Choose Your OWN Adventure in 2008

Ahh, holiday time becomes introspection time here in Casa de Adventure. It’s the time of year when I start reflecting on all the events of the current year. The good, the bad, the beautiful, and the ugly. As with any year, it has been the best of times and the worst of times, to quote our not-so-good friend Dickens. I like thinking back on the good and the bad because they put each other into prospective. Last week, I ended up in a discussion online with a friend about whether I thought all things were meant to be. We started discussing my philosophy of predetermination versus free will. In the interest of the upcoming New Year of 2008, I’ll share my theory.

Life, to me, is like a Choose Your Own Adventure book. Remember those from when you were a kid? I loved those stupid things. I particularly remember the Ellis Island one. For those who either didn’t grow up in the 1980’s or didn’t read these books, they had plots. At the end of certain pages, you were asked to make a decision. Based on that decision, you went to a different page to continue the story. Based on the choices you made throughout your reading of the book, you came to one of a finite set of endings. Some endings were good. Some endings were bad. Some paths got you to the endings faster. Some got you to the endings slower. You could read the books over and over and try making different decisions to bring you to different endings. The books were awesome. Of course, being a precocious little brat, I had the tendency to skip to the end, skim the endings, and figure out how to manipulate my reading to get me to the ending I liked. Guess I’ve never been one for the unknown.

How, then, do these fit into my theory? My theory is that life is like a Choose Your Own Adventure book. Bear with me just a few minutes more. See, our lives probably have some set outcomes. Sure, death and taxes will always exist, and we will always have to contend with them. However, the way we die, the way we handle death, and the amount of taxes we pay, probably not so much with the outset predetermination. The choices that we make in life take us down different paths. How many times have you been at a crossroad in your life and thought, “which road do I take? The easy road? The hard road? The high road? The low road? The road not taken?” Everyone has those moments. It’s how we deal with those moments and the choices that we make at those moments that determine the outcomes.

Sometimes, our choices lead us down the difficult path. Unfortunately, in life, there’s no skipping to the end of the the book to help figure out how to get to the good ending. Sometimes, our choices depend on the decisions of others. However, even when we cannot control the people in our lives, we can control how we choose to react to those them. Regardless of how out of control we feel about our lives, we do have choices we can make. We can choose to allow others to make us feel bad. We can choose to respond to stress by running away. We can choose to find solutions to problems on our own. We can choose to talk about our stresses with others. We can choose to research things so that we understand them better. We can choose to ask for help when we need it. Choice is how we control our lives. We always have choices, even if we don’t like them.

Unfortunately, unlike a book, life isn’t one of those things where the choices we make have no consequences. Choosing to take medicine can have side effects. Choosing to ignore a situation can make us feel powerless. Choosing to follow through on a dream can create temporary financial difficulties. Choices are not always easy. However, choice is power in a powerless world.

We do not always choose our destiny, but how we respond to that destiny is our choice. Look, for example, at Buffy the Vampire Slayer . Not the movie, the television show. The movie was a horrible parody of the vision of Joss Whedon. Buffy was the one girl in all the world chosen to defeat the vampires. She didn’t always like it. As a matter of fact, sometimes she down right hated it. How she chose to deal with the challenges is the moral of the story. She never ran away from a fight. She never backed down, even when she felt she couldn’t go on. She always chose to do the right thing. Her choices did not make for an easy life. However, they were her own. She once chose to walk away from the burden. That didn’t work out so well for her. Again, her choices were hers and hers alone even if she did have a destiny that was beyond her control.

Back in high school, we read the Tom Stoppard play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead . At the end of the play, one of the characters notes, as they are on a ship, “We can move of course, change direction, rattle about, but our movement is contained within a larger one that carries us along as inexorably as the wind and current.” In the same way as the Choose Your Own Adventure book readers, the characters in the play are contained within a space that has a finite amount of movement for them. In the same way, our lives contain us, but allow us to rattle about. It’s the way in which we rattle about that determines whether our ship ends up reaching its safe port or sinking like the Titanic. If we choose to allow the bad things to overwhelm us, we tank. If we choose to pick ourselves up, we reach the safe port.

So, in the interest of a New Year, choose YOUR own adventure in 2008. 

Just the Two of Us

Back in 1998, Will Smith recorded his version of the classic song “Just the Two of Us”. At the time, in Washington, DC, this song played on Z100 radio station a minimum of three times a day. How do I know this? I know this because Z100 was the only radio station my dorm room was able to pick up that summer in Georgetown, and my roommate and I listened to it constantly.

