Naked by David Sedaris

I love David Sedaris and everything he does. 

This book of stories is a bit more morose than average though–I know he was working on it around when his mother died, and Sedaris also seems more comfortable as a writer with this book, which may have allowed him to express more delicate, painful things.  Nevertheless, the book is still full of great funny moments.  I know some Sedaris fans prefer his full-on humor above all else, but I’m willing to take the sadness with the fun.  I’m sure I’ll reread several of these stories again. 

The Valley of Fear by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (free via Project Gutenburg!)

According to some critics, this is Doyle’s best story.  Well, some critics are dolts.  I don’t know if people assume that a writer’s last novel is always his/her best, or if the jump in narrative is seen as kooky or inventive.  I’m not saying the book is bad–it’s not.  It’s just not as good as other Holmes stories.  It has some errors common to insufficiently edited material: Holmes names Moriarty as the ringleader, despite the fact that Moriarty is already dead according to the timeline of the series; Moriarty is never successfully connected to the story; the initial storyline seems like a flimsy excuse to expose the flashback storyline.  So no, not Doyle’s best.

I normally get to go to the American Craft Council show in Baltimore when it comes to town and marvel at the fantastic work there.  As much as I enjoy attempting to create beautiful bits and bobs, appreciating other folks’ acts of beauty is what it’s all about. But the snow interceded, and I decided to settle for the bits of beauty that came my way right here at home.

The snow itself was far from shabby.

We got about six inches of snow, gorgeous as it fell, and a huge boon to our snow dog. 

Edited to add: Rachel demanded snow dog pics, so here are some older snow dog pics.  Kayo was moving too fast on Sunday to get any clear photos.  These are a year old:

And phalaenopsis season got underway in our own little micro-climate. 

We have dozens and dozens of buds on our charges.  I don’t generally go for showy flowers, but there’s something particularly uplifting about having these beauties wake up during winter.

Scott brought me back an entirely different kind of flower from Arizona.  It’s a piece of Dominican Amber with a small inflorescence, there in the upper center of the pic.  I heart it.

Scott also brought back some goodies from Richard.  A while back, I handed over a piece of Gaulish dig-trash that I wanted Richard to copy and reproduce in bronze.  The original was difficult to hang as a pendant, and I figured Richard could add some sort of ring to the back.  Well, he sent the prototypes home with Scott, and I’m astounded.  I can’t believe how cleanly he managed to copy the original.  I’m thinking I’ll get him to make, oh, a thousand copies.

I wish I could get a picture clear enough to show you what a great job he did, but, well, I drink a lot of coffee sometimes, and this is a small bit of metal I’m trying to photograph.  It’s about 2.5 centimeters tall and 4ish wide, and both the original and the copies were sandcast in bronze, though the two castings were more than 2000 years apart.  Trust me when I say that the prototypes look great.  One has already landed in AnnaMarie’s hot little hands–she has a very conveniently placed birthday, that one.  And one keeps winding up on my neck. 

That’s a horse, of course, with his head on the left.  The rider is faced perpendicular to the beastie, which is appropriate to most horse archers.  The combination of subject matter and origin make for a pretty sweet little totem for Scott and me.

I didn’t spend all of my time tending the pets while Scott was away.  I also shoveled a lot of ice.  And read.  And watched a strange variety of films.  And I apparently spent a fair amount of time at work, though I’m a bit fuzzy on that bit.  And when I was neither shoveling ice nor monkeying with code nor tending very needy pets nor reading books that required I hold them open, I knit.  My Midwest Moonlight is finished.

I used Knitpicks Gloss in "dusk" for this scarf.  Pre-swatching, I was planning to make this lovely item out of some Mountain Colors Mountain Goat I had on hand.  When it came down to it I just couldn’t subject a handpaint to the lace, and I couldn’t subject the lace pattern to the handpaint.  I pulled out some Gloss to save myself from buying more yarn.  I could not be more pleased–particularly when considering that the project cost me $8.  The scarf is very soft, warm but not stifling, and wonderful in its lightness.  I was assuming I’d give this baby away to the first person who complimented it, but having worn it a couple of times and noticed the color’s complimentary effect on my eyes, I may end up keeping it.  It’s lovely, and I’m looking forward to using the other Gloss in the stash for socks.

