911, I Need You

After work today I did a quick inventory. Four nail holes in left hand (although difficult to see through the black paint), one knee no longer working, right foot still bleeding from gash several days ago (more of a slow ooze), left foot swollen beyond recognition as a limb (more like a grotesque Halloween decoration you'd see sticking out of the dirt in a haunted house), back out, brain definitely on a slow burn out. All day long I repeat to the staff "Safety First" but what I really mean is get me some first aid!

As manager, I am not really expected to do so much physical work. However after spending much time interviewing and hiring for a second store, I need to just dig in now and again. All week long I have been hiring able bodied staff with both experience and seemingly quick minds. Perhaps no one will notice my cane, knee brace, bandages, and glazed eyes. True story, yesterday a paramedic passing by looked at me, back up, and offered to dress my obvious wounds and give a tetanus booster. What I hoped he'd offer was a stretcher so I could rest. He thought I was kidding. Nope.

My English friends have a saying. To be fair they probably have more than one saying, but at my age I can only remember this one. They say they are ready for the Knacker Yard when completely exhausted. That was, in earlier times, where the old worn out nags were sent to and shot to be made into glue. I qualify on the worn out part, the nag part, and oh oh, I better just leave that alone!

As my husband so diplomatically pointed out out, I am not the first 53 year old woman to work. That statement almost almost cost him dearly. At home, or what I now refer to as my second job, I was greeted warmly by the laundry basket, iron, dishes, watering, bed changing, bills to be paid, all the while with a cat yowling like she was auditioning for the opera. Ah, the good life. It is good to be missed, but as the first 53 year old woman to work, maybe a little less missing and a little more doing on my household's part. Friends are kindly pointing out that I need to lower my expectations for my home life. Of course they are right.

Some compromise is needed. The cat must start using her self feeder. I am looking into a self feeder system for the husband. That could knock hours off my home schedule. All watering, gardens, cat, husband must now be connected to a timer drip system. This creates a new job, but delegation is key! Dinner is no longer the gourmet affair of the past. Men and women live quite healthy in the space station with minimum effort put into the meals. I am contacting NASA for supplies until the end of my assignment.

Once my new plan for organization is in place, then I can have some time to knit or needlepoint. Now that I have less time, the urge to create gnaws away at me minute by minute. The early symptoms of Startitus (the starting of a new project prior to finishing the thousands of UFOs already under way) have begun to manifest as I walk by magazine covers and pattern books. My fingers itch to pick up the needle, my brain sees a myriad of colors to improve the pattern, I drive three miles out of my way just to look longingly at the knit store window on the way to work. The harder I work at my job, the more I need to knit to restore my inner batteries. The more my life as I knew it unravels, the more I find peace and tranquility in my stitching. Even the process of unraveling my errors no longer presents a roadblock. It is Zombie knitting. Repetitious and boring and oh so blissful. So life continues, knit, purl, and unravel.

Therefore, let it be known, that from tonight forward between the hours of 10pm and 11pm, I am knitting! Except if bandages stick to the yarn, a nuclear emergency, or I fall asleep.

Recover & Regroup

Statue of the "Tired Man" , referring to the poem of Attila József, famous Hungarian poet. The statue is the work of József Somogyi in Makó, Hungary.

I left my house for my first day of work (a major UFO taken off my mental list) with a perky smile on my face, a casual yet chic outfit on, stylish yet sensible shoes, and a can do attitude. Let's fast forward a minute. That evening, I limped from my car to the front door, my hair glued to my neck and head (a ladylike mixture of hair gel and sweat), paint on my clothes, make up long worn off from rubbing my eyes, barely able to carry the weight of my purse. My mobile ringing sent me into some kind of anaphylactic shock from over exposure to phone calls and I had to sit down in the chair on the porch a mere two feet from the door. It was just too far to make it all the way in the door. What could have possibly happened in only eight hours to transform a mature, confident woman into a teary eyed, dirt covered, half crippled hag? My new job.

From the multiple job offers, I chose this one for the fun and higher pay as a temporary gig (through November 12Th) to build and manage a seasonal retail store. I could use it to pad my pocketbook, re acclimate to the working world, update my skills, and gain confidence. I would be merchandising, interviewing and hiring staff and two assistants, operating a 10 thousand square foot store, completing payroll procedures, holding down shrinkage, coaching in job performance, etc., etc. The part I should have listened to a wee bit more was the word "build".