 Ever notice how every once in a while, a person enters your life who is destined to be a lifelong friend, even a savior, enters your life. This person may be just one of many individuals you meet at the time, but she is someone who touches your life in a way that no one else quite does. You meet. You greet. You bond. You become lifelong friends. These are the type of people who become more than friends; they become your family. Such is the story I am about to unravel to you, as this is my Ode to Deige.

About eight and a half years ago, I shuffled myself into my summer dorm room. There were two double rooms, each with bunk beds. Being an only child, I was thrilled by the bunkiness of the beds, yet my fear of heights told me to take the bottom bunk. About fifteen minutes later, two Southern belles wandered in and commandeered the other room for themselves, as they already knew each other. This left me no choice but to bunk with the third roommate, who turned out to be an amazing, blond haired, blue eyed, Amazon in all senses of the word. She agreed to take the top bunk. We introduced ourselves, and I went down to the meet-and-greet gathering the summer program had waiting. Deige settled in, but when she came to the barbecue a bit later, she recognized “that squeaky voice” as her roommate (yup, I soud like a Muppet). Thus was born our bond.

We spent the summer hanging out and working and going to class. We both recognized the eye-candiness of our teacher LaForge. We listened and danced to “Just the Two of Us.” She helped shove me through a window to open the dorm door for some friends. We laughed over the operatic stylings of Taco Bell’s Gorditas theme by one of our roommates and over message about lost Baymers (y’know, those really expensive cars, now try saying that without the Southern accent and you’ll know the car I’m talking about). We shopped. We shot pool. We helped throw a surprise birthday party, after which Deige nearly winged me in the head with a Size 12 three inch chunk heeled sandal when she took it off. We were the epitome of Mutt and Jeff. She’s tall (clocking in a 6 feet tall), strong, blond haired, blue eyed, perfectly fun and outgoing. I’m short (clocking in a just about 5 feet, on a good day, when I first wake up), easily intimidatd, brown haired (or, I was then), brown eyed, trying hard to be fun and outgoing. We would go places and look like exact opposites. Perhaps, it’s true that opposites attract.

Deige is a force of nature. She’s intelligent. She’s strong willed. She’s an emotional pillar. She went back to her school at the end of that summer and so did I. I graduated; she had a year left. Through all of this, we stayed in touch. When she graduated from college, she did something that took a courage of conviction that I could never do. I am forever amazed at her ability to just do what she wants and know it will work out. She moved back to DC. With no job, no apartment, no nothing. Yet, she got a job, an apartment, and friends. her ability to make her dreams into realities will never cease to amaze and inspire me. I told you she is a force of nature.

Deige was my maid of honor when I got married. Without her, I could not have stayed sane. She handled everything with aplomb. She managed to make my mother fall in love with her, wishing she was a second daughter. She calmed my nerves when things became overwhelming. She was perfect in all senses of the word. On the day itself, she stood near a heater ten minutes before the ceremony and ripped her skirt. Her answer? Scotch tape and a swivel of the skirt so the tear was hidden. She walked down that aisle with all the grace of a princess and none of the self-consciousness that I would have had. She wiped my tears (of which there were many) and checked my mascara. She fluffed up my train like a professional. She was, and is, perfect.

Deige has the kind of job where if she told me, she’d have to kill me. OK, maybe not so much. In my mind though, she’s a bureacratic James Bond who prefers cosmos to dry martinis. She’s a transmogrification of James Bond and Sex in the City’s Carrie. She’s fun loving, fun, and loving all rolled into one.

Deige is the type of person that you want by your side when things are bad in equal amounts to when they are good. She’s the kind of person that you want to be with whenever you can. After I got married, Deige started giving me pieces of Christmas china ever year for Christmas. Every Christmas, when I take them out to use them, it is like having her at my Christmas dinner, which is very comforting. This year, I plan to return the favor. As any knitter knows, knitting is an act of pure love. Her gift this year is an Ode and a scarf, so that I can try to be with her in spirit, if not in body, when she needs it. My hope is that whenever she feels down, she can wrap herself in the scarf (and hey, if it’s a humid 100 degree day in DC, just find some air conditioning!), sit down and read about how she has changed a life simply by existing. Without her friendship, my life would be empty. She is the type of woman that we want our daughters to be. She is the type of woman that we aspire to be.

For all this, I thank you. True dat.

You Intarsia, You Brought ‘er!

