I've always liked the name Stella. To me it's pretty, unusual, but familiar and easy to spell and pronounce - pretty much the perfect name. In the last few years, though, I've seen signs that it's becoming more common, and lately it has moved to my "great name, but too fashionable" list (others to move over to that list in the last five years include Emma, Sophia, and especially Olivia, which I loved before anybody else did.) Stella is clearly not in the same league as those stars yet, but it is on the rise, and since names that I think are pretty and were unusual have a way of taking off and hitting the top ten, I will probably stay away from it.
(For those who don't know me as well: no, there is no actual baby anywhere on my horizon that needs to be given a name. That has never stopped me from analyzing these things down to a hair's breadth.)
Since I have now returned to the field of caring for and entertaining small children (which seems to be my ground state) I have a great opportunity to observe recent name trends in action. As expected, I've run into lots of Isabellas and Sophias, your standard run of semi-androgynous girls (Madison, Addison, Presley, Riley), and a whole slew of boys with names that rhyme with Aiden. I've also met exactly one Stella. This got me thinking. Stella, at the moment, is a different kind of name from Madison and Presley, from Isabella and Sophia. It's the kind of name that name-conscious parents will recognize as attractive and fashionable, but isn't ubiquitous. Now, as I mentioned before, names like this are in grave danger of becoming ubiquitous in another couple of years (others in this class, currently, are Amelia, Lila, Nora, and Violet) but surely they can't all go supernova, right? What happens to the names that stay in that golden ground? How are they perceived, as the children grow up?
I turned to the naming trends of my own generation, and tried to think of names that might fit that description: names that had fashionable flair, but didn't become the Next Big Thing. I had trouble thinking of any that might fit. Vanessa, maybe? I turned to the SSA name rankings, an ever-present help. Stella was ranked 186 this year; it jumped from the 600s into the 200s a few years ago (a warning sign that a name may go supernova.) What names were ranked around the high 100s in 1981, the year I was born?
Morgan. Bonnie. Priscilla. Marissa. I was surprised - for the most part, these were names that I'd encountered once at most among my peers. You do have to adjust for demographic... most of the kids I knew growing up were white, middle-to-upper-middle-class, and churchgoers. It's not surprising that I didn't know any Ebonys (#178) but knew a number of Hannahs (#190). Even taking that into consideration, though, I had expected the names at this rank level to be more common. My own name, Virginia, ranks 159, and I've only ever met two or three my age.
The good news is, this greatly expands the ranking range I'll allow myself to look in when it comes to naming my own children. I don't mind them encountering a handful of other kids with their name; what I want to avoid is, first, always knowing somebody else who has their name, and second, having a name that solidly dates them to their generation.
My strategies (because who doesn't like to strategize about challenges that are nowhere on the horizon yet?) are as follows:
- On principle, avoid names ranked in the top 75.
- Search alternate versions and spellings to get a name's "real" popularity (in my year, Kristin and Kristen ranked 31 and 38, but taken together their percentage would put them in the top 10; if you add in Christine, Christina, and Christy with all their variant spellings, they're right up there with Jennifer).
- Watch for leapfrogging popularity. Olivia went from 123 to 50 in three years. Emma went from 151 to 81 in four. Ava went from 180 to 82 in just two years. These popularity jumps do telegraph themselves.
- Stay away from names that have been a) used for a popular TV character; b) given by a celebrity to their child; c) used for the fictional child of a popular TV character.
- Be aware of the "flavor" of popular names in your own demographic. I peg Stella, Amelia, Lila, and Violet as rising stars in mine partly because they have popped up more and more on a very name-savvy message board I frequent, but also because they reflect the flavor of the current hot names: they're classic, feminine but not frilly, and before they became popular they struck people as very old-fashioned.
It's just occurred to me that I've used all girls' names in this discussion. The reason is simple: I like girls' names better. But if (by some odd chance) you're reading this hoping to glean some wisdom to use in naming your son, I have one crucial piece of advice: don't, please don't, name him anything that rhymes with Aiden. We've got enough.*
*Don't believe me? In the top 100 for 2008, there are more Aidens, Jaydens, Braydens, Kadens, and Haydens than there are of the top four boys' names combined. There are more -aydens now than there were Michaels in 1981. I agree it's a pleasant sound, masculine but not rough, fitting well with the strong but sensitive men we want our sons to be, but the market is now saturated. If we don't stop now, half of our sons' class lists are going to rhyme.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
I have observed a pattern. Any time I have some planned content for my next post, it takes approximately a year for me to write any post at all. When I do, it's usually a post apologizing for why I still haven't written on whatever I said I was going to write on. This is silly. I'm going to institute a new policy: the Ignore What I Just Said Policy. If I tell you that my next post will give you my thoughts on the morality of stealing herbs from neighbors' gardens, don't get your hopes up (or down, as it may be): the post is just as likely to be a rant on the library's penchant for taunting me with the sequel to the book I want to read, but not having the actual book. Henceforth, I absolve myself of all obligation to follow up on promises about post content. This is Chronicles of the Ephemeral, for crying out loud. Following a plan would go against the very spirit of the blog. (Plus, you know, I can't seem to do it.)
