Let Me Say This About That

Autumn is awesome!

2009-10-29T13:52:00.005-04:00

This little guy was waiting for me on the doorframe when I went outside yesterday.

I just love woolly bear caterpillars. I love their bristly "fur" and their slightly sticky little feet. I love that when they curl up, the best they can do is a circle because of their fur, which also holds them above whatever surface they're resting on.

I've never followed woolly bear prognostication, but here's what I found with some amateur-level google-fu:

Some people believe that the Woolly Bear caterpillar can tell if the winter is going to be mild or rough. If the stripe on the woolly bear is narrow, it means the winter is going to be mild. If the stripe on the caterpillar is wide, it means the winter is going to be easy.

Whatever. I just know that fall is in the future, as is winter. This will be followed by spring, and then summer will be back once again. And yet, each year each season seems to be a surprise.

Bizarre Days and Holidays: November

2009-10-19T14:18:00.003-04:00

Here, for your early-planning convenience, are some of the more interesting days in November.

1 All Saints Day
World Vegetation Day
National Author’s Day
Zero Tasking Day

2 Plan Your Epitaph Day
National Deviled Egg Day
Look for Circles Day
All Souls Day
Cookie Monster Day

3 Cliché Day
Sandwich Day
Housewife’s Day

4 Waiting for the Barbarians Day
National Chicken Lady Day
Use Your Common Sense Day

5 National Men Make Dinner Day
Gunpowder Day

6 Saxophone Day
Marooned Without a Compass Day

7 National Bittersweet Chocolate with Almonds Day
International Tongue Twister Day
Book Lover’s Day

8 Cook Something Bold and Pungent Day
Dunce Day

9 Chaos Never Dies Day

10 Forget-Me-Not Day

11 Air Day

12 National Pizza with the Works Except Anchovies Day

13 National Indian Pudding Day
World Kindness Day

14 Operating Room Nurse Day
Young Readers Day

15 National Clean Out Your Refrigerator Day
America Recycles Day
I Love to Write Day
National Philanthropy Day

16 Button Day
Have a Party with Your Bear Day

17 Take a Hike Day
World Peace Day
Homemade Bread Day

18 Occult Day

19 Have a Bad Day Day
World Toilet Day

20 Absurdity Day
Beautiful Day
Universal Children’s Day

21 World Hello Day
False Confessions Day

22 Start Your Own Country Day
Go for a Ride Day

23 National Cashew Day
Eat a Cranberry Day
You’re Welcome Day

24 Use Even if Seal Is Broken Day
D.B. Cooper Day

25 National Parfait Day

26 Thanksgiving Day

27 Pins and Needles Day
Buy Nothing Day
Shopping Reminder Day
Flossing Day

28 Make Your Own Head Day
Red Planet Day

29 Square Dance Day

30 Stay at Home Because You’re Well Day

There are a number of sites out there with wonderful, wacky holidays. One of the best is http://www.brownielocks.com/NOVEMBER2009.html. I found some of the holidays at these sites, too: http://library.thinkquest.org/2886/nov.htm and http://www.rickroot.com/blog/1/2005/02/Bizarre-American-Holidays.cfm.

And she says she's not creative

2009-10-08T09:43:00.002-04:00

My friend Lisa sent this around to the gang this morning and suggested I post it here, since I enjoyed it so much.

Here is part of the home page for J. Crew.

I was stunned and disturbed to read the tag line, "The Answer to Your Pant Prayers."

First of all, who prays for pants? Are we really that shallow that we must appeal to God for the latest fashions?

Secondly, who in their right mind would pray for THESE pants? (Note that the model herself looks a bit deranged.)

The prayer have gone something like this:

"Dear God, please smite the designers at J Crew with the fashion sense of a drunken hobo so that they will produce pants that 1% of the women in America could feasibly wear but that 90% of the population will think they can wear. Please make these pants so form-fitting that our butt cheeks, panty lines, and camel toes will be visible to all, and so short that we look like we're waiting for the next tsunami, AMEN."

Beyond Words

2009-08-14T09:15:00.002-04:00

Sweet Sue's Whole Canned Chicken

Words fail me ... almost: Just think of the sound it makes when it comes out of that can.

Natalie Dee Is One of Us

2009-08-02T12:42:00.003-04:00

What style of karate do you like?

2009-06-05T14:07:00.002-04:00

I think that hamster style rocks!

Mars Real Chocolate Relief Act

2009-05-15T11:51:00.004-04:00

If it's free, it's me.

This is the real deal. An article about how you can get free, delicious chocolate is here. The site where you register is here. Go. Now.

Chocolate: It's what's for breakfast ... lunch ... and dinner.

Washing and Carding Raw Fleece

2009-04-30T19:04:00.055-04:00

Springtime ... the daffodils and forsythia are blooming, so it must be time to process some fleece.

