it wouldn't squish asked my husband for help. Eventually we had the dummy on the floor with my husband kneeling on top of the breasts and me pushing from underneath the cover trying to compress everything into place. Then we started wondering what this must look like to our neighbors, so I got up and closed the curtains! :-) Continuing our wrestling match, we managed to stuff MOST of the breasts into the cover, but we couldn’t, for the life of us, compress them so they all fit into the cover. We managed to get the cover zipped into place but there was "breasts" popping out all over the place! We decided to see if we could squish the breasts into place any further. My husband pushed from above while I pushed from below. Whammo, side seams gave away and we had breast "leaking" out the side. We tried again. And again. It was a hot and humid summer day and we were not enjoying this strenuous activity very much. Finally we achieved some measure of success, with the cover "centered" over massive “breasts" peering around all sides. We stood back. BLAMMMO! The cover seams all gave way at once and blew off the dummy, leaving "Barbie" once again standing naked before us. Not only that, but the "breasts" appeared to have grown! They certainly looked bigger to me, and a check with the measuring tape now clocked themat 50 DD!! Help, it's Barbie from Hell! :-D

We called UY and complained strenuously this time. I pointed out that my dummy was "growing". They put the owner/creator on the phone and he realized that we had gotten a "bad" dummy, that is, one made with the bad experimental foam. The discoloration was the key to recognition. He asked me to send it back to him for inspection and replacement. You’d think that would be the end of it, wouldn't you? Well, think again! :-) I packaged the dummy up, in the original box, and sent it off UPS-insured. I got a calla couple days later because UY had *refused* my shipment! I couldn't believe it! After they had asked me to send it back directly to them! I couldn't figure out what must’ve gone wrong so called them back, immediately. The told me they didn't take damaged goods. What?! What did they mean "damaged" goods? I sent back an intact product! It was a defective product, but then they knew that as they were the ones who had asked me to send it to them for inspection. Unfortunately the person who handled the shipment was away and all the woman on the phone knew was that the shipment had been refused due to "damage", so I would have to wait a few days for the original person to return to explain why she refused my shipment. I got my answer a couple days later when a "hit and run" UPS driver lobbed a grotesquely-deformed (previously-a-box) shape over my fence and ran for the truck. It seems that somewhere along the line the package must've fallen off the truck and been backed over several times by a truck. The rectangular box was now a triangle and the remains of the dummy had tire tracks on it. Not only that, but it seems it had expanded some more, in transit, and one breast had blown a hole in the box and was now sitting there "staring" at the world rather ominously. The other breast had been ripped off, mostly, and was attached to the dummy by only a wee bit of foam. Numerous other cuts and scrapes told tales of some type of weird raging battle that had been fought between this dummy and who-knows-what! :-)

I called up UPS wondering how the heck they managed to turn my package into the deformity before me and they offered to send another driver out to pick it up for inspection. By this time I wasn't about to trust another "ride" on the truck, so I insisted that they send out an inspector directly to inspect the damage here. Under the circumstances, and considering the amount of money involved, they agreed. When the UPS claims person came out to inspect the damage she asked me what on earth this "thing" was used for. She treated it like she thought she could get Bubonic Plague from it. She started shaking her head and complaining about all the weird sextoys she was forced to inspect now that she was based out here in San Francisco and not back in good old Illinois... I tried to explain that it was a mannequin for sewing and fitting clothes, not some "sex toy". She didn't believe me. She wrote it up as “inflatable foam doll" and treated it like it had some disease she didn't want to catch. She had to remove the dummy from the box, and in order to do that you had to compress the one "escaped" breast to get it back through the hole so the rest of the dummy could come out of the box. She didn't want to touch the breast. No sirree! She was NOT going to touch another breast, not even a foam one! It was very amusing to watch. She honestly believed it was some kind of sex toy and I was some kind of pervert... :-D I finally got the dummy out of the box for her, but even then she wouldn't touch it to inspect the damage. :-) It was very embarrassing! She quickly agreed that UPS would give me a full refund and I don't think I've seen anyone leave my house so quickly... :-