So! Today we have the exciting adventures of Ginny in housekeeping. Let me first stipulate that I am a very competent housekeeper. I can cook and bake things that turn out more or less the way I wanted them; I can clean thoroughly, especially if I have other work that needs to be done; I'm sure I'm capable of staying on top of laundry if I really wanted to. Since moving in, the housekeeping has been somewhat hit-or-miss. The steady influx of Stuff from all the different storage places I had it, the desperate scramble for a job sapping me of all energy to do other chores, and the delightful presence of a boyfriend in the same actual city as myself all contributed to this. Now that I have the job situation more or less under control, and since it appears to be giving me lots of free time during the day, I've resolved to get the house in order.
Today's projects included:
- Baking banana bread from the six or seven bananas that have been relegated to freezer-land
- Making croutons from the loaf of bread that's been rock-hard for about a week
- Doing laundry, for heaven's sake, at some point one does need clean underwear
- Finishing Jenn's wedding present so I can mail it to her before her first anniversary
- Hanging up my posters and such
I had mixed results.
I have a recipe for banana bread, given to me by Gretchen, which I'd never used before and was most excited about trying (it involves graham crackers and chocolate and is ever so yummy.) While I was calculating the sizes of bowls I'd need, I realized that the recipe did not call for flour. This didn't seem right, though I thought maybe the crushed graham crackers were substituting for it. I texted Gretchen to ask her, waited a bit, then decided to go ahead with the recipe as written.
Yep. I think there was supposed to be flour.
My crouton attempt went slightly better, though not without incident. Our stove and oven are both... overzealous. I burned them slightly, but they taste okay.
The plus to an overzealous oven is, it heats up your kitchen and dries your laundry really fast. One task-- accomplished! No, I haven't put away the clean clothes yet. What do you think I am, superwoman? The clothes are clean. That's an achievement.
Jenn's wedding present will be done tomorrow.
I did hang up my posters and such. The "and such" proved an exercise for my creativity. The two Mike photos I used to have in my room now live in the living room. I had a few poster, mostly literary-themed, and nothing else. Pondering my resources, I came up with this solution, which I find brilliant:
Can you see? Can you see? I know it's kinda small. I've hung up some of my prettiest skeins of yarn. It's stash management AND interior decoration! Tell me I'm not clever.
That was my day's work. My brilliant Philip came over this afternoon, took a look at and taste of the ruined banana bread, and contrived a butter-rum glaze to go over it. It is now banana-rum-chocolate cake, and it is delicious.
So! Today we have the exciting adventures of Ginny in housekeeping. Let me first stipulate that I am a very competent housekeeper. I can cook and bake things that turn out more or less the way I wanted them; I can clean thoroughly, especially if I have other work that needs to be done; I'm sure I'm capable of staying on top of laundry if I really wanted to. Since moving in, the housekeeping has been somewhat hit-or-miss. The steady influx of Stuff from all the different storage places I had it, the desperate scramble for a job sapping me of all energy to do other chores, and the delightful presence of a boyfriend in the same actual city as myself all contributed to this. Now that I have the job situation more or less under control, and since it appears to be giving me lots of free time during the day, I've resolved to get the house in order.
Today's projects included:
- Baking banana bread from the six or seven bananas that have been relegated to freezer-land
- Making croutons from the loaf of bread that's been rock-hard for about a week
- Doing laundry, for heaven's sake, at some point one does need clean underwear
- Finishing Jenn's wedding present so I can mail it to her before her first anniversary
- Hanging up my posters and such
I had mixed results.
I have a recipe for banana bread, given to me by Gretchen, which I'd never used before and was most excited about trying (it involves graham crackers and chocolate and is ever so yummy.) While I was calculating the sizes of bowls I'd need, I realized that the recipe did not call for flour. This didn't seem right, though I thought maybe the crushed graham crackers were substituting for it. I texted Gretchen to ask her, waited a bit, then decided to go ahead with the recipe as written.
Yep. I think there was supposed to be flour.
My crouton attempt went slightly better, though not without incident. Our stove and oven are both... overzealous. I burned them slightly, but they taste okay.
The plus to an overzealous oven is, it heats up your kitchen and dries your laundry really fast. One task-- accomplished! No, I haven't put away the clean clothes yet. What do you think I am, superwoman? The clothes are clean. That's an achievement.
Jenn's wedding present will be done tomorrow.
I did hang up my posters and such. The "and such" proved an exercise for my creativity. The two Mike photos I used to have in my room now live in the living room. I had a few poster, mostly literary-themed, and nothing else. Pondering my resources, I came up with this solution, which I find brilliant:
Can you see? Can you see? I know it's kinda small. I've hung up some of my prettiest skeins of yarn. It's stash management AND interior decoration! Tell me I'm not clever.