To train, I was to help out for a few days in another store being prepared for opening. I had imagined that I am able to organize from chaos, but I was unprepared for the level of chaos I would be starting from. I arrived to meet another store's manager and crew. I was undaunted to find I would be the only person there that day over 25. As you know, I am a bit competitive, so I knew I would keep up or die trying. They thought it was cute that I didn't have any tattoos, that I brought my lunch, that I had knitting for my lunch break, and that I had to pick my chin up off the floor when I saw the tasks ahead of us. Along with being shown management tasks for opening, I dug into the physical work of building, yes you read that right, building H frames for merchandise, moving hundreds (of the couple thousand) boxes of merchandise, setting up display cases from a box of pieces with directions that rivaled the instructions to build a nuclear devise. The manager there had already assigned the more menial tasks of painting displays, cleaning the restrooms, and moving plywood to others. In reality, we all pitch in doing everything until the actual opening. I operated a drill, moved 10 foot pieces of wood to storage, and many other thing I would normally ask the men in my life to do. I kept up and then some, but oh, the cost.

That night, while icing my back, shoulders, feet, and really every muscle in my body, I had a moment of doubt. Would I be able to do this? Or was this a job for the young not just in heart but in body? I studied my manuals with a much clearer understanding of what they were telling me. This was a well oiled machine of a company with a very small margin for error.

The morning of my second day I had recovered somewhat. I left for yet another store to work with the district manager. This time I dressed for physical work with back up clothes in the car and a determination to succeed. That lasted about 30 minutes. This new store didn't even have the walls up yet and my fear was that some one thought I could be capable of doing that kind of building. Thankfully after my district manager stopped laughing, he said that was what I was hiring for. The relief washed over me renewing my sense of purpose. I spent the day sorting supplies sent, wiring computers, calling applicants, and interviewing for both stores. I was shameless in my recruiting for my store. I left to deliver some things to my store site and meet with the manager of the area. A huge expo type hall that over the next week and a half I will be instrumental in transforming into a finished product that the company will be proud of, or at the least won't fire me for.

The interview process hasn't really changed over the years but the applicants had. They came in with boyfriends, with children, with pants falling off, inked arms necks and faces, no teeth (he wasn't elderly, just forgot them he said), singers looking to supplement their income, people only willing to work between 1 & 4 on Tuesdays, and an array of other unique qualities. Amongst them, however, I did meet a few able bodied, enthusiastic, experienced people that are now part of my team.

I, thankfully, have the third day off for R & R. For most people that is rest and relaxation. For me it's recover and regroup. Letting my tired body and mind rest while indulging in some very slow knitting is the maximum activity I will partake in today. When I next have a day off is still unknown, but I head into the week now knowing my limitations. I can build one store without hospitalization. Although I do need help up from this chair...

Just Peachy

"An apple is an excellent thing - until you have tried a peach."
George du Maurier (1834-1896)


You might wonder what peaches and a Tabasco needlepoint canvas have in common...My UFOs, of course. With only one full day left before I return to working outside the home, I had a sudden burst of housewife-ism. It is a newly discovered malady that makes one want to perform feats of wonder in the homemaking arts arena in record short amounts of time. It affects people in many forms. For me the sudden onset of symptoms included the urge to can peaches.

There isn't a hint of room left in my pantries after canning applesauce and apple pie filling recently, but why let a little thing like that stop me. I can always store them under the bed, behind the sofa, or make a mantle display. I haven't any jars left, but what is a small investment compared to the joy of packing home canned peaches in my husband's lunch this winter. Seriously, that was what I was thinking when I purchased the cases of large cling peaches. Then sanity kicked back in.

I have ONE day left and canning is only one thing I must complete. So what would a be the prudent next move? Why to acquire a new hand painted needlepoint canvas, of course. I can tote it with me to work and use my breaks to whip it out. It is a special canvas, as Tabasco Brand just gave license to the artist and it will match my kitchen (if completed before I paint). The pattern will be adjusted to have a green and white checked background because it just looked too easy as is.

