Deep Breaths

The 10-day in-law road trip is complete. I did not lose my cool (too much). I did not make (too many) snarky sotto voce comments. I did not punch anyone (though I did do a few [very hard] smacks of my own head in private). And I did feel like a terrible, terrible wretch when my mother-in-law came down with gout. But then I totally lost it (in private) when she decided that the doctors obviously didn't know what they were talking about, and it couldn't possibly be gout. It's just a mysterious sprain that comes and goes (depending on how rich the food is)--she said as she ordered a plate of Swedish meatballs buried in white gravy. Aaarrrggghhh (shouted in the confines of my own head).

Now we are home, sweet sweet home. I love traveling. I love seeing the world. But I do so love coming home. Even with all the unfinished projects, the mess of a garden, the pictures still to be hung, etc., etc. It is still our welcoming home that has little places for me to find peace and quiet. Not to mention The Dog, who gives me unconditional love with only minor grievances (such as finding out that not only did he dig in our friend's yard, but he also barked incessantly when she wasn't home ... grrrrr).

I have all these crazy tensions rumbling around in my gut, and each time I try to explain what it is that is bothering me, I come off sounding like a total whiny brat. Mr. J's parents are just different from my family. I did not grow up with them, so I don't fully understand their workings. They have hearts of gold. They only want the best for both of us. But they are hovering, needy, opinionated folks. [There, I said it.] And all I really want is to kick back, share a bottle (or three) of wine, and giggle over ridiculously silly things that are totally inane and completely goofy, as I do with my family. I mean, a girl can only be serious and refined for so long.

Yes, the woes of my life are many and tough. Poor, poor me. So, one more week of in-laws in my home. I can manage to keep my cool ... all I need are deep, deep breaths and the occasional super-stiff cocktail.

Cheers!

Tales of the So-So Sewer

So, I've proven myself somewhat adept at this knitting thing. I mean, I haven't yet made anything more complicated than a cap, a scarf, and right now, a blanket. But I haven't royally screwed up yet either, as I do with just about every other crafting endeavor I get it into my head to try (ask me someday about the sock log dog). And I've actually completed six or seven entire projects. If you knew anything about my childhood (which you probably don't), then you would know that I was the queen of beginning everything from hook rugs to those small wood ornaments in which you twirled wood (or maybe it was paper) around a toothpick and then glued coils of the wood/paper/whatever into crazy shapes. But whatever project I started, I would soon give up, and my ever-patient mom would either finish it or just toss it, depending on her mood.

Anyway, I think I got a little cocky with this knitting thing. It made me think that I was finally over my craft-ineptness. I became so cocky that I had a friend come over to teach me how to set up my sewing machine. We got it all threaded, etc., and before I knew it, I was stitching away on an old hand towel. It looked like I actually knew what I was doing. So much so that I believed it myself.

That lesson was three weeks ago. And now here I am, on a gloomy Sunday, thinking I can create curtains for our kitchen all by myself.

Problem 1: I really have no clue how to cut fabric properly, and I definitely do not have the correct tools to do so. So I am starting off with a crookedly cut hem. Is that bad?

Problem 2: Clever on that I am, I decided to do some practice runs on my practice towel in an attempt to learn how to do overlock stitchin and hemming. In the process, I mucked up the thread ... thrice. I ran out of bobbin thread. (Luckily I am a pro at loading a bobbin. If only all of sewing were as easy as that.) And I have yet to be able to figure out the correct bobbin and thread tension, which means my overlock stitches are all over the place in length and width ... but maybe they are supposed to be that way. I just don't know. Or maybe it's not a problem with the tension, and I just suck at sewing. Hmmmm, could be.

Problem 3: In an effort to see if I could figure out the whole tension thing, I started on yet another row of stitching on my practice fabric and promptly snapped the needle in two. Really.

So now I am done. I am throwing in the towel (literally). I am either going to send it all off to my mom with the measurements. (Times like these I definitely wish my mom lived around the corner instead of thousands of miles away.) Or, better yet, I'm just going to go out and buy some curtains, because this whole "let's save money by making our own" is definitely not working out.

Ugh.

I Will Stop Venting About This Project

Really, I will. As soon as I finish it up and send it off to the publishers. But until then, here's an example of the latest text to fall under "things that annoy me about this project":

Hence the number of frequencies to be selected must be judiciary decided. The same holds two for the other analysis technique i.e. Short Time Fourier analysis and wavelet analysis.

This needs a whole lot of fixin' on a whole lot of levels, and I know it's my job as editor to do that fixin' to the best of my non-science-brain ability. But I am beginning to think they "wrote" this book by dictating it into the very speech-recognition software that they are describing how to build (the subject of this particular chapter). Couldn't they have at least given the chapters a quick proofread before sending everything off to be published?

And on another note, I now have an image of the authors looking like Lili von Shtupp in Blazing Saddles, singing "Morning, noon, and night, it's dwink and dancing / Some quick womancing / And then a shower."