A few years ago, I spent a summer working and living in Washington, DC. Granted, I was young and naive. For some reason, however, the “poker! you poke her! you brought her!” joke was hysterical. It remains so to this day. I can explain it not. Once I began working intarsia, all I could hear was this joke in my head.

Speaking of intarsia, it isn’t nearly as difficult as I thought. Sure, it’s futsy. However, the end result will be worth it. Why, for the love of all things holy, am I doing intarsia, you may ask. As anyone who has ever met me will attest, I am fairly monochromatic. Occasionally, I venture into the realm of bichromatic. That is, unless you don’t count gray and black as separate colors. At which point, I revert back to monochromatic. However, when I saw this pattern:

(courtesy Plymouth Yarn)

I couldn’t resist using it as the perfect pattern for the imortalization of my Kerry Woolen Mills yarn. However, in my haste to purchase yarny goodness while abroad, I did not think about how much yardage one would need. Alas. I realized that I would want enough to make a special project. However, as discussed earlier, I have no commitment for making a sweater. Goodness, this is probably pushing my commitment level further than I thought I could take it.

Unfortunately, little did I realize that I wouldn’t have enough yarn to make this pattern, either, when I purchased said pattern. Upside, I found a class for it, and the teacher offered to help me by teaching me intarsia. The pattern isn’t terribly difficult, but does require attention. This is not football knitting. This is serious, attention required, cables and P1 K3, K1 P3 seed stitch ribbing knitting. However, even though each row currently takes about 20 minutes, the result will be gorgeous. The charcoal compliments the red beautifully. The buttons I bought are an abstract tree pattern, but the tree is so abstract that I question whether it really is a tree.

The Kerry Woolen Mills yarn is fabulous in its wooly goodness. The raspberry is luscious and deep. The charcoal is a beautiful shade of dark gray. Every time I pick up the yarn, I’m reminded of that rainy day driving the Ring of Kerry. How I saw the sign for the mill. How Mr. Adventure (who I decided needed a name better than DH) smilingly agreed to let me go off the beaten path to see the yarn. How as I drove through the green, I suddenly came upon this:

Then rounded the corner to view this:

How at first I was disappointed to the verge of tears that the shop was not yet open. How the owner found me as I made my way back to my little rented Nissan Micra to tell me he would open a few minutes early for me. How I stood in the dim light, fondling the wool. How I transferred my missing of my dogs onto the beautiful dog in the shop. How the owner turned to my husband and said, “who’s the knitter?” and how Mr. Adventure just chuckled and said, “yeah, not me.” How I hugged it and lugged it throughout the rest of our trip. How I came home and have thought about this yarn for the last five months. Every stitch is a memory turned into knitwear.

Every purl is a moment standing in the rain at Blarney. Every knit is walking a beach on the Dingle Peninsula. Every cable front is a winding road through the Wicklows. Every cable back is a walk through the Burren over the uneven ground to the Poulawack Cairn. Every intarsia yarn crossover is a view of the ocean off the end of the Dingle peninsula. Every whiff of the yarn’s faint animal smell is a reminder of the vast amounts of wooly animals on the roadsides and the roads (and whom I nearly creamed with a Nissan Micra).

Here is the progress of memory lane so far:

Here is a closeup of the cabling progress:

Here’s a closeup of the seed stitch rib:

Here’s a close up of the intarsia:

I plan to relive every moment I spent laughing with Mr. Adventure as I create knitwear. I plan on enjoying every moment of working with this yarn. I plan on making a living reminder of all the things that were wonderful about my trip. So, sure, you may have brought her, but I will be the one to intarsia my way through my memories.

The Trouble with Trying

A little pointy-eared green Jedi once said, “Do or do not. There is no try.” Obviously, he was a man. For some women, trying is all they have.  This does not mean that they can only try at work or at school. It means that they are trying to conceive. For some, all they have is the ability to try.

Trying to conceive, hereafter referred to by its abreviation “ttc”, is a reality for many women. To many, “making a baby” has all the makings of being awesome. Really, when you think about it, shouldn’t it just end up being a lot of wild sex between a gal and her man? For goodness’ sake, people made babies before there was fire. If you’re a woman who has a rampant sex drive, ttc should be nothing but good times. However, the problem that many women are finding is that it is not that simple. The problem is that after a few cycles worth of trying, not always just months given how long some women’s cycles can be, women start to feel downright frustrated with themselves, their bodies, and the whole process.

