My first almost plane crash (I think)

A couple of weeks ago, just days after two fatal plane crashes took some 16 lives, I had what I think might have been my first (hopefully only?) almost plane crash.

The funny thing is that although I'm not a courageous person---I know what phobias feel like and I have an intimate relationship with anxiety---I'm usually an ok flier. I don't know why, really. I don't like heights, and I have an active bridge phobia (heights over water, shudder). My usual response to anyone asking if I'm tempted to skydive is to wonder why anyone would jump out of a perfectly good plane. ("So, wait, the plane was up in the air, and it *wasn't* on fire? Was there smoke? A poisonous snake? No? You just decided to jump out of it. Into an empty field? Was there at least free cake in the field? No? Just wanted to jump out of the plane? . . . well, ok then.")

Don't get me wrong---I like being a coward. I figure it's safer this way. But I'm also glad that my tendency to overthink and over-worry has never managed to shake my blind faith that flying is still the safest way to travel. Other than a little concern during take-off, I just assume that the turbulence that always seems to hit just as I'm using the lavoratory isn't serious. It's just God's little way of reminding me that no matter how dignified I think I'm becoming as I age, it's always possible to die on a toilet.

But on my last trip, I had what I really think was a near-miss. Coworkers and I were flying into Providence, RI, for a business meeting/dinner. It was a blustery day and the pilot had warned us that the seatbelt sign would stay on. I appreciate those warnings, because then I am pretty much unconcerned when it is, in fact, pretty darn bumpy.

We were close to landing, about 500 feet off the ground. The turbulence was getting worse, but I was continuing to be unconcerned (the pilot said it was going to be bumpy; clearly, he knew what he was talking about). Further I (oddly enough) tend not to worry about landings. Yeah, it's silly, but I always figure that the closer I am to the ground is that much less far to fall should an engine or two fall off the plane. ("Denial"---it's not just for excusing bad dates.) I was contentedly working on the Sudoku in the airline magazine, when suddenly I visited my next-seat neighbor's lap a bit more vigorously than was, strictly speaking, polite. I would have apologized, but before I knew what was happening, we'd swung the other way and he was practically sitting in my lap.

The plane immediately started to ascend again, which was my first indication that what just happened wasn't a simple bump! According to my co-worker who'd been looking out the window, the left wing dipped down and then flipped up almost immediately and he thought we were going to flip over. "Well, we almost bought the farm just there," was his response. (And so intent was my denial that I spend a second trying to figure out why he'd be shopping for farms out an airplane window before I realized what he was telling me.) The pilot came on shortly and noted that we'd had "a bit of an unsafe situation there" as it had gotten "a little gusty" and so we were going to circle around and try it again.

Happily, the second landing, and the trip home, went without incident. I still think flying is the safest way to travel. I'm just hoping my next plane trip agrees!

digging out and coming around

Ok, so what does one talk about on a blog after being incommunicado for almost 9 months? No, I didn't have a baby.

I did have a pretty interesting holiday season, though, with something of a "perfect storm" of stressful tasks, as work, family, and health issues all seemed to come around at the same time! But I shouldn't complain; I'd rather have too many tasks than not enough, and I know how many people are dealing with the challenges of too much time on their hands these days!

Now that I'm getting through the worst of the frantic-ness, though, I'm finally managing to both think ahead and look back to catch up on what I have not been doing these past months. And that paradox of looking ahead and behind at the same time (or would you call that schizophrenia ;-) explains my day, part of which I spent on a teleconference looking at ways to bring the journal I work on into the cutting-edge future of digital and online publishing.

And now I'm trying to catch up with this blog, and with some e-mails I've been owing people. But my greatest catch-up effort of the day was this morning---I took my cats to the vet. All of them. All three cats. All three cats, who weigh 11, 13.5, and 19.5 lbs, respectively (not counting the cat carriers. . . that they each need their own separate one of), to the vet.

Happily, I had help in the form of my niece, who's great with animals. Though don't ask for a recommendation from my kittys for her. They're a little angry with her at the moment. Also happily, they are all pretty healthy girls. Unhappily, though, I'm apparently not the only one in the household who could stand to lose a few pounds.

Course, I could just try to get them into the cat carriers every day. Chasing each other around the house ought to be enough exercise for all of us!

To Frog or Not to Frog

To frog, or not to frog, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the doubts and questions over whether a project is going to disappoint, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and uncertaintly and by thus opposing (or at least, by yanking the needle out of the live stitches) end them.

That is the question.

At least, that is the question I'm currently facing about my scarf. This is listed as the "Noro striped scarf" on ravelry, but I've been calling the the Brooklyn Tweed scarf. Except I've been making mine with Jojoland Melody that I bought at Maryland Sheep & Wool festival (I've totally forgotten at which booth).

