Arrrr! It’s International Talk Like A Pirate Day!

Your pirate name is:
Dread Pirate Rackham
Like the famous Dread Pirate Roberts, you have a keen head for how to make a profit. You have the good fortune of having a good name, since Rackham (pronounced RACKem, not rack-ham) is one of the coolest sounding surnames for a pirate. Arr!

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9.7 meters per second per second. G and I discussed what this means for over an hour. There were tears, and a few “aha!” moments, but for the most part, it was a mighty struggle. We had been watching last night’s news with Brian Williams (recorded through MythTV), and the “NASA bombing the moon” story was about to start. I believe that G simply uttered the phrase “9.7 meters per second per second,” and looked at me, querying. “What does that mean?” meaning, “I know the answer, now I want to see if you do.” Enter panic mode.

In 7th and 8th grade we studied astronomy (thanks, Mr. Zagriello!) as part of our science classes, and I remember learning about ::something’s:: speed as (insert random number here) per second per second, something that was really fast. A wide-eyed, “oooh” escaping our 13-year old mouths en masse. But here, in my living room, surrounded by warm felines, I could neither pluck the number nor the object from the recesses of my brain. With G asking the question eleventy different ways, giving me eleventy different scenarios (well, really only three), I was stuck in the middle, trying to remember the lesson of twenty-eight years ago and listening to my husband prodding me, trying to elicit an answer. He was really being so patient, his voice raising only a little bit more than normal, but his excitement/frustration was readily apparent. I was failing, both at remembering the long-ago lesson, and at figuring out the current problem. The noise inside my head was cacophonous, no longer only the astronomy lesson, but also now other guilt-ridden remembrances that, to me, screamed EPIC FAIL. Mostly school-related, spanning all the way back to kindergarten. Things for which I still feel shame.

I have been told by reliable persons, persons with knowledge of the subject, that my persistent feeling of guilt is completely out of whack for the deeds done. Yeah, that’s what they tell me, and I nod my head obediently, with a half-hearted promise to think about it, really, and “just let it go.” Just let it go. Sounds so easy, so reasonable, doesn’t it? Just let it go, and you’ll feel better, it’ll be off your shoulders. Move on to better things. Your life will be so much simpler if you can do this one thing, let it go.

Caught up in this cycle of guilt and wanting to please my husband by figuring out this childishly simple problem, I fell deeper and deeper into despair. My mind felt locked, and I was standing on the outside, curtains drawn tight, meanwhile a fury of a windstorm building all around me. I begged myself to remember the lesson, knowing that if I remembered it, somehow everything would fall into place and I would be able to answer him. I looked everywhere, rattling windows, banging on walls, but nothing would shake free.

Finally, G came up with an example that I grasped. “You owe me 10¢ per minute per minute until you give me the answer, agreed? Pretend that you’re putting it into a box. So, a minute has gone by, that’s 10¢. Now two minutes, so that’s…”

“Twenty cents.”

“Right, but it’s per minute per minute. So what is that?”

“Wait, 10¢ for the first minute, 20¢ for the second minute.”

“Now, how much is in the box?”

“Thirty cents…ohhh! So, per minute per minute adds each amount to the previous amount?”

“YES. So 9.7 meters per second per second is…”

“You are going 9.7 meters in one second…and then 9.7 meters more than that…”

My brain failed at that point. I couldn’t translate dimes to meters, or what it meant. The word “cumulative” escaped me. An age later, I was able to finally say:

“You go 9.7 meters in one second, and then for the next second you go 9.7 meters faster than the last second, and so on. It escalates.”

It took over an hour to get to that point. The frustration and sheer idiocy that I felt has dissipated some as I write this, because I’m proud that I was able to get it, and really get it and be able to extrapolate further, but mixed in there is this drumbeat: “you didn’t get it right away it took forever you are stupid even a child could get it he was feeding you the answer over and over you look like an moron…” and that is the voice that I hear most loudly. The voice that pounds in my ears every time I make a mistake. Every error is a tragedy, every faltering step is fatal. I feel so much anger at myself for even the smallest thing, and then I compound the feeling by sticking my head in the sand and pushing the problem away, hiding it/from it, hoping beyond hope that it will just go away and fix itself. That it will sort itself out. That’s why there are piles of unopened mail, phones that ring unanswered, walls with no paint other than the off-white that has been here since we moved in nearly three years ago, windows without curtains. I know that the solution to so many of these problems is to just face them down and take care of them once and for all, and there are some for which I am doing that, but others have fallen by the wayside, periodically poking up through the ether to make their voices heard, “I’m here! Just finish this and I’ll leave you alone! Forever!” I mean, really, the curtains and rods for the dining room are HERE for Pete’s sake. Just haven’t put them up yet. Constant reminders that I am not taking care of things, and that translates into “You are a BAD WIFE, A BAD MOTHER, AND NOBODY LOVES YOU.”