This frustration can turn to obsession right darn quick, too. The first thing most doctors do is ask that a woman check her basal body temperature and start “charting.” The concept of charting seems all obvious. Plot the temperature on the graph. However, again, the reality is that everything impacts this sensitive temperature - don’t move before taking it, get anywhere from 3 - 4 hours of solid sleep/rest at minimum, don’t sleep with your mouth open, be careful how much caffeine you drink, how much (if any) alcohol you intake, don’t get up to pee in the middle of the night. Treat your body like you’re already pregnant. All of these things make sense, in theory. Looking at this chart every day, however, only reinforces what isn’t happening - and that’s a baby.

First, they blame themselves. For the perfectionists in this world, this is the most difficult aspect of ttc. Women can feel like they are somehow failing in life. For exampe, take a woman who has usually been pretty successful. Smart, good job, always been able to do something to which she sets her mind. She wants a job; she gets it. She is a believer in the merit system. The harder you work, the better you do because the better you are at things. So, she starts trying to have a baby. OK, she can do this. She has sex with her husband every night. Nothing. Hmm, ok, back to the drawing board. She starts temperature charting. She tries supplements. Months go by. At this point, she begins to feel like a failure.  She begins to look at her temperatures every day. Since she’s taking her temperature every day, looking at the chart is pretty much a must anyway since it has to be recorded every day. She watches the temperatures go up, then down, then up, then down. She compares her chart with others’ charts. She looks for patterns. She starts to obsess over each temperature and what it means. She blames herself for not being able to do this correctly.

Second, women feel as though they are letting down their better halves. If you’re in a heterosexual relationship, the burden of having a baby falls firmly on the only member of the relationship sitting around with boobs and ovaries. Unfortunately, much though women would love men to be able to to carry a baby for the nine month gestational period and the breast feeding afterward, this is all on the woman. So, before blaming their husbands’ swimmers, women blame their bodies, and themselves, and feel as though they are letting down the other half of the relationship. They’re not living up, in their minds, to their half of the bargain.

 Third, women start to blame their bodies for not working correctly. Because, of course, just what women need is more reason to hate their bodies. Some have endometriosis, which aside from being extremely painful, can add to making conception more difficult. Some have bodies that choose not to ovulate, which again makes pregnancy harder since dropping an egg is a prerequisite to fertilizing said egg. Some have bodies that refuses to carry a pregnancy to term. All of these different problems once again make women curse their bodies. They weigh too much. They weigh too little. They exercise too much. They exercise too little. Once again, this unhealthy focus on the body adds to all the body image issues that they have battled their whole lives. Once again, they find a way to hate their bodies.

Then come the medicines. The vitamins. The supplements. There is soy and Vitamin B. Soy has yet to be proven scientifically to helping, but they try it anyway. There are tests. They pee on sticks. They pee on ovulation predictor kits. They obsess over whether the pink line is pink enough. They put pictures of the peed upon sticks online. They ask for opinions from others. They buy fertility monitors. They spend money on these things. They pee on home pregnancy tests which assert that they can detect pregnancies early. They take pictures or scan these sticks. Again, they post them online. They ask for input and advice from friends, family, and doctors. The fertility industry makes a killing. It makes a killing preying on this deep seated desperation to be a woman and to prove one’s womanhoodby getting pregnant. These sticks can only do so much. These assertions by home pregnancy tests indicate that they may show results as early as five days prior to a missed period. They prey upon the most basic female desire. Women buy boxes of these tests. They use two or three a day, desperate to see the answer they long to view. They spend more money on tests. They drink more water, more tea, more kool aid. They become prisoners of their bladders and their hormones.

They take drugs - progesterone and Clomid. Clomid helps to ovulate or to ovulate sooner. The chance of twins is anywhere between 6% and 25% depending on who a woman’s doctor is. The fear of twins is great with this one. Twins are great, in theory. In reality? There’s always two kids of the same age tag-teaming mom and dad. The fear of twins is great. Women have follicles checked, lining depth checked. They focus on their bodies in ways they never though possible.

