Rant Until The Cows Come Home

No cows were harmed in the making of this blog post

Friday - My back feels like it is breaking, damn it. Advil is worthless right now. Here I am, propped up in bed and the pillows are just making the pain worse.  No idea how that works, but I hate it. I had rather reasonable plans to shelve some books and give Woody a well-deserved bubble bath, but that all fell into my Fibromyalgia Garbage Can of Broken Dreams, to be followed by a sleepless night. And that resulted in my starting out for Saturday morning tai chi class disgracefully late, which also meant I broke my own rule about not leaving the second floor of this house without having taken my medications, and that kind of omission never ends well. Class was intense this morning - not physically intense, but tai chi intense. And that's all I am really going to say about that, except you should all come out and try it. So of course I had to stop at the St. Cloud Walmart on my way home (yes, that is my third Walmart day in a row and I am tired from it), because I had to buy yet another 3-drawer container, because ... well, let me show you.

You may recall just how pleased I was at the resolution of my paper overload - photostats and other paraphernalia related to my hobbies, but none more especially than knitting. You may not have realized I was positively smug about it.

I love the illusion of organization. It satisfies my obsessive-compulsive nature. And yes, those are some of my jewelry-making supplies on the lower shelf.

You also may remember that I still have not fully unpacked from our move to this house 2 years ago. Nowhere is this more obvious than in our dining room/library/kitchen extension/music room/used to be the law office conference room.

When I chose my upstairs bath as Project Zero, I knew that it would start to flow naturally to my closet, the hallway, the master bedroom, and finally the dining room. I was/am in no rush for any of this, as I have neither the energy, strength, nor immediate need to have a nice neat house. My big entertaining days are over and besides those stacks of boxes give Anakin a place to keep in touch with his catness.

So I'm not clear on exactly what made me peek into one of the big boxes in the dining room, but I did and all I could do was stare in horror while sending up a silent prayer that the heretofore hidden stack of papers was chock full of recipes and cooking hacks.

No such luck.

I'm still trying to figure out how I could have forgotten the existence of these papers, which contain a veritable treasure trove of patterns, notes, pictures, and more patterns. Most of my favorite patterns for socks and squares are in that stack, so what was I thinking, assuming I was thinking, albeit in my New Normal Fibromyalgic way? Really, that kind of memory glitch feels like I dropped my personal hard drive on a cement garage floor causing severe damage, and that doesn't feel good at all.

The good news, of course, I that I did find them, (Christmas in April!) including my design notes for those handknit wash clothes I wrote about just yesterday.

What makes those wash clothes particularly charming is the combination of multiple patterns for each cloth. In designing them, I pulled out a bunch of stitch libraries and got busy mixing and matching based on a number of different factors. Having those notes (which make sense to me), allows me to recreate my favorites or having a starting point for any pattern tweaking. So while I am a bit bemused, I am pleased.

Now you know why I ended up in Walmart yet again, purchasing more Sterilite. At least I now understand why one of the guests at the graduation party whispered "plastics" in Benjamin Braddock's ear. (And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson.)

I am also more than a bit bemused by the sudden resurgence in the cow population of Osceola County. Driving to tai chi class this morning, I noticed that at least three empty lots have been converted to cow pastures, complete with real grazing cows and their gamboling calves, which means major development construction is on its way. I don't know if those tax abatement cows have anything to do with the really big rodeo set for April 7th (Kissimmee=Kowtown; you knew that, right?) or if they are participating in the cattle drive through downtown Kissimmee this coming Monday.

Cattle drive. Yes, I live in downtown Kissimmee. Can't wait to see just how close they get to my front door.

I still don't feel like cooking, so Rob and I picked up a ginormous amount of Chinese take out last night and ate while we watched the Magic lose - again. To the Milwaukee Bucks, of all teams. We are totally excluded from the playoffs - again. Next year, kids.

Quiet Themes

April Fool's Day isn't as much fun as it used to be, just more of the "getting older sucks" theme. Bah.

