Knitting and naught

Undoing work goes against my personal credos: 1) it is possible to overthink something; and, 2) just keep knitting. The ruana I'm knitting is officially back to the beginning. This project isn't difficult; however, I haven't knitted much lately and it is a gift. Last week, some of the rows looked odd, and I ripped back several inches. Yesterday, some stitches were off near the beginning. I happened to be a Twist and used the ball winder to frog back to the beginning. It was so much more tidy than winding the ball myself -- almost magical. Today finds the garter stitch border back in place, and the stitches looking quite well-behaved. Deadline: Christmas.

The lack of productivity today was so blissful. Norah, the cat who hid in the basement to avoid the dog all spring and summer, keeps spending more time out in the open. After lunch she climbed in my lap and fell asleep. This hasn't happened since April, and I've really missed it. First I was enjoying it, and then I awakened two hours later with an additional cat and a dog snoring with us. Perhaps moments like this bring me so much pleasure because I prefer to think of myself as a big mammal rather than a human.

The pansies are finally planted with assistance from Murphy the Beagle. Plants look much happier in the ground. I'm not sure what the scientific measure of a happy plant might be, but they perk up, look more erect and sturdy. If the first freeze comes tonight or the big rains, the garden will be ready.

Plans for this evening are leftovers: baked potato, meatloaf, and broccoli. They will be eaten while watching the second half of a documentary about Derrida, called, Derrida. When I stopped watching yesterday, he'd just managed to wriggle out of a question about why philosophers have always pondered love -- he said there was nothing to original to say. The interviewer allowed a graceful change of subject by asking about Plato's interpretation of love. I'd like to think there is something new to say about love, but I haven't managed to disprove this brilliant French man.

Further Observations on Poop

Murphy and I headed back to obedience training this week. Last week I stayed home because my nose was throwing its annual snot fiesta and couldn't be bothered to stop for matters such as dog training. Much like previous weeks, we learned that I am not dominant and the dog doesn't listen. Plus we didn't practice at all because I was in bed due to the aforementioned snot festivities. Scatology was the least of my worries because my nose was out of commission.

At training class, the other owners are so diligent with their dogs. They practice and the dogs listen to them. I've tried chatting with the other owners, but they like to keep their distance. Really, I want to pet the dogs. I'm enchanted with a Cairn terrier who is bright and perky. Another dog looks just like Lady from Lady and the Tramp. I'm not quite on the same wave length as everyone else. They aren't rude -- just very distant. Maybe they're afraid their dogs will act like mine if we fraternize, or maybe they don't find me as amusing as I find myself.

Meanwhile, Murphy's learning how to "park it" on his bed. It was excruciating. The other dog owners were able to have their dogs stay while they walked out of sight. Murphy wouldn't even stay while I was standing next to him. About 15 minutes later, I was flushed, frustrated, and flustered. Someone else's dog pooped, and it was a relief that the instructor was distracted from the distinct lack of obedience I was experiencing. My dog might be out playing Calvin ball for the entire class, but at least he didn't poop in the middle of Pet Smart.

After quietly congratulating myself on not being The Worst, I turned around and the stubborn Beagle had his front paws and his back paws together so he could squat. It was suspiciously like pooping but I dragged him outside before anything happened. I bumped into the other offender and his owner outside the store on a strip of grass. "Stimulating class, huh?" I said. She looked over her shoulder and hurried her dog into the store.

Comfort Food

With the cooler weather, my interest in cooking has increased. This weekend found me digging through cookbooks and hand-written recipes for old favorites that my mother and grandmother cooked: shrimp-rice casserole; sausage, beans, and greens soup; meatloaf. The food tastes wonderful with the crisp temperatures.

The recipes fuel my nostalgia and imagination. Recipe cards in my grandmother's handwriting often have the note "from Mama" at the top. I never met my great-grandmother, but I've heard some stories. She was a spicy, opinionated woman with a good education, but above all, she was practical. She would have found my kitchen ridiculous with the electric stove, the microwave, and the refrigerator. She kept her ice box until the last ice-delivery service stopped in the 1960s and was never fully convinced that a refrigerator and freezer could be trusted to keep the food from spoiling. I like to imagine that I know her a little because of her recipes.

