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!

Saturdays Are Noisy in Suburbia

Do you think power tools are to my neighborhood men what knitting needles are to me? As I lay in bed a cacophony of tools begins their weekly serenade. Shop vacs, compressors (exactly what are they compressing?), leaf blowers, mowers, and countless other gas using, electrical sucking machines are operating with a gusto rarely seen in their day to day lives. I think of myself as somewhat artistic. Do these men sculpt their hedges? Style their lawns? See the elimination of sawdust on the garage floor as a thumbprint on the world? Maybe they do. Maybe the loudness of the tool has a direct correlation to the creativity of the project, or just seems that way to anyone trying to sleep in the neighborhood. Regardless, it's great to not need an alarm clock on Saturdays. 8am signals "Let the Games Begin!" in a testosterone code deeply embedded in their DNA.

My knitting and needlepoint tools do not give anyone else a head ache, with the exception of my husband. He has to listen to the occasion rant regarding errors made, broken threads, a needle through the finger, and possible fire. That's right, fire. As I've aged more and more, light and stronger glasses are needed for my projects. Last night I was working on a needlepoint adding 800 or so very tiny beads, one per stitch. I put my glasses on the top of my head and ramped up my game to five times magnifiers. Moving the light to directly over my head for optimum performance I soon smelled what seemed like burning hair. The lesson learned is never, I repeat, never put a hot light directly over magnifiers on the top of your head. One, my husband will not wake up to screams of "fire" and two, my hair stylist will be so pleased.

Obviously the switch was made from knitting UFOs to needlepoint. Blame the weather. Or my field trip. Having heard the new local needlepoint shop had expanded and having spilled soda on white silk needed for one of the projects in my short term goal basket, I had to take a look. Somehow I've signed on for a weekly stitch get together and ordered yet another canvas. It wasn't my fault. The proprietor at Luv2Stitch, seen above, is just too helpful and had too many choices! Seeing the lovely hand painted canvasses and completed examples just made me want to stitch. Although this won't move your soul, I was terribly excited (a little beyond reason) to find out the shop is using the finisher for bracelets I had been looking for! Of course the bracelets were not even started because I didn't know a finisher (no, really, that is why I didn't start them! And the planets were not aligned and I had to brush my cat, wash my hair...). Problem solved. I came home with a fire burning in my soul to needlepoint these UFOs, not knowing that later it could be on the top of my head and begun to stitch. I had purchased two of the same canvas, oh so long ago, one for me and one for a dear friend. That means double the UFOs! AND there is a time constraint as these both are for Halloween, presumably this year's Halloween, but we'll leave that open.

As Saturday morning turns to afternoon, the sounds of birds singing are replacing the buzz of saws and such. The men of the neighborhood are retreating to who knows where not to be heard from until next week. A perfect time to sit outside and work away on my bracelet. As for the bracelet for my friend, we'll see.

Dropping Stitches in Time

My basket of UFOs looms large. Right next to the couch. In plain sight! Actually the basket is much like an iceberg. Only 10% shows, the rest buried under water (or in the avalanche closet).
Yesterday was filled with good intentions for productivity. However, there are laws against knitting in 100 degree weather or there should be. There should also be legislation to prohibit the cooking of two hour dinners in sweltering heat. At the very least the scarf would have been done had not my magazines come, it been cooler, we had gone out to dinner!

As one of my followers pointed out, oops, my only follower (husband), my big UFO is about finding work again. Someday. It isn't like I can hide that project under the bed like the knitting machine I HAD to have years ago. I can choose colors for a quilt with an eye for perfection. I can feel the right texture of yarn and see it made into a beautiful blanket. I know, it is hard to believe I have finished projects! Choosing what to do next with my life, then I am suddenly blind. As far as I know, no one is looking for a good cook with an eye for style when shopping. I can solve any household problem from a city sewage spill flooding the yard to sewing new kitchen curtains but there just isn't the demand for those skills there used to be. Sorry honey, that UFO will wait a week or so.

In the mean time, back to the projects.The crazy thing is when you are working, days seem more productive. Up at 5:30 without blinking an eye. Now I am hard pressed to make an 11 am appointment. Coffee used to take 10 minutes to gulp down while watching the news. Now coffee is a drawn out affair while giving the cat treats, with her acting as if I am supplying her daily crack. Emails to be read, news to be taken in Tweet length shots of 140 characters or less with the obligatory link (should you be actually interested), and showering and make up have taken on epic like proportions. I have watched as my prior clients retired and suddenly couldn't fit more than one appointment in their day. It was inexplicable. Perhaps they had suddenly aged and just slowed down? I aged exactly 1 day from working to not working, so maybe the age thing isn't it. Maybe life just becomes one gigantic UFO.

I have chosen the easiest item to finish, a scarf. A good knitter could do it blindfolded in under an hour. I never said I was good, just enthusiastic. As I try to fix the stitches I dropped, the clock is ticking away. Each stitch dropped like time frittered away. As I finish a sense of accomplishment washes over me. There will be one less cold neck in the world this winter. And I swear to not save the scraps for another project. Perhaps.

Gotta Start Somewhere

Unfinished objects, the bane of my existence. Entire retreats are held for quilters, knitters, and other crafters/artists just to motivate them to finish the project. Perhaps paying even more money than the supplies have already set you back compels one to finish. I wouldn't know. I would have to rent a u-haul to get my UFOs to the retreat. It isn't as if my projects are cluttering up the whole house. They do take up a whole closet (maybe two). The rest of the house is filled with a different kind of UFOs, my life.

Through the years of middle age I kept hearing what people would do when they retired or took an adult gap year from work. I'll quilt, plant a vegetable garden, build furniture, read the classics, needlepoint seat covers for the dining room chairs, hike the Appalachian trail (bit hard with a walker), start knitting, finish knitting, take up stain glass, learn to sail, finally finish the home remodel, travel the world, write a cookbook, and on and on. As the years went by many of these very same people actually had the opportunity to do just what they had planned. However, it appears they just went on doing or not doing what they were already doing minus working. No quilting, planting, classes, traveling, etc., they're still getting to it.

This is my adult gap year. After 18 years at my last job, I am on a sort of break. Quite long actually. At first it was all fun. Lunches with the ladies, hosting happy hours for friends, museums, concerts, and a party or two. Then life settles in. As I don't work for right now all household chores are mine. The total housewifey thing....Every bit of dust, every piece of laundry, cooking, shopping, gardening, cleaning up, errands, lunch making, it's all mine, mine, mine! After only six months I have a handle on it. Time set aside for catching up on world events (Thursday afternoon when People arrives via mail), catching up on gossip ( Monday nights when Newsweek arrives via Kindle), completing chores, and everything else home related. Suddenly I was faced with SPARE TIME!

Spare time is a bit frightening. I could kill it walking for my health, being more social, or watching the Real Housewives. I tried all three. I could even start blogging about finishing projects to avoid the projects. Then I realized that there was only one thing left to do, face my UFOs. Ever so many choices... Where to start?

The so called sewing closet could not be emptied without filling the entire room it is attached to with bags and boxes of projects. Trying to have choices would just mean avalanche city. So the "work from the front" technique was born. I was able to pry loose a basket of innocent looking bags. Small projects, like a scarf for a friend, needlepoint for a pillow, and EIGHT socks. Not eight finished socks, eight sock beginings! Bad news as these will take forever. Are these just examples of my life? The diet not finished? The relationship not resolved? Who knows. That is for another day. Today is for something to get done befor People arrives and I have to read, sip coffee, and call friends. Ooops, here's the mailman.