My father-in-law passed away on March 30, at home. And that's all I'm going to say about that, except I will miss him. He was a wonderful husband, father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and father-in-law.

Watching Donald Trump implode is interesting. Now if only Ted Cruz would implode along with him, the Republicans could clear the decks and start from scratch. The FBI is moving closer to finishing Hillary - I mean, finishing the investigation of Hillary's emails - and once the dust settles on this political silly season, we may all be wondering how an old Jewish guy from Brooklyn got to be President.

I haven't been cooking lately. No energy, and no real interest. For God's sake, I actually got an order of Junkyard Fries from Krystal, rather than prepare lunch at home. I am never doing that again. Better to go back to ordering soup from Wawa.

I felt a little better, so I overdid massively and now I feel ouchie all over. Fibromyalgia, my shadow. Stop stalking me.

Knitting. One sock done.

One sock to go.

And a wonderful, soft cotton wash cloth, ends pulled in and officially in service.

You've never heard of handknit wash clothes? Awwww ... sorry about that. Really one of life's gentle little pleasures.

Just passing through

I am incurably sentimental, part of my being an old soul who lives in the past.  Going through boxes of old stuff just makes me feel sad. Actually, everything makes me feel sad, and just a trifle panicky. The world has turned into a universal war zone and the Dark Side of the Force is prevailing. And like any other extended family, we are facing inevitable health issues. Late night calls, little sleep. A general feeling of emotional and physical malaise. Attack of the killer fleas. That surrealistic feeling that it s no longer safe to be a Jew in America.

I hope your week has been going  better, but unless you are living in a cave without wifi, you've been hearing the same news reports. These are terrible times, my friends.

These are the ends, my friends ...

It's Tuesday, and I headed downstairs with a Doctor Who earworm in my head and a couple of crocheted scarves around my neck. The weather got funky again, causing local temperatures to plunge into the low forties. In Florida. In late March. Pretty darn uncomfortable. Anyway, I grabbed a G hook on my way to the stairs so that I could finish pulling in the ends on the scarves while wearing them to keep warm. In my kitchen. In Florida, did I mention that?

I love scarves; I love to wear them, inside or out.

I also love to make them, knitted or crocheted, mostly for my personal use, but occasionally as a gift for someone who appreciates handmade stuff (most people do not.)

 

I have only owned one store bought scarf in my life, and that's because my mother bought it for me when I headed off to the Shawangunk mountains for college. It was part of a set that included a hat of the type made popular by Ali McGraw's character in "Love Story." Orange and gray. Damn, a really ugly scarf, but my mother honestly loved the color orange. Matched her hair, the living room carpet, and the flocking on the wallpaper. Somewhere among all my possessions (I hope) is the first scarf I ever knit, in a box stitch pattern I worked out myself, in blue and gold. (Go Lawrence Tornadoes!)

Doctor Who got stuck in my head because my wake-up alarm uses the opening theme for the Twelfth Doctor. I'm probably doomed, at least for the rest of the day, but I have to admit it makes a very effective alarm. If I'd had it back in the sixties and seventies, my Pop would not have had to call me every morning while I was away at college. That 8:00 AM biology class was a killer, and he knew it.

(This is also a very bad morning - if you follow the news then you know that Belgium has had multiple terrorist attacks, killing at least 31 people. I'm not sure of the number of injuries, but I do know that this is unbearable. There is not one world leader who knows how to deal with ISIL and its colleagues-in-crimes against humanity.)

Fibromyalgia killed my fall/winter garden, incapacitating me so that some planting never actually got done, and the whole thing was neglected to the point that the weeds were choking out the vegetables.

I have flares that can knock me on my ass for days or even weeks, rendering me ritually useless, and that is exactly what happened this growing season.

Here comes James to the rescue. Today weed pulling, tomorrow roto-tilling, after that a visit to Lowe's to start building the spring garden. I'm already craving tender okra (which doesn't grow during the fall and winter. Ask me how I know.)

Will I never learn? I did too much - much too much - purging my closet of clothes I will never wear again.

