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.

The "J" Word

The unemployment rate in the United States was 9.50 percent in July of 2010. The labour force is defined as the number of people employed plus the number unemployed but seeking work. The nonlabour force includes those who are not looking for work, those who are institutionalised and those serving in the military.


I am but one.


I prefer to think I live in an evolved society where politeness is second nature. A place where people simply help each other as a matter of course. Add to that mix, a technologically advanced nation, where if you can dream it we can build it. So why has the employment rejection letter actually done a tail spin? Are not all applicants also possible customers of tomorrow? Is the goal to desensitize candidates until mere drones seek work there?

For the last two week I have earnestly worked at seeking gainful employment. Stop laughing. It's true. I set up a measurable task system to keep on goal. It has been an interesting free education!

A couple of months before closing my business, I was told by a prominent HR consultant, that none of my skills mattered. Self employed in a salon for over 18 years was an eight ball I would not be able to crawl from behind. She suggested trying fast food joints or a Target type stores or even Starbucks. I was crushed. Thirty years of skills reduced to selling fries with that cheeseburger (which I did gladly when I was 15). However, I saw her point. No boss but myself for 18 years, unless you count the 150 or so clients I saw each month. Still my third grade teacher (see I am young enough to remember the third grade, OK, maybe just this one thing because I to spell it aloud)taught us the meaning of perseverance. I have an excellent resume with what I thought was a succinct cover letter. After all, the resume really said it all. Apparently not, I was to discover.

Week one I wrote an endless array of requested essays on each company's mission. I signed up for no less than 6 company's services as a requirement for application. Took 18 psychological tests of 25 pages or more. One company required I sign up for Pay Pal on the off chance they took me on. It was all interesting but not as interesting as what the employment rejection letters of today have become.

Certainly my study has no scientific back up and is purely subjective, but here are a few things I discovered.

98% of the companies did not respond at all. It would be nice to know your email was at least received. Of these, 100% were start up companies (within the last 5 years)and of the 98% ALL were online commerce companies. I would have thought that a company that conducts all its business creating software, hardware, or the like might just come up with an automated response to the resumes submitted for a position. Some people have defended them saying these companies are inundated with resumes, but an automated program from a company designing programs, well just a thought.

I also discovered that I don't really care for describing my skill set as "fabulous" but not a good fit. It just translates to me as you sucked in our opinion, try Walmart. Just too fake.

There was one company, that shall remain nameless, that earned my awe. I sent a resume and cover letter for an open position via email. As I was still lifting my finger off the send button, I received a standard, polite yet firm rejection letter. Is that a record? 5 Seconds! Now that's an HR program that should be sold around the world. I am guessing they use a key word search scan on the cover letter or resume or both. Very Impressive. Of course, that just made me want to work there more.

The absolute worst letter read "We are seeking other candidates at this time." PERIOD. No salutation, no date, no feigning politeness. No pretending to keep my on file for six months. Obviously I had to adapt to this changed market. So change I did.

This week I researched what those key words might be and by god, they are in every cover letter. Business writing style has changed, at least in the job search area. It is a PR course in spin. Marketing yourself in a buyers market takes some creativity. It can be fun and a challenge. I find myself (and everyone else it seems) drawn to the most innovative new companies which should fine tune my skills at spin.

I also decided to diversify. I applied for a cashier in a large chain store part time. I was called in and hired in one day. A small needed Boost for the ego. At the same time decided to keep reaching. So my journey continues. An interview next week for a rewarding job in the non profit sector and several articles under review for a social media company to write for part time. I will continue to look for just the right mix of structure and creativity but will also be able to show I can work for someone else at the same time. Soon this UFO will be under the heading of finished projects. Let's hope it goes faster than the socks I'm working on.

He Who Hesitates Gets Inked

There is an old proverb that says "He who hesitates is lost". Not any more. At least not in writing. Today the Sharpie Blog, yes you read that correctly, the Sharpie Blog, announced the upcoming release of it's new liquid graphite pencil. It writes in erasable liquid graphite and after three days turns to permanent ink. Office Depot already has it available at $4.99 for a two pack.

I assume large companies do market research prior to developing a new product. Putting an item on the market "just because they can" is not a formula often used in business. The exception is Starbucks. They actually have stores across the street from one and other and I think it is just because they can (and to cater to some really lazy caffeine junkies). Therefor there must be some pretty great uses for this liquid pencil.

*I am addressing my holiday cards. The family has been squabbling quite a bit. I have three days to change my mind about wasting a card on someone that has just been on my last nerve.

*Marriage certificates can now have a three day rescission period. Not happy with your choice of spouse? Simply erase that signature.

*I can now prove my adeptness at completing the New York Times Crossword Puzzle in ink. All I have to do is not show it to anyone for three days after my last corrected entry.

*It will be an invaluable tool in the dating world. Birthday cards can be amended at a whim. Salutations of "My dearest love" can be amended to "hey there" after that awkward breakup. It's a greener world when we don't waste paper!