That was my day's work. My brilliant Philip came over this afternoon, took a look at and taste of the ruined banana bread, and contrived a butter-rum glaze to go over it. It is now banana-rum-chocolate cake, and it is delicious.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
travelogue, part II
I am sitting by my window in my papasan chair, listening to music and smelling the rain. It's only in the last few days that I've gotten this window and this chair, and the music and the rain came together only just now, so I'm feeling very blessed.
To continue where I left off last post: I got to Chicago on a very cold and rainy Sunday afternoon, exactly two weeks ago now. I got myself quite horribly lost, right after telling Philip how pleased I was that I knew Chicago well enough to pick an alternate route when the traffic on the highway became unbearable. So it goes. I made it to the house where Dan was staying eventually, and we decided the first order of business was figuring out how to get the bike racks on the car. That was a fun game: Dad had bought them with the car but never used them, and the previous owner didn't have the manual. We did a dry run in the house, then proceeded to Vladimir for what may very appropriately be called the wet run. Wet, and cold, but successful-- that is to say, we drove the bikes from Chicago to Atlanta and they didn't fly off of the roof, which is all the success you can ask for.
Dan wanted one last Chicago pizza, so we had a quick but delicious bite on the way to see the play he'd been directing. It was very good, two one-acts that, in different ways, looked at the way people try to project an ideal image of themselves, and the ways that image breaks down. I enjoyed it a lot: kudos to everybody involved.
After the play I headed back up to spend the night with my cousin Carrie, whom I haven't seen for a couple of years. We chatted on the couch until quite late, and in the morning she made pancakes (third great breakfast in a row! I was so spoiled.) I got to see her family and meet her youngest daughter, who hadn't been born yet last time we saw each other. They're absolutely precious and I hope it isn't so long again next time.
I went back to Dan's and we loaded his stuff into Vladimir. He wasn't expecting to be able to pack everything in, so he'd set out one suitcase to be shipped, but as we got farther along it looked like we might be able to fit everything.
Hum. I have just realized that there is no way to make the packing of a car exciting in prose. I'll skip the attempt: let me just say that it was an epic struggle, a progression of hope, anxiety, despair, resurging confidence, and ultimate triumph. We got everything into the car and gave each other high fives and slaps on the back for like five minutes. Then we packed ourselves into the car, and started down the long road.
We decided to start the trip off with some Barenaked Ladies, and in lieu of picking an album we just put my entire BNL collection on shuffle. Turns out I have five hours of Barenaked Ladies songs (and I got another CD for Christmas, so now I have six.) We listened through every single one, some of them twice because of the live album, and the only one we skipped was the second round of "Break Your Heart," because that one takes a lot of energy and we agreed it's too much to sing it twice in one road trip. By the time that was done we were driving through Kentucky, so we put on Blues Traveler; I hadn't heard much of them before, but I liked them.
It was a fun but long trip, and we both tried very hard not to think about the fact that we'd be doing the same thing again twice more next week. 
We finally arrived in Atlanta around ten-thirty at night, and staggered gratefully into Philip's apartment. Neither of us could believe that we were really there or that this was where we lived now, but then that's not unexpected. Transitions always take some time to sink in. For me, it felt more or less exactly like the two or three other trips to Atlanta I'd taken since January: long drive, hey, it's Atlanta! hey, it's Philip! toss my stuff down on his floor and thank God I'm not in the car any more. The back of my brain was convinced that this was another weekend trip, and there wasn't really any way to convince it otherwise, so I just let it think what it wanted.
Next up: the interim week!
To continue where I left off last post: I got to Chicago on a very cold and rainy Sunday afternoon, exactly two weeks ago now. I got myself quite horribly lost, right after telling Philip how pleased I was that I knew Chicago well enough to pick an alternate route when the traffic on the highway became unbearable. So it goes. I made it to the house where Dan was staying eventually, and we decided the first order of business was figuring out how to get the bike racks on the car. That was a fun game: Dad had bought them with the car but never used them, and the previous owner didn't have the manual. We did a dry run in the house, then proceeded to Vladimir for what may very appropriately be called the wet run. Wet, and cold, but successful-- that is to say, we drove the bikes from Chicago to Atlanta and they didn't fly off of the roof, which is all the success you can ask for.
Dan wanted one last Chicago pizza, so we had a quick but delicious bite on the way to see the play he'd been directing. It was very good, two one-acts that, in different ways, looked at the way people try to project an ideal image of themselves, and the ways that image breaks down. I enjoyed it a lot: kudos to everybody involved.
After the play I headed back up to spend the night with my cousin Carrie, whom I haven't seen for a couple of years. We chatted on the couch until quite late, and in the morning she made pancakes (third great breakfast in a row! I was so spoiled.) I got to see her family and meet her youngest daughter, who hadn't been born yet last time we saw each other. They're absolutely precious and I hope it isn't so long again next time.
