Carven Folk

Impera's is on the top left, Trixies's two are center (smiley face) and right top (spider!), and my kissy-face is on the bottom.

Don't be taken in by Impera's pumpkin. It is true demon, through and through.







The Consort's reminds me of those muppet aliens that are freaked out by a ringing phone. (Remember that? Brrrrrrrriiiiiing! Brrrrrriiiiiiiinngg!)

Poor Timing

Taking a luxury ocean cruise back to the US from Liverpool in April 1912

Investing in German zeppelins on May 5, 1937

Visiting Bhopal, India, on December 2, 1984

Deciding to grab the bull by the horns, and lose 10 pounds by Christmas, starting on October 30, 2006

Halloween; NO! Beggar's Night!

There’s a lot to love about Iowa*, you know. Today’s post, however, will highlight one of those things that confirm I will never be able to consider myself an Iowan:

In many towns around Iowa, Halloween is celebrated on a day other than October 31st.

[?????!]

And why is Beggar’s Night (from 6 pm to 8 pm ONLY, no less) celebrated on a day other than Halloween? No one is exactly clear on that. There was an article in the paper the first year we lived here that mentioned something about how during World War I there were young hoodlums who would go out on Halloween and do mischief (kick over trash cans, you know, that sort of thing). So the Town Fathers decided the best way to stop these hoodlums was to move the celebration to the night before—that way, when the hoodlums (who, in some mysterious manner, would not have been told about this change) would go out on October 31st to do their naughty stuff, it wouldn’t … I don’t know, uh, have the same panache?

You chuckle.

I know. Like I said, I don’t get it either. There are so many weaknesses in this explanation (and that’s assuming that the reason the paper published was the true one! Perhaps this is all a Star Chamber sort of deal, and we will never know the truth). First off, what do hoodlums care whether it is Halloween or not? They’ll do damage whenever, wherever, right? And, if it really was supposed to trick them, then who would really believe that this would work more than one year? Even hoodlums have a collective memory.

Lucky for us, the news media post lists of when each township will be “celebrating” Halloween. So tonight, as most of you will still have 24 hours to buy candy, hem the costume your child tore when trying it on, or scramble to collect bits and ends of cardboard and duct tape to create a costume for yourself or someone who depends on you, most of us folks in Iowa will be roaming the streets, scoping out which houses seem to be giving out the best goodies, and doing our little tricks* for the homeowners. Tomorrow, well, tomorrow is just another day, and we’ll be one day ahead of you in stomach aches and cavities.

* In fact, here is something I love about trick-or-treating here in Iowa (and never came across anywhere else): When a costumed celebrant rings a doorbell and says “Trick or treat!” the treat-giver has the right—nay, is expected to—respond, “OK, what’s your trick?” The costumed celebrant is then required to recite a rhyme, tell a joke, do a somersault, sing a ditty—in other words, perform for their treat. Fantastic!

Work In Progress

"What's that?"
"The yarn I got from my Secret Pal."
"Are you starting a new project?"
"I'm thinking about it."
*snort* "Don't you already have two projects going?"
"I finished Impera's socks the other day!" [Let's not mention the Jaywalkers I've had on needles since July.]
"Oh, OK."
...
"Wow! That looks really nice!"
"Why, thank you."

"Hi, I'm a Mac"

Have you all seen these commercials? Maybe they've been playing them on TV for months now, I don't know. But we've recently discovered them, and they are hilarious!

They are a perfect Friday link. Get a Mac.

There are several, so may I recommend my favorites?

Counselor

Better Results

Trust Mac

Self Pity

I could watch Self Pity over and over (in fact, I have). I love PC's last line.

Go take a look, enjoy, then come back and tell me your favorite!

Thank You Secret Pal!

DSC01188.JPG
Originally uploaded by friuduric.

Woo hoo! A package arrived yesterday. My SP had asked me if there was anything Australian that I wanted. Food? Treats? Anything like that? Well, I had heard about Tim Tams, and I have always been curious about vegemite (thanks to Men At Work), so I asked for both of those things. And would you look at the haul of Tim Tams? We've already tried all 3 kinds, and everybody loves them. The girls even made Tim Tam Slams with their milk (they said it worked...). I had vegemite toast for breakfast (the jar came with a stern note from my pal: "spread THINLY" -- reminded me of someone being told, "Now, that's Everclear, so TAKE SMALL SIPS!"). I like it. Very salty, smells beer-y (makes sense, as it's a yeast extract), and pleasantly bitter.