*Teachers can start grading papers with the new Sharpie. Simply post the grades for the class to see and let the grade negotiations begin. If the student can convince the teacher within the three day period to raise the grade, everyone wins and the parents are none the wiser.

Most of what I write isn't with pen and paper any longer. The exception being checks. As much as I would like to debate the amount of my phone bill, and maybe amend it to a lower price, something tells me I wouldn't have service much longer. If I switch to a life of crime rather than honest labor, the liquid pencil could be invaluable. Simply lend it to a customer writing a check to me and, well you can figure out the rest. My to do lists and grocery shopping notes are on my phone via apps now and are far more convenient, for me, than carrying around a notebook in my purse.

Drafting, design work, and pattern creation could be simplified with the liquid pencil. As Americans we believe "Build it and they will come". No doubt many uses will be discovered once we get our hands on one.

As for pencils, in my household they are a commodity and closely guarded. Pencils are removed from safe keeping only for the weekly ritualistic crossword wars. Six Down: What is an seven letter word for pointless?

Victory is Mine

A completed needlepoint canvas for a Halloween bracelet. Sounds so innocent. This UFO gave me a temporary case of OCD. I needed it to be done this week and sent to the finisher to be made into a leather lined cuff bracelet, if it is to be worn this year. Even though today was date night, or in our case, date morning (the early bird special discount at the movies 6am showing only), even though there were more cookies to be baked, laundry to be done , dinner with all the dishes,and the other countless little chores of the day (not the date, of course), I was determined to be done. One movie, 2 dozen cookies (molasses crisps, yum), a lovely dinner , 2 loads of laundry, three broken needles later and some very sore fingers, victory was mine! Ah, success...

While proudly showing my husband the canvas that he has seen hundreds of times, he asked how many other projects I had left to go. This blithe indifference to my feelings gave me pause. How many were there really?

My philosophy towards projects is a bit like my attitude in life. There is always more to come! It is good to always have happy things to look forward to. Vacations planned, concerts, the next knitting convention, and of course, projects. It helps balance out life's little hills and valleys. Except at the end. I imagine my priorities will differ then. Therefore realistically, when I die most likely there will be plenty of UFOs left. Can we ever resolve every conflict? Give closure to our loved ones? Cancel every subscription? Forward our mail to the after life? Then it stands to reason there will be lots of yarn and stitching to be buried with me. We all know that you can't take it with you, so why do I see an over sized coffin bursting with bits of brightly colored yarns that my husband keeps stuffing in?

It's the start of a new week. With it the start of a new project. Sorting through my stash to give away some of the yarn I once lusted for but now see only as an albatross around my neck. Why not let some one else have those skeins, that will love them as I once did? A renewal, a rebirth, or at least, a cleaner closet. My tastes have changed with the passing years. My interest in stitching has changed with it in some cases. Time to let go. Then I can get a reliable count of my UFOs, not that I would share that number with my husband.

As in stitching, life always has quite a few UFOs to sorted through also. The hunt for meaningful employment continues. I have been wondering if I am so driven to get a job because the new hand painted canvas I ordered has come in? Or is it the glass class I signed on for next week? No matter. My second project is to seek out and infiltrate a company that will fund my fun through gainful employment. I expect a busy week.

Monogamy is Over Rated

After a full day of online job hunting, one thing has become apparent. The less the salary of any given job, the longer the questionnaire. I don't mind writing a short essay as to why I make a good choice for a position, particularly if it involves writing skills. It's a chance to shine and talk up my accomplishments. However, if the position requires knowing how to speak English, breath, and blink your eyes to be successful, then perhaps the 25 pages of psychological questions straight out the eighties could be pared down. Interestingly enough, no matter how many ways you word it, I still will not agree with the statement "I often take my anger out on others".

As I try not to despair at my quest to find a company that wants my creative intelligence or at least my breathing body, I turn to my stash of projects for a bit of peace and sense of accomplishment. I have been making great strides on a needlepoint bracelet canvas that I am determined to finish this weekend. But I have a wandering eye. My glance at a sock yarn skein of exquisite colors makes my heart jump ever so slightly. The photo of a completed holiday stocking makes my finger itch to touch the yarn. The unseasonably cool breeze outside makes me yearn to work with autumnal colors. Am I being unfaithful to my UFOs if I start yet another project?

I draw the curtains closed and stealthily make my way to my stash. The yarns for a cabled pocket scarf are perfect for an impending season change, lush with golds and browns. No wait! Nothing cheers me up like Christmas. The Peppermint Mocha sock yarn with it's hand dyed variations of pinks to not quite red, soft browns, and beige would soothe my soul to work with tonight. No, now that I'm thinking about Christmas, it has to be the stocking!

The guilt washes over me. Starting yet another project would be, would be, would be just another project! Knitters and stitchers know that unlike actual work deadlines and tasks, our projects are worked on by whim. Once in awhile for a specific gift occasion we are married to a project (actual vows given in the form of announcing we are giving a baby blanket for a shower, for example). Otherwise they are worked on by choice. My choice. There are no Project Police waiting to arrest me for my wandering eye and fingers. No guild of knitters with a set of by-laws to fine me for knitting polygamy that will crash through the door.