I went back to Dan's and we loaded his stuff into Vladimir. He wasn't expecting to be able to pack everything in, so he'd set out one suitcase to be shipped, but as we got farther along it looked like we might be able to fit everything.
Hum. I have just realized that there is no way to make the packing of a car exciting in prose. I'll skip the attempt: let me just say that it was an epic struggle, a progression of hope, anxiety, despair, resurging confidence, and ultimate triumph. We got everything into the car and gave each other high fives and slaps on the back for like five minutes. Then we packed ourselves into the car, and started down the long road.
We decided to start the trip off with some Barenaked Ladies, and in lieu of picking an album we just put my entire BNL collection on shuffle. Turns out I have five hours of Barenaked Ladies songs (and I got another CD for Christmas, so now I have six.) We listened through every single one, some of them twice because of the live album, and the only one we skipped was the second round of "Break Your Heart," because that one takes a lot of energy and we agreed it's too much to sing it twice in one road trip. By the time that was done we were driving through Kentucky, so we put on Blues Traveler; I hadn't heard much of them before, but I liked them.
It was a fun but long trip, and we both tried very hard not to think about the fact that we'd be doing the same thing again twice more next week. 
We finally arrived in Atlanta around ten-thirty at night, and staggered gratefully into Philip's apartment. Neither of us could believe that we were really there or that this was where we lived now, but then that's not unexpected. Transitions always take some time to sink in. For me, it felt more or less exactly like the two or three other trips to Atlanta I'd taken since January: long drive, hey, it's Atlanta! hey, it's Philip! toss my stuff down on his floor and thank God I'm not in the car any more. The back of my brain was convinced that this was another weekend trip, and there wasn't really any way to convince it otherwise, so I just let it think what it wanted.
Next up: the interim week!
Thursday, April 23, 2009
travelogue, part I
Oh my goodness me. This time last week I was in Virginia, visiting with my roommates and looking ahead to my very last shift at the hospital. (Actually, I think at this precise time I was on the phone with my boyfriend, making plans for my birthday which we'll be celebrating this time next week, but that's neither here nor there.) I wanted to post pretty regular travel updates, but of course I lacked either time, internet connection, or both, and I'm really just now sitting down to take a breath for the first time in that week. So. Breathe. Recap.
Friday: Last day at work. I'm really gonna miss those guys. I brought in two boxes of cookies from Trader Joe's, which were very well received. My co-workers surprised me by ordering pizza, and one of them bought me a slice of my favorite cake from the cafeteria. I felt very loved. It was a busy but not crazy day, and I got to work as tech for eight hours then secretary for four, which is just how I like it. All in all, a pretty perfect Last Day. Then I drove to Mom and Dad's to spend the night, because I was taking Dad's car out to Chicago.
I'd better explain my itinerary a bit, because it's hardly straightforward (one of my co-workers, after I explained that I was driving to Atlanta via Chicago, offered to buy me a map.) The setup: Ginny in Virginia with two cars, Vladimir and Robin. Robin belongs to me, Vladimir belongs to Dad but is being rented to Dan, who is in Chicago with no cars. Stage One: Ginny drives Vladimir to Chicago, with one teeny backpack containing just enough to last her a week. Dan and Ginny drive Vladimir to Atlanta, with as much of Dan's stuff as they can cram. Stage Two: About a week later, Dan and Ginny drive Vladimir to Virginia, load up Ginny's stuff into Vladimir and Robin, and drive both cars back to Atlanta. They then breathe a tremendous sigh of relief and swear off long road trips and moving forever.
Saturday: Mums cooked up a big grand breakfast. I had intended to leave at ten, and I actually left at 11:20, which is par for me. Dad and I had a wee conflict before I left, which was part of the delay; nothing big or dramatic or even surprising, just one of the natural struggles that come when you have a parent and child that love each other. It still made me cry, though, which is not the best way to start a day of driving. For one thing, crying always makes me sleepy. So my first couple hours of driving were with heavy eyes. Ah well.
Actually the whole first half of the trip felt very odd. I think it was partly that I wasn't driving a familiar route; after spending so much time going to and from Atlanta, it felt weird to be going a different direction. Also, I hadn't yet managed to get in touch with Gretchen's grandparents, with whom I was staying that night. Gretchen had, and everything was worked out, but I hadn't talked to them directly. It's rather unsettling to be driving 500 miles away from home and not be completely assured that you have a place to land. I finally talked to them somewhere in Ohio, and immediately felt five times better.
Gretchen's grandparents are the dearest, sweetest people in the world. I've only met them once before, when I came home with her one spring break, but we adopted each other immediately and Gretch says they've been asking continually when I was going to see them. Originally my plan was to drive straight to Chicago on Saturday, but I decided to break the journey and take the opportunity to see them, and I'm so glad I did. They welcomed me with hugs and a ham sandwich, and we chatted a while before an early bedtime.