Although the yarn is a fingering weight rather than the usual Silk Garden light worsted, the problem isn't the yarn. (Isn't SG a light worsted? I know it's a bit finer than Kureyon, but I don't think it's sport, exactly.) In fact, I'm loving the yarn, which as you can see from the picture is a beautiful variegated, and, which you probably can't tell from the picture, a lovely soft merino wool.

I'm just not loving how it's coming out. The stiches look uneven to me; the sides are definitely wobbly, and although I love each yarn color individually, I find myself underwhelmed by the total effect.

And since I do love how the last Jojoland project turned out, the Autumn shawl made with Rythym (pattern and yarn bought at the Pottstown Knit out in January), let's just say that my disappointment is accentuated.

Here, because I'm proud of it and want to show it off, is the shawl in progress.

And here it is finished:

and detail of the entrelac

Course the other great thing about this shawl is that it might be the first thing I've ever made that I didn't rip out and re-do at least twice.

Which brings me back to the essential question---to frog or not to frog. Maybe I just need different colors, with more contrast. Maybe I need smaller needles. Maybe I'm just tired of scarves.

And if I do frog, what am I going to do with 4 oddballs of fingering weight yarn? (fair isle socks?....hmmm) So I'm torn.

On the positive side, I'm choosing to see this not as my knitting playing up my indecisiveness and self-doubt, but as my knitting giving me another wonderful opportunity to practice making decisions on something that I'll probably enjoy either way!

Having a "delicate" week

A friend of mine at work recently introduced me to the term "delicate week," which she explained as one of those weeks in which nothing seems to be going well, so that by about mid-week, even when things go ok, your paranoid little brain twists it around so that you feel like it didn't go well anyway. And so, despite surviving a difficult meeting that I'd been dreading for at least a month and that in the words of my boss's boss, "couldn't have gone better" I find myself unable to really relax.

Not helped by the fact that I gave blood this morning and had a really unpleasant experience. I give blood pretty much every 2 months, when I'm eligible again. Although I have, on the odd occasion, had to have my hemocrit checked a second time (I was deferred once---but that was when I was on the "modified Trappist monk" [0 fat] diet in prep for my gall bladder surgery, and I wasn't paying enough attention to getting iron), I'm not usually freaked out by the experience, and I don't usually have any trouble.

Today I was freaked out, though. First there was some kind of problem with my hemoglobin the first time they checked in (requiring a second finger stick), then the worker there accidentally "deferred" me because of my asthma (not usually a problem as long as I'm breathing ok that day, which I was). So by the time I was laying on the cot and I started hearing that the woman next to me had them miss her vein and have to get someone else over to try again, I was starting to freak a little. Unfortunately, I didn't take my own usual advice and let them know that I was having a rough time.

The situation was not helped by the attitude of the worker taking my blood, which started out bored and uncaring, merged into sullen silence, took a little detour to outright unfriendly, and finally circled back to muttering instructions at a point just past my left shoulder because making eye contact was apparently more than she had energy for. She never stopped back to check if I was doing ok---and maybe that's as well, because there were a couple of points where I was debating asking them to take the needle out and let me leave.

Sigh....so of course I didn't stay in the canteen very long and then noticed, as I was driving off to run my weekend errands, that the little square of bandage over the site had a patch of red...that was expanding. Now I'm not a nurse, but I kinda take the spreading red patch as a bad thing. I'm also not usually upset by the sight of blood, but, perhaps because of the "delicate week" thing, I was again quietly freaking out as I figured out where to turn around while steering with my bleeding left arm so that I could use my right arm to apply a napkin and pressure.

By the time I got back there, the bleeding had stopped again, but I did want them
give me a new bandage, since I didn't want to freak out the other shoppers or, well, frankly, myself again.

And the good news---I'm using my "delicate week" and that experience to justify going to Micheal's and using a 25% off coupon sent me by a friend (thanks, Pat!) to buy makings for more stitch markers. Because nothing says "it's ok; you're ok; next week will be better" better than shiny, sparkly jewelry for my knitting! (Ok, sure, yes there are things that would cheer me up faster and more, but I really shouldn't have a huge ice cream sundae, Gerard Butler continues *not* to call, and I can actually afford sparkly jewelry for my knitting ;-).

The luck of the Irish, and what's luck, if you can't push it?

So, a friend and I are taking a little stroll around a local mall one Saturday at the end of February. Neither of us had anything in particular we were looking to purchase. In fact, we were only in the mall because we wanted to get out of our respective houses, have a little chat, and stretch our legs, and the weather was lousy. It was the kind of cold, rainy day one might expect to experience in February in New Jersey, and it probably wouldn't even be memorable but for the counterpoint it provided to the Saturday before, which had freakish, Twilight-Zone--like almost-70-degree warmth.