Anyway, all's well that ends well, and I got my money back in full from UPS. I didn’t have the nerve to try another "Uniquely You". I bought a Dritz Double. I don’t really need the "fits your shape" capability of UY, as I'm pretty well the industry standard shape anyway. Yes, I'm one of the rare few who can use patterns directly from the envelope and have them fit perfectly. Do the Dritz Double turned out to be
just fine for me. I hope this helps someone! :-)

Peter Leppik

Arm Candy

She approached the raging creek with trepidation. It had rained the night before and the familiar rocks which guided her usual steps were submerged under the icy waters. Intelligence suggested that she was taking a risk as she gingerly sought a dry rock. First one, then another. As she reached the half way point, the only stable rocks were no longer dry, and not wishing to finish her 4-mile walk in wet shoes, she hesitated...just enough to loose her concentration and her balance. Backwards she careened, finding the only surface in the creek with slimy moss on which to regain her balance. With her life passing quickly before her eyes, and thoughts of drowning in the abyss, she went down. She totally forgot the "tuck and roll" of her combat days, and in a last ditch effort, saved herself from certain doom with a simple backward stretch of the arm. And when it gave way, her head crashed back on a single rock put there just for stupid people like her who try to cross creeks like they were 12. Hel-lo!!!!!!!

Actually it was a tiny little stream of water...and my brain said 'no, don't do it, dummy' and my 12 year old ego said 'yea, you can.' Hence my first ever broken arm, sporting a bright red fiberglass cast. Having this arm candy has certain advantages and disadvantages. People do ask what happened, and you can make up all sorts of tales to inflate your bruised ego: 'I was climbing Mt. Whitney and my rope gave way and I fell 50 feet onto a ledge' or 'I got it caught in my rope on my last bull ride' or 'I didn't like the way my hands were aging so I am having them replaced with robotics.'

But casts are a pain in the ---. You can't get them wet..evidently they start stinking or growing some kind of mold...so showering is a challenge. You can't operate a can opener with a broken arm, and you can't play a piano. Opening your Ibuprofen bottle is tricky, as is trying to flip a pancake. But they are hard as a rock, so you can use them as leverage for certain tasks, like cracking nuts or cutting wire for jewelry making...

All in all, as cute as my little red cast is, I would rather wear a bracelet.

Internet Wisdom

Was there ever a time in my growing years where I envisioned talking to my friends instantly without a phone receiver cradled by my ear, or watching a video of a virtuoso playing a Mozart Sonata without a television, or even researching a crippling disease without a textbook? Even when I was the first employee back in the 80's to have my own "desktop PC" at my company did I ever envision the future magic of a world-wide communication/information system at my fingertips.

The Internet is a powerful tool. It is the bread and butter for the entrepreneur, the companion for the lonely, the inspiration for the downtrodden, and the amusement for the bored. It brings instantaneous connection, constant entertainment, frequent laughter, intermittent enlightenment and sporadic glee. It is hard to control and impossible to ignore. It is creativity at its best and addiction at its worst.

Though I spend way too time posting, blogging, chatting, researching and keeping up with my friends on a daily basis, I have never been much of a fan of Internet e-mail "junk". You know what I am talking about - those forwarded messages that threaten great harm and impending doom if you don't pass it on to 50 of your friends. Or the You-tube clip of some political hypocrite who puts his foot in his mouth for the hundredth time. I'll admit that I am a sucker for the messages which promise inspiration - these you know too - the harrowing story of courage and impossibility with the happy ending. But even then, I remain pretty confident that the writer made it up just to get me. Some of this stuff just can't be true!

Despite my skeptical nature, some messages have Truth written all over. Those are the ones to savor, to take in and let them stew a while in your heart. Those are the ones I wish that I had written myself. So the following is not my creation, but it is inspired Truth. An uplifting message passed across the Internet from a friend, instead of on the inside page of a funeral announcement...The 23rd Psalm.