Sunday: I slept in, oh glory, and even got time to work on my sock a bit before Grandma and Grandpa got back from Mass. Then Grandma made me a lovely breakfast (my second in a row! keep counting) that was definitely not creamed eggs on toast, because Gretchen reads this blog, and they both told me repeatedly that if Gretchen were to hear that they'd served me creamed eggs on toast their lives would be forfeit, so it was a delicious breakfast but it was certainly not that. Then I bundled myself back into Vladimir and headed up to Chicago.
(Off for drinks and a movie with my boys. More to come.)
Friday: Last day at work. I'm really gonna miss those guys. I brought in two boxes of cookies from Trader Joe's, which were very well received. My co-workers surprised me by ordering pizza, and one of them bought me a slice of my favorite cake from the cafeteria. I felt very loved. It was a busy but not crazy day, and I got to work as tech for eight hours then secretary for four, which is just how I like it. All in all, a pretty perfect Last Day. Then I drove to Mom and Dad's to spend the night, because I was taking Dad's car out to Chicago.
I'd better explain my itinerary a bit, because it's hardly straightforward (one of my co-workers, after I explained that I was driving to Atlanta via Chicago, offered to buy me a map.) The setup: Ginny in Virginia with two cars, Vladimir and Robin. Robin belongs to me, Vladimir belongs to Dad but is being rented to Dan, who is in Chicago with no cars. Stage One: Ginny drives Vladimir to Chicago, with one teeny backpack containing just enough to last her a week. Dan and Ginny drive Vladimir to Atlanta, with as much of Dan's stuff as they can cram. Stage Two: About a week later, Dan and Ginny drive Vladimir to Virginia, load up Ginny's stuff into Vladimir and Robin, and drive both cars back to Atlanta. They then breathe a tremendous sigh of relief and swear off long road trips and moving forever.
Saturday: Mums cooked up a big grand breakfast. I had intended to leave at ten, and I actually left at 11:20, which is par for me. Dad and I had a wee conflict before I left, which was part of the delay; nothing big or dramatic or even surprising, just one of the natural struggles that come when you have a parent and child that love each other. It still made me cry, though, which is not the best way to start a day of driving. For one thing, crying always makes me sleepy. So my first couple hours of driving were with heavy eyes. Ah well.
Actually the whole first half of the trip felt very odd. I think it was partly that I wasn't driving a familiar route; after spending so much time going to and from Atlanta, it felt weird to be going a different direction. Also, I hadn't yet managed to get in touch with Gretchen's grandparents, with whom I was staying that night. Gretchen had, and everything was worked out, but I hadn't talked to them directly. It's rather unsettling to be driving 500 miles away from home and not be completely assured that you have a place to land. I finally talked to them somewhere in Ohio, and immediately felt five times better.
Gretchen's grandparents are the dearest, sweetest people in the world. I've only met them once before, when I came home with her one spring break, but we adopted each other immediately and Gretch says they've been asking continually when I was going to see them. Originally my plan was to drive straight to Chicago on Saturday, but I decided to break the journey and take the opportunity to see them, and I'm so glad I did. They welcomed me with hugs and a ham sandwich, and we chatted a while before an early bedtime.
Sunday: I slept in, oh glory, and even got time to work on my sock a bit before Grandma and Grandpa got back from Mass. Then Grandma made me a lovely breakfast (my second in a row! keep counting) that was definitely not creamed eggs on toast, because Gretchen reads this blog, and they both told me repeatedly that if Gretchen were to hear that they'd served me creamed eggs on toast their lives would be forfeit, so it was a delicious breakfast but it was certainly not that. Then I bundled myself back into Vladimir and headed up to Chicago.
(Off for drinks and a movie with my boys. More to come.)
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
in which the author attempts to argue that buying yarn is an indispensable step in preparing to move
It's like this. Almost exactly four years ago, my mother went to Aylin's Woolgatherer in search of a birthday present for me. She came back with two balls of a lovely orange wool, and a gift certificate for twice as many dollars as I had years. Aylin's being, as it is, in Northern VA, and I being, as I was, in Atlanta, I knew I wouldn't be able to use it right away, so I tucked it somewhere safe and planned to use it in a couple of months when I was back home.
Fast forward four years. That gift certificate has been rattling among my papers all this time. Many, many things have happened since then. I've bought two cars, moved five times, held two full-time jobs and two part-time, taken the LSAT, decided not to apply to law school, and had a handful each of religious and romantic crises. Oh, and shaved my head. With all this going on, is it any wonder I never found time to use that gift certificate?
Anyhow, now as my NoVA time is running out, I realized that I'd better spend that gift certificate now or it would forever be a reproachful paper in my file box. And since this was the week I had scheduled to pack up most of my crafty things, I decided this was a good week to buy more crafty things for me to pack up.
So I went down to Aylin's on Monday. This, I should mention, was my very first experience of the Local Yarn Store, an entity so well known among knitters that knitbloggers just use the acronym. It is a very, very different thing from your craft store that carries yarn. It is a lush haven of -- actually, I'm not going to do that, because I'm sure many, many people have already written up poetic descriptions of the Local Yarn Store and I don't feel like trying to match the eloquence I'm sure they attained. I wandered around the store with my inner monologue on a one-word loop: "pretty-pretty-pretty-pretty..."