But, normal for February or not, it was the kind of day we did not want to spend strolling outside around the little lake-side park we usually circle, no matter how charmingly the surrounding houses were still decorated for Valentine's day.

There's probably a good reason that no poet to date has written, "the mall was lovely, dark and deep..." but we were still enjoying ourselves when we happened upon a card store. That's right, a greeting card store. A beautiful, well-stocked, nicely lit greeting card store. Very much, in fact, like the beautiful, well-stocked, nicely lit greeting card store in which I bought my ill-fated Valentine's day cards.

Now, anyone who knows me knows how much I love a card store (card/stationary stores, book stores, yarn/craft stores, and any place I may find an obscure DVD starring Hugh Jackman...or Gerard Butler). They're like Alice's rabbit hole for me. Seriously---once I'm in, I forget there is an outside world, and heaven knows when/if I'm ever coming out.

But I've just lived through the debacle of the found-too-late, unsent, now-put-away-till-next-year-so-who-knows-if-I'll-ever-find-them-again Valentine's cards, so I'm sure I'm not going to make that mistake again. I have, in fact, pretty much vowed (and not for the first time) that I'm not going to buy cards a month in advance anymore, cause I always put them somewhere "safe" and then forget that I bought them, let alone where I put them. So I'm sure I'm not going to make that mistake again. So I'm safe. Even if I go into the beautiful, well-stocked, nicely lit greeting card store, I'm really pretty sure I'm not going to make that mistake again.

I know what you're thinking. You're laughing at me. You're thinking, "No, no, don't do it! Don't go in! It's the end of February, for heaven's sake. The next holidays are St. Patrick's day and Easter! And they're both *weeks* away! You won't remember where the cards are---you never remember where the cards are!"

I hear you. In fact, the little voice inside my head was saying much the same thing. (Someday I'll write about my love-rebellious relationship with the little voice, but....not today!) Unfortunately, though, my friend did not hear you, or the the little voice. And of course, I'm useless when it comes to resisting temptation. So when my friend said, all innocence, "ooh, a card store; I need to get a birthday card, mind if we go in?" my only response was, "not at all; I love card stores."

You can probably guess the next part of the story. Yes, I did buy St. Patrick's Day cards. I even bought Easter cards! Because, as the title of the story goes, what's luck, if you can't push it?

But this story has a surprise ending---I did remember that I bought cards. I even remembered to send the St. Patrick's Day cards (with stickers...I mentioned my childish....er, uh, child-like love for stickers, haven't I?). And I haven't forgotten the Easter cards...now let's see if I actually get any written and sent out!

And for anyone reading that I didn't get to, Have a wonderful St. Patrick's Day!

I'm here....really! And the tale of the Valentine's Day card search

I am here....I've been here...just having a rough time actually making it onto the blog.

I had one of those Valentine's days---you know the kind---where I, in preparation for the holiday and weeks(!) in advance, buy a whole slew of cards, specially selected for my friends and family. I even get stickers! (I love stickers....seriously, in my heart of hearts I'm a 10-year-old girl...as anyone could tell you who's ever seen me try to swing a baseball bat ;-).
And then I stash them in a safe place, and I wait for a more appropriate time to send them. Because I think we can all agree that I'd look silly sending Valentine's day cards in mid-January. So I wait....and I wait....and I get distracted....and then I get overwhelmed (work, niece-related drama, life)...and then I forget. I forget which cards I bought for who....and then I forget that I even bought cards. In fact, I'm pretty sure that by February 8, I'd even forgotten that a holiday was coming.

So then, I'm reminded, oohhh maybe 5 days before the holiday, that 2008 will, in fact, have a Valentine's day, and that (are you sitting down?) it's going to be the same day this year that it was last year(!) (and apparently has been for a good couple of decades before that). So total was my amnesia that my first thought was, "oh, well, I guess I don't have time to get cards this..{and here is where a little glimmer of memory starts trying to poke through the fog}..wait a minute...did I....did I buy cards already? {valiant little memory, swimming salmon-like up through the current of half-forgotten factoids and useless trivia...snippets of bad 80's pop songs} Was that this year? {oh, you laugh, but tell me you've never asked yourself that question while sorting through your Christmas list searching for the present you just know you bought Uncle Jimmy ;-) }

Finally, finally, the memory hits the surface in all its exhausted but triumphant glory: yes, yes I did buy Valentine's day cards! In fact, I think I may have even bought stickers! And I put them.... yeah...that's the question {and the n0w exhausted memory sighs, "don't look at me; I did my bit" as it floats happily in a circle between my ears}.

Because of course I put them somewhere. I must have put them somewhere. I mean, the laws of physics would dictate that I put them somewhere (they can't be nowhere...it's impossible to buy an imaginary number worth of cards).