When the scarf wasn’t the right project, the blanket was.  It’s far too big for the coffee table now. 

I’ve given a fair amount of thought to how I’ll edge this monster when the time comes.  I was also thinking some drastic blocking thoughts.

Now, though, I’ve fallen in love with its undulations.  It’s a like a low mountain range; like the Appalachians; or like the Chesapeake in moderate winds.  I’ve also branched out a bit with the yarns, tossing in some of the lighter odds and ends leftover from non-sock projects.  Speedwell has developed an unhealthy attachment to the blanket, which makes me think it’s either destined for the guest room or for a friend’s home.  Both concepts make me sad.  I’m loving the weight of this particular blankie though, and appreciate it’s presence in my lap now that we have finally found winter. 

Originally added by Rachel

So I’m a bookseller for a living. Generally I love it–it’s one of those jobs you fall into to pay the rent as a starving English major and for some people, like me, it becomes an obsession. Er, career, I think they call it. But sometimes bookselling makes you feel dirty.

This week is one of those weeks. And it’s because of two books. One good book, one bad book. And it’s all making me feel ugly.

The good book? The Higher Power of Lucky, by Susan Patron just won the Newberry Award. Yay for it. So what’s the problem? Well, there is no problem, as far as I’m concerned. But to some people, the fact that it uses the word “scrotum” on the first page disqualifies it as a kid’s book altogether.

Sigh.

Yes, evidently, parents (or god forbid, teachers) cannot possibly explain to their 9-12 year old children what a scrotum is. Evidently scrotums are evil. Dog scrotums included, since the scrotum in question does in fact belong to a dog. A DOG, people! A dog. Dogs are not even required by law to cover their scrotums in public. Yet. Check with me again in a few years on that one. I have a feeling some new legislation just might be in works.

The bad book? Well, I’m sure there have been worse. In my stint at a self-help bookstore, I sold some doozies. But this one went on Oprah, and now everybody must have one, and it’s, well, dumb. Let me quote liberally from Dwight Garner of the New York Times, who I think put it best:

There are good self-help books and bad self-help books. But once in a while one comes along that’s so comically and so brazenly cynical and manipulative that it produces a kind of inverse sonic boom — you can practically hear the sound of shattered bookstore windows rippling up and down the coasts. Picking it up, you know you’re in the presence of demented genius. And you know, somehow, it’s going to sell. Such a book is ”The Secret,” by Rhonda Byrne — No. 3 on the hardcover advice list. ”The Secret” has a faux-antiquated ”Da Vinci Code” look and comes on like a Great Books seminar for the feeble-minded (”Fragments of a Great Secret,” the jacket copy intones, ”have been found in the oral traditions, in literature, in religions and philosophies”) or a Bill Moyers PBS special produced by superstitious elves. Byrne’s book promises, as many do, to help you zero in on ”the hidden, untapped power” that’s somewhere inside you. But to get at this ”secret” to success and well-being, you need to flip through so many pages of world-class inanities (”You are the most powerful transmission tower in the Universe,” ”Visualize checks in the mail,” ”Food cannot cause you to put on weight, unless you think it can”) that you begin to think the author is in on the joke and that you’re finally reading the self-help version of ”This Is Spinal Tap.” No such luck. And the ”secret,” it turns out, isn’t much more than ”The Power of Positive Thinking” breaded with hokum and deep-fried. Visualize checks in the mail? I’m going to visualize people doing better things — buying the new Jim Harrison novel? going to the zoo? — with their $23.95.

So, to sum up, while people are actively censoring what seems like a great kid’s book, quite possibly the most condescending book ever written is being treated like the solution to world hunger. I hate everybody.

A random poem, because it makes me feel better:

Untitled, by Kate Knapp Johnson

It is not white. Cannot
float. It doesn’t think there are so many
flowers in this garden.
It is the iron darkness
from inside. Honest, but liable
to snag in the enemy’s fat hand.
It’s the goat, shivering dog, bad
girl. The unwanted,
Different. It is anything
different.

What is the soul? Shame,
they said. You should be ashamed.

I meant to take all sorts of lovely photos of new knitting, but things got a little dramatic.