Time to make a beauty out of the beast. Start with a cold-water bath for about a week -- just a fleece and rainwater. You just leave it alone -- no playing with the fleece unless you want to tempt the felting gods. After a week, the sheep dip becomes pretty aromatic; however, the results are worth it. The fleece rinses off nice and clean, with very little Eau de Barnyard.

Next, dry the fleece using your method of choice. Mine is to drape it over some tree branches in the back yard. The neighbors are not amused but not worked up enough to ask me what in the world I'm doing. It works out well, because I'm not amused when they burn sticks, leaves, and whatever else they've got in a barrel in their back yard. Last I checked, we're smack in the middle of suburbia here, not out in the sticks. But I digress...

So now I have a bucket (a couple, actually) of dry chunks of mystery fleece. It's time to turn those chunks into puffballs.

First, I grab a handful of fibers and pull them apart, grabbing one bunch of ends in one hand and the other bunch of ends in the other hand. You can see that the ends are starting to fluff out in that third picture. I do the pull-apart one more time, and now I have a lovely handful of fiber ready for the drum carder.

Next, I turn the carder's handle and let the big drum pull small bits of wool from my hand. Putting the prefluffed wool directly on the large drum is much easier or both me and the carder than trying to feed it through the licker-in (smaller wheel). So, once the large drum appears full, I insert the doffer at the seam where the ends of the carding cloth meet. Once I've levered the doffer up and through the wool (second picture), I switch to a small knitting needle and gently doff the wool from the teeth every couple inches or so. The fourth picture shows that the wool from this round of carding is only about halfway aligned.

Now I feed small bunches of the wool into the carder via the licker-in. You can see the detritus in that smaller drum. Periodically I'll use the knitting needle to clean out between the teeth, using the fibers as a mulch for my potted herbs.

OK, so after feeding in a reasonable amount of fiber (meaning that I can still see the teeth), I doff that bit and call it good. Sometimes I'll run the wool through a third time, depending on how much stuff is in it. Now the wool is all clean and aligned. Nice!

To make the wool "bumps," I tear the roving in half lengthwise and put half aside. I wrap the other half loosely around my hand, then pull the end into the middle of the bump. Viola!

So there it is -- again: beast to beauty. (It looks like this might become an annual post.) I just love the miracle that happens between shearing and spinning.

Something for Nothing

2009-03-31T12:53:00.007-04:00

The little girl in this picture is Veruca, the mascot of the Selfish Knitters group over at Ravelry. Rock on, Veruca!

This morning I was trolling the job boards, seeing if there was work out there, just waiting for me to snap it up.

I found all sorts of postings at Elance -- lots and lots of jobs. There were writing and editing jobs galore. Oh, boy! Once I checked each for more information, however, a trend became painfully clear: the people who post these jobs seem to think that writers and editors are willing to just give their work away. For example, one job was offering $10/hour. Seriously? Um, I made $10/hour when I was right out of college, and that was nearly 26 years ago. Dudes, seems to me that since you're hiring people to provide contracted services, you can afford to pay more than that. Heck, since you don't have to cough up for health-care insurance, vacations, disability, overhead, and other expenses, you're really being chintzy with the pay.

Then I took a look at the number of bids each job had. That was an eye opener, let me tell you. One job alone had 37 bids -- 37! Most of the postings had bids in the double digits. Hmm. What's up with that?

The writers are really good and can whip out the assignments on a dime ... uh ... without research or author revisions?
The writers are desperate for work and willing to work for peanuts.
The writers are looking at these low-paying gigs as a possible way to land a "real" job.

Vaguely unsettled, I checked out one of the "write for us and you'll make money and get known" sites. At first I was pretty excited. I could become the go-to gal in the area for information about, say, knitting or fiber-related information. I could also generate more by-lines, which I didn't have, despite years of working in the business-writing field. When you write annual reports, white papers, and application notes, your name doesn't get listed anywhere -- well, not anywhere public, anyway.

So I was ready to learn more about what I'd need to do. I read the get-to-know-us copy (a sales pitch, of course) until I hit these two points:

Writers are expected to post articles 3 to 4 times each week.
Writers are not paid.

I don't know about you, but I don't have a lot of extra time on my hands during which I can bang out that number of articles each week. Even if they're all opinion pieces, each one takes a bit of time to craft (yes, I do mean "craft"). And what extra time I do have is devoted to -- surprise! -- my family. As well, I don't give it away -- certainly not 3 to 4 times a week -- with just the promise of maybe making some pocket change.

So, to sum up, let me make my position clear:

I am a seasoned professional and am darn good at what I do.
I love writing and editing and welcome opportunities to flex those muscles.
I enjoy learning new things and sharing the information with others.
I am not willing to work for peanuts.
I am not willing to work for free unless it's for a nonprofit organization whose work I support.
I am not willing to crank out great articles that you can use to bolster your site and line your pockets with green while giving your contributors mere copper.

