The Stitch Witch

A little update

So, as I've mentioned to some friends in 'real' (read non interwebs) life, back in November I had this brilliant idea to register for full time classes just days before I accepted a promotion. The promotion kicked in December 5 but in a lazy way: training my replacement on site. Easy peasy.

On January 2, I became a free range crafter (which sounds way cooler than my real job title) and was set loose in a store that needed a trainer and some operational guidance. Translation: 1/3 of the staff doesn't know what they're doing, 1/3 of the staff knows what they're doing but refuses to do it for a variety of self absorbed and absurd reasons, and 1/3 of the staff just doesn't show up on a regular basis. It's pretty hectic and there are a lot of 12 hour days but there are weekends off, something that's pretty uncommon in retail, and the novelty of that hasn't worn off yet.

 And then, on January 9, classes started.

Holy gee. Color me stretched to the max. Sometime, I forget how arrogant I can be and then I decide to do something like what I'm attempting now and it all comes back to me with astonishing clarity: occasionally, my ego smothers all commonsense and clearly there were decisions made in that oxygen deprived state. Back in my mid-twenties, this particular mental deficiency led to what I fondly refer to as the year that almost killed me: I accepted a promotion to bookstore manager, got married, got pregnant, bought a house at a foreclosure auction, became a landlord, sold the old Saab, bought a less old Saab, moved, renovated an apartment while 8 months pregnant, sold the old pickup truck, bought a new pickup truck, took to landscaping with a chainsaw to work off some hormonally induced hostility (ok, that last bit really wasn't stressful but it was fun), gave birth to the world's colickiest baby, went back to work full time, transferred to a different bookstore, remained calm the day my then husband called me at work to announce that he'd quit his day job so he could start a business... Interestly, while I can list the sequence of events, I can't recall much detail about the year. Or the year after for that matter.

I'm not quite that busy...not quite, though it felt a little close for the first two weeks. These days, I'm better equipped for stretching things a bit, though sleep seems more important than it did 15 years ago.  Conveniently, the myriad sticky, frustrating, and sometimes just downright wierd situations that crop up at this store are perfect discussion material for the class I'm taking on human relations in organizations. This week, I need to choose a HR research paper topic and a little piece of the brain is fairly shrieking in protest that we haven't written a research paper since high school and auuuuuuuuughhhhhhh!

Dear Brain: Pbbbbbbbbbbbbbbt.  If I may remind you, that last paper we wrote was on the effects of radioactive fallout and we had to pretend to nuke England. Ok, we didn't have to nuke England but it's an island and that was convenient for our purposes. Now, what could possibly be less fun than that? Besides a paper on TQM/Process Imporvement? Exactly my point, now lighten up. Love, Erica

Exhaustion induced silliness aside, this is possibly the most fun I've had in years.  I feel stretched and it's fun. Of course, my eating habits have gone right to hell (might have something to do with eating breakfast and dinner in the car) so I rejoined Weight Watchers online and commited to 1 hour/week with a personal trainer for the next 8 weeks (plus additional work out time during the week, obviously. Having the trainer keeps me honest while I'm getting back into the habit of looking after me. If I don't work out between appointments, I don't progess.

We'll see how it goes.

What to do next?

Yesterday morning, as the first bits of Irene straggled in, the sky was beautiful
As was the fog, though the humidity sucked like a nuclear powered Hoover. I've got no tolerance for this tropical wave business. Frizzes the hair. Even short hair. Looks like granny pubes sprouted on my head. Meh.

So the past three weeks have been the busy business of (hopefully) wrapping up the worst of this exhusband nonsense: One show cause hearing where the ex failed to appear before the judge to satisfactorily explain why it is he doesn't feel obligated to support his kids or contribute to their expenses. Two trips to the DHHS to open a case with the division of child support enforcement (a delightful post for a future date). The ex is now only allowed supervised visitation and guess who got to try and serve him? Uh huh. He's fond of hiding when anyone comes around and his behavior's unpredictable enough that entering a building alone to look for him is just plain dumb so it was perfectly reasonable for me to resort to leaving paperwork tucked under his windshield wiper. At least the judge seemed to think so when I explained that to him under oath.