All of this, this noise, banging around in my head, while I try to figure out what 9.7 meters per second per second means. So silly, to hang onto all of the painful stuff. I mean, it sounds easy enough. Doesn’t it?

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Tenterhooks. I am on them.

The last piece of information has been submitted, and it looks like Monday is the day I’ll find out.  I have done everything that I can have done to grease the way, and must now wait.

I’m off work tomorrow, and will spend a portion of it at the fourth birthday party of my delectable niece. Upon arriving home, I imagine that I will attack my office with high abandon and perhaps even make room for all of the beads that are currently ensconced on our otherwise lovely dining room table. Most of my stash is living in the sturdy and quite lovely fabric-covered storage boxes from The Container Store. At present, I have seven different colors/patterns and am trying to keep some semblance of control over the stash by keeping all the purple in one box, all the red in another, neutrals, etc. However, after installing ten feet of birch and white elfa shelving on the far wall of my office (all by my ownself!), I deposited *quite* a lot of sock yarn into the sliding drawers, dk weight into another, bulky, yet another. WIPs found a home in another drawer. I added these Colibri sachets to fend off Der Stinkin Moths. I’d prefer something fragrance-free in deference to the asthma-stricken Princess Pyewacket, but the fragrance is what keeps the moths at bay, so I may as well have a scent that pleases me. They contain “100% pure natural botanical essences from tea tree, vetiver, peppermint, lemongrass, neem, and others in a fine sandalwood powder base.” Neem? I lined up my knitting books and pamphletted patterns above the leather dresser shelf workspace, am thinking about a binder for my page-protected patterns,  notions found a one-runner drawer to call home.

I’m feeling manic, more than a little. If I sound so to you, please don’t hesitate to let me know.

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I’ve been struggling at work, mightily, personality conflicts with most of my coworkers, most of whom I feel quite superior to (manic much?). This last time that my manager has taken me aside to speak to me she’s told me that she knows that I like to talk to everyone, and that she’s sure that I don’t even realize that I’m doing it, but that I’m putting myself into everyone else’s conversations, and that many people don’t appreciate that, and that I should wait to be invited in and not just jump in and start talking. That there is at least one person who has requested that she keep me away from them. That she has gotten complaints about me and my lack of boundaries. That I get too personal. That I don’t know when to stop. That I do too much talking and not enough listening.

This all hit me like a hammer square between the eyes. She’s absolutely right, and even though I do not agree with her on practically anything else on the planet, I do agree with her on this.

I have finally seen the light. Been held underwater until my head was about to explode is more like it. Suffice to say that I am now painfully aware that I have a HUGE issue with personal boundaries and respecting them. Imagine my shock and surprise at realizing that not everyone thinks that everything I have to say is fascinating? That since I’m so smart, I must know what I’m talking about? That I am not welcome in every conversation? That some people actually don’t want me to talk to them? They don’t care about the information I have to share?


I am stunned, absolutely stunned and embarrassed and I feel so horrible and that I’ve been shoving myself on everyone for my entire life and everyone actually HAS been talking about me behind my back; that it isn’t just that I’m paranoid. They really ARE saying mean things about me. It’s just that I’ve done something to deserve them and that in some cases, maybe even many cases, they may be true. I just haven’t done them on purpose.

As far as therapy goes, this is the killer. I have had years of therapy. Ages of therapy. None of which was worth a good goddamn, apparently. But I guess when you aren’t open to the lesson, no matter how effective the teacher is, it won’t get through. My line of work is retail sales; I am really good at bullshitting people, myself at the top of the list. And then going right back to my old tricks, with the lesson tossed by the wayside, never looked at, never heard. This isn’t by far the first time someone’s told me what my manager said. But perhaps it’s because my job is on the line, or that I’m angling for another job and they’re doing background checks and I’m in a right state, or that my marriage is shaky and G has been throwing his hands up into the air time and time again that I think he will really just finally be completely fed up and say, “That’s it. For good. I’m done.” But for whatever reason, it hit me this time and hit me good. I get it now. This is where, G says, the healing can begin. This is where I have the chance to turn my life around. I’m bipolar, and nothing on this earth can change that, but I here have the opportunity to change how I deal with it. I need to be so diligent, so deliberate, so careful not to slip backwards. This is where I have the chance to become trustworthy. Finally, a chance to grow up.

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What’s a “knitting blog” without any knitting?

A rant, of which teh intarwebz doesn’t need more. For your perusal are some real, live, works-in-progress!