If that makes me selfish, then you can just call me Veruca.

Words Hurt

2009-03-24T11:20:00.002-04:00

"Our language frames how we think about others." --Special Olympics

Words can help, and they can hurt, too. One week from today, the folks at Special Olympics are asking us all to "eliminate the use of the R-word in everyday speech."

Seems to me that we can't stop people from using whatever words they want. However, we can make things pretty damn uncomfortable for them when they choose to use those words that are hurtful and hateful.

Once upon a time, SpecialEd and I had a friend who was dating a young woman who was kind of rough around the edges. One evening she referred to the husband of another friend by a derogatory term, and you could have heard a pin drop. She said what? In our house? Nuh uh, not in our house, you don't.

Sticks and stones can break your bones, and words can break your heart. If you can't say something nice, then don't say anything at all, m'kay?

Editor and Writer for Hire

2009-03-16T19:37:00.004-04:00

Love Firefly and Serenity. Most of all, I love Captain Tightpants.

I have temporarily joined the ranks of the laid off.

If I'm to believe the news, the economy is to blame. I have some serious doubts about that, but that's another story.

I say "temporarily" because I have skills -- writing skills, editing skills, word-related skills (but not nun-chaku, bow-hunting, or computer-hacking skills [reference to Napoleon Dynamite, in case I've lost you]). I'm trolling the job and freelance boards for work I'd like to do.

In the meantime, I'll enjoy spending time with SpecialEd, Skimbleshanks, Buddha Boy, Annie, and Loki. I am not, however, enjoying spending time with the mud Loki tracks in every time he comes in the door.

I will not, however, let a little (or a lot of) mud or my being booted from the cube farm damage my calm!

Love That SpecialEd!

2009-02-15T16:19:00.009-05:00

Even if he didn't give me the best presents ever, I'd still love that SpecialEd. Please not e that the box of See's chocolates is a luscious two pounds worth of heaven!

Each year when Valentine's Day rolls around, print and TV ads tell men, ad nauseum, that they'd better buy their sweeties something -- preferably something sparkly and expensive -- if they still want to have sweeties the next day. Oddly, you rarely see an ad in which women are giving the men in their lives something that they'd like. Oh, I know, the implication is that if a man gives his woman the goods, she'll return the favor between the sheets. However, I've yet to see a commercial in which a woman gives her man a small velvet box in which is a drill chuck, the keys to a new lawn tractor, or whatever it is that will make his heart flutter.

This year I had the best idea for SpecialEd. I thought of it Friday morning and, thanks to a happy set of circumstances, I was able to procure a hat for him with his Ham radio call letters embroidered on it: KB3RUX. The gift was something that is unique, something I just knew he'd like, and something that he's use every day. He was pleased and surprised. Success!

SpecialEd returned the favor by giving me a big box of my favorite chocolates, See's. He also gave me what, for me, is the equivalent of a luxury gift: wool. Just this week we were out in the garage, and I said, after taking in all the bags of wool out there, "I guess I don't really need any more wool."

Even though he knew I'd happily enough forego more fiber, he also knows the way to my heart. Weeks ago, he got in touch with Cory's Lincoln Longwools and ordered some of their best (and it's all their best, believe me) wool -- some washed, some not. The picture at the top of this post is a cloud of freshly washed Lincoln longwool; the picture here is of the same wool before its bath. You see, SpecialEd knows that, in some weird way, I really do enjoy the whole washing, drying, and carding process that goes along with raw wool.

SpecialEd also has a soft spot for Skimbleshanks and BuddhaBoy: each of them was given his own bag of favorite candy: York peppermint patties for the former, and Hershey's Kisses for the latter.

Oh, and that soft spot also extends to our furry kids, Loki and Annie. He gave each of them his or her own squeaky toy; one is a duck and the other is a pheasant. Here you can see Loki breaking in the duck. This morning he took the pheasant for a dip in his mudhole -- um -- wading pool. He then proceeded to happily toss the sopping wet thing around the yard before disembowelling it. Good times!

Hope you all had a happy Valentine's Day and that you gave something special to your someone special -- even if that someone special is yourself.

No matter how you spell it, fiber/fibre therapy is good for what ails me

2009-02-10T19:20:00.011-05:00

2009 is The International Year of Natural Fibres!

While I was Raveling today, I stumbled on mention of this year as being the International Year of Natural Fibers (Fibres, to my Canadian and British brethren and sistren).

How exciting is that? I'm surrounded by sheep, goat, dog, cotton, and most likely cat (miss you, Spot, Django, and Foster Grant!) fibers here. I have too many knitting projects to keep track of ... most likely because I have some degree of ADD--oh, look! something shiny! My spinning wheel and drop spindles are ever-present and ever-ready. All 40 samples in the sheep study have been washed and are waiting their turn on the wheel or spindle. It's just fiberriffic!

