The Calm Before the Perfect Storm

This picture was taken in New Orleans the Friday night before Katrina hit. The blue lights are strung along the twisting curves of the ancient live oak trees lining the street just outside the Botanical Gardens in New Orleans' City Park. The silver lanterns, each about eight to ten feet tall, are suspended from the branches. Compared to the huge trees, they look like Christmas baubles. For a size reference, you can just barely see the front bumper of a white sedan parked next to the base of a tree at lower left. The tree's trunk is a bit wider than the car; the root base is much wider.

My niece got married that night and her wedding reception was held inside the Botanical Gardens. As we got out of our car and admired the lighted trees, my husband said:

"I really have the creeps about this Katrina storm. I'm having a premonition. This thing will hit Category Five. It will hit New Orleans. These trees will all be underwater next week."

I started to say, "Dave, it's only a Category Two today. It shouldn't be disastrous." But the hair prickled on the back of my neck. Dave doesn't announce his premonitions lightly.

Hurricanes always make New Orleanians nervous. This edginess is usually kept at bay with lame jokes. But this time, we didn't jest about it.

Katrina was rapidly strengthening, with a one-way ticket to wherever the hell she wanted to go.

"We're not staying for all the after-wedding stuff tomorrow morning," I announced. "We're going to get Mom early, and have her pack her important stuff, and we're taking her up to Baton Rouge."

Dave nodded, and we entered the reception.

People drank, people ate, people danced. My niece, Laura, was lovely in her mother's wedding gown and veil. Her mother, Susan, died from breast cancer several years ago, but I know she was in attendance anyway, and so proud.

People spoke in low, nervous, tones about the hurricane. There were no half-hearted jokes about stocking up on beer and barbeque supplies. Instead, people were making plans to evacuate their families and pets, move their boats or find a hotel in Baton Rouge or Houston. This time, when the smokers stepped outside, they sipped their wine and glanced around anxiously, as though a mugger might be lurking in the meticulously groomed bushes nearby.

People debated whether or not this storm would wrap up to a full Category Five. They wondered if it was worth the effort to board up their hunting camps in Mississippi and decided that would be a waste of time in the face of a Category Four or Five storm. In the face of a monster, the camps surely would be destroyed, boarded-up windows and all.

Some folks wanted to move their valuables upstairs before they evacuated their homes. Others left the reception long before the refreshments were gone, so they could start packing. A few decided that loading up the RV was a good idea, so they could salvage a larger supply of belongings, have comfortable traveling accommodations for family and pets, and have a place to stay in the event of hotel shortages.

These were sensible people. But they were also the lucky people -- people fortunate enough to have jobs and cars, credit cards and cell phones, and the materials and resources they needed to get out of town.

These people were not among the 100,000 New Orleanians with no job, no car, and no way out.

The next morning, we got up early, helped Mom pack, and headed out of town . As we drove toward Baton Rouge along the suspended highway over the swamps surrounding New Orleans, my mother worried aloud about the car-less citizens of the city she has always called home.

My mother is a snap at in-your-head arithmetic. She said, "20% of the people in New Orleans don't have a car. That's about 100,000 people. You can only fit 40 or 50 people on a bus, so you'd need...let's see...2000? Maybe 2500 busses? And that's just to get people out of town. You also need more busses, to get them to the busses that would take them out of town. So you'd need twice as many busses --busses going back and forth from the neighborhoods to evacuation centers, and busses leaving town. People would be getting off one bus and getting on another. I don't think we have that many busses in the public transportation system, do you? Maybe if we used the school busses, too? But then who would drive all the busses? You'd have to get the National Guard to do that, because the bus drivers would have to take care of their own families, and you'd also need to have the handicapped busses going around door to door for the elderly, and the handicapped, and sick people who can't walk to the bus stops ..."

As my little silver VW Golf plugged along through the westbound traffic, Mom ticked off logistical considerations on her fingertips and mapped out a sensible evacuation plan for the car-less citizens of New Orleans, all 100,000 of them.

"...and we have all these military bases that are closed. They have houses, gymnasiums, barracks, things like that. Why can't we use those? President Bush could snap his fingers and open up those old Army bases. If they started bussing people out right now, they wouldn't have to worry about people being trapped in the city if the levee breaks like it did in Hurricane Betsy..."

Being a car-less senior citizen herself, my Mom has had a great deal more experience with these issues than FEMA or the Bush administration, and, in fact, was working out a sensible and do-able plan for the evacuation of car-less New Orleanians 48 hours before Katrina hit and three days before the Bush administration even realized that there were, indeed, 100,000 people in one place in the United States of America, the most prosperous nation on Earth, with no car to get out of town, no money or credit to rent a car, no money for a hotel and no way to get themselves and their families to safety.

Mom, of course, was right -- as Moms almost always are. She could have run an efficient evacuation right there in the backseat of my car if FEMA had given her a cell phone and a notepad and the authority to give people the go-ahead. I would nominate Mom for the new head of FEMA, but I know she wouldn't get the job, no matter how much common sense she has. She would be ruled out for being a Democrat.

While Mom planned the human evacuation, I worried about the animal evacuation. I knew that many people were evacuating with their pets. I could see pet carriers in the cars and SUVs headed west, and the occasional horse trailer bouncing along behind a heavily-loaded pickup. But I also knew that a large number of evacuees were treating this like another "hurricane drill," and had left their pets locked in their homes with three or four days' worth of food and water, fully expecting to return home to their homes and their pets, fully expecting that New Orleans would, once again, be spared by a last-minute tease of meteorological capricousness. Many people left their pets in a place they thought would be safe, expecting to return home after a few days, certain they would pat their dog on the head while they barbecued, drank beer and watched the first game of the LSU football season.

I knew there were countless animals with no owners at all, pathetic street dogs and feral cats surviving out of Dumpsters like they do on an ordinary day, with no idea they might soon be struggling for their lives if the storm surge crested the levees -- or broke them.

We drove to Baton Rouge, a four-hour drive which normally takes 90 minutes. Those who evacuated later in the day on Saturday, and those who delayed until Sunday, faced much longer drives to get to safety.

We got Mom settled onto the sofa-bed and got her things unpacked. I scurried around outside, securing things that might blow away in the 70-mph winds we expected as far west as Baton Rouge. I rounded up candles and flashlights and filled the ice chest, and we went about the business of Hunkering Down, parked in front of the Weather Channel and CNN. Mom kept her fingers busy with her rosary, I kept my fingers busy knitting my latest shawl, and Dave kept his fingers busy stroking the cats as we watched Katrina roll in from the Gulf, watched the Mississippi Gulf Coast get wiped off the map and watched the levees break in New Orleans.

It wasn't long before I set the shawl aside. I simply could not knit.

We listened to Katrina roar for the rest of the day, slamming us with winds near hurricane force over 100 miles from the eye of the storm, toppling trees and ripping down power lines. A neighbor's 90-foot water oak fell in the backyard, just missing their house.

New Orleans filled with water.