Not only sizes I will never wear, but my entire work wardrobe - suits, jackets, skirts and dresses all terribly worn because, having not received a raise in over 8 years, I simply could not afford to replace them. Five enormous bags ready for Goodwill. I didn't do any of the heavy carrying, but it was still too much. I also finished sorting my craft books, making up bundles of Workbasket and Annie's Pattern Club (and her Crochet and Fashion Knitting clubs) booklets to pass on to friends who I know will enjoy them. I've been shlepping those booklets from one house to another since 1979 and it is time to share the love. There's a lot of great ideas in those pages, but most are for items I no longer have an interest in taking on as a project.

Truly, I am too tired to write anymore. More thoughts, more recipes, maybe tomorrow.

Watcha Dune? - Plans Within Plans

Plans. I got 'em. More than the Bene Gesserit, kinder than the Harkonnens, better than the Emperor of the Known Universe.

Cooking. Baking.

Organizing.

Taking control.

Investigating.

None of these are moving anywhere except backwards. The last week has been a dreadful combo platter of chest pain, brain fuzzies, and worst of all an exhaustion that left me unable to even knit a sock, with featherweight needles and a few ounces of super fine weight yarn. All I've wanted to do is nap. No strength in my hands or arms.  Can't keep my eyes open. Can't think, can't type, can't blog. Thank you, fibromyalgia, you joy-sucking miserable f*cking son of a bitch. Yeah.

So here it is late afternoon Sunday and I've decided to give up until tomorrow. Although I am well-primed with Ranitidine and Ibuprofen, it seems a better plan to hold onto my spoons until tomorrow and then try this Living Thing again. Monday is a good day for Plans. Doesn't everyone start their diets on Monday? There you have it.

Except Monday turned out to be, well, Monday. I did a little cooking (recipe to follow) a little complaining to the firm handling my social security disability claim, and a little organizing of craft booklets and pamphlets (no lifting, can't lift) and all that did was get me ready for a 4 1/2 hour nap. My communication with the social security disability firm was ultimately helpful, however, I was
distressed at being told that obtaining a hearing in front of an administrative law judge involves an 18 to 24 month wait. Since we've already spent 6 months getting to this point where we can file an appeal, that means I will receive nothing from the SSA until I am 64 or 65, even though I retired when I was 62. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, knowing how long it can take to get a termination of parental rights case through the state court system or for veterans to receive medical care. I just wonder, how are people supposed to pay their bills when their claim gets stuck on sluggish? It looks like I'm about to find out.

This recipe is from last week. Sorry for the delay, but I've been knocked on my ass (tuchis to my fellow MOTs) most of the time in between.

Hawaiian Barbecue Flanken Riblets

First of all, flanken is a crosscut short rib, very popular in Jewish and Korean cooking, which suits my family to a tee. My mother (and therefore I) used flanken when making cabbage soup. Best
cabbage soup ever. Better than Toojay's, better than your Jewish grandma's version, assuming you have a Jewish grandma. Better, best. But that's another blog post.

Next, I made this dish to include rice with fire-roasted green bell peppers, to go along with the Hawaiian theme. I held back on the pineapple - Cory is not a fan - and Robert agreed that it would
not have added anything to the finished dish.

2 pounds chuck flanken (mine was frozen), a total of 6 pieces
Water
2 Knorr beef bouillon cubes
2 tablespoons McCormick garlic pepper
1 1/2 tablespoons turbinado sugar
1-18 oz. bottle Sweet Baby Ray's Hawaiian Style Barbecue Sauce
4 medium green bell peppers
Buttered rice, for serving

In a large pot, just barely cover the ribs with water. Add the bouillon cubes, garlic pepper, and sugar. Bring to a boil, then lower the heat, cover the pot and simmer the ribs until tender, about an hour. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

Move the ribs to a baking dish and pour on about 2/3rds of the bottle of sauce. Cover with foil and bake in oven for 45 minutes or until the riblets are tender enough to be enjoyed by the dentally-challenged. Using kitchen shears, cut between the bones to make riblets, and set aside while you prepare the peppers.