First up are my Cool By The Pool Socks. The yarn is from Yarn Chef, who has a new fiber shop on Etsy. I’ve bought a few skeins from her but as of yet, no unspun fiber. The yarn is gorgeous; the colors, heavenly. It is a delight to work with, smooth and giving in my hands.

Cool By The Pool Socks, 6 April, 2009

Cool By The Pool Socks, 6 April, 2009

Next is the first sock in a pair from a skein to which I’ve long since lost the ball band. I started knitting it back when we lived in Sleepy Hollow, before we put down my dear old girl Scaramouche (Scaramouche Will You Do The Fandango) at 17 1/2.  I couldn’t bear to pick it back up for the longest time. It’s coming along nicely, although the yarn is the teeniest but thicker than Cool By the Pool, and the fit is coming out a skosh too big. So I won’t wear these with my dress shoes. 🙂 Inside the sock is a blocker from Fearless Fibers, also on Etsy (these blockers are also pictured above). Lovely cedar, fits wonderfully. The knitting bag is from yet another great Etsy shop,  Stuck In Illinois. They’ve got lots of different patterns to choose from, and they’re a really nice size.

Pink and purple sock, missing ballband. Hope it's superwash!

Pink and purple sock, missing ballband. Hope it's superwash!

And last, but nowhere near least, is my latest in an interrupted series of Dropstitch Ponchos. I knitted seven of these suckers for my female relations one Chanukah (2006), and had a great time doing it. I got the pattern from The Knitting Cove in Port Jefferson, NY, out on Long Island. It takes four skeins of Noro Iro or the equivalent and is simple to execute. I knitted one for myself first, loved it so much that I decided that this was to be the gift. In talking to my sister not too long ago, I found out that not only does she love hers, but she wears it all the time, and gets a lot of compliments on it. All. The. Time. Music to my ears! She also wore it in a publicity shot that she was in for Nursing Is Normal, a photographic display of nursing moms in public settings shot in Madison, Wisconsin. She loves it so much that she wants another one, in blues this time (the one she has is purple). So here’s my new one (for myself) in progress:

Noro Iro Dropstitch Poncho, Earth Day, 2009

Noro Iro Dropstitch Poncho, Earth Day, 2009

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Where was I?

It’s been a great long while since I’ve graced this blog with any new content. In a nutshell, my life heretofore has been about life with five cats and extremely trying times at work, and I am following Dooce’s Rule The First regarding blogging about work: BE YE NOT SO STUPID. Suffice to say, I still have a job with the same company where I’ve been working for the past six months. ‘Nuff said.

On to the good stuff! I have pictures to share of the babies, who are pretty much babies no more. Mojo and Teazyka turn eight months old tomorrow; it’s amazing to imagine that they used to fit in the palms of my hands.

Mojo, sitting where he knows he ought not be

Mojo, sitting where he knows he ought not be

Teazyka, pretending I can't see him in the kitchen

Teazyka, pretending I can't see him in the kitchen

Mojo, what did you say you were faxing?

Mojo, *what* did you say you were faxing?

Teazyka, sleeping with his wubbie

Teazyka, sleeping with his wubbie

Both boys were neutered a week ago, and once the area was shaved for surgery, the cause of Teazyka’s “leaking” was discovered. He has a congenital urogenital abnormality: his penis, normal-sized for an 8-month old kitten, had never descended due to the opening not being large enough to let it come out, so he was urinating in a tiny pinhole stream, but not all of it was coming out, and it would dribble out  later on, anointing our house with a lovely, lion’s den aroma. During the neutering, our wonderful vet, Dr. Andrea Jacobson of Country Cats in Croton-on-Hudson, NY, found urine beneath his skin, and took some for a urinalysis. She found bacteria in his urine, and he is on antibiotics. After consulting with a colleague, Dr. Green, in Manhattan, she decided that she and Dr. Pirotin of Main Street Cat Hospital in Elmsford, NY, would surgically enlarge the existing opening to accommodate his penis. They performed the surgery to the tune of a little over a thousand dollars, and Teazyka is recuperating, mostly hanging out in my office, where there are lots of snuggly spaces to accommodate his megaphone. He’ll get his sutures out on the 17th, and an ultrasound of his kidneys to see if/how badly they have been damaged. We’re on pins and needles about this, but it’s better knowing than not.

Yep, he’s stuck wearing an Elizabethan collar for another 13 days. Holy baby jeebus. And you would not believe where I have to put K-Y Jelly.

Teazyka, asking for his own Facebook account

Teazyka, asking for his own Facebook account

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Yes We Can!

From this, yesterday morning getting ready:


to this, in the afternoon:


to this morning’s paper:


President Barack Obama. How long until spellcheck stops telling me I’m misspelling his name?

Last night, I slept a dreamless sleep. I can breathe, now.


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