Is there no cure for housewife-ism? A pill, a therapy, anything that would cause me to just sit quietly reading and relaxing on my last day of freedom? Apparently not. It is inexplicable. I have treated returning to work like a military campaign. The freezer and pantries are full. The menu for two weeks planned and shopped for. The house and garden are in tip top shape. Daily instructions for my husband printed up (you didn't think he would remember stuff like feeding the cat after 6 whole months of a break, did you?).

I didn't realise how much I needed to return to work until today. Needlepoint, knitting, canning, whatever, used to be fun activities on a quiet day off. Now and then. For the last six months the subconscious guilt of not earning my keep has manifested itself by turning me into a super wife. No, I don't mean super cool. I mean I cook and clean with super hero abilities churning out gourmet meals like a Julia Child protege and sewing curtains in the blink of an eye. No task has been too large. A completely new backyard, furnishing, flowerbeds, no problem! Sewage leak, presto fixo!

Alas, now I must pass my super human powers over to the next unsuspecting housewife. May she use them for good and not evil. I will can my peaches, run errands, visit a dear friend that is recovering from surgery, pack our lunches, make one last gourmet weekday dinner, pack up the UFOs and return them to their newly organized home (deep in the confines of my sewing closet), and take a deep breath. Look out world, I'm back!

Patience is a Virtue

Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Patience is something you admire in the driver behind you and scorn in the one ahead. ~Mac McCleary

I am not sure the people around me see me as a patient person. Just ten minutes ago I was yelling at my computer in frustration. An inanimate object was subjected to the harshest criticism I could muster at the top of my lungs. I didn't say it made sense, I just said it happened. In this world of instant news, real time sharing social networking, instant potatoes (not that I would eat them), cake mixes, and smart phones how do we teach patience to the next generation?

Everyday we are all subjected to situations that test the limits of our patience. Market checkers that decide you probably wanted tomato sauce not fresh whole tomatoes, so helped out by putting the tomatoes in the bottom of the bag. Drivers on the road that shouldn't be. The horn is my favorite accessory in a car. So many things beyond our control in modern life that are actually helping us all fine tune our patience every day.

As a knitter, patience is just part of any project, large or small. Where would the creativity and fun derive from if it wasn't a process to make each project? It wouldn't be knitting, it would be shopping (not that I don't participate in that sport). Popping into the local merchant and buying a new holiday stocking isn't nearly as fun nor relaxing for me as making a new stocking.

I have never knit from a chart before. How hard can it be? One box per one stitch. Each box with a different symbol indicating the stitch to use and/or color. After a stressful week interviewing for gainful employment, job offers, and making decisions with life altering ramifications, an afternoon of sitting in the garden knitting away to the sound of birds chirping was just what I needed to regroup. I thought.

I also have very little experience with socks, so followed each word of the pattern directions as if they were commandments from the gods themselves for twenty rows or so. That's when I noticed that the writing on the stocking was backwards. Unless I hang it in front of a mirror backwards, I had to tear out and start over, again. Patience. Hard to believe that this is what I do to calm down, but it is. I was feeling a bit too smug having sorted out my work life and thought I would breeze through yet another UFO in an afternoon. I never realized that my knitting was so effective at grounding me back to reality.

Knitters have a different kind of patience than regular folk. If given a situation that involves a waiting period, we look at it as a break to work on our project. I've whipped out my stitching quicker than the PA system at the airport could announce my flight delay. Most of us knitters and stitchers enjoy these little breaks rather than become annoyed at the wait. It is a skill built into the craft. Still, ripping out something for the third time and starting anew doesn't sound appealing, but today it is.

I've learned (with some research) how to read a knit pattern chart. I realized too, that I am a patient person. I was sitting amongst the flowers and vegetables I had cultivated so many months ago, now blooming in full glory, vines laden with ripening vegetables and blossoms. I truly enjoy not only the the fruits of my labors, but all the steps to there. I am not up to par with, say the African Elephant yet. It's gestation period of 22 months must win the award of most patient mammal. It's a goal. So the stocking continues.

Where Are You?