Some day when this is all done, I doubt I'll laugh but I might go dancing. Now that custody, court, and all that hoopla no longer consume every waking moment, I'm not at a loss for what to do but I've forgotten what I used to do before that time. But there was this list. Seriously. I just resurrected the long neglected 101/1001 list which was created not long before life went completely and utterly nutters. You know what? I like this list and just about everything on it still holds appeal. Sure, it was 'due' this past January but life's full of disruptions and sometimes 'to do' lists have to keep for a bit. And right now, it's a rough map to the new normalcy. Why not reinvent as cello playing Russian speaking Tango dancer?

And you may say to yourself, "My God, what have I done?!"

This pre-move decluttering is driving home (pun intended) one very important point: I own entirely too much crap. Since I'm American, this comes as no shock to most of humanity but I've been living in "I'm soooo environmentally conscious and frugal" la-la land and in this lovely land, we do not own too much crap. We own no crap at all. Every material goods aquisition is the result of a complicated mental algorithm involving perceived 'need vs want', potential carbon footprint, expected longevity of the item with respect to cost, how many hours I'm working to pay for said item, how much joy it brings to our existence, whether or not it we'll want it in 5 or 10 years, do we already own something similar, and so on and so forth. 

With all that deep thought going into a purchase, we ought to be the most clutter free family in America. We're not, mostly for 2 reasons: Free stuff, as in "I never refuse something that's free". Apparently, free stuff has not at all been subjected to the filter (if you manage to shoehorn yourself through the garage door, it's extremely apparent) More importantly, when the mighty aquisition algorithm was created, I forgot to factor in equilibrium: when something's brought into the house, something else needs to go. One'd think that bit of common sense'd be glaringly obvious but, alas, it clearly eluded me. Now I'm hip deep in the end result: a mountain of crap and 10 weeks to sort it.

This is where life gets amusing. Decluttering started out like this: a ruthless evaluation of every possession. Excess books went to Broken In Books (remember my friend who wanted to open a bookstore? She bought one), clothes were sorted between consignment and donation, and a yard sale pile hell, who are we kidding- yard sale room, was created. The McCoy pottery collection and other collectibles were scrutinized along with everything else (including the sacred yarn stash) and eBay seemed like a more sensible option than local consignment and antique shops. In New England, you can't turn a corner without stumbling into an antique shop. We really dig old stuff here, especially other people's old stuff which means the old stuff market's fairly well saturated. Californians, on the other hand, apparently don't have reasonable access the kind of old stuff we take for granted. Half of the pottery I sold on eBay now resides on the west coast, including one vase that now calls 90210 home. I only mention the 90210 thing because I always assumed it was a made-up-for-TV zip code- yes, color me ign'ant-until I shipped a vase to Beverly Hills. Any DNA of mine clinging to that vase is likely as close as I'll get to actually being there.

...yeah, I know, we've wandered into a swamp of digressions and what exactly was my point? My point, and I do have one, is...

I started selling stuff on eBay to declutter and raise a little cash. Declutter is the operative word here and the one I failed to keep in mind when, after listening to me explain my little eBay adventure over an artery clogging diner breakfast, a friend said "Hey, I've got a trunk full of Barbies my Nana gave me. Could you try selling them and we can split the money?" Ok, money or no money, she had me at 'trunk full of Barbies" How often does one have the opportunity to drive around with a trunk full of Barbies? Or make an weird, vaguely illicit feeling trunk-to-trunk Barbie transfer in a bookstore parking lot?

Admission: My childhood Barbies had close cropped hair and were covered in war paint (crayola marker). Why? The better to kick GI Joe's ass, that's why.

It turns out the trunk Barbies were kind of like a gateway drug to a new kind of clutter...Other People's Clutter. Over the past month, I've sold a great deal of my own clutter (even the most sacred cow of all, the yarn stash, has been reduced by half) and the newly opened space is now filled with transient "consigned" clutter.

Yes, you read that correctly. Consigned. Considering that Plan A for picking up a little extra income involved adult novelty tupperware parties, consignment's not a bad gig. But it well and truly defeats the purpose of this decluttering venture. And I don't care. It's a wee little venture and and it's hectic and stressful and fun, possibly the most fun I've had in years. Having complete control over something in my life puts a smile on my face. Yeah, I know: we have control over most everything in our lives. This is different. And it's a step. Maybe just a first step, but it's a step. A little forward momentum is long overdue.

So. Let's begin.