I throw the curtains wide open again and hold my head high as I start the holiday stocking. It may not be done for this holiday, but for tonight it's the one I love.

Pattern Commitment Phobic

I await the arrival of my new assortment of knitting magazines similar to the crack addict pacing a dark alley waiting for his next score (at least that's how I imagine it from TV). Anticipation builds, excitement mounts, then the sudden euphoria when slowly savoring each page. Clipping out ads and ideas for holiday gifts for fellow knitters.Reading reviews for new products that almost make me feel the softness of the yarn being described between my fingers. Then in the full throes of my knitting magazine, shall we say experience, I reach the patterns. The very heart of the periodical and I suddenly just casually flip through. I admire them, ooh and aah over them and once in a great while cut a pattern out. The reality is that I have a project stash that could not be completed in the average human 's lifespan.

One thing is glaringly apparent when reading knit blogs, magazines, and books, these people knit everyday. Without exception. I don't know how they plan weddings or even find spouses for that matter. They have a passion! I love to create from knitting. But I love pizza also, so what kind of judge am I? The things I do everyday are limited to feeding the cat (so she doesn't attack me in my sleep), making the bed, and eating. There might be a couple more but even though I strive for it, knitting isn't on the list. I don't lack the want or the passion. I lack the time and attention span.

I have worked effectively for long hours at my job but am attention span challenged when it come to my craft. When I peruse the pages of lovely models wearing knitting designs I admire, I just touch the page longingly. However, I will most likely never make them. As a legitimate knitting book and magazine hoarder I want to change that. Towards this end I propose a radical shift in our international pattern rating system.

These patterns all use the typical easy , intermediate, or difficult stitch ratings currently. I don't find those ratings particularly useful as once you master knit, purl, casting on and off, everything is just a variation thereof. With the detailed instructions now given and some perseverance, quite a bit of perseverance, and maybe a stop off at the local knit shop, any of us could make even the most difficult pattern eventually. If we didn't have to cook dinner, do the laundry, put on make up, clean the house, attend to friendships, take kids to school, earn a living to pay for more yarn and sometimes food. So my plan would be to rate all patterns by attention span and hours per day required for completion prior to my own lifespan being exceeded.

For example a straightforward ribbed scarf might be for the easily distracted and require zero uninterrupted time with an estimated daily knit requirement of 40 minutes. That's a pattern I could commit to even during the busiest of times.

Follow this up with a pattern that mixes both the zombie like knitting of a scarf with a mix of slightly detailed pattern interspersed. It would require one and a half hours a day of semi interrupted time to complete. That means even though your spouse has now asked where you keep paper towels for the 978Th time this year during your project, you could still finish it with only a small time commitment.

For those quite involved projects, let's just be honest. It might say this sweater will require a diamond ring as you will be married to it forsaking all others for 3 hours a day of uninterrupted time until Spring, of next year.

It could revolutionize the industry! It could spawn a renewed commitment to our art from harried housewives, knitting frustrated wanna bees, and just us regular knitters all over the world. And more importantly to me, I could continue to indulge my knitting magazine habit with a renewed gusto knowing I might be able to commit, on a probational basis, to a pattern for one of the wonderful designs therein.

Hovering Between Walmart Greeter & Biochemist

This is about unfinished objects. Be they knitting 8700 pairs of socks, painting the front room, or finding a job. The sock yarn will still be there next week. I can just take off my glasses and the front room looks as lovely as it did five years ago (less dusty also). However, finding work has no easy solution. To be fair, I have just begun my odyssey. Perhaps I can model knitting for a classic artist such as William Adolphe Bouguereau? Oops, taken.

I have hit a snag in my gap year from work. It turns out I miss working. The social interaction, long hours, and having something to whine about daily have left a hole in my heart, and oh, my pocketbook. I love to be productive. I don't spend my days eating Bonbons and reading magazines (OK, maybe Thursdays) but they aren't what I call driven either. So I have begun looking at employment opportunities. You probably heard my husband cracking the champagne open even where you are with that statement. Everywhere we go, he now points out window signs for jobs. This weekend it was Walmart greeter. I have to admit, she did look suspiciously close to my age and was wearing very similar shoes. At 53 is that the only avenue left for me?

In my daydreams a job somewhere between greeter and say a Biochemist would be a perfect fit. Where my creativity, problem solving abilities, and knowledge can be put to use. At a company where they have employed at least one person over the age of 50 for something other than janitor. Or am I still dreaming. Searching for the right fit on the Internet has been an eye opening experience.

Today I wrote TWO 150 word pieces about a company and why I want to work there for less than half per hour than what clipping toenails pays. Seriously! Bank operations experience, owning my own business, none of this comes into play. Rather it falls on whether I was an early adopter and how I put that to use. And they are not referring to when I adopted those stray cats last year.