I am Facebook savvy. I can untag a photo in a split second or send a message while standing in line at the grocery store. On the off chance my friends and family are even remotely interested, I update my status regularly. At the very least I post my blog. So please help me understand why I'll need the new Places on Facebook. Will I check in at the grocery store? From the Farmer's Market, the cleaners, dentist, the recyclers, or my kitchen? Those are the places I am most likely to be. I don't hope to run into people I know there. I just want to complete my errands and tasks.

Let's pretend for a moment my life takes a more exciting twist and I am at a fabulous new restaurant. Won't I want to savor my food and enjoy the company of my companions? Or is the pressure to have a life viewable at all times on Facebook going to force me to check in with Places. Also, since I am now on my smart phone checking in, might as well post a picture of our dining experience and critique the food.

I am at the movies. Time to check in and discover if anyone I know is there with Facebook Places. Not really. If I wanted to go to the movies with them, I would have called to arrange it. I can see the appeal for the high school crowd roaming in herds at the mall or movies. They haven't yet developed the anti social gene, the need to be with the one you love or are with at the moment only while on say, a date.

A friend reminded me while reading this original post that "You are forgetting that you are a woman of a certain age (that's because my certain age is old so I tend to forget). PLACES is designed for the on-the-move 20 somethings hopping from club to club. Sloth like friends are trying to catch up with them, or the scene at the intended destination is not hot, so the party is in motion to another spot. This app is not for you…". She is quite right, of course.

As an avid Facebook user and to extend the user age range, may I suggest Places add the following for our ease of use: Knitting on my own couch, cleaning the bathroom (location, home), visiting a fantastic garden (watering my own yard), walker rental supply house, check in unavailable due to restroom use, at the kitchen sink rinsing, laundry room sorting, stepped outside my front door but changed my mind and went back inside, and on the phone. These are automated status updates I could really use. However, if my friends start using them I will be forced to remove them from my news feed and for the worst offenders actually unfriend them!

Today, with my app update, Places has been added to my Facebook page on my phone. It has not yet activated in my area. That's right, I had to give it a try. It is there and the compulsion to not miss something that could be fun took over. So I'll give it a try when it gets up and running near me. Until then I remain a cynic, while reserving the right to completely do a u-turn on my opinion.

As fun and useful as our smart phones are, some etiquette should be established. Perhaps Miss Manners could publish a new phone app entitled "Apps & When They Are Appropriate". It could have a chapter on safety so as to avoid getting hit by a car while crossing a street and messaging at the same time. A chapter covering how to adjust the volume of your ring tone, notifications, and alerts so as to not wake babies in three counties.

I digress. With Places, I can share in real time where I am and discover if other friends have checked in there recently. Perhaps they'll cover the dinner tab. It's worth a try.

Yes I Can!

I may seem the queen of domesticity, but under my calm demeanor (ha!) beats the heart of a competitor. I picked some apples to make a bit of applesauce to freeze yesterday. No problem so far. Spoke to a friend on the phone last night. She also had an abundance of apples and was canning her sauce. In addition she was going to can pie filling. I laughed, thinking of all the work and said have fun.

Some time during my sleep, my brain short circuited and got hooked like a broken record. Can, can, can. And I am not talking about the dance. I woke up and made a beeline to the garage. Buried under a fifty cup coffee maker (I keep in the event Starbucks goes under) and stuck in a corner that was practically plastered under cobwebs was my goal, the largest canning pot ever produced for home use. Cartons of jars and lids were mined from the from the castoff appliance corner like nuggets of gold from the mother lode.

For some inexplicable reason I had decided that if my friend was canning, so should I. Why? Applesauce is fairly inexpensive to buy year round. Here in California apples can be had most of the year if the craving for a pie arose. Certainly bakeries abound in my suburban locale. I would like to tell you it is my frugality, or my creative cooking streak, or even a seizure. The truth is I just got a wee bit competitive. It is purely a subconscious thing. I didn't actively set out to keep up with the Joneses or want to one up a friend.

I had so many justifications for the flurry of activity that was about to happen. I was using natures bounty, waste not want not, there are children starving in China (well if not China, somewhere), couldn't buy more local and fresh than my own yard, I probably will need an apple pie per week for the next entire year, my husband will want applesauce in his lunch every single day this year, and so on.