The ones who could not get out, people and animals, fled to the rooftops and to the Superdome. We watched the horrors, and watched some people get rescued. Then the power went out.

The wind died down to turbulent gusts. We had something to eat, and then ventured over to a friend's house where the power was still on.

Along with Mitch and Jane and their own evacuated relatives, we Hunkered Down in front of the TV and watched New Orleans drown.

Mambocat

The Horror.

I know this is utterly insane but I am starting to feel very weird about my earlier posts this summer. Although every hurricane season invariably provokes rounds of nervous joking amongst Southerners, I feel strangely guilty now.

I remember making a joke about humidity based on Colonel Kurtz's speech in Apocalypse Now, and, of course, now it is haunting me. This time it isn't funny. The real words are:

"Horror. The horror. It is impossible for words to describe what is necessary, to those who do not know what horror means."

Perphaps the horror explains, but does not excuse, the behavior of a small segment of people as they waited, trapped in the wretched, reeking Superdome and stranded on the ghastly and fetid streets.

Some people deal with horror stoically. Others deal with it by creating even more horror. We wll never know what caused that small percentage of people to behave as they did. All we will ever remember is the horror.

I am also angry. Very angry. I am angry that our nation's reaction to 9-11 turned FEMA priorities completely away from natural disaster response, causing FEMA to concentrate exclusively on terrorism. It is my understanding that the only two hurricane scenarios in the current FEMA plan include "what would happen if terrorists took advantage of a major hurricane and attacked while we were distracted by the storm?"

There is not one single FEMA excercise in their current plans dealing with a major hurricane on its own. I am angry about that.

I am also angry that a friend's son and about a dozen plane-loads of young, fresh faces in camouflage can be activated, transported and on the ground in Iraq in 24 hours, but our nation couldn't seem to find the resources to get the National Guard into New Orleans 24 hours after Katrina.

Don't get me wrong. The actual people in the military, the ones doing the real work, are doing a great job now that they are in place. They are rescuing people and animals, knocking themselves out and being real heroes. But the bureaucrats who give these soldiers the orders to go, can't seem to find their own eyeglasses so they can read these hard-working people their marching orders.

FACT: The SPCA was organized enough to be mobilized and waiting to get into New Orleans to rescue animals, before most human rescue efforts were underway.

FACT: When politicians were still holding press conferences on Wednesday morning, an emergency animal shelter was up and running in Baton Rouge to house the pets of evacuees staying in Red Cross shelters. Why are the Louisiana State University School of Veterinary Medicine, Animal Control, LA-SPCA, the Louisiana Veterinary Medical Association and a bunch of volunteers better prepared for an emergency than other agencies? Is it because we are not running for re-election, and are just doing our jobs?

I am extremely angry that George Bush vetoed $71 million dollars in flood control for New Orleans and diverted those funds to the war in Iraq. It probably costs that much just to arm and fly a stealth bomber for couple of bombing missions. We couldn't spare two or three bombing runs to save the City of New Orleans?

Yes, I am angry.

We in the South are entering a new way of keeping track of time: not A.D. or B.C., but B.K. and A.K.

Before Katrina and After Katrina.

Thousands of years from now, archaeologists will find a layer of filth when they excavate New Orleans. The line of demarcation between B.K. and A.K.

July seems like a million years ago, on another planet, in a galaxy far, far away..

Oh, and one more thing no one has dared to say yet:

Hurricane season isn't over yet.

Baton Rouge is overcrowded with evacuees, the shelves are stripped daily at grocery stores and Wal-Mart, helicopters are flying around almost incessantly, there is little gas to be found, phone lines are jammed in Louisiana and Mississippi, and the sound of sirens never stops.

And that's just in Baton Rouge.

As a kid, I was warned that if we didn't fight Communism, we'd be standing in line for hours waiting for bread and milk, just like in Russia.

I did that today on my dinner break. There wasn't a Communist in sight. Only the bone-weary citizens of New Orleans.

Shall we warn the next generation that if we don't fight Stupidity, we'll end up waiting in line for bread and milk?

Baton Rouge has opened its arms to provide food, water, shelter and housing to the evacuees. The amazing wamth and generosity of my fellow citizens gives a glimmer of hope.

Break over... Animals to care for... Back to work.

Mambocat

My hometown. Gone. I have stared at the television in horror. New Orleans has drowned. I have wept. I am numb. And there is no time for emotional "coping" because the real job has started, the job of physically dealing with the aftermath of Katrina. . This is my first break in days. Here in Baton Rouge, in the midst of our own little mess of downed trees and power outages -- a mere trifle compared to New Orleans and the Gulf Coast, but a mess nonetheless -- we are setting up and operating long-term emergency animal shelters and veterinary M*A*S*H units for the pets of refugees from the New Orleans area. I have spoken in the past few days to people who escaped the rising waters after Katrina with only the clothes on their backs and their dog or cat in their arms. One woman snatched up her chihuahua in one hand and an axe in the other, climbed into her attic and chopped a hole in the roof to escape the rising water. Another couple turned in a pair of Lab puppies they found alongside the Interstate as they fled the storm. One girl stuffed her ferret into her purse and ran as the waters rose behind her. There was a young couple in tears who had managed to save a few of their cats, swimming in and out of their house as the waters rose, but they could not save them all. People sat on rooftops, clinging to their dog or cat while human bodies floated past. The stories are horrific, unimaginable. And they are real. There simply are no words to describe how I feel. I will have very little time to blog. The past five days have all blurred together into one long day with a couple of insufficient naps. But I will not complain. I am fortunate beyond measure to have our dry safe home inland, and to have my mother alive and with us. We got her out of New Orleans on Saturday. At the shelter, we are putting our best efforts into helping the animals and comforting their owners. We have set up facilities for livestock and horses. We are waiting for the caravan of carriage-mules from the French Quarter to arrive; we are waiting for a busload of animal patients from a large vet clinic to arrive; we are waiting for 30 cats from a pet adoption center to arrive. Dogs, horses, cats, ferrets, parrots, pythons, rabbits, chinchillas, you name it. Even a kid with a hamster. We are waiting and working. Best to you all. Mambocat

Shawl Thoughts This summer started, and is coming to an end, with shawls. The summer started happily. Dad had a new pacemaker and was doing well, I had a conference and thus a rare chance to travel, and I was working on a bold, red shawl of my own design in lace. Sumer is closing sadly. Dad is gone, and I am working on a simple triangular shawl in garter stitch. It is a shawl I cast on only a few days before he died. Although the colorful yarn clashes with my mood, the rythmn of plain knitting soothes the soul and allows for an empty mind. The act of knitting invokes something inside me that I call "kinetic memory," as though knitting is a way of physically recording my life events with sticks and string. Grief, happiness, anxiety, love and exuberation each have their own secret way of encoding themselves into yarn and stitch patterns. I look at certain item and not only do I recall exactly what was happening in my life when I was working on it, but my feelings from that point in time are summoned as well: that is the bag I was working on when Simon died. Those are the socks I knitted when Dave was in the hospital. That is the afghan that got me through the days after 9-11. This is the hat I made on our vacation to Portland. And this is the shawl I had just started when Dad died. This is the shawl that is helping to make things bearable right now. This particular shawl is going to be hard to have around. I am sure I will store it away when it is done. And maybe one day it will not bring me down every time I look at it. Maybe, one day, it will stop reminding me of the deep sadness of this August and, instead, remind me of the solace one can find in yarn and needles. Maybe, one day, the colorful ribbon yarn will feel cheerful again. So before I go to bed tonight, I will knit for a little while on this simple project, let the softness of the yarn comfort me, and wonder when I will be have the heart to wear the resulting shawl. When this is done, I need to work on something besides shawls for awhile, I think. Mambocat

Garter Stitch Is Good for You

Garter stitch never ceases to amaze me with its humble beauty, its balance, and its soothing, meditative, and even healing qualities. This is a good thing, because after the last few weeks, garter stitch is about as much as I can wrap my brain around. So I have picked up some needles and some ribbon yarn, and I am making an Idiot Shawl.