One thing I wasn't prepared for was that none of the yarn was marked with a price. After browsing for a while, though, I understood the wisdom of this: how kind and thoughtful of them it was, because if I knew how much each skein cost I would have been plagued with tiresome thoughts like, "If I buy one of these I can only get one other small thing, and what should it be, but if I buy this instead I can get three, only I don't like any of the colors that much" (that would have been a lie, by the way: I liked ALL of the colors of EVERYTHING; it was only a question of which ones made me say "pretty-pretty-pretty" and which ones made me melt into a puddle of love and longing right there). Holy cow, can you believe that was all one sentence? Anyway, knitting is all about peace and calm and releasing nervous tension (except the week before Christmas), and putting price tags on the yarn would have totally gone against the spirit of the thing. (There was also a sign reading, Your husband called: he said buy whatever you want! which I thought was terribly cute and revealed in a new light how this and all my other hobbies might someday affect the poor bloke who ends up sharing a bank account with me.)
At long last, I went to the desk with three skeins of yarn and a set of needles, which I hoped would come out to more or less the amount of the gift certificate. I had also picked out in my head exactly which skeins I would dash back and grab in the event that I came out under-par. (Note the plural there: I can only describe this as "wishfully stupid.") Turns out I picked out yarn for the exact right amount: the total of the gift certificate plus nearly all my lunch money for the rest of the week.*
So now I have three skeins more to deal with than I had before, which is no problem at all when they're so pretty, and in fact I have another gift certificate that I got last Christmas, just to A. C. Moore this time, and I am totally going to buy more yarn there this very afternoon, because that way I'll have all the yarn I'm going to buy before moving, and I can organize my projects-to-keep-out and projects-to-pack later this very afternoon, and anyway I don't think there's an A. C. Moore in Atlanta so I need to use it before I move, and I have carefully avoided looking it up online to see if that's true.
*The cleverer of you may ask, "What if the yarn you picked had cost the total of your gift certificate plus your lunch money for the next two weeks? Would that have also been the exact right amount?" Yes, yes it would. Shut up.
Fast forward four years. That gift certificate has been rattling among my papers all this time. Many, many things have happened since then. I've bought two cars, moved five times, held two full-time jobs and two part-time, taken the LSAT, decided not to apply to law school, and had a handful each of religious and romantic crises. Oh, and shaved my head. With all this going on, is it any wonder I never found time to use that gift certificate?
Anyhow, now as my NoVA time is running out, I realized that I'd better spend that gift certificate now or it would forever be a reproachful paper in my file box. And since this was the week I had scheduled to pack up most of my crafty things, I decided this was a good week to buy more crafty things for me to pack up.
So I went down to Aylin's on Monday. This, I should mention, was my very first experience of the Local Yarn Store, an entity so well known among knitters that knitbloggers just use the acronym. It is a very, very different thing from your craft store that carries yarn. It is a lush haven of -- actually, I'm not going to do that, because I'm sure many, many people have already written up poetic descriptions of the Local Yarn Store and I don't feel like trying to match the eloquence I'm sure they attained. I wandered around the store with my inner monologue on a one-word loop: "pretty-pretty-pretty-pretty..."
One thing I wasn't prepared for was that none of the yarn was marked with a price. After browsing for a while, though, I understood the wisdom of this: how kind and thoughtful of them it was, because if I knew how much each skein cost I would have been plagued with tiresome thoughts like, "If I buy one of these I can only get one other small thing, and what should it be, but if I buy this instead I can get three, only I don't like any of the colors that much" (that would have been a lie, by the way: I liked ALL of the colors of EVERYTHING; it was only a question of which ones made me say "pretty-pretty-pretty" and which ones made me melt into a puddle of love and longing right there). Holy cow, can you believe that was all one sentence? Anyway, knitting is all about peace and calm and releasing nervous tension (except the week before Christmas), and putting price tags on the yarn would have totally gone against the spirit of the thing. (There was also a sign reading, Your husband called: he said buy whatever you want! which I thought was terribly cute and revealed in a new light how this and all my other hobbies might someday affect the poor bloke who ends up sharing a bank account with me.)
At long last, I went to the desk with three skeins of yarn and a set of needles, which I hoped would come out to more or less the amount of the gift certificate. I had also picked out in my head exactly which skeins I would dash back and grab in the event that I came out under-par. (Note the plural there: I can only describe this as "wishfully stupid.") Turns out I picked out yarn for the exact right amount: the total of the gift certificate plus nearly all my lunch money for the rest of the week.*
So now I have three skeins more to deal with than I had before, which is no problem at all when they're so pretty, and in fact I have another gift certificate that I got last Christmas, just to A. C. Moore this time, and I am totally going to buy more yarn there this very afternoon, because that way I'll have all the yarn I'm going to buy before moving, and I can organize my projects-to-keep-out and projects-to-pack later this very afternoon, and anyway I don't think there's an A. C. Moore in Atlanta so I need to use it before I move, and I have carefully avoided looking it up online to see if that's true.