All about the eggs

The autumnal sinus joy has descended along with snot and coughing. People pull out hand sanitizer when they see me coming. I try to keep a respectful distance.

Really this is to explain why Murphy and I were walking down an alley. He needed a walk badly and showed signs of becoming a wild animal without more exercise. I made it a block and a half before I broke into a cold sweat. For a shortcut, we turned down an alley, which all dogs love. It must be some kind of super highway for cats, squirrels, possums, and other dog delicacies. Murphy snorted, sniffled, and made grunting pig-like noises of joy at all of the scents. The yards were surprisingly dog-free, and our little trek was quiet until near the end.

I was startled by a large black dog that jumped up and down behind a fence. In the yard with the dog were six chickens. Six, lovely, free-range hens that all live within a block of my house. I wonder if they would like to share some eggs?

Poop

Sometimes a day has a secret word -- kind of like at Pee Wee's playhouse. Saturday's word was poop. The dog smelled like poop that morning, which made giving him a bath essential. My parents visited later that morning to scoop the kitty litter.

It was good to see Mom and Dad. Dad even helped me rehabilitate a futon that wouldn't fold into sitting position because a toy mouse was jammed into the folding mechanism. One special pair of pliers and a clothes hanger later, he had extracted two toy mice and one pair of nail clippers. Some poor cat lost some stash. I was glad to see the nail clippers again.

Back to the poop. In the afternoon, it was time for a regularly scheduled cut and color. My hairdresser has been cutting my hair for over ten years. She's good at haircuts and good at conversation. I look forward to seeing her.

During the drive to the salon, I simply couldn't shake the smell of poop and finally looked at the soles of my shoes. Bingo! I'd stepped in something intense with both feet. It refused to be scraped off as well, so I parked the shoes outside the salon door. It is very humbling to be barefoot for 3 hours while fashionable and well-shod people are near. The hairdresser enjoyed every minute of it.

Homegrown tomatoes

The Ex and I met for coffee today. A year ago, I wouldn't have believed it possible, but we're friends. I enjoy that. We've got over a decade of shared history and talking to each other doesn't require the long story or any footnotes. Plus we're both happier now -- partly because we don't have any expectations from each other. I'm amazed at how important that is to me.

Saying that a person has changed seems silly to me. The Ex is very much who he always was, but he's grown personally. He's paving the way to really accomplish what he wants in his life, and I'm tickled to see how well it suits him. He's just as talented at gabbing as I am, so after two hours of catching up, he sent me home with a bag of homegrown tomatoes. Yum! I warmed them up with some sauteed onions and served it over lentils and rice.

In knitting news, the ruana I'm making for my sister will obviously be a Christmas present. The Addi Turbo needles and the nice wool make for good knitting, but that's quite a few yards of knitting in one week.

Ideas to Inspire Fear

These are dangerous times for me. I'm off my game, and the predictable patterns are changing. I pay someone to mow the lawn, which is crazy because I love to mow the lawn -- it just hasn't worked out to be a possibility this summer. I spent yesterday evening hanging out with a bunch of dogs instead of listening to the President's speech on health care. But worst of all, my knitting mojo packed up and left town sometime in the summer.

I've been half-heartedly knitting one pink, white, and green sock. The pattern is the I-made-it-up-variety. Sadly it also belongs to the undocumented category, so it will never have a mate. Recreating it isn't a possibility. The fact that the sad little sock has been in my purse for months and gets knitted about 20 minutes a week borders on Kafkaesque. Right now I'm trying to decide whether I should finish it or if I should put it out of its misery sooner.

Meanwhile inspiration struck. Inspiration with a deadline. (Danger! Deadline!) My sister's birthday arrives in less than a week, and Ravelry has a lovely pattern for "The One Piece Backwards Ruana". The perfect teal, worsted weight Lamb's Pride wool is in my stash. Do I cast on? What if it is post marked on her birthday? She lives out of state so that adds several days in the mail. On paper the timing looks like an ill-fated plan. My fingers are itching. I thought about the project while I was a work. Even if I can finish in a timely fashion by, perhaps, Monday, I'm liable to be incapacitated by knitter's claw. Awww, who am I kidding? It's a terrific plan. I'll cast on.