Ah, but where? Probably somewhere safe...I'd definitely put them somewhere safe. So they're not on the dining room table, where the cats could knock them off and wrinkle the envelopes. They're not with the {many} boxes of Christmas cards I bought for 75% off after Christmas but have not yet found the time to pack away for next Christmas. (Because I won't need them for another 10 months....I certainly wouldn't want to put them where they're not immediately to hand!)

And, of course, they're not in my greeting card holder-file box. Because although that would be a safe and even logical place to put them, and although it's large and there is enough room to put them there, that would be waaaaay too easy and sensible. Where would be the challenge? Let's face it, putting the greeting cards into the greeting card holder would practically be cheating! What, I ask you, what would the world come to it if we all put the things we bought and are saving into the recepticles specifically designed (and bought) to hold those things? It would be complete not-chaos! And who could live like that?

So, yeah, where was I? (no, seriously, where was I?)

Oh, yeah, the sad, frantic, frustrating search for the Valentine's cards that I knew I bought but coudn't find. And now I knew I bought them. I thought I knew I bought them. I guess I could have dreamed it....would I have wasted a perfectly good dream buying phantom Valentine's cards? No, no. I bought them. I definitely bought them.

The problem with a search like this, I find, is that it proves to me that I can be both endlessly hopeful and inexplicably stupid. Because I will look in the same place more than once. More than twice. I may look in the same place up to 3 or even 4 times, if it seems like a logical place to have put the thing I'm looking for. So, since the greeting card file is such a sensible, useful, intelligent place to have put the greeting cards, I kept looking in it. Never mind that I'd already looked there. Never mind that I'd already looked systematically between every single divider. Never mind that it's not that big in the first place. Never mind that it doesn't have even a single secret drawer.

It's like I just couldn't believe that I was stupid enough not to have put them there in the first place. Maybe I thought that I could somehow have gotten retroactively more organized? Maybe I thought that by the third time I checked, time would have shifted back into its proper flow and I would find that I did put the cards in the sensible place after all. Maybe I thought a wormhole could have opened up in the back of the file? Could the cats have borrowed the cards to look through? (they were pretty funny, and several did feature cats) Perhaps I should check the card file again, because maybe they've finished with them and put them back now? Oh....no, no apparently not.

Now, the good news is that I did, eventually, find the cards. You may be interested to know that they were in the pretty little paper bag (with the twine handles) that was sitting next to the card file. The pretty little paper bag that was just the right size and shape to hold that number of Valentine's cards. The pretty little paper bag that never quite looked in, despite having to move it out of the way (twice!) to check in the card file again.

The bad news? I found them late on Valentine's day evening.

So to all my friends and family, Happy Belated Valentine's Day! I hope it was lovely and romatic and that you all got roses or candy or reminders of how much you are loved. I want you to know that I was thinking of you. And next year, you should expect a really funny Valentine's card, complete with stickers! But you probably shouldn't expect it much before St. Patrick's day.

Minus 1 gallbladder, and recovering nicely

I'm happy to say that I'm through my surgery and recovering (so far, knock wood) nicely. In fact, I've actually had less pain than I thought I was going to, though I was probably twice as scared as I expected to be. Seriously, in the category of "things you learn about yourself as you get older" I can add, "Am a serious sissy-mary about surgeries...genuine baby; total wimp; couldn't manage a 'Die-Hard'-style quip under pressure if my very life depended on it!" (And please don't ever tell me that my life depends on it, cause I just couldn't handle any more pressure when I'm that scared!)

Luckily, the folks at the hospital were very nice, and didn't seem to mind, too much, my scaredy-cat-ness. I mean, the anesthesiologist was perhaps a little annoyed when I actually made her put her hand on her heart and promise, on the heads of her children, to be sure that I was completely asleep before giving me any kind of paralytic agent, but, bless her heart, she did it. And the surgeon was very reassuring when my honest answer to the question, "so how are you doing?" was "completely terrified, thanks, how are you?"
He, of course, wasn't scared at all. Perfectly at ease...not worried about a thing. Though, when I think about it, I guess confidence is better than empathy when you are talking about the man who's about to cut small holes in your tummy to stick in knives and cameras and pull out organs. (Wow, when I say it that way....ewwww....glad I didn't think too much about the particulars *before* having it done.)
The nurse anesthetist who wheeled me down to the OR and helped get me set up was also a sweetie. (Mark was his name; interestingly, his is the only name I remember, though absolutely everyone from the woman at the admission desk to the nurse who brought me ginger ale in the holding room after told me their names. I think it was because he was so nice. Yeah, I'm pretty sure that was it. The fact that he was a good-looking young man was beside the point....I'm pretty sure ;-)
Anyway, I'm pleased that everything went so well, and I'm terribly grateful for the good wishes and prayers sent my way! And now, hopefully, I can get back to the regularly scheduled fiber content ;-) (and no, I haven't gotten nearly as much knitting done during my recovery as you would think!)