More than one job opportunity found stated they use Facebook and Twitter as part of their background check. No worries for me. They'll just see I am not as young as I used to be and that I probably go to bed early based on the not so wild status updates.. My friends, on the other hand, present a challenge. Please be advised that only articulate comments with social import will be accepted on my page in the future. No more just clicking like and moving along. I have an image to present!

I was surprised that by simply searching via my name that my hobbies, magazine subscriptions, charity donations, cooking preferences, neighborhood demographics, income range, and street view of my home came up on one click. None of which generated from Facebook nor Twitter. As a sidebar, did you know the privacy policy at Facebook, at more than 5000 words, is longer than the U.S Constitution?

Network aggregator search engines, like today’s Spokeo and Pipl, combine data from online sources, including political contributions, blog posts, YouTube videos, Web comments, real estate listings and photo albums. Even the Library of Congress is making it hard for the youth of today to keep their youthful indiscretions private , as they recently announced that they will be acquiring, and permanently storing, the entire archive of public Twitter posts since 2006. How that will read compared to say, Thomas Jefferson, for the future generations is troubling.

I have never really had an expectation for privacy for anything I have put on the Internet. I pretty much figured it was an illusion of privacy. Sooner or later some person smarter than me comes along and outs my info. That's the thing, my information isn't really interesting enough to be outed so I still don't worry.

Overwhelmed by all my newfangled knowledge, I am returning to the safety and shallowness of my knitting and Real Housewives, at least for this one last evening. My talents shine in my own living room. Oh, and welcome to Walmart. Can I help you find anything?

Doing My Wifely Duty

Every night this week my husband has reminded me that we are going to a classic car show this weekend. I could hardly bear the anticipation. Just like Christmas the big day was finally here (for him). A lovely day, none the less, sunny and warm. Perfect for strolling around a park even if it was filled with cars and older, much older men. Also I was just doing my wifely duty sharing (ha) his interests.

I learned quite a bit today. For starters, if you are a single woman over 60, a classic car show is where to find the babes. The average age of attendees and exhibitors was definitely 60 and above, very above and almost exclusively men. Men dusting cars, men talking about when they got their first car, men looking under hoods, men taking pictures of cars, it was raining men, old men.

I was expecting more museum type vehicles, say a Model T for example. What I got was a trip down memory lane. Every car I have ever rode in on a date, cruised in (before the first gas shortage), parked in, or just parked next to in high school was represented. There were a few cars from the 30's but the 60's and 70's are now classics. How did I get this old? The young men today do not have auto shop class before they can drive. Cars today are a technological feat of engineering employing computer science the auto shop teacher never dreamt of even when he experimented with acid in the 70's. So it makes sense that these guys that had lovingly restored their cars were all over 50. Before the 80's you could completely take apart and engine and put it back together. Today computer chips have replaced so many operating systems that when purchasing a new car there is no point to looking under the hood except to verify something engine like is there.

However it was these very same cars that spawned an American cultural revolution. They gave way to a larger infrastructure across this sprawling nation enabling Americans to experience the family road trip. Mom knitting in the front seat and us kids in the back (sans seat belts, they weren't even built in the car yet) yelling to our sib "Don't look at me". Ah joy. Drive through diners, and even drive through funeral parlors emerged. Drive though banking was popular for a few decades but the getaway for the robbery was too easy (and ATM's came into being). Here in California, cruising was romanticized in the movies and on television.

These classic autos and their restorers remind me of quilters, knitters, and stitchers. We have revived arts that were requirements to survive in the past. We have enhanced our crafts with computers that sew and can be programmed for any stitch or embroidery imaginable. Gone is the double knit polyester that was and is still indestructible replaced by the natural fibers that were always classic. Rather than knitting as the only way to get a pair of socks, it is now an art.

AYCOOYM

Email, IM, Twitter, Facebook, blogs, and websites all use a dizzying array of acronyms to keep things short and sweet. It is a skill set not taught in school to type on a phone and to keep the number of characters short. Much like the headlines in a newspaper, acronyms are supposed to hook us without the lengthy description. I too have been caught up as evidenced by my blog name. To be fair, UFOs have been conversationally used as long as I have been sewing and crocheting which is longer than the Internet has been in use. We did have fire and the wheel in my childhood but the Internet was much later.

Just as I think you shouldn't be issued a vehicle license plate acronym if I cannot readily figure it out (a leading cause in my driving mishaps is squinting at the plate in front of me trying to sound out a word),I also think our daily use of acronyms should be self explanatory. I should not have to Google the meaning of my personal text messages. Some of the popular acronyms in use today would have been helpful in spy correspondence during world war two. We could now hire twelve year old kids to design new spy codes. Actually looking at Twitter that may be where these have all originated. But that's just my WAG (wild ass guess).

While working on a project today, I broke a needle. I know I have plenty more, somewhere in the back of a very full closet of projects, so I began to search. I had to pull quite a few projects, supplies, and boxes out looking or my needle stash. I don't want to waste time organizing the closet today but I couldn't help but notice the stacks were broken down into categories as I piled them up around the room.