I might make several.

Mom and I are in the process of pulling things together after Dad's funeral. I have been calling her daily, and somehow the house sounds empty in the background. But Mom is a trooper. She is finding her way through her grief by keeping busy, spending time in prayer, and getting ready to move into an apartment close to us.

I am finding my way through my grief with my job, which distracts me from it, and with sticks and string, which guide me through it.

Garter stitch is hand yoga.

I knit, the nearest cat purrs loudly in her sleep, my brain shifts into neutral, and images float through my mind slowly, one at a time, like floats in a parade.

I am thinking of better times with Dad. Mostly simple things: listening to Cubs games on the radio on summer nights, going to the zoo, catching tadpoles, drinking Cokes out of little green bottles, and riding with my arm sticking out the window of his old two-tone 1950s Chevy.

These thoughts make me puzzle over one of life's greatest mysteries: why it is that some of our most profound and vivid memories are of the most ordinary things imaginable, and why we often can't remember the details of events that were, usually with great pains and extensive planning, intended to be remembered. I have no idea what happened at my sixth birthday party, for example, though I have no doubt that Mom decorated the house and invited my playmates, that presents were received, and that cake and ice cream were consumed.

But last night I spotted some fireflies. When I was a kid they were everywhere, even in the heart of the city, anyplace there was a backyard or a small park.
Today they are much less common, so it was a real treat to see a small group of them blinking away in the bushes. I watched them blink silently in the darkness, and...

suddenly I am six years old, running around in our small back yard in New Orleans, capturing fireflies in my cupped hands and putting them in a pickle jar. I can see the fireflies, feel the humid air against my skin, and even smell the freshly cut grass and the faintly pickle-ish scent lingering in the jar where the baffled fireflies flit and blink.

And I can see my Dad standing on the other side of the yard. He is wearing a white undershirt and a pair of dark pants. One hand is occupied by a cold bottle of Jax beer, and the other glows like a lantern, blinking, as he walks toward me and puts another firefly in the jar.

Then he walks across the yard to sit on the steps. He is young and tall.

He takes a cold sip of beer, and watches me catch magic in a jar.

Mambocat

On Standby

The Knitting Asylum is temporarily on standby.

My father, Adam Rabeneck, died last Saturday at the age of 88. He was a disabled veteran of World War Two, worked as an accountant, and was a lifelong resident of New Orleans. He loved baseball and football, especially the New Orleans Saints. He loved animals, and, above all, dearly loved his family.

He died of sudden cardiac arrest after a long history of heart disease.

His mother was the first person to teach me how to knit, crochet and sew.

Dad had a lovely funeral with an Army honor guard, and went to meet his Maker in a pair of hand-knit socks.

I'll post again as soon as we have some things settled down.

If your folks are still alive, call them today.

Regards,

Mambocat

Rx For Summertime Blues -- New Baton Rouge LYS

"Sometimes I wonder what I'm a-gonna do, but there ain't no cure for the summertime blues..."
--The Who

Knitter's Magazine 's online forum, KnitU, lately has been overflowing with posts from knitters who have hit a summertime knitting slump. For folks without air conditioning, no matter where you live, it's too hot even to touch yarn this summer. If you live in a climate where air-conditioning is not optional, it may be cool enough indoors to handle yarn and knit, but the very idea of summer mugginess is so depressing as to be utterly un-inspiring, even if you have a yarn stash the size of a national park.

For the really hard cases, those of us who actually get summertime seasonal affective disorder because we rarely venture outside, whose air conditioners are set to "liquid nitrogen," and whose houses stay dark due to the drapes being tightly drawn because it's too hot to even look outside, the summertime blues hit hard.

Here's what I like to do to rally up some knitting enthusiasm during the hottest weeks of summer:

--download screen savers with snow scenes from Alaska, Colorado, the Andes, Tibet, and Antarctic research stations...

--re-organize yarn stash, with the pleasant side benefit of discovering forgotten cat toys, books, chairs, and major appliances...

--go though archtitecture, nature and art books for inspiration ... look at tile and mosaic patterns, and...

--go hang out at the nearest yarn store.

"Knits by Nana" opened in Baton Rouge in the spring of 2005 and is already off to a successful start with a selection of beautiful yarns, regular classes, books, needles, notions and gifts.

Overall atmosphere: The owner and staff definitely took their Southern Hospitality lessons -- they are all warm, personable and welcoming the moment you walk in the store, located in a renovated two-bedroom cottage with with beautiful wood floors and cream-colored walls. The first thing you see when you walk in the vestibule is a display of easy-to-knit, sampler scarves and shawls in luxury yarns. The store is light, airy, well-organized and super clean. Display of goods is accomplished in a charming, home-like array of baskets, bookcases, china cabinets, and armoires which have been modified for retail display.

Sit-down space for classes and Stitch-n-Bitch is available in three of the store's four merchandise rooms. Location is excellent, in the central city, and easy to find, just off Government Street, one of the main thoroughfares in Baton Rouge, so this shop will be a breeze for out-of-towners to find from the Interstate.

Yarn: lots and lots of eyelash, ribbon, frizzy and ladder yarn. Cascade, Berocco, Lang Sock Yarn, Trendsetter yarns, and many others, which I will update later with a more detailed list.

Books: they are starting off with a well-chosen, if not exhaustive, selection of books, both contemporary and classic. I am told the book selection will grow.

Needle selection: lots of circs, bamboos and Addi Turbos, also Lantern Moon needles and Denise interchangeable sets.

Responsiveness to customers: Owner has been very responsive to customer input and suggestions regarding the selection of yarn and other products and she just got back from the International Needleworks Market in Colombus, Ohio. New yarns coming soon: Fiesta, Kollage, Blue Herring, Tahki Charles, Brown Sheep, and Opal, among others. "Nana's" soon will be adding leather yarn bags, poncho kits, shawl kits and other goodies.