Finally, there are the online shorthands used. Sex becomes baby dancing. For some, intimacy with their husbands may have nothing to do with being together as a married couple. However, the use of this term implies that the only purpose for physical intimacy is a baby. Everything revolves around trying to have a baby. Two consenting adults now focus their efforts on making a baby. All the joy that was supposed to come with wild unfettered sex is now reduced to baby dancing and maybe even dancing babies.  Sex is timed and used sparingly, in some cases, to conserve sperm. The spontaneity of being together becomes nonexistent. The joy of being with one’s partner for the pure joy of it is lost. Positions need to be monitored. Pleasure in being together is compromised. Enjoying sex becomes a nonissue. All that rampant wild sex they dreamed of at the outset of the ttc process is gone. Life with theirs husbands has become clinical. In looking at their charts, they admire the timing of the BDing, without regard as to whether the couple enjoyed being together.

Women call their periods AF, or Aunt Flo, in the same way that pre-teens embarassingly refer to their period when they can’t admit they are becoming young women without giggling. In chat rooms and posting boards, they sprinkle baby dust, like any number of pregnancy wishing Tinkerbells. They talk in baby terms about things such as implantation calling them sticky beans. Women are reduced to cutesy baby speak instead of adult conversation. Perhaps using cutesy language can cover the disappointment the process creates. Perhaps, if they sprinkle magical imaginary dust, it will be less about them individually than about some outside invisible force.

They listen to family and friends tell them platitudes - “in God’s time” “if it’s meant to be it will happen” “if you relax, you’ll get pregnant” and everyone’s favorite “are you doing it right”. All of these things are meant to be helpful, but all they do is make women more frustrated. They make them feel stupid. They make them wonder if having a child is not meant for them, as though they are somehow unfit to be mothers. Again, the blame is placed on on women telling them to relax as though them being stressed is causing them to not get pregnant or questioning their ability to adequately perform a biological function that even the basest of creatures can do. Again, women begin to feel useless and helpless.

Because you see, the trouble with trying lies in the fact that trying one’s heart out may never be enough. There may be no “do” for some women; there may only be a “do not”. Yet, giving up seems an option foreign so long as they have hope. They want to be moms. They may be women who would make good moms. Trying, however, is all they can do. They cannot control their lives, their futures and their partners’ futures. They are adrift with trying. They are adrift in trying. Trying becomes, in a word, trying.

Social ‘Networking

Way all the way back in September, the first CT Forum of the year was all about the internet. Since then, this post has been kicking around and mocking me. It was started in September. That being said, it sat here partially written festering and gestating over the last few months. Finally, it can be born in a way that does the thoughts justice.

The most interesting aspect of the evening, given my uses of myspace, facebook, and Ravelry, was the discussion by danah boyd . The discussion of social networking online by teens created more questions than answers. One of the statements she made essentially said that teens are doing today the same things that the rest of us did when we were there age, just on the internet instead of the mall. She also talked about how friending works for teens online. She said that there’s three basic levels. First, people whose friends network is in the 10 -20 range. These people keep their connections intimate. After that, the numbers jump to 200-350. These are the people who basically friend their entire high school, analagous, per the moderator, to giving Valentines to everyone in your class in elementary school. After this group, the numbers again jump substantially to somewhere in the 500+ range. Then the discussion turned briefly to the idea of “Top Friends” on myspace and how the drama that ensues over who are your bestest friends tends to be similar to all other teenage dramas. Finally, in a discussion of what these kids will expect in the workforce, Ms. boyd discussed how teens today are connected to each other 24-7 via email, social networking sites, and text messaging.

This then, in turn, brings up the question as to how adults use social networking sites. Recently, a friend determined that he was doing a great job at work when his new boss invited him to his linkedin profile. Obviously, adults are using the internet to network socially. LinkedIn is like a professional myspace. Adults use it to make work connections. This seems the most pure use of adult social networking sites. Grown ups create profiles and add people to help themselves network in their professional careers. This acts as a myspace for the working world. Ok, so they are not adding bands and actors and movies, but the same basic concept applies.

However, even more interesting, are websites in which social networking is a component of the overall purpose of the website. For example, Ravelry assembles knitters, crocheters, and other fiber hounds together in one place. Currently, in its beta form, users must have an account. Mainly this requirement is so that the servers do not crash from over use prior to being fully functional. The effect of this, however, has been that the boards are rampant with users talking, sharing, and creating friendships. Topics of discussion include such things as patterns, yarns, religion, politics, other hobbies, pets, and kids. Indeed, several in real life friendships have been cultivated using the groups dedicated to location and, ironically, tattoos. As with myspace and facebook, membership is free.