When I picked up the needles after a lengthy hiatus, I just thought maybe I'd make a scarf or two with (*shudder*) eyelash, acrylic, or other "dead" yarn. The smooth flow of the yarn and the smooth action of the bamboo needles were soothing -- just the sort of therapy I could use.

So I bought some wool yarn and happened to mention to SpecialEd how many different types of yarn there were, and it wold be so cool to be able to knit something with yarn I'd made. I honestly wasn't dropping any hints. However, when Christmas rolled around, there was my Kromski Sonata and some Coopworth roving, just calling my name.

So here I am, two years later, so heavily addicted to fiber that I have to have a dose every day. Life is very good.

The only thing that could possibly make things better would be my own tiny flock of pocket-sized sheep.

Necessity IS the Mother of Invention

2009-01-11T19:05:00.004-05:00

Photo spiffication courtesy of Picnik.

When Buddha Boy said that he wanted his biography report to be on Alexander the Great, I thought it was a great idea. I was secretly proud that a kid of mine new about AtheG and was impressed to the extent that he was willing to create a timeline, an oral report, and give his report in front of his class, dressed as the guy.

The "uh oh" came when he said that he wanted a helmet: bronze, horse-hair plume, and the metal thing that runs down the nose.

I wandered around A.C. Moore (craft store) a couple weekends ago looking for stuff that I could use. I came home with a cheesy-looking piece of fake fur (horse hair?) and a styrofoam wreath form (to hold the plume).

I didn't take any pictures of the work in process, because I was pretty nervous of coming up with something acceptable in the time I had.

I started by wrapping the bottom of a pumpkin bucket (you know, from Halloween -- no, it hadn't been put away yet) in aluminum foil. About five layers later, I was ready to take it off. I cut a small slit up one side, slid off the pumpkin-shaped bowl, and trimmed up the edge. When I tried it on, it balanced on my head and came down over my eyes.

A piece of duct tape closed up the gap I had after taking out some extra foil where I'd put the slit. Next, I got out the paper package-sealing tape and started wrapping the helmet in small strips. Once it dried, it was hard yet lightweight.

For the earflaps and the pointy nose-protector thing, I attached pieces of cardboard with the packing tape.

A coat of bronze spray paint later, we were looking pretty good.

SkimbleShanks made a fantastic suggestion at this point. We had a little broom that had seen better days. He suggested that I pull out the tufty bristles and use those for the horsehair. Awesome! It took quite a bit of work getting all the dog hair out, but they were exactly what I needed.

I glued the bristled in between the two halves of the styrofoam wreath, which I'd wrapped in the packing tape and painted bronze. Another piece of cardboard between the halves down to the top of the helmet, held in place with more tape, and we were ready for the final spraydown with paint.

Buddha Boy was very pleased with the result. In fact, when SpecialEd and SkimbleShanks arrived at school to pick up BB at the end of report day, darned if he didn't walk out of school with the helmet on his head.

I have to say, this is one my better efforts in the school project arena. It just shows what you can do with some common supplies, imagination, and minimal time.

Best Gift Ever: Jackie Bland's Fleece Study

2008-12-31T19:12:00.008-05:00

How can you not love a face like that?

This Christmas brought the very best gift. Ev-er. Naturally, SpecialEd was the giver, and I do believe that he's sick of hearing how awesome I think it -- and, by association, he -- is.

Jackie Bland's Fleece Study is a way for the hand-spinner to experience the fleece of 40+ different varieties of sheep. (Did you know that there are way more than 40? Learned something today, didn't you!) For those of you who don't know, certain breeds of sheep are shorn once or twice a year, and their fleece is sold as a whole or in pieces to fiberistas, such as myself. Of course, we could always buy a fleece that's been processed (read: washed and carded [combed so all the fibers are aligned]), but where's the challenge in that?

So on Christmas morning, SpecialEd directed me to a photocopier paper box next to our tree, and when I opened it, there was a 3-ring binder with fact sheets on each of the breeds represented, along with a worksheet where I could enter information about each fiber as I worked with it. This is the type of thing that appeals mightily to my anal-retentive nature: What does each sample look like, feel like, and how does it handle? How did I wash the samples? Did I card the samples before I spun them, or did I just flick open the tips? Did I spin S or Z? Did I ply? How did I ply (again, S or Z)?

Squee!!!

Once I regained consciousness, I explored each of the three plastic bags full of individually labeled zippered plastic sandwich baggies, each containing about 1 ounce of wool. Look at those names! Look at the texture! This one feels like a sponge, and that one looks like doll's hair!

They all smelled like sheep. And that's just fine. It's all about the process, folks. Yes, I'm well aware that I could traipse over to A.C. Moore or Michael's and buy some 100% wool yarn, hey presto. You know, I can also buy chocolate-chip cookies. However, you and I both know that store-bought never tastes as good as homemade -- not even those obscenely overpriced "gourmet" cookies.