You can also see that I received some Australian wool. I'm not sure the color came out true: it's this beautiful red/blue purply cordovan color. Makes me think of autumn berries. Gorgeous! (I've already put some on needles, maybe I'll show you all tomorrow.)

And in the center, you notice a beautiful green washcloth, knit with tiny, regular stitches (*very* impressive, SP) that is a picture of ... A Reversed Australia! (Forgive me, I set it up wrong; Oh, the geographical shame! I should go around wearing, hmmm, I don't know, a Chartreuse G on my dress, or something.)

Very fun package, SP. Thanks!

PS: I fiddled with those buttons last night. Does the page look any better to anyone?

Word Wednesday: The Power of Language

As I believe I’ve mentioned, we’re part of a food ordering co-op. This is the largest organic food distributor in the US. It used to be an independent called Blooming Prairie, now it’s UNFI (that’s another story), and it provides food for places like Hy-Vee stores and Sam’s Club (yuck). But at least that means that the driver would be coming this way anyway, so our orders aren’t really creating more food transportation fuel use. Because, you know what they say, it’s better to get your food locally than organically. (I believe the rule of thumb is, if it comes from farther than 20 miles from your home, go local rather than organic; but for the life of me, I can’t find that anywhere right now. You can have a look at The Sustainable Table if you’re motivated. Then come back and give me the link, OK?)

With the bulk discount and our chest freezer in the basement, we can load up on organic frozen vegetables. Last week, I took out a bag of frozen spinach (we got it in the spring, don’t worry: no E. coli in our spinach) and, as usual, smiled as I took out the lovely package:


Ah, Woodstock Farms, how snazzy your package looks. And, take a closer look, they have their business philosophy right there on the front of the package:

How true: “A worthy vision and a necessary endeavor”. I applaud your endeavor, Woodstock Farms!

Who are Woodstock Farms, you ask? Well, if we turn the package over, we can let them speak for themselves:

Clearly, they are the Heart and Soul of the commitment to Mother Earth. (Are you hearing the angels sing, too?) I get a buzz out of supporting good business. So I’m happy that this beautiful bag of frozen USDA organic spinach is on my countertop at this moment. A moment which provides an oasis of goodness in a world filled with greedy Ken Lays and ruthless Jeff Skillings, with mega-farms and poor business practices (now you’ve got to be hearing the angels, am I right?). I am a curious sort of person, and so my eye continues down the package. Where, below the evocative description of Woodstock Farms, there is a bit more information.

Cue the tire screech and the scratch of a needle across a vinyl record album, please. Freeze the angelic harmonies. Now, move in to the close-up of the text:

Product of fricking CHINA?!!!

The entire package is one big trick. They are honey-tongued devils, those Woodstock *spit* distributor people. Caveat emptor, indeed.

PS: Bonus points to the first person to identify the creative touch I’ve added to this post. And I mention this because, being an insecure person, I worry that if I don’t mention it, no one will notice it.

The Pervading Aroma of Allium

Since the late fall of 1993, I have been sensitive to smell. I could probably hire out as a bomb sniffing human, if the editing work dries up. This can be pleasant, smelling the first grape hyacinth of Spring, say, but most of the time it's just a big old bother (there are many more unshowered [or over-showered and over-perfumed] masses in the world than there are grape hyacinths).

Yesterday, as I was working on a long review paper on the uses of botulism in medicine (let me tell ya, doctors use it for a lot more than just freezing rich faces into masks of disbelief), I noticed it.

Onions.

I sniffed my hands **sniff sniff**. Nothing. But the smell persisted. I ignored it as long as I could, but then I had to go wash my hands with my grapefruit-scented Doc Bronner's soap. I returned to my desk and attempted to continue work. **sniff sniff**. The smell was still there.

Dang. I checked my desk for empty plates from lunches past (thank goodness for the Consort, because without him my workspace would look eerily like a bachelor's kitchen). Nope, nothing. **sniff sniff**.

Gah! I had to take the dog for a walk to get the smell out of my nose. I continued in this manner until the girls came home from school. Then I didn't spend so much time in the office. I asked them if they smelled anything. "No." It was a foolish thing to do because asking the three others in my family anything about smells is like asking a blind person, "Is this shirt too bright?"