In addition, Fertility Friend is a website dedicated to helping women work through the process of trying to conceive a child. The main thrust of this website is a charting program that aids in helping women chart their little ways to the joys of motherhood. Charting, essentially, involves taking a temperature every day and watching for other signs of fertility in an attempt to knock a home run out of the ball park of the bed. The website, however, is not free. The VIP membership involves additional charting capabilities, but also a chat function, a posting board function, and an ability to add friends. This allows women struggling with issues surrounding conception to come together, share their experiences, and talk. Because, really, aren’t women all about the talking?

Are adults essentially doing the same thing as teens in these online communities? The hypothesis, using only personal experience, is yes and no. Aside from uses of myspace and facebook by adults in their 20’s and 30’s, most of the websites through which adults are networking have an interest or some overarching theme that brings them together in the first place. Ravelry brings together fiber enthusiasts. LinkedIn brings together career minded folk. Fertility Friend brings together women going through the trying to conceive experience. The common denominator for many adults seems to be the urge to share a common interest or experience. Even websites like harmony.com and match.com have a common interest or experience - one of wanting to meet other people to cultivate a romantic relationship. Interestingly, more and more adults are using social networking websites in new ways in their lives. People are coming together, but they have a common starting point - a goal, an interest. Social networking websites are rapidly becoming the new church socials or town halls.

The friendships people are cultivating are of two types. Some are ones that transfer over into the real world. Others remain, due to geographical constraints, firmly rooted in the online world. The question that much research has begged is whether people are becoming more or less emotionally connected because of the rise of these internet connections. Ms. boyd, in some of her research, indicates that due to teens not having truly private spaces available to them, the internet is a place where they can be themselves, find their identities, and experiment without having adults constantly overseeing their activities. Meanwhile, what are adults doing? They are essentially doing the same thing. For adults, the social networking often appears to be an attempt to continue to find one’s identity within an emerging world. For example, Ravelry is specifically for fiber enthusiasts, mainly because no one else would want to be there. People are finding that they can leave their limited social segment behind - socioeconomic, religious, and physical -to reach out to other people. People who feel isolated are looking to social networking websites, even if that is not the website’s main intent, as ways to connect. Fiber enthusiasts are not the largest community in the world. Many people have no one around who can understand their obsession. Thus, coming together online allows them to feel more connected to other people. Even if that connection is one that lives only in the pixels and electronic buzzing that is the internet.

The same is true with a website such as Fertility friend. Trying to conceive a child can be difficult. One’s friends, family and even spouse may not understand wholly. Women coming together to discuss their triumphs and tribulations gives them a chance to share their thoughts and feelings, realizing they are not alone. Moreover, in the course of these most intimate of discussions, the whole of their lives become spread open for all to see. The intimacy is one based not just on a common interest but on the most intimate details of a person’s life. These women are negotiating a new identity as women trying to become mothers.
So, without statistical analysis and without in depth research, what do these observations mean? What they mean, it can be supposed, is that adults and teens are not that different. These social connections fulfill, whether they extend to real life or remain on the internet, new frontiers in the ever evolving world of self-identification. Connections made through the internet can be as real as those made in person. Sometimes, since people can find a bit of comfort in detail sharing anonymously, they can become stronger than those in person. It is possible to know more about the history of someone an individual meets on the internet than about a person one has been friends with in real life for years. Sharing of uncomfortable details is easier when eye contact can be avoided. Sharing of feelings is often easier when body language cannot be seen or voice cannot be heard since the fear of implied rejection can be avoided. These friendships can involve just as much support and caring as those made through eye contact and body language.

So, as adults continue to negotiate the world of the internet, perhaps they will be able to renegotiate their identities in an evolving world. Perhaps, even for the oldest of the old school, the ‘net will provide a a social safety net, a place to be oneself and to find oneself without having to up and drive cross country in a 1960’s VW van.

Remembering to be Thankful

As today is Thanksgiving, I thought that I would remind myself all the reasons to be thankful prior to starting the stress of the actual holiday, wherein people will likely pry into my reasons for not, as yet, helping to spawn the next generation. So here, mostly in no particular order, for your viewing pleasure and my attempt at retaining sanity, are my Top Ten Things To Be Thankful For This Thanksgiving:

10 ) No vet visits. It has been over three weeks since I have had to take a dog to the vet. A particular dog. Sorry, ran to go knock on some wood.

9 ) Contentedness with most aspects of life. Not all. Some are stressing me out.  Enumerating them (ok, one) would defeat the purpose of a thankful blog. (Has anyone else noticed that the spell-check on a BLOG website does not recognize blog as a word? Weird…)

8 ) Safety, warmth and food. Three things that not everyone, not even all Americans, have. Come on, even Miss America would list this one. I may seem heartless, but I’m not. Well, not really.