Things to crow about: this is eyelash and ribbon yarn heaven. Lots of fancy fluff. Also delicious baby mohairs and other luxury fibers. Lots of finished scarves, shawls, bags, throws, socks and other items to truly inspire the knitter, instead of mere little 4" X 4" swatches. Good choice of self-patterning sock yarns, thanks to Sockmaster Joan's input. Nice bags and "gifty things," too. Genuinely helpful and friendly staff, light and airy store, pleasant atmosphere and decor. Monthly Stitch and Bitch on Thursday night from 6-9pm -- exactly which Thursday is announced month-by-month, as far as I understand.

Disappointments: No Noro, no Koigu, no Inca Alpaca -- this makes Mambocat pout, but mind that those are just my own favorite yarns. Limited space for chairs and tables, but the cozy and welcoming feeling of the store makes up for that. Not much modestly priced yarn, but they do have Lang sock yarn, and Brown Sheep is soon coming to help fill the price gap. Hours are great for those with free time on weekdays, but are a little inconvenient for those who work 8-5.

Navigation note: Shop sign is kinda small, so slow down when you turn onto Capital Heights, lest you drive past it.


LYS Dossier:

Knits By Nana
5055 Capital Heights, Suite A
Baton Rouge, LA 70806 USA

225-216-9460

Hours: Mon.-Fri 10:00am till 4:00pm
Saturday 10:00am-2:00pm

Owner: Missy McCoy Waguespack

Regular Free Classes:

--Merrelyn teaches beginner knitters every Wednesday from 1:00 till 3:00

--Joan Richardson teaches sock knitting every Thursday from 10:00am till noon.

Summer Classes: Little Black Bag, Vertical Scarf, Belt Blast, Kids'Fun, Childrens' Scarf, Knitting in the Round. Most classes have no fee but supplies must be purchased from the shop, $20 for kids' classes with materials supplied as a kit.

Website: Knits by Nana does not yet have a website , but they are working on it. In the meantime, contact them at their email address below and they will let you know when the website is up.

email: knitsbynana@bellsouth.net

Hardcopy newsletter: Quarterly update, send your snail-mail address to their email above.

Special Features: Want to have a yarn party? Knits by Nana offers their back classroom for customers to celebrate a special event, like a learn-to-knit birthday party for kids or a private knit-together for grownups. Phone the store for more information or to schedule an event.

Crochet instructors are available for those who are interested.

Want to teach a class? It can be arranged through the owner. They seem to be branching away from their initial focus on Newbie Knitters and may soon welcome instructors in advanced techniques.

Overall Rating: four socks out of a possible five.

Magpie Rating (for glitzy things): five socks

Mrs. Weasley Rating (for modestly priced good wool): two socks

After so many years without a yarn shop in the Baton Rouge area (Mambocat remembers when there were four), "Knits by Nana" is a welcome addition to the community, and allows some folks to make new and creative excuses to buy more yarn ... "I would have spent more than that just on the gas to get to an LYS in New Orleans, so I am actually saving the environment and reducing the need to fight wars over oil by purchasing expensive yarn locally..."

Get on over to Nana's and have a look. Spend some money, too.

--Mambocat

Knit One, Patella Two

It has been a long time since I had two good-looking young men eyeing my legs so intently.

Obviously, if your legs looked as good as this, the same two young men (or very similar ones, depending on where you live) would be looking at your legs, too. And calling their friends over to have a gander as well.

Apparently, I am a Loose Woman.





















Or at least my kneecaps are loose. This is my right kneecap, and, apparently, I have inflicted some damage upon the suspension system. The sock helps it feel better. The big navy-blue ugly thing strangles my knee and is supposed to make it better at some point in the future.

I really wish I could say that I was wrassling a 15-foot alligator, or wrangling cattle, or at very least capturing a snarling junkyard dog, when I tore my tendon. It would be nice to have an adventurous work-related story to accompany this.
But I shall not tell a lie.

Somehow, I managed to inflict a relatively minor tendon tear upon myself while I was ... uh ... ahem ... getting up off the floor of my office, where I was sorting out some old adoption files because there was no room on top of my desk.

But wait ... they were highly venomous and dangerous files, okay? Yes, that's it. Venomous Australian files that even Steve Erwin is afraid to touch. Rare ... endangered ... deadly Australian venomous files.

There. Now I feel better.

Back to the young men who were admiring my legs. Apparently, attractive young men in the medical profession these days use smooth pick-up lines like this when they find a woman with loose patellas:

"Relax your leg a bit, and I'm going to manipulate your patella just a little. Let me know if it hurts..."

(wiggle wiggle ouch ouch)

"Hm. Wow. It's going all over the place. Excuse me..."

(sticking head of of exam room door)

"Hey, Jim, come have a look at these patellas!"

At this point I am feeling just a little uneasy, as I had not planned on a menage a trois. I had not even planned on a menage a un. Besides, I am wearing my plain blue Hanes Her Way underwear.

"Whoa! We don't see patellas like that too often!"

And, before I knew it, I found myself set up with a large number of physical therapy dates with these two young men, who are either S&M fetishists or who were trained by the Spanish Inquisition. I can tell you that by the time they were through with our first date, I was ready to confess to witchcraft, or at least to worshipping the Knitting Goddess and the Yarn Fairy.

On the bright side, they did admire my variegated socks (see foot in above picture), and I was able to knit a bit on my current green sock (below) on the ten-minute breaks between torture sessions:






















This is a cotton-wool sock in a forest-green ragg yarn from Socka which has been marinating in my stash for ages. Don't get too excited. It is just a plain ribbed crew sock, but it is good company and it follows me around agreeably wherever I go and waits politely when I have to put it away for awhile.

Ever notice that "sock" rhymes with "Doc?" I have a strong association with socks and doctors. Maybe it's just because I always happen to have a sock-in-progress in my bag, but chances are, if I am waiting for a medical appointment or sitting at a hospital bedside, I have a sock going. My elderly Dad's cardiologist has to be reminded that you can knit things other than socks, and that sock-making is not my actual career. Once, when he was delayed by an emergency surgery, he apologized for being late (he is a very poliite doctor), and asked me how long we'd been waiting. I held up the sock I was working on that day and said, "Oh, about half a cuff."

I truly do not understand people who fail to bring a sock, or at very least a book or magazine of their own, along to doctor's appointments. They know they are going to have to wait, and wait some more, but most people sit there either staring into space or flipping through old copies of magazines like "Forbes" and "Golf Illustrated," which just serve as annoying reminders that the doctor makes a helluva lot more money than you do.

And I completely fail to comprehend the occasional person in the waiting room who stares at my knitting for several minutes and then proclaims, "I wish I had the time to do stuff like that."

To which I always say, "Well, you do. You're sitting here, aren't you?"

So it was a pleasure today to see a woman in the waiting room with an Amish knitting loom fully deployed across her lap, cranking away at a full-sized striped afghan and doing quite a nice job of it.

I pulled out my sock and said, "That's a beautiful afghan ... been waiting long?"

She held up the loom and spread her thumb and index finger against the fabic.

"Oh, about an inch and a half," she said.

--Mambocat

London Calling...

The phone call goes like this:

one ringy-dingy....two-ringy dingy...three ringy-dingy...