The Lord is my Shepherd -- that's Relationship
I shall not want -- that's Supply!
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures -- that's Rest!
He leadeth me beside the still waters -- that's Refreshment!
He restoreth my soul -- that's Healing!
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness -- that's Guidance!
For His name sake -- that's Purpose!
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death-- that's
Testing!
I will fear no evil -- that's Protection!
For Thou art with me -- that's Faithfulness!
Thy rod and Thy staff comfort me -- that's Discipline!
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine
enemies-- that's Hope!
Thou annointest my head with oil -- that's Consecration!
My cup runneth over -- that's Abundance!
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life-- that's Blessing!
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord -- that's Security!
Forever -- that's Eternity!

Can I get an Amen? AMEN!

"So you've had a bad day..."

Some days were just born wrong. There's no rhyme or reason for a bad day, and there's usually no one to blame. You can just be minding your own business, making plans to go here and go there, do this and do that, and wham! it comes without warning. Okay, maybe I did pull a little over the line before I stopped to make my right turn, but did it have to be at the same intersection where I ran a red light a year ago? Talk about a crush of reality when you suddenly realize what you just did...do I have to go to felony community service..again???

And what's with that Alhambra water guy toting 4 huge bottles in the middle of the intersection when I am trying to make a left turn...scared the ---- out of me...he was not supposed to be there. So by the time I actually arrived for lunch in midtown, I might have been a little rattled.

Now you know you have to "plan" when you go to midtown...you need the proper change for the meters and you need cash to pay the bill, which I never carry. Assuming you go the autoteller first, it's a piece of cake. And don't forget to memorize your stall number or you will have difficulty completing your parking transaction. Need I say more about how my lunch date started???? The food was good though, so I was sure my Karma was changing for the afternoon. Not so, little grasshopper.

My car keys (I was using my hubby's), which I left at a friends house last night (is that when this bad streak started?)were to be in another friend's mailbox so I could pick them up...I had the address scribbled on a scrap of paper in my purse, which didn't seem to be there as I was leaving lunch for the parking lot. No problem...I'll just call her and verify the address. Is that my worthless piece of ---- cell phone beeping in my purse, denoting "NO Battery"?? Of course it is! Luckily for the world, I eventually found the scrap of paper...otherwise I was beginning to feel some sort of psycho rampage about to emerge right there in front of Crepeville.

I located the elusive scrap of paper on my car seat and drove to the stated address, parked in the ally, and you'll never guess what...you're right!!! NO keys in mailbox. Strike five, Laurel. I remembered that I had her work address...on the 20th floor of some building downtown, so I headed back downtown. I find ANOTHER place to park, but I don't have the appropriate coins for the meter, so I scrounge in the bottom of my purse to find one lousy quarter. I can already feel ticket number two for the day comin' on. But if I run fast, I figure I can get back before the meter reader comes.

Not knowing the name of a company does impede one's ability to locate a person who's last name you don't even know cause you just met her last night...and the 20th floor of a building sounded a little ominous..but I tried the first office in a long corridor and indeed, they had a person by that name working there. But alas, no keys were left at the front desk. Two very helpful women were able to contact my new friend by phone, and she swore the keys were back uptown in her mailbox. Nope, I swore. But I'd go back and check again.

Just so you won't think I'm making this up, I will cut to the chase...my keys were magically in the mailbox this time, and I sat in my "parked car" in the ally again and thought I must be losing my mind. If this is what's it's like to get old, I can see why Kevorkian has a booming business!

But hey, not all was lost....I made it home in one piece to the music of some Powter guy who sings "So you've had a bad day..." You know, the one they played every time some poor guy got kicked off American Idol... I just smiled.

Ups and Downs

I lived in a two-story home....ONCE. Our bedroom was up a flight of stairs and it was the only room on the second level, save a tiny "master" bath. My first desire must have been privacy, away from four rambunctious kids, a retreat of sorts. However, stairs are very cruel to aging knees, and when we finally moved out of the family home, we very astutely looked for something a little more knee-friendly.