Broil the peppers on all sides until he skin is blistered and charred. Immediately place in a plastic bag, sea, and set aside for at least 10 minutes. When cool enough to handle, use your fingers to remove the skin. If you don't get every last bit off, don't worry about it. Do not put the peppers under water while you are peeling them; this washes away a lot of the flavor. Remove the seeds and stem and cut the peppers vertically.

Cover bottom of a baking dish with cooked and buttered rice.  I used 2 boil-in-bag packets, a lot of butter, kosher salt and white pepper. Place the pepper strips over the rice. Spoon the riblets with all their sauce over the peppers. You may want to reheat the dish before serving so that all the elements are hot at the same time; if so cover with foil so the riblets don't dry out. Serves 4 to 6.

Coal Hauler's Daughter, or Somebody Get The Number of That Truck

Damn. When it happens, as it did on Monday, it feels like I've been run over by a 10 ton Mack truck hauling coal. The process of taking a shower was fraught with fright - will I be able to stand up the whole time? How will my skin feel when the water beats down on it? Will I be able to blow dry my hair or have to give up and go back to bed, leaving my hair (and my mood) in tatters?

Got it done, but every other plan has been put on hold.

Generally speaking, this has been a lost week. Little has gotten done, and I keep experiencing anxiety atttacks. I've gone through the motions but my heart, and certainly my head, are not in any of it.

I am in a very dark place, not so much for me but for people around me. Empathy is a two-edged sword. Their stories are not for me to tell, but I hurt for each and every one. Life is not only not fair, it positively sucks a good deal of the time.

Personally speaking, I hurt all over, and so I live on Advil and Zantac and Baclofen. I practice my tai chi to hopefully gain a few precious moments of relaxation. I try to make progress on the new Project Zero, but so slowly that it is imperceptible. Most of the time I end up sitting on the bed, exhausted from nothing. I knit ever so slowly. I spend time loving my pets, aware that Woody's time with us is drawing to a close.

I squint now, at everything. There is a serious disconnect between my eyeglass prescription and my vision, which is leaving me just a tad shaky whenever I leave the house. Hasn't even so bad since third grade, and I didn't drive back then. I am crazy anxious to get the cataracts taken care of.

I read the news voraciously, surprised to discover that I don't always disagree with President Obama. His choice for SCOTUS nominee is positively brilliant, and the Republicans are looking even more like the damn fools they are by refusing to even consider him. I am so glad that I dropped all affiliation to either party, even though I was unable to vote in the primary.

I guess I should publish this post; it's only taken 6 days to write it.

Knitting The Hand Basket to Hell

Tough night, rough morning. No details, just - rough. Yesterday I overdid, skittering around like a high-strung hummingbird on speed, letting myself feel overwhelmed, resulting in an anxiety attack. During the night there was pain. This morning, there is exhaustion. I do not have the strength to chew a bagel. Oy. I also do not have the patience to discuss politics. Today I am annoyed with all of them, including Hillary (and I usually give her a pass.)

If you haven't been watching All-Star Academy on Food Network, you missed Andrew Zimmern getting feisty. Let me paraphrase - "Sure, they're all Iron Chefs, while I'm just the schmuck from Travel Channel with too many frequent flier miles." I wish I could get the actual quote; there was something about eating bugs (or was it whale anus?) and he may have mentioned Brooklyn. Crazy competitive and darkly determined, he won the challenge. Good show @andrewzimmern!

My current project goal is organizing the upstairs bookshelves which should bring me naturally to the next project, organizing all of my craft materials - knitting, crochet, needlework, jewelry-making, and even my coloring books and pencils. Even after giving away enough yarn to start a small store, I still have too much of everything. That includes a ridiculous number of UFOs (unfinished objects), another dirty little secret of knitters and their crochet cousins. Some of my UFOs date back to the early eighties. Others need nothing more than to have the ends woven in, or a few buttons sewn on. And still others just need to be blocked, one of my least-favorite finishing activities.