Fiber is my therapy. I love the way it feels, the way it handles. I love the repetitive motions that go into carding a wad of fiber that looks quite a bit like something a cat coughed up into a soft, sleek, shimmery puffball. I love that I can feel my neck and shoulders relax when I sit and spin small bits of fiber into one long, continuous strand of yarn, watching my drop spindle or spinning wheel go 'round and 'round ... and 'round.

This best gift ev-er is the gift that just keeps on giving, too, because now I'm racing all over the Web, looking at pictures of the different breeds of sheep ("Ooh! I have that one! And I have that one, too!"). I'm continually amazed by how big these animals are. I always pictured them as being about the same size as a labrador retriever. But then, I always thought that deer were only a bit bigger than that.

I've led a sheltered life.

I plan to send Jacke Bland a note to tell her how in love I am with her fleece study. However, first I need to calm down. There's no point in making her worry that she just might have gained a groupie.

I Have a Pain in the Hip Flexor

2008-12-15T18:41:00.004-05:00

I like that this image looks a bit knock-kneed ... like me.

My mighty kicks are mighty no longer. Last week I learned the spin-rear crescent kick, and did pretty well with it, especially considering that it's a brown- or black-belt basic.

The next day, I had trouble walking. My right leg didn't seem to want to straighten without pain. My father is about 6'3". I learned at a young age to walk taking long strides, which was de rigeur if I wanted to keep my dad in sight. But last week I was reduced to taking little ladylike steps. Bah.

The pain went away in a couple days, and I didn't think any more about it.

This past Saturday we did a lot of kicking in karate class. I didn't have any problems while I was there, but as the day wore on, my hip started hurting more and more until I was hobbling around the house. Just to make things more fun, my lower back began to hurt because of the way I was walking and holding myself.

I must have lost my mind, because Saturday night I went to sleep without taking any sort of pain reliever (Tylenol PM is my all-time favorite at bedtime -- just 1/2 a tablet does the trick: puts me to sleep and takes care of whatever pain I might have.) So I spent the night sleeping in 2-hour increments, waking in between in pain from trying to change position.

Sunday was spent with my buddies, the hot rice bags -- one on my lower back and one along the crease in my thigh. Sweet, blessed relief. I met a girlfriend for lunch and was mortified to find when it was time to go that getting into the car required me to grab a handful of jeans on my right thigh so that I could lift my leg up and over, into the car. Today I discovered that I can't use my right foot to step on the handle to flush the toilet at work. This is not good. (Note: I used my left foot. I know my potty etiquette, thank you very much!)

So karate is right out for the rest of the week. I've had my warning: If I don't let this injury heal completely this time, the next time I go to kick the snot out of a BlastMaster might be the last time. That would be sad, because my plan for if I'm ever accosted is to destroy the attacker's knee. Gonna need a strong leg for that.

My Microwave -- It Goes to Zero

2008-12-13T17:32:00.004-05:00

Yes, I know it's dirty. I have many fascinating skills and talents. Housekeeping is not one of them.

I have a challenge for you. The next time you microwave something, watch the numbers as they count down.

What's the last number you see before the bell goes off? If your microwave is like ours, you'll see 3 - 2 - 1 - End or something like it.

My kids have been catching our microwave at zero. At first I didn't think anything of it. Of course it went 3 -2 - 1 - 0 - End. Except that it doesn't.

Since I'm nominally an adult, I decided to show the boys (in that patronizing way so-called adults do) that the microwave includes zero in its countdown. And, as so often happens when adults set out to show kids how childish they're being, I was the one who looked like a goober.

Zero is not part of the cooking countdown. Seriously.

Can someone explain this to me? Why is it that when you let the countdown continue to the end, there is no zero, yet if you're fast enough, you can stop the countdown somewhere between one and End and the screen will show zero.

I'm no genius, but this seems pretty weird to me. What should I do with this information? Should I report this and, if so, to whom? If I do, will our microwave be whisked off to Area 51? Will the boys? Will I?

I'd rather that the boys not be taken away. They've just started really helping out around the house. The microwave, on the other hand, is 20 years old. I'd miss it, but I'd be able to replace it in my heart and in my home with a newer model. Grownups are like that.

The Germs Have Me on the Ropes

2008-12-06T15:31:00.005-05:00

Oh, Natalie Dee. You do amuse me.

I've fought it for five weeks now, but my allergies have invited some of their germy friends to come on over, and now I'm sick. It's just goopy, coughy, "so tired I'll curl up on the floor" sick, though, not one of the more challenging GI bugs. You know the kind: you end up sitting on the toilet while you puke into the trashcan. If you've never experienced that, count yourself lucky.