As I type this, the smell is still here. I think I'm going to have to clean my office. **sniff sniff**

But then, then, readers, the smell of onions lost its importance. I asked the Consort to sit in my chair, in front of my laptop in its destop contraption, and smell the smell. Nothing. Then he bent down to smell my laptop, because, he said, maybe something is overheating in there. He stuck his nose right on the laptop's removable keyboard.

"Hmmm," he said, "it smells like BO in there."

Goldarnit. He's right. How am I supposed to be able to work now?

Something's Rotten in the State of America UPDATE: Even More Rotten

For a longer list of human-error ballot blunders, see this list.

The Consort passed along a link to a Daily Kos piece last week, but I didn’t pay attention to it until he brought it up again this weekend.

Now, I think everyone should go read the entry, and have all their friends read the entry, no matter what political party you call your own; but I’ll briefly summarize here.

In four critical states, including Ohio, a new Diebold voter registry system has been preparing to purge voter registry lists. They’ve focused on university areas and apartment dwelling areas (both traditionally Democratic and with high turnover). They generated a list of over 1 million addresses, to which a long letter was sent explaining voter risk, voter security, blah, blah, then, buried deep in the letter, was a warning that unless the voter went and confirmed their address, their name would be purged from the voter lists. (Some examples of the discrepancy between lists was a university student who changed dorm addresses and a bloue-collar worker whose voter registration had only his building address, but his drivers liscense included an apartment number.)

It seems that if one did read the entire letter, and then went to the appointed place to fix any discrepancies, then there would be long lines in which “[w]hile everyone present seemed to have enough information to allow the records to be updated, my friend told me it was being done by one and only one clerk and was taking a very long time, about 5 minutes per person to resolve. Everyone in line confirmed that several voters had given up in frustration and left.”


I don’t care where one places oneself on the political spectrum, I think most people are honest and fair and would prefer to win in an honest and fair election. Cheating is just plain wrong, folks.

Go read the report at the Daily Kos.

WANTED: DeadAlive or Alive

Have you seen this rabbit:

This felon has been identified as the perpetrator of the following crimes: ruthless destruction of property, wanton vandalism, and seducing young women of good repute to aid and abet a wanted criminal. REWARD for any information as to his whereabouts (extra points for finding us a lawyer willing to write a warrant for his arrest).

Evidence #1. A small pile of laundry in the hallway. A mix of Trixie's and mine. What do I find this morning? This:


Evidence #2. The front of the jeans (did I mention these were my favorite pair?) :


Evidence #3. My silver shoes (I definitely suggest clicking on the picture and seeing the larger size: the strap was chewed, the heel was scraped, and a small bit was eaten out of the side front) :

If It's the Only Way to Get Republicans to Fund Textbooks For Schools...

...it's pretty pitiful:

OKLAHOMA CITY (AP) -- A candidate for state superintendent of schools said Thursday he wants thick used textbooks placed under every student's desk so they can use them for self-defense during school shootings." Entire story at AP.

There really isn't anything else to say, is there?

Well, other than: Gee, I wonder how much money he and his aides spent to produce this 10-minute video? And they say fiscally responsible Republicans are nowhere to be found!

Fickleness

My parents had a tendency to dream out loud. Things like, “We’re going to buy this actual house right here. See this room downstairs, this will be your room, Imperatrix. It has its own bathroom, and when you have friends over, you’ll be able to hang out in the downstairs family room without your younger siblings bothering you.” Or, “We’re going to buy you this car.” Things of that ilk. It turns out that when this is done consistently to a kid, they stop trusting the promises those adults tell them.

I decided that I wouldn’t prey on my children’s hope in that way, ever.

I also believe strongly in hubris. Enough that I probably could write a This I Believe essay on it. Seriously. Here’s my definition of hubris: If someone makes a self-assured statement about something out loud and to others, then they have put themselves at risk of failing to achieve that very thing. There is a maliciousness to Fate that never backs down on a dare. For example, “I know I breathed in that carcinogen in the lab, but it was too small a breath—not enough to do any damage.” Or, “That job for entertainment director for the Carribean cruise line? I’ll get it. No problem.”