Yarrow, our perpetual kitten, made a horrible, terrifying, heart-breaking cry on Saturday.  I gathered him up and tried to find the cause, but he’s not the most compliant of cats.  I figured I’d keep an eye on him for a while and see what was injured.  Yarrow started drooling in a new way–he drools when he’s happy, but this was different.  And then he didn’t want to eat the blappiest of wet food. 

And then Kayo demanded I take the cat to the emergency vet. 

See, Kayo was the one who insisted I take our seemingly healthy cat Scath to the vet for what was apparently a little cold.  Well, it wasn’t a cold–it was lung cancer.  And Kayo’s frantic, whining, nose-poking intervention helped us get an early diagnosis for Scath and extended his life by at least a few months.  Months during which we got to spoil the hell out of the best cat we had ever met.  I am so grateful to Kayo for his intervention that I will continue spoiling all hell out of him for as long as I possibly can–heroism should be rewarded. 

So when Kayo demanded I take Yarrow to the emergency vet, I listened.  Our poor cat either tried to poison himself with something caustic, licked an electrical socket (I really don’t think he’s that kind of dumb), came down with a cat illness that’s very rare in indoor cats, or some combination of the three.  He had a pretty bad lesion on his tongue, consistent with one of those three options, and a really really high fever that came out of nowhere.  Because of Kayo’s demands, I got Yarrow to the vet in time for them to save his little kitten brain.  They got his temperature down to a safe level, hooked him up to fluids, and gave him some pain killers so he would be willing to eat and drink on his own.  And then the perpetual kitten started playing with his IV tubes and trying to eat the techs.  When I explained my dog’s roll in Yarrow’s trip to the vet, they were suitably  impressed and offered to send home some treats for Kayo.    I don’t think it’s the same as a vet’s salary, but it’s nice to see him earn his keep in such a wonderful way.

So now Dr. Kayo can relax, and Yarrow is almost back to normal.  If I’m not mistaken, he’s very very grateful to Kayo and to me.  Kayo isn’t used to the perpetual kitten trying to groom and snuggle with him–that’s Speedwell’s job.  And I’m not sure I needed Yarrow to express his gratitude to me for a full hour starting at 2:00 a.m., but I’m happy to accept his love whenever he decides to give it.  Especially if he’ll agree to groom a bit less of my skin away from now on. 

I am not gloating.  I may seem to be gloating, but I’m not.  Well, maybe I’m gloating a tiny little bit, but, really, who can blame me?

I am wearing a hand-knit sweater, and I was wearing a hand-knit scarf and a hand-knit hat and a hand-knit felted coat this morning (though I didn’t make the coat . . . but I totally could).  Last weekend, I knit and spun with a visiting friend.  This weekend, I’ll knit and spin with local friends.  And quite possibly bake fantastic homemade bread to feed them.   Unless I nap instead.

I have been re-reviewed at work, and all trace of the badness has been erased.  And the icing on the cake?  We had a bit of a staff meeting today, and every change our manager asked for from our team of six was a correction of the woman who was unfair to me.  He’s demanding that she be civil and that she remember who actually writes her checks, and that she treat her coworkers with respect.  She was sulking.  I was polite and engaged.  But I’m not gloating. 

And my dog has snow.  My dog loves snow, and he finally got some to play in.  We’ll be spending much of the coming long weekend at the park having almost as fun as we would if Scott were home this weekend.  Because when something good happens to me, Kayo get spoiled.  And when something bad happens to me, Kayo gets spoiled.  Really, it’s the dog who should be gloating.   He’s clearly a genius, with his "job" playing with toys, hanging out with his two favorite people, and eating treats.  It’s Kayo who is gloating.

The Hound of the Baskervilles by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Snowed in, sans husband (who is in Arizona with Richard and Otuell and Moragh and and and . . .  I’m trying very hard not to be jealous) reading, watching every scrap of material on the Rome season one DVDs, and knitting my fingers to the bone.  Also, trying but failing to catch up on blogs . . . I’m not trying to be so far behind, my stitching friends, but I can’t catch up. 

Perfect winter reading, this.  I’m still on the "I should have read this fifteen years ago" kick, and some Sherlock Holmes demanded attention. 