I was reminded of the cruelty of stairs this week painting two bathrooms in my daughter's new home...one upstairs and one down. Naturally all the supplies were upstairs when I was down, and downstairs where I left them when I needed them upstairs. Okay, I will concede that straddling a bathtub, sink and toilet while balancing a paint tray can also contort the body into some wretched positions, because everyone knows a ladder never fits into a bathroom. Up and down, up and down.

So I had a nightmare last night about being DOWN in a dingy basement and it started flooding...I couldn't get UP the stairs because my knees were in these tiny little braces and the wrench to unlock them was UP the stairs...all of a sudden I looked UP at the ceiling and a thousand rats starting creeping DOWN the walls...and then...no, I'm just kidding. Even my brain isn't that sick. I was just trying to do a lead UP to how many different ways we use UP and DOWN to describe things. Think about it...

We drive UP to Yuba City, which means it must be North from here, and we go DOWN to San Francisco, which must be South. Our mood swings are characterized by UPS and DOWNS -'She's really feeling UP today' or better yet 'she's DOWN in the dumps today', like a landfill is a bad destination. The stock market doesn't even "fluctuate" any more...it's just UP or DOWN. Unemployment is UP, the housing market is DOWN, and we are all UP THE CREEK.

They say English is the toughest language to learn. Imagine the confusion of a small child or a foreigner who is trying to distinguish between all the meanings behind these simple words:

'Go put that toy UP right now'...even though the toy box is on the floor.
'It's UP to you'...which is just another way of avoiding confrontation.
'Let's get DOWN tonight!'...implying the need to get drunk or maybe dance.
'I'm UP for it"...which could either mean you're happy or you're game.
'Don't get all UPpity with me!'...denoting a social status that's higher than yours.
'You are just being DOWN on yourself'...dissing oneself.
'He gave her a leg UP'...not a sexual position...he helped her.
'They were UP in arms DOWN at the Capitol'...which denotes an impending riot is about to go DOWN.
"You are driving me UP a wall'...now that's a classic...as if one could actually navigate a car on a vertical surface.

Maybe I should just shut UP, put my aching knee UP and get BACK to the nightmare...or get OVER it...don't get me started.

Oh Ye of Little Faith!

Why is it that trusting God is so hard to do on a day to day basis? My head knows that I am not in control of life's ups and downs, but my heart sinks when I am continually reminded just how puny my faith really is sometimes. We ask Him to do a mighty work, then we jump in and ramrod our way through it, leaving God little room to strut His stuff. We ask for patience in one breath and in the next we start "fixing" problems with little or no real success.

Trusting God requires big love, patience beyond our capabilities and huge faith for us Fixers and Controllers. We barter with God, making deals to read our Bible more, join a study group, help the poor, etc., if He will but grant our deepest desires. We pray for outcomes without regard for His plan. And we loose perspective about how He can work without our meddling and help. But most of all we FORGET how God has already worked all through our lives to bring us to THIS day and THIS place. We have forgotten His unending grace in our darkest periods and His faithfulness to see us through. We have forgotten His promises. And we forget on a daily basis that we are His BELOVED. If we could just keep that one moment of "enlightenment" continually in our hearts and minds that hits us in the midst of a beautiful sunset, the birth of a child, the playing of a Mozart Sonata or languishing on a white sand beach in Maui, we would understand who God is, what He has done for us, get on our knees and trust Him more. Amen? AMEN.

My friend Bertha and Amish Friendship Bread

Many years ago in the height of Martha Stewart’s ride to fame, I was fortunate to meet her sister, Bertha, at a church in Fair Oaks. She had all of Martha’s good looks, although slightly older, I guessed, since her grey hair fell in curly wisps around her sour Martha-face. And perhaps she didn’t share Martha’s sense of style, given the red striped socks peaking out from the top of a pair of Sorrel boots. And okay, maybe she didn’t have Martha’s polished vocabulary either or her gift of communication, even though she did have the same monotonous tone of voice, although it was punctuated with a heavy, dull southern drawl. She was speaking to a group of women on the horrors of Friendship Bread, and it was in this presentation that I came to believe that she was probably lying about her identity, but I no longer cared – she was delightfully irreverent, witty and no-nonsense. I contacted her recently and she agreed to be a guest writer on my blog, since I aspire to have those same qualities. So here is a reprint of her talk on Amish Friendship Bread:

Good morning, ladies. I am here to warn you about an evil terrorist plot against America – a plot so insidious, it strikes at the very heart of the American home and threatens the very core and sanctity of that home – the American Housewife. The horror that I am speaking about is Amish Friendship Bread (AFB). Oh, it looks innocent enough, and it’s pretty tasty – it has a starter batter that you keep addin’ flour and sugar to for a period of ten days, then you pass it off on a friend.

Here’s how it starts: your friend just “drops by” one morning with a loaf of Friendship Bread just out of her oven – it smells heavenly and you are feeling all blessed by her act of friendship. But she can’t stay and visit as 'she has a root canal scheduled'. And as she is going (more like bolting)out the door, she quickly thrusts a plastic zip-lock baggy of some pasty goo-like batter into your hand, and a recipe to make more of the bread. You’re startled, but you thank her warmly. Wasn’t that sweet?! But unbeknownst to you, the AFB terrorist plot has already begun:
1) First, you can’t accept the bread without the bag of batter and the recipe. That’s the rule…evidently…cuz I tried to give it back and she wouldn’t take it.
2) AFB tastes good, so you go for it. But dang'd if it doesn’t start multiplying! At the end of 10 days, one bag of batter makes 2 fresh loaves of AFB and 4 new bags of batter to unload on your friends, and still leaving you with one bag to start all over again. Usin' your math skills, you figure out that 4 bags turn into 16, then 265, then 65,000 cute little zip-lock bags full of pasty batter.
3) AFB never ends. You will be baking that (*@&%#^@ bread until the Rapture. You will run out of friends to give it to after the first few batches. I know a widow woman who hasn’t had a date in 3 years cuz she’s always making AFB, and word spread quickly that she would even try to pass it off on dates.
4) AFB saps you of your time and money. Tendin’ that first little bag isn’t bad (you have to “mush” the batter around in the bag daily), but mushin’ 65,000 bags is a little tough. And if that’s not bad enough, you starting passing bad checks at the Piggly-Wiggly just to buy more flour and sugar…heck, some folks have had to quit their jobs!
5) It makes you crazy. The stress of having to mush them bags every day will drive a woman to drink. And if you look around, you will see crazed women all over American neighborhoods with trunk loads of zip-lock bags. You gotta watch out for ‘em – they come up to your door all huggy and friendly, then POW, there’s a baggy thrust into your hands and they run off laughing hysterically. I lost a friend last week – she forgot to mush her baggy and her batter “died”. She was devastated – they found her face down in a bowl of batter.
6) AFB piles up on your counters, freezer, storage lockers – you can’t get rid of it. You run out of friends. Your real friends won’t come over any more, cuz they’re afraid you’re gonna give them a baggy.

And the worst, most insidious part of this plot is

7.) FRIENDSHIP BREAD WILL MAKE YOU FAT. Women develop Friendship Bread thighs. They forget how to really cook, as an endless stream of Friendship Bread “variety meals” grace American tables – turkey with Friendship Bread Stuffing, Meatloaf and Scalloped Friendship Bread Pudding. Their husbands leave them in favor of AFB "Non-Friends".

But, I tell you girlfriends, what’s really pathetic about this whole plot is that is robs women like you and me of our intelligence and cognitive thinking abilities - why in God’s name don’t we just throw it out in the first place???? My advice to all of you is slam the door on anyone carrying a loaf of fresh bread – she has a zip-lock bag in her purse and she is the Antichrist!

Ssk,*(yo,ssk) K3 (K2tog,yo) and Other Forms of Masochism

Knitting is supposed to be a relaxing experience, especially for those who are regularly stressed out. I took up the "sport" many years ago, but it hasn't been until the last few years that I have actually made something that I could wear. So with the onslaught of rain and wind for the third straight day, I found some old yarn and decided to make something for summer - a nice tank top or a shell.