I try to keep my personal area as germ free as I can without being neurotic or Felix Unger-ish about it. At work I'm barraged by germs, because I'm in the minority of people who believe that it's good manners (not to mention less gross) to cover one's mouth when sneezing or coughing. Oh, it's a germ extravaganza where I work, and you'll never hear "Sorry about filling up the immediate area with my germs." Tsk, tsk.

And for the sake of those of a more delicate nature, I won't even go into the daily barrage of rude noises emanating from certain offices. All I can say is that when my kids (both of whom are boys, mind you) do the same, they always follow with an "excuse me."

So it's about 10 of 4:00 on a cold, gray Saturday afternoon. After coughing until 2 this morning, I'm in prime condition for a nap. I'm still bound and determined (note to self: find out where that expression originated) to avoid a trip to the doctor's office for antibiotics, but I'm getting closer all the time.

Oh, and I just have to add that those three days of sick time I get each year are long gone, naturally. The germ originator? Well, that individual has all of this year's sick time, plus time carried over from previous years. That's bound to happen when you show up for work, regardless of how sick -- and infectious -- you may be.

Enough whining: bed calls.

Just Call Him Joe

2008-12-01T20:39:00.002-05:00

Hard to believe that little Delaware's Joe Biden will become the next vice president of the U.S.

I saw Joe Biden on his way to work (well, I was on my way to work, so maybe he was, too) this morning. I was driving north on 141, and traffic was pretty backed up. When I saw that no traffic was traveling south, I figured that an accident must be somewhere ahead.

Just then, two cops on motorcycles, lights flashing, came speeding south. They were followed by a big, dark SUV with tinted rear windows. Two people in dark suits were in the front seats. The SUV was followed by four -- count 'em -- police cars, also with their lights flashing. I can't remember if any sirens were blaring, but I suppose that it's a possibility.

In dinky Delaware, this is the kind of thing that happens. We are such a small state, that it's almost ordinary to run into your representative or senator at the coffee shop, the grocery store, or any of 100 other mundane places.

I remember eating breakfast in a tiny restaurant in Wilmington with my mother several years ago. For some reason, we started talking about the state quarters.

"I think that this is, bar none, the best thing Mike Castle has ever done in his years of service," I said.

"Really?" my mother replied. "Well, why don't you tell him. He's sitting at a table back there."

I turned around, and sure enough, there he was. That's Delaware.

If someone were to ask me one thing that makes Delaware special, I think I would say that you may think it's a small world, but you have no idea just how small it is until you live in Delaware. Here, the Six Degrees of Separation theory would have to be adjusted down to just three degrees.

NaBloPoMo Is Finished? Already?

2008-11-30T21:00:00.003-05:00

Natalie Dee is ultrasuperfantastic!

So here I am, the last day of November. It's hard to believe that 30 days and 30 posts have gone by so quickly. Some days were easy and some were really easy (i.e., I actually forgot about posting on one day -- I posted twice the next day, so as far as I'm concerned, I made it).

In some respects, a post a day isn't hard at all. It would have been more of a challenge if my blog were subject-specific. It's more stream-of-consciousness specific, I guess.

Lesson learned: posting really isn't and shouldn't be a chore. I doubt I'll keep up with the once-a-day regimen; however, I do think that I'll be posting a bit more frequently than before I participated in National Blog Posting Month.

So, ta ta for now!

Domestically Disabled

2008-11-29T20:09:00.005-05:00

I've had lots of great dreams, and not one involved my house being clean. See more of Anne Taintor's work here.

After shoveling the clothes off the floor in my bedroom, I've had loads of laundry to do. Interestingly, I found winter clothes from last year that I hadn't put away.

I am missing the housekeeping gene. My brother is neat and tidy. My mother is organized. My father is positively anal retentive in his housekeeping. Maybe my parents did find me under a cabbage rose, just like my mother always told me.

Well, I have just one more morning to sleep in. And how wonderful it's been! I think I'm still trying to catch up on sleep I lost once Skimbleshanks arrived. I swear, I could just curl up on the floor (not mine, of course; see above) and be asleep in five minutes.

Now that the floor in my bedroom is actually exposed (there's carpet down there ... who knew?), now Loki will be able to curl up on the floor, rather than on formerly clean clothes, and go to sleep. Of course, he'll still wind up on our bed in the morning. What a life! Naturally, he doesn't care if the house is clean. I just love that dog.

Black Friday Earns Its Name This Year

2008-11-28T20:29:00.006-05:00

Sometimes the perfect gifts don't cost anything at all.

Well, the Christmas buying frenzy has officially begun. Do I know because some stores opened today, Black Friday, at 4:00 a.m.? Do I know because some stores were open yesterday? Maybe I know because of the Christmas carols playing on loudspeakers and on the electronic bells at the church down the street. Nope.