Shoulda, Coulda, Woulda

I just wrote a long, bitchy, moany, venting blog post about my work and the woes of my work and how much I wish this project were over (one more week ... one more week). But it was boring and depressing, and I realized that this blog is turning into too much of a sounding board for when I'm frustrated, which, actually, is what most of my journals ended up being too. And that is all fine and good for a journal that no one will ever read, but it's not incredibly exciting or interesting for the international world of blogging (even if I do have only one follower ... HI!). Besides, after writing the long, venty post, I felt much better. So I deleted it. Whew for all of us.

So, instead I'm going to recap part of the phone conversation I had today with my beautiful niece, because it just makes me smile. She called because she had just received the two box sets of books I sent via Amazon (on sale, thank you very much). [I love the idea for the National Geographic map binder, by the way! Will definitely file that away for next time!] (The gift shipped yesterday and got there today at no extra cost, thanks to my free trial of Amazon Prime ... whatever that is and which I must go cancel right now before I get charged for it.) Anyway, she could have just said "Geronimo Stilton" over and over again in her cute, growing-up-too-fast voice, and I would have been perfectly happy. What a great name for a character! But we did have an actual conversation, and my favorite part was the discussion about The Dog, whom she met only once, four years ago. So, she was, what, ... 3? Wow, what a memory. Anyway, it won't translate nearly as well, but here it is for posterity's sake.

Beautiful Niece: Thanks for the books, Aunt T. How's The Dog? [This is usually the first question she asks after saying hello, so I felt honored to actually get a full sentence from her first.]
Me: He's fine. He's taking a nap. How are you?
B.N.: Are you going to bring him with you at Christmas?
Me: I wish I could, but he would have to ride underneath with all the luggage, and he wouldn't like that.
B.N.: Maybe he could ride under your seat, like that dog you saw on the plane. [Holy crap, what a memory this child has. Last Christmas, I told her about the full-size standard poodle that got to ride on the plane right behind us, because he was being trained as some kind of helper dog. I then told her the even weirder story that the same dog was on our flight back home, a week and a half later. Weird! She, of course, thought it was perfectly normal. I mean, we flew in together, so of course we'd be on the same flight home.]
Me: [After taking a few seconds to figure out what she was talking about--apparently I do not have the memory of a 7-year-old--I attempted to explain the intricacies of training seeing-eye dogs without completely losing her interest.] Well, we'd have to train him to be a helping dog, and then he'd be allowed to fly with us. But if we did that, we'd have to give him away when we were done training him so that he could be with someone who needs help.
B.N.: [Without a moment's hesitation] Well, that stinks!

I couldn't have said it better, or more selfishly, myself. That would stink, though I guess not for the person who needed help. And where did she learn that phrase, anyway? Too. Dang. Cute!

And now that I have taken this pleasant break from the horrors of editing a high-level tech book written by two professors and one student who do not speak English as their first language, I can go back with a calmer brain. And that calmer brain is not just the result of the vodka and OJ I guzzled while writing this. Really!

Tactical Error

I was all set to write a ranting, raving blog about how Mr. J and I have been complaining about our weight and lack of exercise and overeating, and how we both joined the Y this past weekend ready to turn over a new leaf, and how I headed out tonight (instead of filling a glass with wine and chowing down on ice cream, I might add) with the intent that Mr. J would run The Dog to the Y, leave The Dog in the car, and join me in the Y, and how that isn't what happened at all. Let it be noted for the record that I, virtuous one that I am, did go to the Y, after setting up the back of the truck with The Dog's bed, so he'd be nice and comfy. And I did work out, while keeping an ever-watchful eye on the door for any sign of Mr. J. After 30+ minutes, I started to realize that he wasn't coming. The ever-positive part of me was hoping that he'd decided to take The Dog for a good long run and meet me back at home. The ever-pessimistic side of me knew he was home, playing FreeCell or watching Hulu.com. The ever-worried side of me was fretting that he'd keeled over of a heart attack somewhere on the dark roads of the North End, with The Dog running rampant through the streets hunting grasshoppers or squirrels or some such thing.

Anyway, I was going to write about all that, with all the venom I could muster, because, of course, it was Door #2 that turned out to be the case (Mr. J, sitting in his running gear, staring at the computer and surfing the Web, while The Dog just stared at me with pitiful little eyes, asking, "Why didn't he take me running? I saw him put on shoes and socks and everything. Why? Why?"). But then all my rancor left me when I read about the Somali pirates (no laughing matter, I know) who mistakenly attacked a fully armed French naval ship from two little skiffs armed with what I'm sure were 1980-era Kalashnikovs. The mental image just made me giggle. That and the big glass of red I poured immediately upon entering our abode. Nothing like a little rehydration after a good workout! Well, I know Somali pirates are a big threat and that people are being held hostage, killed, tortured, and worse. But the idea of a little skiff of modern-day pirates attacking a large naval warship just sounds more like a really bad Chevy Chase movie.

In any case, glad I didn't have to vent about all that!