"Hello, America? We Brits are much too polite to ask this ourselves, so we found this weird woman in Louisiana who will inquire on our behalf.

Ahem... so... we were wondering ...

Where is the moral support from our American friends? You do remember, on 9/11, that we played the American National Anthem at the Changing of the Guard? And gave our tangible support in other ways as well? Granted, our loss of life and landmarks was not nearly as vast as that awful day in your country, but could we please see just a bit more support and moral outrage from you Yanks? Thank you ever so much. It appears that we have another terrorist mess to clean up today, so we really must be going now."

-- England

God save the Queen, and all of our British friends.

--Mambocat

"Beam me up, God."

-- Mr. Scotty

He lived long, he prospered, and now he is off to the final frontier.

I am too sad to knit today.

Instead, I place my Star Trek pin upon a favorite shawl, in honor of James Doohan.


















James Doohan died yesterday at the age of 85. Is there anyone alive who didn't love Mr. Scotty? Mr. Scotty embodied every human being's fantasy of having someone to magically sweep them up and out of life's unpleasantries. The very idea of a Mr. Scotty is comforting -- a warm, fatherly figure who comes to the rescue just when things seem to be at their absolute worst.

We can all learn a lot from Mr. Scotty:

Charm, warmth and a good sense of humor go a long way in this world, and any other.

Perserverance, loyalty and reliability are valuable character traits, especially in times of crisis.

And when the going gets tough, the tough unfailingly "give 'er all she's got" even when doom seems imminent and all hope seems to be lost.

James Doohan, it's time to boldly go where you have never gone before.

Rest in peace.

Mambocat

I bet you think this is a birthday present:

















But it's not a birthday present.

Reason number one: I am Capricorn, and this is July, so it can't be a birthday present -- at least not for me.

Reason number two: it is one of my Mom's Christmas presents in its pre-knitted state.

The reason it looks like a birthday present: it is a package of yarn purchased at the Quarter Stitch in New Orleans. This is how they gift-wrap a regular purchase, on any ordinary day, so you actually do feel like it's your birthday when you leave the store. Considering that a visit to the Quarter Stitch means a considerable splurge, this excess of packaging seems justified. A splurge, yes, but it is for Mom, so nobody can argue with that. Besides, they have a cool shop dog.

This is what was inside of the bag:

















Eight skeins of Inca Alpaca yarn in the prettiest shade of mauve I have ever laid eyes on, and mind you, I am a completely anti-pink person ... outright allergic to pink, even ... a person who cannot even take pink antibiotics without projectile vomiting ... I don't even like strawberry ice cream ... a person who rarely ventures near anything in the Pink Family (except for Pink Floyd and pink flamingos) unless I am knitting for someone else. Not only do I dislike pink on general principles, but if I wear pink myself, I tend to look rather jaundiced. Having said that, you can rest assured that, if I look at yarn in any shade of pink and say,

"My, that's lovely..."

then it is a noteworthy color indeed.

My mother, on the other hand, looks smashing in any conceivable shade of pink ... baby pink, hot pink, magenta, mauve, Chanel pink, Pepto-Bismol pink, bubble-gum pink, carnation pink, poodle pink, flamingo pink, Elvis'-momma's-Cadillac-pink ... you name it ... soooo ...

By Christmas, this clutch of lovely yarn ... lovely even though it is sort of pink ... will have morphed into a lace-and-cable vest.

Mom is also getting an easy-care hot-cocoa colored cabled sweater in Lion Brand Kool Wool. That one is already in progress.

And, speaking of hot cocoa, and therefore chocolate ... I have just been informed that the remake of "Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" sports a considerable number of handknit objects both in wardrobe and in set dressing. I'm feeling a little woozy .... uh ... I need to sit down. I have crappy knees anyway. I don't think they can hold me up long enough to contemplate Johnny Depp, chocolate and knitting all in the same movie.

Mambocat

Hunkering Down

The summer of 2005 finds us Southerners getting an early start on hurricane season, and my most sincere compassion lies with the people directly affected by Hurricane Dennis, both in America and in Cuba. It's only July, but we're already on our fourth named storm and it's a major hurricane. Enough, already.

For those of you west of Galveston and/or above the Mason-Dixon Line (the official boundaries of Mother Nature's Bowling Alley), you need to understand that any time a named storm enters the Gulf of Mexico, it's like having a rattlesnake running loose in your living room. It is almost impossible to think about anything else.

The appearance of the first major storm also reminds every Southerner to review their Hunkering Down skills.
















Here we see all 22 pounds of Bella the Sumo Cat, Hunkering Down
on the Big Shawl For Me. Prior to being rearranged by Bella, the
shawl was deployed tip-to-tip along the full span of the six-foot-wide
bookcase. Notice the candles in the background in case
the power goes out.


During hurricane season, Southerners regularly engage in any one of three popular activities:

1. Evacuation: for those unfortunate enough to be in the direct path of a hurricane ranking Category 3 or higher, this means cramming flashlights, prescriptions, radios, blankets, rainwear, pets, pet food, road maps, family photos, bank account and insurance information, toilet paper, and a week's worth of clothes, diapers, food water, soda and chips into the family vehicles and sitting in gridlocked traffic on the Interstate for 19 hours at a stretch in hopes of finding a hotel, a cousin, or an old college roommate somewhere east of Denver so you have a place to stay while your house is washed into the Gulf of Mexico.

2. Hunkering Down: for those of us anywhere within three states of the expected landfall site, this means stocking your house with all of the abovementioned items, filling your gas tanks, and stripping the grocery store shelves of bleach, duct tape, batteries, candles, beer, chips, propane and clean-up supplies. You also are required to fill the garage with patio furniture, bicycles, garbage cans, barbeque grills, potted ficus trees, trampolines, Volkswagens, Mini-Coopers, and anything else that could become airborne.

3. Advanced Hunkering Down: an activity designed for :

a: complete fools with beachfront property in the path of a real hurricane -- a Category 3, 4 or 5 storm -- who somehow believe that they can ward off the Wind Demon simply by staying home and "riding it out." These people invariably are either heavily-armed native Southerners with two first names who have stopped taking their medications, or badly misguided people from Wisconsin who are spending their very first summer in a beachfront retirement condo.

b: Native Southerners in the direct strike path of a baby hurricane -- a Category 1 or 2 storm -- in which case a voting majority of the household will argue most convincingly that it is far, far better to stay home and be terrified, than to crawl along the Interstate looking for a hotel, a cousin, or an old college roommate. If you decide to engage in Advanced Hunkering Down, in addition to the normal Hunkering Down activities, you also have to nail plywood over your windows, put your furniture up on cinderblocks, kiss your boat goodbye, and sandbag your house. You will also need an up-to-date will locked in a safe deposit box in Montana, funeral insurance, and a generous supply of Scotch and Valium.

If you live anywhere inland, as my husband and I do, most of hurricane season involves normal Hunkering Down.