I know because the traditional stampede for the good deals has happened yet again, this time with typical tragic results.

Jdimytai Damour's family will be celebrating the holidays without him this year and forevermore. This guy had the misfortune to work at a WalMart about 20 miles outside of Manhattan. As he was opening the doors at 5:00 a.m., the crowd surged into the store, knocking him to the ground and trampling him underfoot. At least four other people were taken to the hospital, including a woman who is eight months pregnant.

Who knows what deals those people were in line for? There's something wrong with people who are so desperate for a bargain that they will push and shove and run to get to their "must-buy" item ... and do it at 5:00 a.m. the day after the holiday on which Americans pause to give thanks for all we have.

What I just can't wrap my head around is that these people weren't in line for food or water or medicine that they had to have to live. They were in line for "stuff." They were waiting to spend their money on a TV, camera, computer, hot new toy, tool, or jewelry. You know: stuff.

Until people stop thinking of shopping as a sport, where the race (or bargain) goes to the swiftest or the toughest, the annual buying frenzy will go on. And each year, people will be hurt or even die, all for the sake of a "really great bargain."

Giving Thanks, Times Three

2008-11-27T22:11:00.004-05:00

Here are the three things
I'm most thankful for,
today, and every day.

Hope everyone
had a wonderful Thanksgiving!

Some Numbers Are Not My Friends

2008-11-26T22:23:00.006-05:00

Seeing as how it's the day before Thanksgiving, I think I'll probably be regretting quite a bit by this time tomorrow. Thank you, Anne Taintor!

Today I went to my doctor for an annual checkup. I had my blood drawn last week, so we'd have something to talk about.

As my doctor was coming into the exam room, his first sentence included the phrase "talk about your cholesterol." Uh oh. This was not going to be good.

We've been keeping an eye on my cholesterol for a couple of years now. It seems that high cholesterol (both kinds -- HDL and LDL) run in my family. Thanks, mom! Anyway, nearly two years ago I was given the option of getting some exercise or start taking statins. I opted for the former, and now I've attained the blue-belt rank in kenpo karate. Three times a week I work my butt off for one solid hour and come out of class dripping with sweat but feeling pretty good about myself.

The first blood test after I'd been taking karate for several months showed that my triglyceride level had been cut in half. All right! My cholesterol had gone down, but just a little. My doctor said I could continue as I was and that we'd revisit the cholesterol again in a year.

Today was the one-year check point. And he'd come in the room talking about cholesterol. Crap. Not good.

I don't have the numbers in front of me, but I believe that in April, my cholesterol number was somewhere around 140. That's not too good, but it's not horrible. Today, my number was somewhere between 170 and 175, I believe. This is not good.

I will be the first to admit that my diet, such as it is, is abysmal. Truly. I am the anti-Atkins: all carbs, all the time. I love all kinds of bread, and you probably have guessed that I love sweets, especially chocolate (good chocolate, that is; no crappy "chocolate candy" for this chickie). Meat is kind of "meh," as are vegetables. Fruit is great, but remembering that we have it and making a point of eating it is another thing. In my defense, I do eat oatmeal for lunch every day at work. Quick, cheap, and tasty -- instant oatmeal (with sugar, of course) works for me.

I guess I'm what you'd call an eat-to-live person, rather than a live-to-eat person.

So there I was, listening to my doctor giving me one compelling reason after another for starting to take statins (Zocor, specifically). Finally, I stopped him and asked, "Is there some reason you think that you have to convince me to take this medicine? Are you expecting me to argue with you?"

He looked nonplussed and replied that countless times every day he has patients who are adamant about not taking medicine of one kind or another. Hey, I believe him. I know someone (who shall remain nameless) who suffers (operative word) from obsessive-compulsive disorder -- big time. However, since she doesn't "like taking medicine," she's condemned herself to a life ruled by fear and desperation. Sad.

Back to me ... Since high cholesterol blocks the flow of blood, some of the fun end results can be heart attacks and strokes. What my doctor didn't know was that, when I was in college, I was on the pill (primarily to control the ferocious cramps that went along with every period; those are another story). Any-who, after I started taking the pill, I also started having headaches -- every day. You know how one of the possible side effects of taking birth control pills is the potential for stroke? Yeah, well, it turns out that I was one of those people for whom the pill is a big no-no.

So when I heard my doctor (who was probably still in high school during the whole "pill incident") say that untreated high cholesterol can lead to heart attacks and strokes, it was a matter of "nuff said," as far as I was concerned. Where do I sign up for them statins, doc?

If I'm brave enough, I'll go to Costco on Friday morning to get my prescription filled and start taking the Zocor Friday evening. The sooner, the better. The statins are a pill I can certainly swallow, you know?

So today's appointment had a happy ending ... or did it?

