A Simple Note of Thanks

It's been a weird few days here. We got back from visiting Dave's parents in Cambridge on Sunday night. Monday, I had to be at work for most of the day working on some curriculum writing for the digital world (that would be for a cyber-school). It's a whole new beast, and it honestly made my head hurt at one point. However, the real fun was saved for Tuesday. Seems Dave's on-again-off-again "love affair" with gout was on-again . . . only it decided that their old meeting place - the big toe - wasn't painful enough so it picked a new place - the middle of his foot.

So, a quick trip to the doctor's to confirm that this new painful spot was the same old gout meant a trip to the pharmacy and the realization that the previous meds were no longer on the market since the drug companies had done a new study to "improve" them. At least his doctor gave him some sweet painkillers to take the sting out of that news.

By this morning, he was feeling much better but still not capable of walking or going to work. We spent most of the day reading, watching dumb movies, and basically doing absolutely nothing. But the mail brought the most welcome sight in a long time. A simple note of thanks from a woman I never met before and probably never will again.

Veronica was one of my fellow passengers stranded in Austin, Texas, after Continental decided to dump our asses there when a flight attendant called out sick. I guess getting you as far as Austin in a state the size of Texas was a pretty big accomplishment. But at midnight, it seemed like a death sentence. However, I overheard Veronica talking to another woman (her name wound up being Pam, which I learned after she was heaving her bags in the trunk of my rental car) about sharing a ride to San Antonio. My normal shy side took a backseat, and I volunteered to drive them to San Antonio because a) I had no idea where I was going, b) I needed people to keep me awake, and c) there was no sense in three people driving when one would suffice. Needless to say, we picked up another Continental cast-off (Addeline) at the rental car desk, the ride went very smoothly, and no one was harmed in their attempts to make it to San Antonio. Pam and Addeline each chipped in with some cash, but Veronica said she would mail me some. So . . . I gave her my address, never intending to hear from her, wished the ladies well, and went on my merry way to the Riverwalk where a soft, comfy bed and my husband were waiting.

But today, I got that thank you note from Veronica saying that she hadn't forgotten my generosity and was sorry for not writing earlier but things had gotten crazy. She also included $40 in the card, which was a fraction of the cost of a one-way rental. However, her generosity was the one that should be applauded. She was an excellent navigator and never once stopped chatting since sleep was something that neither of us had encountered for close to 24 hours. So for that . . . thank you, Veronica! Besides, that $40 will buy me enough yarn at the Fourth of July sale to make a new sweater.

- Jill

PS - Finished Beautiful Creatures this evening. It was pretty good . . . I'll summarize it later this week. 

When Life Gets In the Way

There was a time in my life when I believed that stress didn't exist. I even was dumb enough to say that to a group of people. I wasn't incredibly young; hell, I think I was in my mid-30s and Lord knows I had encountered my fair share of stressful situations: having children while still in college, finding out that one baby was really two, coming out of college in a recession, applying for Welfare . . . all pretty stressful. Still, I never really felt it.

But lately, stress is becoming a little more known in my life. Last year, several people commented, "You look like you've lost weight," which is always nice to hear. However, I knew it was coming from lack of eating properly. These days, I'll eat sometimes to stay awake if I am doing something that needs to get done . . . which isn't a good idea. Knitting has always provided a kind of stress relief for me. Even that, these days, is compounding the stress that I feel. The night before Thanksgiving, I decided that it was high time to finish one of my sweaters. I had plans to wear it to school the next week, and I knew that I needed to finish the sleeve . . . that's right, one little sleeve. I picked up the stitches but felt that something was wrong. See, on the other sleeve, I remembered the number configuration, and this sleeve was not the same. After some "heavy math" and questioning Dave about my calculations, I discovered that I had fucked up this sweater AGAIN. Seems that this time, instead of felting the damn thing, I put too few stitches on waste yarn for the sleeve. If you are a knitter, then you know that this type of thing is fixable by doing one thing: ripping it out. If you aren't a knitter, then think of something that you can't fix save for starting all over. Note that I said AGAIN. I won't bore you with the details, but you can read all about it here.