Inlanders, while Hunkering Down, can expect to be invaded by Evacuating relatives from Florida, Houston or New Orleans. Once you have come home from the grocery and secured everything that might take wing, you can settle down into the major activities of Hunkering Down, namely, parking yourself in front of the Weather Channel, eating microwave popcorn... and knitting.

Knitting is an exceedingly good Hunkering Down activity. You can knit while you watch the soggy weather reporters on the beach at Pensacola leaning into the wind and screaming into the microphone so you can see with your own two eyes that there really is an honest-to-God hurricane out there, and not just an enormous red blob on your TV weather map.

You can knit while you anxiously await the next update on the storm's precise position and wind speed. Non-Southerners cannot begin to comprehend how critical it is to know the exact hourly coordinates of a hurricane. Yes, we know, we can't do anything about it. We are as helpless as a blade of grass in the path of John Deere. Nonetheless, hourly hurricane positioning is an obsessive-compulsive Southern thing. We just need to know, so we can decide whether to Evacuate, buy more beer, or proceed to Advanced Hunkering Down.

You can knit while you engage in highly animated debates about whether this hurricane will be as bad as Hurricane Camille, which was the Mother of All Hurricanes. If you are not old enough to remember Camille, consider yourself lucky, and just try to imagine Hurricane Andrew -- squared.

If you also can't recall Hurricane Andrew, just nod when us older folks get worried, and hope you never, ever see a Category 5 storm, okay?

You can even knit if the power goes out while Hunkering Down, which is an outstanding but sneaky opportunity to teach someone else to knit after you pry the useless TV clicker out of their hands.

Hunkering Down is also the best time to pull out a UFO and get down to it, already. Maybe it's the sense of impending doom, but I always end up working on UFOs during hurricane season. Something in my subconscious, perhaps, whispering into my ear: if this storm klls me, the ghost of that forgotten sweater will follow me into the next life unless I finish it before the storm hits.

So in between hurricane updates I've pulled out my two oldest UFOs -- a suit in perle cotton which I started several years ago and only seem to work on during hurricane season, and the Other Sock of a pair of black-and-gold wool knee socks which are of about the same vintage.
Here they are:

















This is not a vest. This is the torso portion of a Chanel-type suit jacket adapted from a 1960's Pat Trexler pattern. It is done in a vintage, crepe-like perle cotton in a medium shade of cream. Here it lies, grumpy and embarrassed because I have rudely awakened it from hibernation and photographed it all rumpled and tousled, right out of bed. The whole thing is done entirely in heel stitch on #3 needles, so it has a wonderful drape, but it's as heavy as a diving belt and thus I lose interest in it once we are out of immediate danger of being in the direct path of any given hurricane, at which point I put down the suit jacket and pick up the Other Sock while I watch to see what's happening to the folks down in Florida.


















The Other Sock, and its mate, are being inspected by Tessie. Tessie, at 18, is a retired Fiber Content Analyst, who is especially fond of the soft merino wool that these socks are made of. She is also very particular about finishing techniques, and is examining the toe of the Finished Sock to assure that the Kitchener Stitch join is secure and even.

I feel confident that the Other Sock of this wooly pair will be finished this hurricane season and ready for use this winter.

For those of you who remain convinced that Southerners don't need wool, consider this: while our winters are not long and severe, they are rainy, sleety and chilly. And, in addition to keeping you warm even when wet, wool has another virtue which makes it highly valuable in the South.

It floats.

Mambocat

"This is the End...beautiful friend, the End..."

"Humidty. The humidity. It's impossible for words to describe what is necessary to those who do not know what humidity means..."

--from the recently discovered first draft of Colonel Kurtz's speech in Apocalypse Now
















No, that's not Cambodia. That's our yard. Honest. It's just that I woke up this morning and could have sworn that I was on the set for Apocalypse Now, without benefit of the presence of Martin Sheen.

That is a split-leaf philodendron the size of a Volkswagen bus you are looking at.

I am showing this to my readers so you will know how utterly dedicated I am to providing you with a photograph of a knitted object being blocked in the sunlight. I know, there is no knitted object in this picture You have to wait. This is a movie set, remember?

So dedicated am I, in fact, that, on the Fourth of July holiday weekend in Louisiana, I actually went on a mission outside the protection of the life-support system (known as a "house" to people in other places).

And now, like Willard en route to do a Cuisinart number on Colonel Kurtz, let us clamp a machete between our teeth and venture into this heart of backyard darkness, this 90-percent-humid and mosquito-filled jungle, risking heatstroke, poison ivy, flying roaches, fire ants, fleas, poison oak, wasps and West Nile virus.

Remember to hum, "The End" to yourself as you do this. You can't sing, because you have a machete in your mouth. You have to hum. Venturing deeper into the jungle now, we shall find a patch of bamboo I call the "Lizard Lounge." I like lIzards. I like them a lot. They are cute, alert little critters and they eat bugs.

















And if we hack through the jungle and venture deeply into the center of the bamboo, wielding our machetes gently to avoid harming the abovementioned lizards (remember to hum), we shall find this:

















This is the Big Lace Shawl for Me, made from hand-dyed, handspun wool that was a very generous gift from a very special friend. Generous indeed when you consider that there is about a quarter of a mile of yarn in this thing.

You are looking at my favorite blocking method. The shawl is deployed on a web of fishing line and stretched out between two trees (outside the frame of the photo).

And here is a close-up of the stitchwork:

I'm very pleased at the way the shawl came out -- bouncy drape and good color distribution. It was also very nice to have only a few small color pools in this vast amount of handpainted fabric, color pools which scattered themselves so randomly throughout the shawl as to look like an integral part of the design. I am very happy about that. It is light, airy and warm.

Not that I need warm now, but I will in the fall. This was a delightful, one-of-a-kind, handspun yarn, so if I work this up into a pattern for sale, I will suggest Koigu as a substitute.

Lisa Louie from Hawaii will recognize this as the shawl which was only the size of a bandanna when she passed through town this spring. Big hugs to Lisa for calling to be worried about us, as Hurricane Dennis takes aim down here in Mother Nature's Bowling Alley. And speaking of bowling, Lisa and I were able to meet because she and her husband Paul flew all the way to Baton Rouge to participate in the mother of all bowling tournaments, with over 13,000 bowlers participating, and his team came out 56th in the tourney, an incredibly high rank, the bowling equivalent of getting a perfect score on your SAT. You go, Paul!

When the shawl is finished being blocked I will take a more attractive photograph of it, but my question for now is: I have enough yarn left over for fringe. So ...

To fringe, or not to fringe? Looking at it blocked, it will already be huge, a fingertip-to-fingertip shawl on a long-armed person such as myself, and it will already hang down to thigh level at the back point.

Suggestions? Add fringe, or make a matching beret?

Mambocat

Employees of the Month at New Blue Moon Designs

Mambocat has launched her own pattern design company: New Blue Moon Designs. I hope to have a small commercial website available by fall 2005 for pattern sales. Patterns will not be sold on this blog. This is where the design process happens.

But I can't take all the credit for my design work. Without a dedicated support staff, no knitwear designer would ever get anywhere.