*The cleverer of you may ask, "What if the yarn you picked had cost the total of your gift certificate plus your lunch money for the next two weeks? Would that have also been the exact right amount?" Yes, yes it would. Shut up.
Monday, February 23, 2009
News, excuses, and a tag
Carrie tagged me, for which thank goodness, because I've been procrastinating something fierce on this blog. And then I procrastinated a while longer on responding to the tag, but oh well. The deal is, you go to the 6th picture folder on your computer, and select the 6th picture; post it, and say something about it. You're supposed to tag 6 people, but I'll skip that part since I only have about two friends who are still blogging.
Ooh, this is one of the many pictures I took as a clever Facebook profile attempt. I set up my desk the way it might typically look: index cards, fountain pen, coffee mug (from my alma mater!), and then put a picture of myself on my laptop, as a sneaky way of getting my picture in there. This was one of the rejected ones, but it's still got the basic idea.
AND NOW: For an all-new 2009 edition of I Have Not Updated In Forever And I'm Sorry And This Is Why.
Excuse #1: It was perhaps a bit stupid of me to start a "year-long" topical blog to be updated weekly at the exact same time I started an online serial fiction project, also to be updated weekly. I have been very faithful in updating the story. 'Nuff said.
Excuse #2: I started talking a lot to a friend of mine who has always, for the six years I've known him, made me feel beautiful and awesome. Not only did this absorb a fair amount of time and attention, but it left me in a mental state where the only tip I could really think of on the subject of "reclaiming beauty" was, "Find somebody who always makes you feel beautiful, and talk to that person a lot." Which may be good advice, but in this particular case I fear it might have quickly degenerated into slumber-party gushing, which was not really what this blog was intended for.
Excuse #3: I decided to stop waffling and move to Atlanta, which I've been talking about doing for the last year and a half at least. This may or may not be related to excuse #2 (did I mention he lives in Atlanta?), but regardless, it's been also quite time- and attention-consuming. And will continue to be for the next two months, as I'm moving at the end of April. Also, I've been trying to save money and to Not Accumulate Stuff, which cuts down on the "trying new beauty-product recipes" and such.
Excuse #4: Not an excuse per se, just a reason: I've been thinking about too many other things. Many times I've had the impulse to blog something, but didn't let myself because it wasn't topical. Which may be causing a sort of logjam of ideas, in which all my beauty-related thoughts are stuck behind all the non-topical thoughts and can't come forward on those rare occasions when I actually have sat down with the intention of writing something for this.
The upshot is, as with so many of my Grand Schemes, the year-long journey blah blah blah seems to have fizzled and died. I'm still interested in the subject, and I'm definitely going to be trying out more recipes and such, once I'm moved and settled and not thinking "I will have to pack this" every time I buy anything non-edible, but I don't think I will keep this blog exclusive to that subject, as I'd planned. Instead, I will post about Whatever The Heck I Feel Like, and perhaps I'll do it more than once every two months.
Ooh, this is one of the many pictures I took as a clever Facebook profile attempt. I set up my desk the way it might typically look: index cards, fountain pen, coffee mug (from my alma mater!), and then put a picture of myself on my laptop, as a sneaky way of getting my picture in there. This was one of the rejected ones, but it's still got the basic idea.
AND NOW: For an all-new 2009 edition of I Have Not Updated In Forever And I'm Sorry And This Is Why.
Excuse #1: It was perhaps a bit stupid of me to start a "year-long" topical blog to be updated weekly at the exact same time I started an online serial fiction project, also to be updated weekly. I have been very faithful in updating the story. 'Nuff said.
Excuse #2: I started talking a lot to a friend of mine who has always, for the six years I've known him, made me feel beautiful and awesome. Not only did this absorb a fair amount of time and attention, but it left me in a mental state where the only tip I could really think of on the subject of "reclaiming beauty" was, "Find somebody who always makes you feel beautiful, and talk to that person a lot." Which may be good advice, but in this particular case I fear it might have quickly degenerated into slumber-party gushing, which was not really what this blog was intended for.
Excuse #3: I decided to stop waffling and move to Atlanta, which I've been talking about doing for the last year and a half at least. This may or may not be related to excuse #2 (did I mention he lives in Atlanta?), but regardless, it's been also quite time- and attention-consuming. And will continue to be for the next two months, as I'm moving at the end of April. Also, I've been trying to save money and to Not Accumulate Stuff, which cuts down on the "trying new beauty-product recipes" and such.
Excuse #4: Not an excuse per se, just a reason: I've been thinking about too many other things. Many times I've had the impulse to blog something, but didn't let myself because it wasn't topical. Which may be causing a sort of logjam of ideas, in which all my beauty-related thoughts are stuck behind all the non-topical thoughts and can't come forward on those rare occasions when I actually have sat down with the intention of writing something for this.