Now, I have found that not many other people in my world have this strong belief of the negative power of hubris. So they keep talking. And I keep cringing. And when I finally accept the assurance that something will be a done deal, and we talk at dinner with the girls about something as if it will probably happen, and I think I can finally blog about it, … well, what do you know? Hubris sends me an email and says, “Surprise!”

Pardon me while I go sulk.

"Na No Wry Moe"

When I started this blog, eleven months ago, part of my secret agenda was that I, like millions of people out in the world, wanted to be a writer.* I wanted to be famous as Terry Pratchett or CJ Cherryh. I wanted to be rich as Croesus. (Yes, I know writers everywhere say that they do it for love, that you can’t get rich writing, that very few make it to the national stage, yadda, yadda, yadda. But I’m thinkin’, they just don’t want to share the wealth. If they can scare off a slew of potential writers, there’s more cash in the pot for them. Heh. Little do they know I am way wilier than that and can see through their little ploy.)

I have all these stories in my head. I tell them to myself all the time. I made the mistake of telling the girls about a few of them, and they’ve been pestering me ever since to WRITE THE DAMN THINGS DOWN. Without the “damn” part. They’re way more polite than I am. The problem is, I chose to become an editor. You know, one of those people who pick apart your prose and scramble it up. One of those things that writing courses always warn you about: Your Internal Editor. Except mine was internal, external, as well as a perfectionist. Trust me, you don’t want to be around when my internal monologue is going full swing. What abuse I take from that IE. Chip, chip, chip goes the chisel, and I often find myself several feet shorter than I started at when I sat down to write. (I find it amazing that I haven’t disappeared into nothing after 35 years of this. [I don’t think I was hard on myself the first 3 years of life; who knows? Maybe I’ve repressed it so strongly I can’t find it. Not that I really want to, you know. Find it, that is.])

So, starting a blog, and trying to write every day, was my first step. Thinking back on it, I think you’re supposed to write a bit every day on the kind of stuff that you’d like to eventually Write. Hmmm. I think I took a wrong turn somewhere…

Turns out, I made friends from blogging, and I like to go chat with you all at your blogs most days, as well. It’s only being neighborly, right? But, considering I’m not a woman of leisure, blogging time took up most of my free time (and some not-free time that I annexed as my addiction got worse), so none of the stories in my head have made it on paper. (I don’t think I’ve distracted the IE beast enough yet.)

Thanks to KathyR, I’ve found out about National Novel Writing Month. Well, I’d seen people mention NaNoWriMo on the professional mailing lists I’m on, but I didn’t look into it. It works like this: During the course of one month, November, people try to write 50,000 words (so if you want to take weekends off [like me because I am a certified Lazy Bum], that’s 10 pages a day—a DAY). It may become a novel, but most probably it won’t. I see it as the Liquid Plumr of writer’s block. If you put enough pressure on the clog, all that hair and grease and Internal Editor goop just has to be punched through and you’ll find yourself at the end of NaNoWriMo with one, really good, pure, powerful, brilliant metaphor that you can then use in the start of a real piece of work that’ll come from that kernel of goodness. (Or maybe I’m expecting too much, who knows?)

I’ve already signed up. Anybody wanna join me in this endeavor? C’mon, you know you want to.

*(Oh my god. Did I really write that out loud? Holy crap, I actually told real people about this? I am so screwed.)

Where We Are

Where we are
Originally uploaded by friuduric.

I took this picture at the amusement park this summer, when we took the family there for Trixie's birthday. You can see just how excited she is about finally getting her family to the place she's been talking up for months!

They are my two cutie-patooties.

Knitting Blogging, with Dog

What I should be doing right now: Editing economics papers.
Why I’m not doing it: The furnace man is coming sometime late-morning-early-afternoon (i.e., now) (Did I mention we had freezing weather last week and when I turned it on our furnace wasn’t working [yes, the pilot is lit]? And that when it did start running, about 24 hours after I turned it on, it makes a very loud whining noise? So we’ve been keeping the house temp at 56-58 degrees F? No? Well, I just did.), and my doorbell is acting up (please, no jokes about everything breaking down in my house right now), so I am doing stuff (i.e., blogging) in the dining room to be able to hear the furnace man’s knock.
What I offer instead: A terribly boring post about the terribly boring knitting project I’m doing right now.