I'm very proud of my Quality Control department. Their high standards and round-the-clock diligence assure that only the most attractive, wearable, and softest designs make it through the design approval process.

Today I'd like to highlight our Employees of the Month: "Seven" and "Shamu," both of whom are tactile assessment engineers employed in the Softness Evaluation division. Here they are in the Knitwear Testing Laboratory, scientifically evaluating the "Go Ahead, Make My Poncho," a unisex poncho done in Lion Brand Thick-n-Quick. Thanks to their hard work, I should have the pattern available for sale by the fall of 2005.

Don't they deserve a pat on the back? Or at least a can of tuna?

Please note that all employees of New Blue Moon Designs are provided with room, board and full benefits, including health and dental care, regular vaccinations, entertainment, and a complete retirement plan.

Later,

Mambocat















Above: Seven (left) and Shamu (right) compare bilateral tactile variations on the poncho.

A Pacemaker, A Conference and A Wedding...

My New Year's Resolutions included posting to my blog more often, along with losing 15 pounds and excercising more.

BWAAA...HA...HA...HA...HA, says Mambocat in her best Halloween laugh.

Nonetheless, I am now up to about once a month or so on blogging (assuming your calendar is a bit off). And, I have actually lost 5 pounds. But just when I got to the point of getting around to some serious excercise, summer arrived. This is Louisiana. Which means jogging or cycling in the world's largest outdoor sauna.

Not me.

The Big Lace Shawl For Me remains nearly finished except for the final few garter rows and blocking. A picture of that shawl is coming soon. Both finishing the shawl and learning how to post pictures to this blog have been delayed during the past few weeks by a series of mostly non-knitterly events including:

a. My 87-year-old dad having a new pacemeker and defibrillator installed...
b. My Mom, also of an excellent vintage, contracting food poisoning from the hospital cafeteria, for which she had to be hospitalized herself...
c. A very, shall we say, intense and pointed conversation, between myself and certain key hospital administrators....
d. Being sent by my boss to a conference in Scottsdale, AZ immediately upon Dad's release from the hospital ...
e. Getting to take my husband along (the room was a double anyway and the city paid for everything else so we only had to pay for his meals and airfare out-of-pocket)...
f. Immediately upon arrival back in Baton Rouge (after having the exact same piece of luggage lost at Dallas-Fort Worth airport on both legs of our journey), rolling up our sleeves to participate in one of our oldest friend's second wedding...
g. Beginning a new shawl on the airplane with cotton yarn and plastic needles, out of fear that my almost-done Big Shawl For Me and Addi Turbos would be seized by over-zealous TSA employees concerned that I might use my needles to hijack the plane to New Zealand and load it up with sheep ...
h. Catching up on 2,378 pieces of paperwork back at work.

So those are my Official Knitter's Excuses (signed by my mother, even) for fewer posts and no pictures so far. But it gets better!


Things I have learned in the past few weeks:

My parents remain remarkably resilient despite their advanced years ... those WWII folks are not called the Greatest Generation for nothing.

The folks at the Dallas/Forth Worth Airport can lose the exact same piece of checked luggage both on your way to your destination and once again on your way home...

Note the evidence below. See that black rectangle, roughly in the center of the picture? As we got off the little toy plane that took us to Dallas and got on the real plane, what to our wondering eyes should appear on the tarmac but: a piece of our very own luggage. It's hard to see in this picture, but from our seat, we could just see a fluorescent green luggage tag.





We have fluorescent green luggage tags.

"Is that our big suitcase?" said my husband, who had the window seat.

"It has a fluorescent green tag on it..." said I.

We watched numerous luggage trains actually steer to avoid this piece of luggage, and numerous airport personnel walk past it and around it, without so much as a by-your-leave.

It was still there, alone on the tarmac and as helpless as an upturned turtle, when our plane took off.

The TSA folks at the Phoenix airport were much more interested in my husband's supportive steel-shanked boots than they were in my knitterly Implements of Doom ... oh, and one more thing ... if you are traveling with a person with a physical disability through the Phoenix airport, the TSA will insist that the abovementioned person remove supportive boots and other dangerous terrorist accesories used by people with disabilities, but they will not assist that person in taking them off or putting them back on, however difficult it may be for the person. Mind that the TSA folks at the Baton Rouge airport simply ran the metal detector over the same boots, ran their hands inside the boot cuff, and otherwise inspected the boots while still on hubby's feet.

Quite on the other hand, the Phoenix airport customer service staff, including one exceedingly nice young woman in a Muslim headdress, absolutley rules, in terms of fetching wheelchairs and those nifty airport stretch-limo-golf carts to assist handicapped travellers.

Do not attempt to knit anything involving rayon ribbon yarn while you are in a turbulent commuter airplane in a thunderstorm over Texas....

People in Arizona have devices called "swamp coolers" which eject mist out over the poolside bar guests at the Hilton and other upscale inhabited desert locations. This fact was unknown to me on my previous visits to the Southwest, because, at those times, I was not on a trip paid for by the city, much less staying at the Hilton. The idea of a "swamp cooler," astoundingly, is to make humidity on purpose. I kid you not. What I do not understand is the name of this device. It should properly be called a "desert cooler," because it actually does cool you off in 5% humidity at 100 degrees Fahrenheit. However (as I informed the poolside bartender in my best Science Lady From Louisiana voice), adding more humidity to the already-saturated air in an actual swamp would actually increase the heat index, resulting in poor employee productivity, more mosquitoes and possibly even mass murder... and ... speaking of the bartender at the poolside bar...

When you are done with your conference and have time to relax, do not attempt to knit anything at all while you have a little Captain in you, even if you earnestly believe that you really and truly can enjoy a rum and Coke, immerse yourself on the pool steps up to your armpits, and keep your knitting dry all at once.

Upon returning home, I learned how many sober middle-aged adults with college and post-graduate degrees (five and two, respectively, for a total of seven, and one being an engineer) it takes to assemble a rental tent for a friend's rather spontaneous second wedding...

The kid who sells keg beer and other intoxicating substances to the above-mentioned sober middle-aged adults planning a spontaneous second wedding, doesn't look old enough to spell "beer" much less sell it ...

How utterly smashing our boomer-age friends can look when they want to ... especiallly the bride...

Being one of the designated drivers for said spontaneous wedding, how many inebriated middle-aged adults in cocktail attire (most of whom are a few sizes larger than they were in college) can fit in a Volkswagen Golf....

That, after 25 years of college, jobs, husbands, divorces and kids, the bride could not choose a "best matron," because:

a. how can you pick only one of your closest friends?
b. ... and ... we are all "doggy people," so the Matron of Honor would have to be "Best Bitch."


but this is supposed to be about knitting.....

Ahem. Where was I? Oh yes. After waving goodbye to our luggage and realizing that the rayon ribbon yarn I was swatching simply would not work in bumpy weather, I cast on for a cotton lace shawl I am designing in a sock-weight cotton perle cone yarn of unknown ancestry, to wit:

I had hoped that my little black travel-knitting bag would show off the lace pattern a bit better, but you get the idea. Only moments after snapping this photo I had to snatch up that coffee cup on the left, for fear of ruining both my knitting and my reading material as we continued through a convention of angry thunder-gods.