I ended up with the following piles:

WIP-works in progress
PIGS-projects in grocery sacks
PIMP-projects in many pieces
PIP-Projects in Progress
PODS-Projects on Dusty Shelves
HRSY-Haven’t Really Started Yet
SABLE-Stash Accumulation Beyond Life Expectancy

The largest pile, by far, were my leftovers. Yarn, material, threads, all too plentiful to throw out, yet just not quite enough for new project use. I found a large collection of patterns for these leftovers as well. None quite as creative as the sweater scrap pattern from the Internet shown above. This sweater has it's own acronym. AYCOOYM: Are you completely out of your mind?

OMG, I think we all know what that one is now. I cannot locate the correct needle to save my life so I am off for some SEX. For you non quilters and knitters, that is a Stash Enhancing eXcursion.

I would love to hear your POV (point of view) in the comments below. Have to run to the needlepoint store before COB (close of business).

Who is That Woman?

Today was filled with appointments. I arrived, quite timely, at my first, proud that I was put together. Full make up, hair done, accessories, matching clothes, not bad for early in the morning. Stepped out of the car and headed towards the door. Suddenly, I caught a glimpse in the window reflection of an older woman with her shirt on backwards. My first thought was who is that behind me. Startled I looked around and realized that it was me. Exactly how did I look in a full length mirror and not notice my top on backwards? Also, how did the people lined up in Starbucks not notice? Am I invisible? Probably not to the guys in the next car when I was pulling a high school stunt of turning the shirt around without taking it all the way off. If you haven't met me, then you should know I have the biggest boobs in all the world, thus making not flashing the car of people parked next to me nearly impossible. The blunt truth is those girls arrive in the room a full five minutes before I do. I managed to put myself back together and scoot inside but it got me thinking. Did the people around me think I was a little off? Making a bold fashion statement? Or did they just look past me?

When I reached middle age, I noticed fewer doors were held open for me by the men my age. They were too busy holding that door for the 25 year old behind me and I considered myself lucky they didn't knock me down to help her. Gone was the flirty conversation in the check out line. Rather I was told with disdain "Oh, I didn't know they still made that" about my grocery choices. No one offered to buy me a drink or coffee anymore. In fact some looked surprised to see my group in an establishment. At a club in my hometown (Where I was dropping off a friend's daughter) I was actually told there are places more age appropriate. I agreed, but I meant my couch. She helpfully suggested a place her grandmother liked!

My neighbor's young, gorgeous daughter was overseas with two fifty pound suitcases last week. She was saying how very helpful everyone was on the train. Lifting her bags and placing them on the luggage racks. I was reminded of being in the the UK a couple of years ago. I was traveling with a fifty pound bag as well as a carry on and knitting bag. As polite as everyone was, no one noticed my plight when the queue rushed for the few open seats. Those doors slam shut mighty fast. Lets just cut the story short and ask if anyone finds my blue undies somewhere near Kings Crossing Station, I would appreciate their return. So with middle age came the invisibility. People accuse menopause in women for our being grumpy, moody, or emotional, but that isn't always the case. Maybe it just gets on our last nerve being ignored in public.

Until, that is, you reach the fifties and suddenly you are back on the radar. Now you look like every one's mom. Strangers on the street are comfortable asking you anything. There isn't any one at all that won't have a full conversation just in the market check out. Door's are opened again. It takes longer to do anything or go anywhere because people are suddenly chatty again. And the phrase "It's great to see people your age doing this" has been uttered multiple times to me.

Recently my husband and I were returning from a ROCK CONCERT (not geezer rock, current music for your information) on a local train. It was jammed full of concert goers and I wedged into the car. A nice young man turned to me and said "Maam, would you like my seat?"

I thought how polite and replied "I'm sure there is some one older that could use the seat. But thanks."

He looked around the car and said "No, here you go".

I could see my husband, who is older than me by the way, doubled over with laughter. Don't care. I sat quite comfortably and pulled out my knitting . That was the day I began to appreciate the advantages of being in my fifties. Better seating and time to work on my projects.

Thanks for the Example, Ivy Bean

I have a friend whose mother used to say "You get to keep your health or your mind ". I am still on the fence as to which I'll go for. With the mind loss thing, my friends will remain cutting edge. Their stories always be fresh and amusing to me. The bad health seems so much more droll unless your doctor is Dr. McDreamy (of course after seeing me naked for an exam, he'll be Dr. Cannotrunfastenough from the city of Getmeouttahere). Before you start emailing hate letters, dementia is all around me . Friend's parents, clients, etc. It is an ugly disease. It is not a joke. Although sometimes life serves up laughter quite by accident to help pull you along. That said, onto my point, after I remember where this was going. Oh, yes....

It seems that sometimes both mind and health are awarded to a few special people. Although its hard to tell from Tweets and status updates how a person's mind is actually fairing. Talk to the daughter if you want the real scoop, I always say.