Background: I ordered the materials from KnitPicks to make the Emma Jacket. I thought it would be a good way to try steeks (eek!). Steeks are when you knit something in the round (that is, a tube), then you cut (hence the eek!) it open. Typically this is used to insert the sleeves in color work like Fair-isle sweaters. In the Emma project, you start with just enough stitches for your back (it probably doesn't help my feeling for this project that when Trixie first saw it she said, "Wow! That looks really small for you!"), increase the number of stitches as you knit your rounds to create a sloped front, add in the sleeves, cut open the jacket front, add a lapel (which, the more I look at it, the more I think it’s way too 1970s wide), and you get a sweater:

But it is done in stockinette stitch (knit one row, purl one row; bear with me, non-knitting readers, I’m teaching you something here. Believe me, you won’t realize how cool knowing this will make you in typical barroom banter until you mention it to your new buddies). On circulars, this means knitting every row. Boring boring boring.

With Dog: Woman, you are freaking me out! First you keep pressing the doorbell over and over and won’t let me check who’s there. Then, when I finally stop howling, you make me sit here with this knitting, when all I really want is to sit under the blanket on the loveseat:


What do you mean, “don’t touch the little wooden sticks?” They were tickling my leg! I give you the Evil Look of Disdain:


*Sigh*. I give up. Take your damn pictures, but don’t expect me to look at you, lady!

SP9 Contest: Favorite Things

The hostess for my group of SP9ers is having a little contest. If I answer a few questions, I could win a free gift. Never one to let a free gift pass me by, here are my answers. Consider this a meme, if you like.

Favorite Actor
Ed Harris.
Favorite Actress
Gwynneth Paltrow.
Favorite Animal
African grey parrot. Wouldn’t it be cool to have a pet that actually talks to you? I’m one of those people who believe the research showing that African greys do more than just mimic phrases.
Favorite Band
*Sigh*. I’ve left the two music questions for last, because how is a reasonable person supposed to pick just one favorite band? No fair.
…Aha!
JacquesBrelZapMamaProdigyAniDiFrancoKateBush.
That’d keep me happy on a deserted island.
Favorite Beverage
Red wine. Wait, does that make me a slush*? Maybe I should note that every day I drink two monster mugs of Celtic Breakfast tea (which is true), and that I have never drunk two monster mugs of red wine (which is also true).
Favorite Book
Diamond Age, by Neal Stephenson. I also like Ursula K. Le Guin’s short story Buffalo Gals, Won’t You Come Out Tonight.
Favorite Bubble Bath
I don’t really do bubble baths. But I like ginger and orange, say for sugar scrubs, etc. I’ve also started buying unscented Doc Bronner’s liquid soap and adding grapefruit essential oil to it; this is what is in all our sinktop soap dispensers.
Favorite Candy
Leonidas Manon blanc. I’d sell a child for these.
Favorite Color
Blue.
Favorite Flower
Grape hyacinth: They come out early in the spring, and they smell soooooo good!
Favorite Food
Mashed potatoes is the ultimate comfort food. Oh, but the question wasn’t comfort food, it was just *food*. So I’d definitely say Thai food. Red curry, yellow curry, green curry, pad thai, anything really.
Favorite Lip Balm
The girls and I made our own honey and beeswax lip balm a few months ago, and I like that best because it has no petroleum products in it.
Favorite Lotion
Unscented.
Favorite Movie
Lord of the Rings trilogy, of course!!!!
Favorite Song
OK. My sneaky trick won’t work more than once. Let’s just throw a monkey wrench in the works and say Ain’t No Sunshine by Bill Withers.
Favorite TV Show
As I always say, we don’t watch TV. But we do rent DVDs. We’ve seen the first season of the new Battlestar Gallactica, and I loved it. Maybe when the Consort and the girls go skiing in January, I’ll rent the entire second season and watch it on my own. As a family we are going through Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel (1 disc of each per month), so we really shouldn't add another show to the mix.
Favorite Vacation Spot
When I was growing up, my parents would take us to spend at least a week every summer on the beach of Assateague, VA (you know, as in Misty of Chincoteague). Nowadays, we haven’t actually gone back to a place we’ve visited already (not counting visits to family, of course). But I really enjoyed the week we spent camping at Custer State Park in South Dakota a few years ago. There was fabulous hiking, swimming in mountain lakes, and panning for gold; we saw big horn sheep, bison, antelope, burros, and prairie dogs. Oh, and we also saw the Crazy Horse monument and Mount Rushmore.