So, this is the beginning of what I am calling the Ruby Tuesday shawl, not only because I still like the Rolling Stones but also because I happened to start it on a Tuesday and I happened to be using ruby-colored yarn. For some reason in looks redder in the picture than it is in real life.

Must have something to do with altitude or turbulence.

Mambocatz

Reelin' in the Years ...

Howdy, cowpokes. Brought some knitting -- a very plain cotton-wool green sock -- to my day-long annual physical today. As long as I am already running around naked inside a paper gown, I like to cram as much knitting time as possible into one day annually of being poked, prodded, and stuck with needles not wielded by my own hands.

You know the routine: kick the tires, look under the hood, check the exhaust manifold, have my boobs hydraulically compressed, meet vampires considerably less sexy than Lestat, do an EKG on the fuel pump, carry cute little cups of urine around, and waitwaitwaitwaitwait between various stages of being declared a physically functioning member of society.

Of course this provides a lot of knitting time, but doctor-waiting-knitting, for me at least, needs to be a pick-it-up, put-it-down project like Yer Basic Sock, lest one bungle a gracious lace swirl when one leaps up out of a stupor when the nurse calls out your name.

In between my physical, mammogram, blood-sucking, pap smear, Ye Olde Chest X-ray, and carrying a wee cup of wee-wee to the lab, I managed to finish about half a sock.


Today I learned that:

1. I am stressed out. To learn this amazing fact, I pay a doctor?

Or at least a co-payment.


2. I am not overweight. Apparently my primary care doctor, unlike the media and certain non-feline individuals in my immediate household, proclaims that it is perfectly fine and healthy for a baby boomer female to wear a size 10 or 12. Even if she wore a size 5 in college, back when her clothes were tight on purpose.

There are many reasons I like Dr. Carver. This is one of them.


3. My achy knees and other joints are just achy, and not arthritic yet, they are just forty-mumble years old and achy. My primary care doctor, who is my age, who I have seen since he got out of medical school, and who has seen parts of me that my mother and even my husband have not seen, assures me that I might be a just a bit less less creaky if I engage in deliberate excercise, like regular fitness walking and going to the gym. Like he does.

Of course, going to the gym is why my doctor looks like he belongs on the cast of "ER" and I look like I should be a patient.

Really, he's the sweetest guy, and a great doc. I should not pick on him. Besides, he thinks size 10 is skinny, so he rules.


4. I also learned that climbing ladders in a non-OSHA-approved manner to retrieve cats from great heights, cleaning kennels, hefting large sacks of Science Diet, kicking the copy machine, and lifting large, smelly dogs onto exam tables do not count as "regular excercise."


On the non-doctor/non-sock knitting front, the Big Lace Shawl for Me is close to being finished. My current resolution is to figure out how to get photos onto this blog here.

Mambocat

"One for you, nineteen for me ... yeah, yeah, I'm the tax man ...."

Those of you who remember those lines may smile nostalgically. Those of you not old enough to remember can Google for "Beatles lyrics."

After spending the greater part of the first two days of my Easter weekend doing my penance with the prodigious task of seeing how much we can legally avoid rendering unto Caesar, I get to spend Easter Sunday doing exactly as I please, which involves indulging in both chocolate and knitting.

It's a lovely day, about 60 degrees a little after midday, breezy, with flowers exploding everywhere here in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. We are fortunate enough to have an elderly house with a whole-house attic fan. Delightful for knitting with the windows open. After a sunny morning, it looks like rain, which is also delightful.

I am about halfway through the handpainted lace shawl and I am quite pleased with the results so far. Not being naturally inclined toward daintiness, I do not like frothy, frilly, girly lace to wear or use for myself, but I very much like simple, well-structured openwork which shows off a good yarn.

This will be a good pattern for a beginning lace knitter to follow, because incorporating the pattern into the increases will be quite simple. It is a four-row lace pattern, so for every two repeats vertically, the shawl grows enough in width to incorporate two new repeats horizontally, one on each end of the center section of lace. The chart should be simple to follow.

Since I don't like to post if I don't have much else to say, I'll get back to the shawl-in-progress.

Mambocat

The random blogger posts again.

One of my New Year's resolutions was: update my blog more often. This is my first post this year. Tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day, so at least I am doing better than I did last year.

If I were not so damn superstitious ("watch out what you ask for, you just might get it,") I would wish for more leisure time in which to knit and blog and take photos with our first-ever digital camera.

Instead, I will briefly post today, and at a later date I will figure out how to upload pictures and all that good stuff.

Finished Objects since my last post include:

• a calf-length ruana done predominantly in Lane Borgosesia "Spectrum," which has been aging in my stash since 1994 ...
• a large, partly-cabled Poncho-For-Me done in double-stranded sock yarn from a five-pound cone of anonymous salsa-red Italian wool I puchased at a New Orleans yarn store closeout sale several years ago, and, even after knitting a fingertip-length poncho, I still have almost half the yarn left over, which is now telling me it wants to be a Cables After Whiskey sweater ...
• a feather-and-fan pattern lace poncho in red cotton, sized to fit a young teen or petite adult...
• a brown, grey, cream, and teal poncho for my husband, done in Lion Brand Thick'n'Quick in a stranded pattern imitating his favorite Mexican blanket, which, being a very manly poncho, has been dubbed the "Go Ahead, Make My Poncho." The finished poncho looks way ethnic - he could go herd llamas in the Andes with this thing, and fit right in, at least until somebody got up close and realized he's of Scots-Cajun ancestry..
• half a dozen wild Christmas scarves
• as many socks, mostly in Opal
• one purse
• one set of fingerless mittens
• and ... one beret

On the needles:

• a lace shawl of my own design in handspun, handpainted sock-weight yarn in shades of emerald, midnight, ruby and burgundy ... I should point out that although I do handspin, this particular yarn was handspun and dyed by a close friend and not by me. NO color pooling so far. I am making careful notes on this pattern as I design it as I do believe this will be a winner to show off handpainted yarns.
• a traditional fisherman's gansey. It is traditional in that the top half of the body and sleeves are heavily cabled and texture-patterned, while the bottom part carries a simple, all-over texture pattern. It also has traditional underarm gussets, and a cable grows out of each side of the neck, runs across the shoulder and down the arm. It is un-traditional in that is is made of Inca Alpaca in a fantastic shade of cat-eye-green, and the cable running down shoulder and arm shall be June Oshiro's DNA cable pattern ...
• a wool beret, 90% done, a state in which it must languish until I can find even a partial ball of Lang "Vera" Stretch Yarn in navy blue ...
• an oddball scarf that will suit someone next Christmas ...
• and, two pair of socks.

So, I've caught up enough to say that I have posted today. Now, to find something green to wear tomorrow for St. Patrick's Day -- hopefully it will stay chilly enough so I can wear my favorite old green sweater.

Mambocat