Of course that doesn't even touch on the painful topic of half-finished afghans, scarves, shawls, hats, and socks, all requiring thousands of hours of actual knitting or crocheting. No wonder I got that overwhelming feeling. Better that I not think about that too much and just stick to finishing the dozen or so pairs of socks.

Why, thank you, Doctor! Now let me show you what a well-turned heel looks like:

I haven't really been up to cooking lately, so I pulled a few finished dishes out of the freezer, but having never learned to leave well enough alone, I did play around with a package of frozen flanken, spring boarding off of my recipe for beef ribs. It's pretty easy but I still shouldn't have done it, but what the hell? - Gotta eat, right?

Look for that recipe tomorrow. I just realized I am practically spoonless, and Blogger is getting wonky as I type.

Spin A Yarn, No Cannoli

The Audience: the Portugeuse have dropped out of the race leaving the Brazilians to pick up the slack on behalf of their national language-in-common. The United Kingdom has reappeared in a "big" way, which pleases me because I've always had a special place in my heart for Queen Elizabeth II, 1952 being an exceptional year for both of us.

Russia is back, but even better is the appearance of The Netherlands, representing one-eighth of my personal genealogy. It gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling to imagine Russian Osherowitzes and Dutch Nathans searching for me out in the Infinite Internet. (Waving) Hey! Over here!

Speaking of dropping out of the race, things are getting interesting in The Realm of Presidential Politics. I don't know what to think. Is Donald Trump really the Second Coming of Hitler? (No.) Are his followers all candidates for the New Neo-Nazi Party? How does Ted Cruz feel about being endorsed by Caitlyn Jenner? (Forget that last question. If I go there, I'll lose my mind.)

Shifting into The Next Project made me pensive. Where should I start? Bookshelves, boxes, closet? (Bookshelves won.) And why did I start unpacking two years ago, and then stop, leaving unopened boxes and bags piled hither and yon?

I could blame it on fibromyalgia, but I had the same problem when we moved into our second Hunter's Creek House in 2002, pre-fibromyalgia. Both times I started out like gangbusters, got a lot done, and then stopped as suddenly as a contestant on "Chopped" when Ted Allen yells "your time is up!" Except I never moved on to the next round, and no one ever offered me $10,000 to push through to the finish line. That house had too many rooms, and we had too much stuff. Maybe I was overwhelmed. Definitely I was depressed, but then, I'm always depressed.

In 2002 I was still hauling around 150 pounds of excess weight, and that wore me down. And I used to fall a lot. In 2014, I was deep in the throes of fibro flares f*cking up my ability to do much of anything. So, am I lazy? (According to my mother, yes I am. In my opinion, anyone who works 60 to 70 hours a week or works two jobs, or works and goes to night school is not lazy.)

There is no simple answer. I consider it a character flaw, and at my age, I'm not likely to undergo a complete change of character.  All I can do is break the task down into individual pieces and do my best. But at least now you know why I haven't invited you over for coffee and a cannoli.

Even though I have been knitting for 50 years, and crocheting almost as long, I am still shocked at all the craft-related stuff I have collected and held on to. Last night, as I nibbled at the edges of the project, it was all about books. Pattern books, stitch libraries, you name it. Photocopies, Internet print-outs, pamphlets, handwritten notes of something I designed.

I have no idea how many projects I've completed over the years. Different times brought different obsessions - baby clothes and blankets, adult-sized afghans worked on jumbo needles, crochet slippers that can be finished in an hour for the pair - one year I crocheting slippers for everyone in the legal department, Merry Christmas! - prayer shawls, scarves,

mittens, sweaters, hats, clothes for Cabbage Patch dolls,

... and of course, the omnipresent, ubiquitous socks.

I can't begin to enumerate the projects I started and never finished - WIPs (works in progress) are the secret shame of knitters and crocheters everywhere, and let's just leave it at that. Except to say that the problem of unfinished yarn-based WIPs parallels my unpacking problem. Interesting. Procrastinators of the world, unite! Maybe tomorrow ...