Frozen

No, not my home or me, well, yes, me. I am tired of my current employement. Since no one is allowed a private life anymore, even on the web, I can't go into details because even though it's my opinion and I always state it as such, they could probably sue me. And they're just big enough...insert derrogatory comment heres to do so.

I won't insult the word Bitch by using it to describe them. Frankly, if my only choices are to be a bitch or a compliant, constantly irrationally cheerful mote of sunshine, I'll be the bitch, thank you very much.

Anyway, I never played well with others--I can scan my kindergarten report cards if you like--and job hunting is a particularly unpleasant activity for me. On top of the whole "I never get the ones I want" problem I have (both professionally and personally, but that's a post for another day), deciding to take a particular job (since I've never had a time when there was more than one from which to choose) is problematic. How do I know I'm making the right decision? Which way is the right way?

Currently, I'm online avoiding double checking my resume for a job out of state. I have a better than even chance of interviewing for this position, even though I'm probably not as qualified as others who might want it, due to who I know (heh, for once.) I don't know it's the right thing to do, to move. What if I move and the perfect opportunity opens up here? What if I move and I hate it there? What if I move and it turns out to have been the wrong choice to make?

I ruined myself by taking physics in high school. The concept of multiple realities and the billions of realities that open up at the making of each choice....it makes me freeze before the big ones (although I have no problem deciding between iced or hot mocha at Starbucks, although if I drop the hot one on my lap while driving my whole reality could change in a flash.)

Sigh. I think too much. And my cousin just walked in, and I want to talk to her about alpacas. That makes sense, it really does. Unlike most of my life.

Harrumph.

I've been keeping busy. I frogged the gaiter I was working on in the fine blue yarn (it's too fine for the project, even though it's the sort called for--ok, ok, it's too fine for me to use for the project. I really haven't got that much patience.) I restarted the same project in a heavier yarn, the red I used for my Rasta hat. I read the Yarnharlot's book, Knitting Rules!, in which she encourages you to make gauge swatches. If I hadn't taken her advice, it would have been impossible to convert the pattern for me. So I've got a swatch and a beginning pattern notebook, and I feel like a real-life, grown up knitter now. Well, sort of.

I'm still avoiding my sweater, though. I'm going through my chocolate time, if you know what I mean, and I feel this is a project to begin on a day when I'm feeling wrecklessly brave and confident, not sobbing into my cocoa-wheats at Hallmark commercials.

My cable's going in and out, too, and it's driving me nuts. I hate it when it sticks like that. I get about three seconds of a show, then a minute of black, then several more seconds of show, then black.... I'm about to slap someone. I want to watch this show! Grrrrr.

Oh, well. Gives me more time to read the book of Lovecraft stories I got out of the library. Thank God I don't tend to avoid authors based on their politics or personality, or I'd never read these. Eh. So far, he's no M. R. James, but he's ok.

Grrr, Blogger!

I started a post, but Blogger ate it. Which, considering the trouble I'm having getting a picture to upload, is not surprising. Let's try this again.....

I've got a picture here of the yarn I bought for my very firstiest sweater ever:




Isn't it pretty? The picture I'm seeing is quite blue, but in actual real-life, it's more purple. I need to test it for color fastness (which should take all of three seconds) but I'm hesitating. I'm hesitating on starting the sweater itself, too. I'm a chicken when it comes to my knitting, and since a) the sweater is so very, very pretty and b) the yarn is so very, very pretty, I'm hesitant to screw it up. But there's a big part of me that just wants to start it already. Sigh, I'm so torn!


I'm actually supposed to be going to my knitting group tonight, but today was the second day of my "baby-brand-new" gym habit, and my trainer wiped the floor with my weenie a$$. She's far better, and has more finesse than our last personal trainer (my place of employement, while not paying me fair market value for my services, does offer beautiful freebies, which probably more than makes up the difference--we've got a gym and personal trainer, yoga, pilates and a step class, mostly paid medical, fully vested 100% matching up to 100% of our salary 401(k), etc.) who, being a 300 lb former Marine didn't appreciate that, as a female, I sit to pee, or, more precisely, I have to stand up again to get out of the bathroom, and therefore didn't understand that several sets of 75+ speed squats were not a good idea. She modified my workout today to compensate for the fact that I hyperextend my knees (ie, bend them backwards when I lock them). Of course, "modify" does not in any way, shape or form imply she "simplified" or "made it easier"--to the contrary, I got double the ab work today. I almost puked, but my knees aren't sore.


Anyway, I just have to brag on my Nieceling. Four weeks ago, I purchased a book for her in New York City as part of her "Auntie Went On A Trip" swag. It was new. Brand new. Sparkly, even. I asked her to borrow it (I got her Golden Compass, a book I'd always thought of reading but didn't want to buy it for myself), so last Saturday, my father comes in and drops a book on the counter saying "here's the book --insert Nieceling's name here--said you wanted to borrow." I didn't even recognize it. Why, you ask?

Someone done read this one hard, y'all.


At least I know it's been read, LOL! Actually, I don't mind. There's something about a delicately curled and skinned book that speaks of a wanton, voluptuous enjoyment of the contents. This is the bibliophilic equivalent of what happens to Michel Cluizel 98% Dark Chocolate squares when I'm around. I can practically hear her little eyes licking every last word from the page. Another little pervy bibliophile in training. E-eexcellent. *tents fingers and taps them sequentially* Nephew is just as bad, only he tends to be easier on the covers, which is, frankly, surprising. For a little baby linebacker (actually, he got moved to center, which makes sense because in Pee Wee Football terms, hitting Nephew is a bit like ramming a cement wall; ain't nobody getting to the QB with him in front) he's awful delicate with his stuff. It's kind of cute, actually. Although I see it becoming obnoxious and tiring as he gets older. Sigh, fussy men are so...irritating!