A week at home's given me plenty of time to think, dream, reconsider, hope, plan, and make a hot mess of some yarn. Repeatedly.  Malabrigo Rios -superwash, worsted, and super soft- was the unlucky victim this painkiller fogged week. It started as a pair of socks. Not just any socks, but possibly the softest superwash socks on the planet.  Better that halfway through the first sock , I started to reconsider. The LYS had recommended it when I mentioned knitting worsted socks (my slightly fogged reasoning being that worsted meant fewer stitches to frog). It was love at first sight-the colors are stunning (something my point and shoot Kodak was hard pressed to show on a cloudy afternoon). And it's squishy.  Squishy enough that socks for an active adult didn't seem like the brightest choice after all. (The pattern was 'Whitby' from Nancy Bush's Knitting on the Road.  Simple and very attractive but not for this wool) So I frogged them and started a Palindrome scarf on size threes, switching to fours after the first pattern repeat (that flare thing reversible cable scarves do at the ends drives me nuts). It was pretty enough but not rocking my world so back to the frog pond. Same thing happened with the next scarf. After an irritated dig through my pile of "someday" patterns- those patterns waiting for something NOT in the stash- waaaay down at the bottom was poor old Clapotois, knitted by every woman in the world, except me. (yes, it's the same yarn as in the first pic but the sun's out today. Beautiful stuff.) Anyway, I've got a follow up doc appointment later today and should have enough time in the waiting room to swatch it.

The great thing about having spent a few months wondering if the Big C was coming to mess up life was deciding why wait to find out? Why not upset the applecart? Some people might call this a midlife crisis; me, I think 'aggressively transitional' sounds better.  40(ish) seems to be the point were infallibility fails, big time. Mortality shows it's oogly face.  Apropos of nothing, and despite the fact that it's been 16 years since my last run, training for a 5K seems perfectly reasonable. (The lime green Chucks have absolutely NOTHING to do with running. Imagine the pain. They're reserved strictly for skateboarding with my 10 year old who enjoys telling people that his mom taught him to skateboard.) Yes, this is New England and there's a dearth of 5Ks from December until about April (except for the crazy people mountain runs) which is fine with me. The Couch to 5K program takes about 8 weeks but given the sorry state I'm in, extra training time is wise and very likely necessary.

Beyond running, what else? Since January, I've officially had sole financial responsibity for the kids (unofficially long before that and don't talk to me about child support. Had a support hearing 4 weeks ago and still waiting for the order. Since budget cuts have the courts backed up for months this could stretch on for a bit) and while we're managing, it's because we're living with my parents and pay roughly half of what we would if we lived in the real world. If I was contending with attorneys fees and 'real world' living expenses, we'd be living in hand me down refrigerator box. Oh boy. My parents intend to sell the house and retire in the South in the next few years. So things have to change, though it'll probably mean finding a secondary source of income. Having 4 kids in a depressed economy doesn't exactly compel me to shed the shackles of a day job and follow my dreams inot the sunset. Not yet, anyway.  We're a little too attached to having health insurance.  For the time being, I'm going to keep an open mind, do a few things I might never have considered before(all legal, of course) and see what evolves. 

And whoop it up a bit while I'm at it.

this and that

 Now that I finally have Foxgloves, my joy from them borders on the absurd.  I think they're absolutely, marvelously silly looking. They have spots! I love the spots. I love the weird little hairs on them.

 

Granted, if I had hairs like those on my chin, I probably wouldn't be flashing them all over the interwebs, but I'm reasonably certain that if the flower finds out, it'll forgive me.

It occurs to me that, being two weeks shy of 40 and all, I'm gonna have hairs like those on my chin one of these days. I probably won't mind as much if I also get the nifty polka dots.  Of course, the closest a human can come to looking like a pink foxglove is probably by way of a combination of sunburn, adult acne, and chin hairs. Yikes.

And I cast on the surprisingly straightforward Gwynedd last Saturday afternoon. (Lighting in dining room sucked, big time-we're fond of the 40 watt bulb in our house. Sorry.) I'm using Mirasol Miski #104 Jade on an ancient pair of size 7 plastic? resin? needles that belonged to my great aunt. The Mirasol's a little squishy, so stitch definition is ok, but it won't rock anyone's world. Baby llama is, however, unbelievably soft and it's going to make a wonderful scarf. There's enough cabling that I might finally get off my tuchas and learn to cable without a needle, especially since I'm liking Gwynedd enough to consider making a few of her for holiday gifts.