Today I read about a Ms. Ivy Bean who recently passed away at 104. She was blessed with a particularly long life. She also Tweeted until the day she died with a following of over 50,000 people and had a Facebook following of the 5000 maximum friends. Her example is that we are never to old to get to our UFOs in life. Granted, in her 100s her Tweets consisted of what was for lunch or that some one was having a pint out in the garden. Wait that was mine yesterday. No, sorry, that was hers. She took up social networking with a fervor that can only be viewed as competitive. Her followers included the past UK Prime Minister's wife, Mrs. Brown. She met via social networking, a slice of society that would have never been in Northern England to visit her managed care home. She has probably got to know far more people than I, not that Facebook or Twitter is a popularity contest (But do friend me!!!!).

So the glass blowing I want to learn is back on, writing a blog, on, and learning Spanish...no. I'll leave that at the level it is today (Donde es la biblioteca?) so as not to damage international relations. Like IvyBean104 (her handle) I think we should keep trying new things. Perhaps just a bit modified for our age range if it is physically a hardship but otherwise it's a go.

I was curious about how to keep it going as long and in touch as Ivy. Here's some of what I learned today.

1. We all have to move to Hawaii. I know it will be crowded but worth it. Livin' on Kona time will get you an extra 7 years over some states.

2. We have to convert to Mormon. Mormon men live 6.7% longer than non Mormon men. Is it the door to door youth ministry building muscles? Actually the lack of coffee, tobacco, and such account for that one. So we don't really have to convert just live healthier.

3. Married people outlive singles, but we knew that. What I didn't know is that there is a 15% higher life expectancy. Are those single people's cats tripping them in the dark? How else do you account for that one?

4. Women with husbands their own age outlive cougars, so take that you Botoxed braggarts! All that staying up late to keep up with a husband that didn't even know Paul McCartney was in a band before Wings gives you a 20% higher mortality risk then us old bags with men around our age. Ha!

I found about a hundred studies all with the same healthy messages of living right. The message for me was from Ivy, she should have been on a Nike commercial, just do it.

Ms. Bean is survived by her daughter.





Photo courtesy of AP

Holiday Fanatic or Just Well Dressed

I am diligently stitching on my two (really I am still on the first one) Halloween bracelets. It may seem crazy , but you are reading the ramblings of a woman that once wore a Thanksgiving jumper complete with Indians and Pilgrims appliqued on the front, quite largely, in fact, almost life size. Did I mention the matching cornucopia earrings? Note to self: Never drink before shopping at a craft fair. As the years have passed, I have slowly stopped dressing for a holiday the entire month while never repeating an outfit. I have dumped holiday sweaters by the truckload, embroidered T-shirts, scarves, socks, turtlenecks, broaches, necklaces, bracelets, and earrings. I even owned a pair of shoes with a Christmas design on them. Oddly, I never went for the typical decorated sweatshirts. They were just too over the top for me. Did I mention the quilted jackets?

So when I say I want a Halloween bracelet, it must be pretty serious business. I have kept small accessories, of course. Wouldn't want the world to think I don't embrace the joy every holiday brings. Even those are an entire dresser drawer. What with Chinese New Years, St. Pats, Valentines, the 4Th of July, Talk Like a Pirate Day (my eye patch has a hole), the start of the Iditarod, Pi Day (don't even ask how large those earrings are with that equation) and so on and so on. Now my tastes are much more subtle and sophisticated. I may not be on page six of the NY Times, but don't get the idea I dress like a clown, except for International Clown Day, of course. I have been known to stay vaguely in style.

Except for this bracelet. I saw the completed, hand painted canvas turned into a cuff last year and simply had to have it. After all the work put into this, no one will be allowed to touch it. No wearing it near food, water, air, etc. I may have to wrap it in plastic like some clear sofa slipcover of the 60's.

In fact there is only one friend I have that would appreciate this as a gift, and that's only because she can make her own. She is the only one I would make socks for also. Not really, she has two feet and I specialize in one of a kind single socks. The point is, you would open the box and think whoopee, she bought socks at Walmart. Or, nooooo, not more Holiday crap! Yet I see it as an entire month's free time given up out of love just for you. So if you do open a box from me, remember to act as if I went to Tiffany's. During October this year, you'll see me showing it off as if it came from some fabulous jeweler. You'll probably see it well into November for all the time it is taking. Maybe it will lend itself to New Year's. If I don't get back to stitching, I won't be wearing it until Spring.

Lifeville, No Membership Needed to Play

Addiction: The state of being enslaved to a habit or practice that is psychologically or physically habit forming to the extent that its cessation causes trauma.

No, thank you, I do not need an intervention. I am not not hooked on drugs, alcohol, or gambling. I do joke about being addicted to stitching, knitting, and other crafts but really these are just creative outlets. If anything, I am not addicted enough or I wouldn't have a house full of UFOs. I would describe myself better as having a marked propensity for textile acquisition. Thus the line up of endless projects that stem from the influx of sale, one of a kind hand dyed, or just plain "I want it" yarns and yardage. No, I am speaking to a matter much more serious than time spent on making useful items like socks. Dare I say it? Facebook addiction!