7 ) Our troops. This is my shout-out to all those overseas, wherever you may be. My thoughts are with you and your families today. You are what allow me the freedom to sit at home happily blogging before a food coma. Thank you.

6 ) The zit on my chin that popped out this morning. If I’m not thankful for it, I’d probably be pretty darn upset about it. I’m choosing the half full glass.

5) Knitting. It helps retain sanity and allows me to give handmade gifty goodness. It is a hobby with a sense of purpose, which of course makes it useful, and I always like me some useful. It allows me to relax while feeling productive. Without it, there are many people I would not have met.

4) Speaking of whom, friends. Regardless of whether I talk to them every day, once a month, once a year, or have never even met them in person. They are awesome. They listen to my, sometimes daily, venting. They keep me sane. With them, I am free to be me (no matter how obnoxious, obsessed or cranky that “me” is). Plus, y’all are the ones reading this so it’d be rude not to include you.

3) Family. Whether family by birth or marriage, whether they overwhelm me sometimes or not, they are my family. Today, when we sit down to eat, I will be thankful that we are together because I am surrounded by people who care about me. 

2) Puppies. For Ode to Puppies, see previous blog. Yes, I am that girl.

1) My wonderful, thoughtful, caffeine-bearing, cookie-bouquet-buying (even though he swears it was Max) rock. Without whose friendship, support and love, I would not be the person I am today. He is the thing I am thankful for most in the world. He gives me everything a girl could ever want. He may have some annoying tendencies; he may tease (such as saying, “don’t forget to put your finger in a light socket to do your hair!”). He may even, on occasion, get on my very.last.nerve. However, without him, I would be adrift on a sea of online dating, bar pick-up lines (or not given relative cuteness factors), and intense loneliness without a best friend. I love you very much sweetie, even if you will never read this (because we all know you think blogs are weird).

So, for all of these things, I am thankful today. When life gets me down, I now have written proof that, indeed, I am a lucky girl.

Ten Things I Don’t Hate About You

So, since we got Max, my blogs have revolved around all the bad things he’s done and how I wonder what we were thinking that stormy, tornadoey day. In all honesty, the little booger is a sweetheart. In honor of him and JD (and of course, as an ode to the greatness of Julia Stiles movies ) this post is about ten things I don’t hate, in other words that I love, about each of my little furbabies.

Ten Things I Don’t Hate About JD

1 ) I don’t hate the way, no matter what, when you see I’m upset, you come over and comfort me.

2 ) I don’t hate the way you always want my attention and snuggle into me.

3 ) I don’t hate the way you give me face kisses just because I’m me.

4 ) I don’t hate the way you curl up into me on the couch.

5 ) I don’t hate the way every time we say squirrelbunnykitty you really do go looking for the mythical animal that is never going to exist and yet you still hope against hope.

6 ) I don’t hate the way you optimistically look for toys that we pretend to throw but that we’re still holding.

7 ) I don’t hate the way you lie on top of me and look up at me like I’m the best thing in the whole world.

8 ) I don’t hate the way you watch Animal Cops like it’s the best thing you’ve ever seen every time we turn it on for you.

9 ) I don’t hate the way you wake up from naps with your face fur all smooshed up and just stare when we call it “bed face.”

10 ) I don’t hate the way that you lie on the club chair next to whoever’s there, even if the computer is there as well, even if it’s irritating sometimes.

 Ten Things I Don’t Hate About Max

1 ) I don’t hate the way you’re always so excited to see me, even if I’ve only been in another room into which you can’t go.

2 ) I don’t hate the way you give drive-by kisses, when you run in, jump up on the couch, kiss my face, and then run away again.

3 ) I don’t hate the way your little behind seems unconnected to the front of you so that when you wag your stump, your whole behind wags, legs and all.

4 ) I don’t hate the way you run up to me, jump up on me, and make me go outside with you when DH says the word “outside”.

5 ) I don’t hate the way you lie on the back of the couch right near my head to be close to me but not on top of me.

6 ) I don’t hate the way you take my hand, put your paw on it and pull it into your tummy for a tummy rub on demand.

7 ) I don’t hate the way you stand looking at JD, lean back a little bit, then pounce forward for a not-so-stealth stealth attack.

8 ) I don’t hate the way you bound around with your back legs flopping out behind you in opposite directions.