The upshot is, as with so many of my Grand Schemes, the year-long journey blah blah blah seems to have fizzled and died. I'm still interested in the subject, and I'm definitely going to be trying out more recipes and such, once I'm moved and settled and not thinking "I will have to pack this" every time I buy anything non-edible, but I don't think I will keep this blog exclusive to that subject, as I'd planned. Instead, I will post about Whatever The Heck I Feel Like, and perhaps I'll do it more than once every two months.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
mmm smelly stuff
It's fun to me how, when you want to tell the story of something, you usually have about half a dozen starting points to choose from. For this blog, for example, I could say, "It all started when a particular person said a particular thing that seriously undermined my self-image..." and that would be true. I could also say, "It all started when I went dancing this summer, and began to reassess the importance of integrating my physicality and femininity into my understanding of who I am..." and that would be true. I could also say, "It all started when I was standing in Joy's bathroom thinking how cute her short hair looked..." and that would be true.
But today, the story begins with: "It all started when I came across this sentence in an Archie Goodwin story." You don't need to know who Archie Goodwin is; they're detective stories from about half a century ago, and you get that New-York-in-the-'40s glamor popping in at moments. Anyway, Archie is standing around the living room where Lily Rowan, who's beautiful and rich and classy and difficult, is throwing a party. And he notices some scent drifting by, and is trying to decide what it is, and comments (to himself) that it can't be Lily's because "you have to be a lot closer than that to smell Lily's perfume." And I read that and thought, Well that's hot. And it immediately got me thinking about perfume (as I do every two or three years) and thinking it would be nice to have some particular scent that I wore, at least for special occasions.
So a few days later, I was idly googling kinds of perfumes and suchlike, and I found a few references to making perfume at home. I figured that must be a fiddly and expensive process, but being curious I clicked one of the links. Turns out it's ridiculously easy. Basically, you need essential oils and alcohol, neither of which are difficult to obtain in this Amazon age. The oils range from around $5 to around $30 for a half-ounce bottle... not cheap, but not bad for a new hobby.
I started collecting my oils, including lots at Christmas. There are still several that I want to get as soon as possible, but I have enough to begin playing. You can make perfumes with alcohol, in the normal liquid form, and you can also make them as solids, about the consistency of Vaseline. Solids don't carry the scent as far, keeping it mostly to your own skin, and I decided to play with those, both out of courtesy to others, and for the Lily Rowan effect. I've made exactly one so far, and it's... all right. It smells nice, but it definitely needs some tweaking, and I could use several more oils to complicate the scent a little bit.
Basically, though, it's so much fun! Even more fun than making my own shampoo, because it's frivolous and smells pretty. And there's that whole artistic component, and even though I'm just getting started I can sniff my mixture critically and think, Hm, perhaps a drop more Geranium. And I'm so looking forward to being able to design my own scents for all occasions, and some to give to friends, and all of that! My youngest brother, who's always had a sensitive nose, has already requested a cologne.
But today, the story begins with: "It all started when I came across this sentence in an Archie Goodwin story." You don't need to know who Archie Goodwin is; they're detective stories from about half a century ago, and you get that New-York-in-the-'40s glamor popping in at moments. Anyway, Archie is standing around the living room where Lily Rowan, who's beautiful and rich and classy and difficult, is throwing a party. And he notices some scent drifting by, and is trying to decide what it is, and comments (to himself) that it can't be Lily's because "you have to be a lot closer than that to smell Lily's perfume." And I read that and thought, Well that's hot. And it immediately got me thinking about perfume (as I do every two or three years) and thinking it would be nice to have some particular scent that I wore, at least for special occasions.
So a few days later, I was idly googling kinds of perfumes and suchlike, and I found a few references to making perfume at home. I figured that must be a fiddly and expensive process, but being curious I clicked one of the links. Turns out it's ridiculously easy. Basically, you need essential oils and alcohol, neither of which are difficult to obtain in this Amazon age. The oils range from around $5 to around $30 for a half-ounce bottle... not cheap, but not bad for a new hobby.
I started collecting my oils, including lots at Christmas. There are still several that I want to get as soon as possible, but I have enough to begin playing. You can make perfumes with alcohol, in the normal liquid form, and you can also make them as solids, about the consistency of Vaseline. Solids don't carry the scent as far, keeping it mostly to your own skin, and I decided to play with those, both out of courtesy to others, and for the Lily Rowan effect. I've made exactly one so far, and it's... all right. It smells nice, but it definitely needs some tweaking, and I could use several more oils to complicate the scent a little bit.
Basically, though, it's so much fun! Even more fun than making my own shampoo, because it's frivolous and smells pretty. And there's that whole artistic component, and even though I'm just getting started I can sniff my mixture critically and think, Hm, perhaps a drop more Geranium. And I'm so looking forward to being able to design my own scents for all occasions, and some to give to friends, and all of that! My youngest brother, who's always had a sensitive nose, has already requested a cologne.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