*Yes, I know the correct term is lush, but I think slush is more onomatopoeic.

Shopping: The Bane of Existence

Blech. I hate shopping. I went shopping for clothes yesterday, and I found nothing. Who wants thin silky skirts in the winter? We don’t all work in overheated office buildings, you know. I want some comfy skirts, preferably in thick warm winter fabrics. I like long skirts that are straight then flute at the bottom (I’ve got one black one; I need more. That’s why I went shopping). That way you can take long strides and not feel that you’re tripping yourself up (I’ve got one denim skirt that does that to me; we have a love/hate relationship, that skirt and I).

It seems my cycle goes something like this: Buy clothes from catalogs. Things work for a while. Realize all the shipping money you’re shelling out. Get frustrated. Buy clothes from stores for a while. Waste hours and hours going to shops, trying on clothes, waiting in lines. Get frustrated. Visit consignment shops. See pretty things in sizes other than your own (the rack for your own size is overstocked with potato-sack monstrosities; I am not a monstrosity, nor am I a potato). Get frustrated. Decide to start making clothes. Make a skirt/dress/top. Become shocked at the price of fabric, curse at the whole lining issue, bemoan the amount of time wasted in cutting and sewing. Get frustrated. Lather, rinse, repeat.

I’m thinking maybe I can break the cycle by doing this: Buy some thick brocade fabric, cut up the denim skirt, and add in brocade panels to turn it into a fluted skirt (I bypass the whole lining issue). Go online and find one or two catalog skirts. Go to a consignment store and buy some warm wintery tops.

Blech. I hate shopping. I wish there was a uniform to life, just like in high school.

Word Wednesday: The Moral of the Story

“Hey Joe, Have you got a minute? I’ve been looking at our budget, and I think I’ve found a way to save us some wasted bucks.”
“Oh, yeah? What’ve you found, Bob?”
“Well, see this figure here?”
“Yeah.”
“That, Joe, is how much we pay the guy who we hired to proofread the docs for us.”
“Holy cow! That guy sure charges a hefty fee!”
“That’s what I thought. And then I got to thinking. We’re all educated folks in this office …”
“Right.”
“… And our word processing software comes with a spell check function. So really, hiring out for ‘proofreading’ isn’t necessary…”
“Genius, Bob! Get right on it. You know, the taxpayers will thank you for saving them so much money. That kind of initiative will help you go far, buddy-boy.”
“Thanks, Joe.”

Typo Will Cost Michigan County $40,000
(10/10/06 - GRAND HAVEN, MI) - Ottawa County will pay about $40,000 to correct an embarrassing typo on its Nov. 7 election ballot: The "L" was left out of "public."

Five or six people in [the county Clerk's] office had proofread the ballot, but it was an election clerk who found the mistake early last week.

(I am not making this up.)

Why We Should Protect Rainforests, Reason #3,796

"A colorful new bird has been discovered in a previously unexplored Andean cloud forest, spurring efforts to protect the area, conservation groups said Monday."

Read the whole article.

Photo by AP. I just can't get the linking right.

Peaceable Imperatrix: Answering Your Questions Since 2005

What is an imperatrix, you ask? Considering this blog was the first site returned on that query, clearly I am the embodiment of imperatrix.

Bosoms? Actually, yes (otherwise I’d be an imperator). But you won’t see pictures here.

Sometimes, an imperatrix participates in a secret pal game, and she may even sneak in a picture of what she made for her pal on her flickr site and will be mailing out later today. You never know. Imperatrixes are tricksy that way.

Can you saute okra? Sure, but remember that sauteeing will release its unique mucilaginous juice. I happen to like that, but some don’t. (For those people, you can bake the okra in a corn pudding.)

And, to the seeker who wondered why okra is not good for the heart, can I just say: Begone, ye of little faith! Don’t be trying to use me for your weak excuses not to eat healthy!

Lastly, to the person searching for foot phobias: Thank you for bringing to my attention this lapse on the part of Google. I will contact them immediately. It isn’t that I have a foot phobia, it’s that some people have foot philia (Podephilia, perhaps? Philiapods? Philiapodes?).