I’m glad I read it, I’m well into The Valley of Fear, another Doyle classic, and then I think I’ll be covered.  As the child of a true mystery buff, I’ve got to say that the "who done it" isn’t much of a question to me in these novels.  Maybe I’m over-qualified, or maybe mysteries themselves have changed too much since Doyle’s day and modern audiences are too hard to surprise. 

There are certain bits and bobs in Doyle’s work that make us well-trained liberal arts folks a bit antsy.  I think the word "Hottentot" and all of the hateful racism associated with it should just fade into history now, and it hasn’t yet.  Phrenology is funny from a distance of many decades–perhaps it wasn’t when Doyle was scribbling away.  Still and all, a good light read for good cold weather, and an interesting study into British questions of class.

Juno came to stay with us last weekend.  We had way more than our share of fun.  Let me give you a rundown.

Juno finally got to meet Scott and the pets.   Kayo tried to be fierce, but realized that fierceness would get in the way of being spoiled.  Speedwell gave up the scaredy-cat routine pretty quickly and declared his undying love for her.  Yarrow tried to convince us he was too cool to pay any attention to us girls, but even he cracked and wound up playing with Juno.

We talked non-stop.

We did a fair amount of knitting and spinning.  Juno’s new travel wheel is intriguingly well-designed, and started making overtures to my wallet.  My wheel came out of hibernation for the first time in ages.  The blanket and the lace scarf grew a bit, a mostly-full bobbin grew into a full bobbin.  It was good.

We ate bridies.  I only made the standard 36 bridies.  They made a great dinner on Friday night, and we broke down and shared the rest on Sunday.  There were some homemade cookies too.  And pancakes.  And a trip to Picante.  Not all at once, mind you.  No one exploded.

We went to Middleburg to visit Hunt Country Yarns and the Red Fox Inn.  Surprisingly, we got in and out with relatively few incongruous jodhpur sitings.  And I made it past the book store without a single purchase.  I am mighty.

Sunday, we spent the afternoon at Bodwin and Rowan’s place, knitting, convincing Nehyatt that she should learn to knit, and watching the guys smash things with hammers.  And eating bridies, of course.

All fun.  All, all fun.

And now Scott is interviewing for his dream job, and then heading off to Arizona for a week to swing sticks and hang out with Richard.  I am trying to control my jealousy.  Well, I’m trying to try to control my jealousy, and plotting ways for Kayo and I to sneak into Scott’s luggage.  Don’t tell.

Math has made me her bitch, yet again.  Scott’s sweater isn’t going to be right, I should have known better than to be so blithe about my calculations, and I’m going to have to start over.  I think I’ll start over in an entirely different yarn.  And maybe I’ll finish that too-small sweater and give it to Dulaan, once I get over the self-induced slight.

I accidentally started Midwest Moonlight, from Scarf Style, to have something other than the sweater, more interesting than the blanket, and less demanding than Print O’ the Wave to work on.  It’s a lovely scarf, and I’m really impressed with the Knit Picks Merino sock yarn I’m using for it.  I’m not sure whether or not I’ll keep it, but it’s a great diversion in the mean time.

I’m surprisingly cheery about the sweater  debacle, because something else that was wrong is apparently going to be set perfectly to rights, perhaps by the end of today.  All hell broke loose at work: my manager abdicated his responsibilities and asked absolutely the wrong person to do my annual review.  She is unfamiliar with my work, apparently has an overwhelming problem with me personally, and has less of an attachment to truth that I would prefer.  She took the opportunity to slam me.  It was a strange thing, because, if nothing else, I am a very hard worker.  Being me, I had to contest my review.  It’s all been terribly stressful, but I think I’ve conducted myself well, I think I am about to come out of this smelling like roses and my adversary is going to look like a vindictive, lying jerk.  Today is the big bad sit down, my coworkers and client are on my side, and I am breathing a huge sigh of relief.  So trouble with gauge in a sweater?  Not so bad at all. 

The last time I was in a really bad situation at work, Scott got me a lovely silver Ganesh necklace.  It was  a huge comfort to me then, so I took to wearing it again.  I don’t claim to be an expert of Hindu myth, by any stretch of the imagination, but the Destroyer of Obstacles has got to be one of the most appropriate inspirational figures in the human pantheon.  I’ve got some big reading to do.