The news and Internet media have been giving big time coverage to the new phenomena of Facebook addiction comparing it to slot machine use. I don't get that anaology as my Facebook has never, and I repeat longingly, never paid me. If any of you out there know how I can change that please contact me immediately by posting on my wall, opening the chat, changing your status, tagging me in a photo, send me a friend request, ask me to join your cause, poke me (please limit this use to Facebook), post a new Twitter, direct email me on Facebook, Twitter, or my regular email. You can call me on my mobile, my land line, or even come to my front door! I want that Jackpot!

All the attention paid to Facebook becoming as populated as the third largest country in the world did get me thinking. The time I now stay connected reading about knitting and sewing used to be spent doing knitting and sewing. Now on Facebook, I am joining knit groups that never meet, becoming a fan of products and stores I already use in the hopes of getting information on new stuff quicker. Do I really need an alert on my phone from Facebook that a store in Maine has the first new shipment of hand dyed, fair trade, organic fiber from Peru with a low carbon footprint as it was brought here by two backpackers? There is even a page for fans of Addicted to Facebook boasting over 13,000 members. Does Crack have its own page? Or, are some addictions left in dark corners where they belong instead of being proudly proclaimed.

This week it was announced that on Facebook, the game Farmville, had 310 million VIRTUAL crops planted that people paid for with actual dollars. Let me rephrase that. People payed U.S. currency for the opportunity to plant make believe blueberries on a make believe farm in a make believe community in a virtual reality social networking setting. That leads to a whole other realm of addiction. So many interesting questions come to mind. Are there now new economic theories relating to virtual purchases versus real world economics? Are these people just trying to avoid their own UFOs in what I call real Lifeville? No matter. Even the time I spend jotting this down used to be productive time in my own game of Lifeville.

Lifeville has no instructions save what is passed down parent to child. One keeps score by keeping up with the Joneses. Lifeville pays jackpots in the form of shelter, food, security, and love. Farmville pays you with a fake golden chicken laying mystery eggs demanding to be fed. Despite the trauma of not knowing that my friend has just changed her status or hair color tonight, think I'll get on with my game of Lifeville.

Like Buttah

I use textiles, yarn and yardage, as my medium for art/crafts. Today I stumbled on a different medium, butter! The Midwest Dairy Association has added an app on Facebook, Butter-fy Yourself that allows you to make a postcard of you sculpted in butter. As you can see I look just like buttah!

The first recorded North American sculpture in butter was created by Carolyn Brooks for the 1876 U.S. Centennial Exhibition in Philadelphia. Butter sculptures are a traditional art form of the Tibetan Buddhism with a history of 600 years. Who knew? To think all this time I was just slathering my bread with it. In the U.S. butter carving is a staple of Midwest State Fairs, I've learned. Controversial Tweets, letters from Peta, input from Vegans all help determine what will be sculpted in some states. Other states opt for the traditional cow carving. The Minnesota State Fair features a butter sculpture of the twelve finalists of the Princess Kay of the Milky Way contest. The winner is crowned Dairy Princess. Their likenesses are carved from 90 lb. blocks of butter. I am not sure I'd want to be chosen to represent my state's cow, of course maybe it's a great tiara. Perhaps you get to keep your butter likeness as a prize. 90 pound of butter could make quite a few cookies.

I must be hungry because I just keep thinking of the thousands of ways butter would taste good right now. Upon reflection, while snacking, butter seems to have invaded the cultural landscape of American society. Something is referred to as smooth as butter, silky as butter, creamy as butter, foods and lotions are called buttery. Saturday Night live had a series of skits that referred to a star's manicure saying they were "like buttah". There is an economic theory named Guns and Butter and a tattoo blog called Ink Butter. Olive oil is never used as an adjective let alone made into a sculpture. No economics teacher has referred to my EVOO. Yet it is supposed to be so much healthier than butter.

After I eat my way to a butterball shape, I think I'll go back to my knitting. Knitting at least offers diet options. I can choose to buy yarn rather than food. I can walk to the yarn shop for a workout. Then I can sit my butt down and resume stitching.

In the Eye of the Beholder

I wanted to share these pictures of knitted dissected animals. Which begs the question, who had the time to create a pattern and knit these? I do not even get to, let alone finish, the projects that will have a use. Scarves, sweaters, hats, blankets, pillows, etc. all have an serve a purpose when complete. Perhaps a 4Th grade science teacher with a show and tell complex came up with the idea. Maybe a knitting hermit who's dog brought home small sacrifices said "I've nothing better to do". They obviously had their life together to afford the time to make these. No cat hair floating around their home, no dishes, laundry, friends to visit. That's why there are menus, something for everyone.