Every few years I forget the trauma, the burnt blistered fingers, the sticky kitchen floor, the bits of apple everywhere, and that I don't have a housekeeper on call. What I do remember is the fragrance of apples simmering with nutmeg and cinnamon and it calls to me like a siren.

Canning is not for the faint of heart. The canning and preserving cookbooks go along happily instructing you through 2.5 million little steps for one can of pie filling. At the end they all say the same thing, do it correctly or die, literally. Keeping this in mind, I did all the right things, boiling my jars as if they were to be used in a heart transplant operation, tossing my apple slices in lemon to save them the embarrassment a tan would bring, caramelizing my sugar to the correct temperature so that when it hardened in my hair it would require surgical removal.

Pots of one thing or another were cooking for 7 straight hours. The sink filled with green and red spaghetti like peels. The floor magically took on extra gravitational pull, sucking sugar, flour, and liquids together until a gummy substance covered it.

As with knitting for me, I get into the rhythm of the activity. Suddenly I needed three kinds of applesauce. Every large jar I owned was filed with pie filling. An apple crisp sounded yummy to go with dinner after all the canning. Why not, I was in the zone. It felt as if I was living on a farm surrounded by the early autumn bounty. Then I looked around the kitchen. I was living on a farm alright, the funny farm.

My friend and I don't really compete. We just enjoy many of the same activities like cooking and knitting. Although it may look like we try to out do our peers we are just enhancing our family's lives through our creativity. We once took a chef's class on souffles, that's right a whole day on making only souffle's. We are not show offs, rather we are just good hostesses. Or that's what we would have you think.

My apple canning is done for this year. The remaining apples will be picked and given to friends. The tree bears the scars of today's frenzy (grabbed a branch to balance on the ladder and it snapped off, consider it early pruning), as does my kitchen. Now that the project is over I am admiring the gleaming jars lined up in the pantry waiting their turn to be used. The apple crisp is warm and inviting next to my cup of tea. Aah... Oh, and I win.

The Apple of My Eye

Americans eat approximately 19.6 pounds of fresh apples annually.

Apples are a member of the rose family.

The most popular variety in the United States is the Red Delicious.

Fresh apples float because 25 percent of their volume is air.

There are more than 7,000 varieties of apples grown in the world.

This weekend I hoped to get in the apple picking mood by attending the Sebastopol 100th Gravenstein Apple Festival. Located in the beautiful Sonoma Valley, California, the festival takes place nestled amid the rolling vineyards and orchards. Local artists ply their wares. Small town historic societies display artifacts. And apple growers sell every imaginable apple product known to man. Families play darts to win a jackpot of a bag of apples. From apple fritters and apple doughnuts to apple pies and apple port, there was something to satisfy any apple craving you might have. I am proud to report my husband and I were able to try it all. I am inspired to create my own apple masterpieces.

I have a very old apple tree in my backyard. Every year yields enough apples to fill my kitchen. Traditionally, for two days I peel and core apples making batches of applesauce, pie filling, and apple crisps. Some years, I leave most of the crop on the tree for the local wildlife. Squirrels always send a thank you. The tree only produces fruit on one side these past couple of years, as if a stroke paralyzed the other side. It is aging like the rest of us. Out of respect for the work it takes to still crank out fruit after 50 years, I cannot ignore the crop this year. Thus my UFOs have multiplied tenfold for the week.

Unlike knitting, this UFO is time sensitive unless you are aiming for a fruit fly breeding business. Today the ladder comes out and up I go. I know from experience that this is my least favorite part. Branches whip me in the face like they are auditioning for a part in the Wizard of Oz.

After the picking, sorting, and cleaning, comes the peeling. Over the last twenty five years of hosting my own "Apple Days", I have acquired a bevy of apple related gadgets to peel and core. One peeler is so complicated an engineering degree is needed to assemble. I use them all. By this afternoon my kitchen will be pleasantly fragrant with the smell of fresh apples. It will also be covered on most surfaces with bits of apple and peels hanging from places that should be gravitationally impossible. Peels will be in my hair and if the cat ventures through the room she will no doubt leave with a peel or two to play with. Won't that smell good when discovered under the bed two days later?

So I am off to face the day. If you don't hear from me please come dig me out from under the apple peels.