After a minute of dumb-founded confusion, I started crying. Dave came over and held my hand, telling me that it would be okay, but sometimes you just know. The Girls came back from a friend's house about that time. Later, they would tell Dave that they thought my father passed away. No, Grandpa is still kicking . . . but your mother is a knitting failure. I pulled out all of my easy knitting projects and decided to finish them since I needed that kind of "pick-me-up." I took the sweater to my Knit Night just to see what everyone thought. Pretty unanimous: rip the sucker and start over.

Honestly, if wool burned, I would have a pile of ashes right now instead of a bag full of shit.

Jill

When Serentiy Prayers Won't Work

How do you admit you have a problem? Face it head on? Let it fester for a while? Wait until your family stages an intervention? For me, I think it's a combination of all three. There's no substance abuse here, no illegal drugs, no behavior that is non-conducive to a productive life . . . but there might be a problem. Let me back-track about three weeks.

Jordan and Shelby finished their first year at Temple on the 12th (quite well, I might add). They came home to a messy house as I finished up with a student teacher a few days prior, was back in full teacher mode, and settling into a precarious balance of extra duties. Translation: cleaning was the last thing on my mind and I really didn't care. I'd had about six hours sleep over the course of two days and woken up thinking every morning for a week. Things at work had been reeling in my brain for days on end, and I could have cared less about what the dining room, living room, my room, and bathroom looked like. The Girls, on the other hand, did . . . and I totally get that. Truly, I do. But for me, cleaning would most likely wait until the first day of summer break.

I do this every summer, literally, spending days pulling everything out and doing a thorough purge of crap. Stuff I bought at Target on clearance - gone. Stuff I "rescued" from Mom's house - gone. Stuff I have been saving for another use - gone. Get the picture? Erika can tell you . . . I might not surface for a week depending on the mood, but the house gets clean. This year, I decided differently because the Girls were expressing their frustration with the clutter. Jordan even asked how, if she and Shelby were so tidy, I could live with all the mess on the dining room table. Truth be told, I really don't like it, but I've gotten used to it. And, I knew that once I got started, the yarn and knitting crap would take a full day to sort out properly.

Yesterday was that day. Dave and I went to Target and bought some lovely clear storage containers. I opened up a notebook, carefully inscribing "Projects" on one page and then skipping about 30 pages and writing "Yarn" on another. At 10 AM, I pulled out the first of many bags next to the couch to begin a slow descent into my own personal hell. You don't have to knit to understand this . . . you just need one hobby or craft or passion or collection. By the time Shelby woke up, the couch was covered with bags of yarn, projects half begun and discarded, various needles and books and shit that I long forgot I had. "Hey! You're cleaning the dining room," she said. When I pointed out that this was from next to the couch, her look changed. I don't think it was sympathy but more of concern.

By the time I finished pulling stuff out from bags, from cabinets, from under the table, from a beautiful stand that Dave bought me years ago when this obsession was manageable, I had no clue what to do next. Start by putting sweater-quantity yarn into a bin: check. Hang your head in shame over the ten sweater-quantity yarn selections you just put in that bin: check. Wonder if it's too early to start drinking: check. Think about running away: check. Motioning at the couch and the dining room table, I told Dave that I had no clue what to do next. "Well, you have to do something because it can't stay like that," he said.

About seven hours later, I finally admitted that I was, in fact, as done as I was going to be. Honestly, I accomplished a lot but nothing at the same time. Sure, I had the yarn all nicely organized and cataloged and tucked away . . . but the five sets of vocabulary essays and five sets of punctuation quizzes were still sitting in my school bag, my summer clothes still sat in Space Bags upstairs in the hall.

But damn if I don't have the nicest, most organized yarn in the county. I even saved a spot for the yarn I need for a new sweater.

Jill