The mind boggling thing about these pictures for me, is the time spent. This week is my monthly maintenance of me (the real UFO in this house). Every year that has slid by has brought it's own birthday gift in the form of some new body part requiring attention, a lot of attention. For example I spend 36 hours alone per year just staying a brunette. It started so innocently, just a stray grey or two that had to be hit. Now a scientific protocol is applied to the mixture that keeps the hair color of my youth. It's in my DNA. I come from a long line of hair dyers. It was like finding out there was no Santa Claus when my 92 year old blond grandmother finally admitted being a bottle blond. Until then I had just assumed my family had very good anti-aging genes. Turns out they could just scope out a good salon from forty paces.

My monthly maintenance this week will include dental, hair removal from the places that, of course, didn't go grey, a physical, mani/pedi, and oh so many other adventures in turning back the clock or at least winding it for another month. The consolation prize is plenty of waiting rooms to stitch and knit in. Saw a knitting pattern for an Elvis wig online so perhaps I can start on Halloween or stop dying my hair and use up all that extra yarn.

Sometimes I am serious, even about knitting.

Recently in Petaluma, Ca., a city council member knitted her way through a debate that would, in her words, "change the entire fabric and character of the community.” We all tend to doodle, think about what's for dinner, and other trivial things when our minds wander but an elected official should probably give the appearance of paying attention to the speakers rather than picking up a purl stitch. Will she remember that night as the meeting a new shopping center was approved or for the really cute sweater she finished? Was she working on socks for our military because Walmart ran out?

When is our hobby/addiction appropriate and when is it just plain rude?

I tend to always have a project in my purse. Perfect for alleviating the boredom of doctor's offices, two hour lines to pick up a holiday ham, or anywhere I am stuck waiting. Although a knitting project is like a very pregnant mother's belly. Strangers tend, for no apparent reason, to just reach out and touch it! I don't know about the mom's to be but I get a little pissy even if they are saying how lovely it is. I wash my hands before touching my projects so the oil from my skin doesn't harm the thread or yarn. Is it wrong to yank away the project? Want to ask if they have any infectious diseases? Mist the project with disinfectant in front of them? Maybe I am just overreacting. I have had people work on needlepoint and knitting at my wedding shower, a dinner party, and plenty of other social interactions. Of course, no life altering decisions were being made but I like to think we were having engaging conversations. I had always taken it as a bit of an insult but now in light of our elected officials simply saying it's multitasking, perhaps I was mistaken.

Will Hilary Clinton start a scarf during translator delays when meeting with foreign dignitaries next? Perhaps Sarah Palin could further her soccer mom image by whipping out a hat for Trig during a long debate. I love what I call zombie knitting. A repetitious stitch involving no counting or pattern that allows me to also watch a movie or listen to my husband drone on about sports or work. The reality is that for anything else I have to pay attention to what I am stitching.

Today this city council woman has Tweeted that it is all a smear. That "Knitting is an amazing way to stay present + focused during 3 hrs of heated public debate. Too bad some confuse knitting with not listening.". I can only speak from personal experience. When I am involved in a project the language I hear is like a Charlie Brown dialect, " blah blah blah, Denise, blah blah blah blah blah". Not to mention I was hoping an elected official had a three hour attention span for public issues. So to all our creative elected officials, please leave the needles in your bag while on the dais.

Not Getting Any Younger

I just cannot do the same things as when I was younger.

It's just too hard while checking my IPhone every 30 seconds.

I think I stitched for 8 solid hours. However, judging by the picture, I may have had a couple of breaks. For starters, I had to reply to 14 texts, check for Facebook updates, check for breaking news, keep up on Twitter, answer 21 e-mails (very important these jokes were and I could enlarge the size of my penis should I grow one), play a game of UNO, add a knitting app, look for new apps to help me save time, arrange my calendar, buy some new songs to stitch by, google a stitch I was unsure of, beg for followers on Facebook, and lastly talk on the phone. It is truly amazing that there was time to pick up a needle.

I saw an ad for a cruise yesterday that consisted of five days stitching time to Hawaii, four days to visit the islands, and five days stitching time back. At first I failed to see the allure. I can stitch at home without the costs, seasickness, packing and such. Do they provide the rental truck to get our UFOs to the ship? After last night maybe the point is no phone service. I picture stitching Nazis standing over us with lights yelling "Stitch you wimp" and cracking a whip of needlepoint canvas. We would stumble off the boat holding our phones to the sky and cry tears of joy as the bars loaded restoring service. Family greeting us at the dock forgotten, we would hunch over our phones exclaiming at what we missed.

When I was younger, I would just sit down and knit, sew, or stitch for hours on end. Now the varying degrees of magnifying glasses needed give me a head ache. I get tennis elbow from knitting. My shoulder freezes up from holding a needlepoint frame too long. The lighting has to be just right or my eyes tear up. What a cruel cosmic joke. I am old enough to finally have the time, but I need to nap first.

I could just turn off the phone. Kidding, no I couldn't. Today I will limit the times I pick it up like starting a 12 step program. First step, acknowledging I am a phone-aholic. That is as far as I will get today. Oh no, I just found an app that is a stitch guide for needlepoint. NOOOOO!