What I can't swallow and am fighting tooth and nail is the number I was given as being my current weight. They have got to be kidding. I mean, it was nice to hear that I'm actually 5' 5", rather than 5' 4-1/2", as I've always thought. Whole numbers just sound so much nicer. But I did have my back to the scale while the nurse measured and weighed me. Maybe she was lying. Maybe she was cross-eyed. Then again, maybe she was telling the truth. The truth hurts, sometimes. And now the bitter pill I'm having to swallow is that it would be a good thing for me to lose from 5 to 10 pounds. [Edited later to add: Actually, if I want to be honest with myself, I'd really be better off losing about 30 pounds. Time to face facts: I have a very small frame, and the gradual creep of poundage has reached an unacceptable level.] Ugh. Ugh! I wish I could convince myself that those extra pounds are all muscle, but I'm a terrible liar.

I feel so much better now that I've confessed. I'm no fatty-fatty-bo-batty, by any means, but I am a bit -- rounded? -- where I used to be fairly flat. I just wish it could be as easy to get that poundage number to come down as easily as it'll be to get those cholesterol numbers down. My physician assured me that that the Zocor will do an excellent job with those. Now I just need to be as excellent with my ... ugh ... diet.

Happy Thanksgiving. Pass that spoonful of pumpkin pie my way. Yeah. Just a spoonful.

As I've Gotten Older

2008-11-25T20:01:00.005-05:00

Another beauty from the talented Anne Taintor.

Today I was talking with someone about what some of my good and bad points are. For some reason, just about every answer was prefaced with, "As I've gotten older."

Good point/bad point: I am a perfectionist.
In my field (writing), it's good to be a perfectionist. You want to write clearly, correctly, and concisely. On the other hand, if you're a perfectionist, you're never satisfied, and that's not good. You have to know when enough is enough, and you have to apply the "appropriate quality" to your work. That's not to say that you do crappy work -- ever. It is to say, however, that you need to know when what you've produced is pretty dang good and it's time to move on to the next step. This is a lesson that's taken me years to learn.

I debated the whole "perfect" thing with a manager some time ago. I was told that X wouldn't happen until Y was perfect. I pointed out that X would never happen, then, because perfection just isn't going to happen. Ding! Author's message! (Naturally, this individual wouldn't concede the point, so we ended at a standoff.

Good point/bad point: I am uncomfortable meeting and talking with new people.
I am an introvert and have always been somewhat shy. When I was a kid, I was terribly shy. My shyness has decreased over the years, but it's still there, lurking in a corner.

As I've grown older, I've become much more interested in other people. People are fascinating! Everyone has a story. Everyone is interesting. The sticking point for me is what to talk about.

In my last job, I worked with a lot of young women who were right out of college, and our company was their first experience in the world of full-time work. Once I got over knowing that I was absolutely old enough to be their mother (ugh), I had a ball talking to them, telling them the tips and tricks I'd had to learn on my own during my career. Because I was nervous, I assumed that they, were, too, and I worked extra hard to make them comfortable with their assignments. I made it crystal clear that my job was to help them and that, because I'd made every possible mistake -- sometimes more than once -- I could help them avoid making those same mistakes.

In karate, too, I've become much more comfortable with myself. Doing anything physical at this stage of the game feels pretty awkward -- I'm older, and I was never what you'd call a jock. On the other hand, I'm comfortable asking questions, trying new things, and basically sticking my neck out. I may not be able to do some of the techniques well or at all, but I'm somehow able to explain them to other students (who then, later, help me learn how to do them correctly).

Good point/bad point: I say what I mean and mean what I say.
As I've grown older, I've realized that being reticent and beating around the bush serves no one, least of all me. I don't have patience with office politics and I certainly don't have any with petty cruelty. Hey, if you don't like me, that's fine. If we have to work together, then pull up your big-girl panties and get over it. We're not going to like everyone we have to be with, but that doesn't give you permission to be a jerk toward me. If you're going to snipe at me, you'd better be ready for me to call you on it.

I worked with a woman who was a 10th degree sniper. She'd make these cutting remarks in a way that if you questioned her about it, you looked like you were oversensitive or paranoid. Now that I'm older, I would handle this kind of person differently. "You know, that was a pretty insensitive remark," I'd say. "You need to take it down a notch." And if she followed up, as she was wont to do, I'd fire that warning shot across her bow: "You need to stop, right now."

Early this spring, someone said to me, "Don't be stupid!" This was in the workplace, and it was said by someone who *ahem* outranked me. (I don't know how else to phrase it -- I'm trying to avoid any sort of identifiers here.) I was absolutely gobsmacked by that remark. Stunned, I said nothing. And then the moment to respond was gone. Now that I'm older, albeit by only months, not years, I know exactly what I'll say if I ever find myself the target of that kind of attack. "I don't allow anyone to speak to me like that, including you."

There are some things about aging that I don't particularly care for; however, I love the freedom that comes with being myself.