Yes, clutch the pearls, holiday knitting really has commenced, though it's in part because my arthritis has been a little frisky and I thought I might want to get a head start. I'm back to taking a glucosamine/ chondroitin/MSM supplement which has done wonders for bringing my cranky knee into line, but not so much for the hands/wrists/arms which is a bit of a bitch for someone who likes to write, knit, quilt, and bike. We'll see what joyous news the rheumatologist brings in a few weeks.  In the meantime, I might take up juggling with my toes.

I care little for this perimenopause business

Around 3 this morning, I awoke for the third, maybe fourth time, yet again soaked in a pool of sweat that's undoubtedly my body's desperate attempt to thwart the perimenopausal imperative to spontaneously combust. After I flailed the sheets aside and threw open the window, two things ran through my mind: 

1) Great Aunt Helen's insistence that 'ladies do not sweat, they glow' is complete and utter horseshit. I think Aunt Helen skipped the change of life.

2) Exactly how it is that I can sweat like this and still manage to retain 6 1/2 pounds of water the week before my period?

 When I'm hot flashed outta dreamland, I wake up with puddles on my horizontal surfaces.  My hair's wet, the pillow's wet, and I'm pretty sure that any impurities my body's been harboring for the past 39 years have been soaked up by my trusty (and frequently laundered) comforter. I'm parched and fumbling for the 50oz bottle of water that's become my bedtime companion. I should probably be grateful I don't have a "real" companion. A friend  recently explained that, thanks to her hot flashes and night sweats, she and her partner have separate rooms until the glorious day that her internal thermostat regulates itself again.  And during the 15 minutes or so that it takes to get comfortable again, a jumble of exhausted and incoherent thoughts rattles around my head:

Am I retaining so much water because I'm sweating like a horse?

Am I sweating like a horse because I'm retaining so much water? (Sorry, horsies. It's nothing personal but my oh my you do sweat rather copiously)

Is is possible that this water retention thing is Nature's Handicap, a protective device for all of human kind, built into my system to offset homicidal impulses driven by hormonal imbalances and sleep deprivation and triggered by people's florid stupidity? Surely no woman, however righteously pissed, is capable of running someone down when she's got nearly a gallon of water sloshing around in her ass.  (For the record, when one find oneself having to reassure a customer that yarn from Mexico isn't tainted with swine flu, the handicap theory almost seems rational. )

And while I'm pondering hormonal imbalances, exactly why is it that immediately after my period, I'm all sorts of Need. Man. Now. ?  Cos between the lack of sleep, the remnants of the bloat, and a hormonally precipitated global absentmindedness, I feel like a mildly retarded Medusa looking for Mr Right (Now). To think that I once wondered if my sporadic leg shaving habits would be problematic on the dating scene.  How naive that was. On those rare occasions when I end up chatting with some hapless man, I can't keep track of the conversation while it's happening and inevitably it doesn't matter because what little of the conversation I can track doesn't interest me and, well, suffice it to say there's been no need to worry if the legs are shaved. And yet, I still spend the week after my period looking at men and thinking "MINE?"  I might have better luck if I started hanging out at the Museum of Science, I suppose.  Maybe I could meet someone researching a cure for the night sweats.

In the face of this second puberty (OK, no zits but my boobs are killing me for half the month) I'm making lifestyle changes-most notably exercise and diet, which is wandering closer to vegetarian again, though I refuse to accept Tofu as my personal savior.  I've trimmed my caffeine intake and added a daily cup of Get a Grip herbal tea. For the record, any herbal tea that refers to itself as a "tasty daily tonic"is likely to taste like armpits, which this stuff does. And I don't give a shit if alcohol exacerbates hot flashes, warm weather is nearly upon us and I'm not giving up Hurricanes on Saturday night any time soon. 

And, you know, it could be worse: Imagine being a 68 year old man with cancer in the underwear area and your doc's just told you that you're going to get in touch with your feminine side via a chemically induced change of life that will hopefully prevent you from shuffling off the mortal coil prematurely.  R pretty muched sailed through his inital surgery and treatment, but his current treatment has left him as absent minded and hot flashy as I am and I'm sure that, after dealing with the two of us, there are days our boss probably regrets opening his eyes. But, as R has pointed out, this menopause thing beats the hell out of being dead. I guess that sometimes being overwhelmed by the urge to rip off your clothing and stand naked in a refrigerator certainly is proof that you really are alive.