I browsed the Internet for free knitting patterns, not wanting to brave the weather to the yarn shop. I found an adorable little number that needed the exact number of skeins that I happened to have on hand, and I even had the correct circular needles. Bonus! Okay, they were a little small (US4) and the pattern did look like it might be a slight challenge, but after all, Laurel, what else do you have to do?

Choosing the correct size in a knitted pattern is always a challenge, especially if you are in-between sizes and/or you've been doing Jenny...let's face it, I didn't know what size I should make, so I just cast on the 100 million stitches for a "large" tank. The first row is usually a knit or pearl row to set the stage for the pattern - in this case it was pearl....easy enough. Then the fun began. I could hardly read the directions for Row 2, let alone figure out what the symbols meant. I wrestled my way through the row by trial and error, finally remembering the words of my knitting friend Peg:'always keep a little notepad so you can keep a tally of your stitches', which I did, dutifully checking them off as I went.

Life does not stop while knitting...the phone rings, the microwave goes off, etc., so to say I became distracted easily is a gross understatement. After ripping Row 2 out three times, I finally got to the end only to find later that I pearled 150 gazillion stitches on my needle on Row 3...did they mention that in the pattern? Oh well, on to Row 4. More of the same gobbledygook, add a few extra knits here and there so it will cover the mistakes you made on Row 2...Needless to say by the time I got to Row 8, it didn't look anything like a "cute pineapple and trellis" pattern, and I swear it would have fit a large cow. What tension???

Well, I have ripped the whole sucker apart again, and I am not sure my nerves can handle all those holes and chains, so I just stared at the pattern for a reality check. Actually, I think I might look like a cow in it even if I could do it...think I'll just make a scarf.

Ahhh...I feel better now.

'I Have to', 'I Need to', 'I Should', 'I Ought to' and other forms of False Guilt

Somewhere in the middle of another sleepless night I started fixating on things I could do when the sun finally came up. A whirlwind of possibilities flowed freely around in my brain...fixing that piece of ugly jewelry, practicing that complex measure in my Sonata, going up to visit my mother, eating another chocolate chip cookie, cleaning the toilet in the guest room, calling a friend for lunch, writing on my blog... As important as all of these exciting options might be, I realized that many of them are not necessarily things that I really "want to" do, but things that I have to, need to, should or ought to do...although probably only in my brain.

I did a study on emotional fitness last year with some girlfriends, and we learned that most of us do things we every day largely out of false guilt. False guilt is a response to things and events in our lives that we take responsibility for when we are not actually at fault. Real guilt is the result of doing something wrong that hurts others, and unless you are a perpetual jerk, you should not constantly be in a state of real guilt.

So let's look at some the possibilities of things to do today and decide if I just "feel" guilty and should do it or if I am indeed just a self-centered jerk:

1) Clean the toilet - False Guilt: DUH!!! What person in their right mind likes to clean a toilet? Toilets don't have feelings and they have not been hurt by grime, so therefore, why feel guilty about leaving them to their own devices?

2) Call a friend for lunch - False Guilt: When was the last time she called you and invited you out? And didn't she make you pay???

3) Fix that ugly piece of jewelry - Real Guilt: You created it in the first place, so you have only yourself to blame. It will never be truly healed until you say you're sorry and give it a decent burial.

4) Practice that hard section in my Sonata - Both: It's Real Guilt because you haven't practiced in two days and False Guilt because you think your teacher will be furious with you if you come back again and still sound like a non-talented, fat-fingered idiot.

5) Writing on my blog - Neither: I don't feel guilty about this at all....who says you need to be dressed by 9:30??

6) Visiting my mother - Decline to State: I'm not Emotionally Fit yet.

7) Eat another chocolate chip cookie - Can't be Classified: Eating is a life function so how can there be any guilt at all?

So amongst all of these wonderful possibilities, I think I will eat another chocolate chip cookie and go see my Mom.