9 ) I don’t hate the way that you look up at me with the biggest eyes I’ve ever seen in my whole life.

10 ) I don’t hate the way you lie next to the chair I sit in and curl up there without getting in the way.

 Most of all, I don’t hate the way the two of you make my life better simply by being here and making the house not seem so quiet and empty. So, for all the complaining I do, I don’t hate you, not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.

I Am a Golden God(dess)!

Things I have learned in the last 36 hours: 

1) It is possible to spend eight hours playing a video game. Every time I play Guitar Hero III, I am reminded of the scene in Almost Famous where the guy jumps from the roof of the building and screams, “I am a golden god!” Nothing is more satisfying than being a god(dess) of rock and roll, even if it’s fake. I don’t care. It’s hard. And, seriously, Slayer? I hate them with a firey burning passion.

2) I hate mice. I haven’t seen any lately, but they are leaving droppings all over my kitchen. Yeah yeah yeah, we’re all God’s creatures. Terminix is coming out on Monday to help rectify the problem. I. Hate. Mice.

3) Babies ‘R’ Us is like the David’s Bridal of baby stuff. It’s vast, bright, overwhelming and just a wee bit scary. It’s even worse when you have no kids and yet are there buying a baby gate for the dogs. Incidentally? The First Years hands-free baby gate totally rocks.

4) A black sharpie can color over a tiny little bleach stain on a brand new black sweater after cleaning up mouse droppings in your kitchen.

It’s amazing the things life teaches us every day.

Max(imum) Destruction

Max should be renamed Destructor. No, really. He’s like a comic book supervillain. Just when we think there’s nothing left for him to do that he has yet to do? He finds another way to surprise, shock and amaze us. Not really in a good way, either.

It must be duly noted that last night’s debaucle was partly our own fault. In all seriousness, we’ve notice that he has insane storm anxiety. He can tell a storm coming a solid eighteen hours before it hits. He’s a better indicator than both an old man’s arthritis or the news. He gets into serious trouble when he pulls these stunts. He has, prior to storms a-comin’ - eaten a hole in a chair, destroyed yarn, destroyed projects, thrown a remote off the coffee table, and defecated in his crate then stepped in it. That last one, incidentally, was totally my fault. I didn’t want him to have an accident, and everyone knows dogs don’t like to mess their crates. Not our Max.

Yesterday, obviously, was a storm. Winds hitting upwards of 40 miles per hour. Noise from rain and branches flying around outside. All of this was enough to give me anxiety, let alone him. He was willing to go outside, for a change. However, he stared out the windows as though the end of the world was coming.

We had plans with some friends. They arrived, came in the house, and dropped some accoutrements off. Max and JD greeted them excitedly. The four humans went out to dinner. An enjoyable dinner, it was. Arriving home, however, not nearly as enjoyable. This is what we came home to:

Yes, those pieces of wood would be bamboo double pointed needles. Those round purple things would be the “grapes” from the adorable wine glass flip flops my BiL and his girlfriend gave us (one of which you can see in the upper right hand corner of the picture, sans grapes). Also lost in hurricane Max was a Denise Interchangeable cord. A piece of which was clearly visible in the x-ray at the emergency vet to which he was promptly taken for a visit.

Now, as to why I haven’t yet punted him out a window? This is the reason:

Birth of a …

baby blanket and a dynasty, all in one night.

Tonight I finished the baby blanket from hades. It was miles (ok, only inches, maybe even feet) of stockinette. Yet, for the last few months, it has mocked me. It mocked everything I want, am working towards, am worried about, and don’t have yet. It took up space in my project basket. It stared at me daily querying why oh why don’t you love me. It’s soft fuzziness made me sneeze. It’s squishiness made me go down needle size after needle size so that little tiny baby fingers didn’t poke their way through the fabric. I knitted this blanket with love. I knitted it with hope. I finished it while watching the Red Sox play the first and fourth games of the World Series. Given that the baby in question is going to be a die hard Red Sox fan, I’m sure some day his momma will tell him the story of this series, of this fan by marriage, of this blanket.

Tonight is also the birth of a baseball dynasty, as the Red Sox win another World Series. I sit here, a Mets fan, weeping with joy. Of course, that joy might come from getting to watch Jonathan Papelbon in spandex. The world may never know.

Pictures of said baby blanket will be forthcoming when it is washed and blocked. Now I will watch the Red Sox celebrate and celebrate for myself the fact that I can go to bed at a regular time tomorrow night. Go BOSX!