Bucket List - The Elusive Last 10 Pounds

I've spent a significant portion of my adult life thinking "I should lose 10 pounds".  And I have - several times.  Having been through the process, I fully realize that the only thing that changes is my dress size.  As a size 10 rather than a 12, I still need to deal with bad drivers, stoop and scoop after the dog, pay my bills.  But these things seem a bit easier when my pants aren't pinching my waist.

I thought I'd have come to terms with my weight by now - either I'd have mastered maintaining the weight loss or I'd have accepted my body as it is.  At 51, I have no desire to stroll down a beach in a bikini - my kids would be horrified  and rightfully so.  My doctor is happy with my weight although she'd like me to exercise more regularly.  My partner has no complaints.

It seems it might be easiest to buy some stretch waist jeans and get on with my life.

But the legacy of several decades of diets seems to be that if one is not actively losing weight, one is packing it on.  What happens when the size 12 jeans start to pinch?  I'd rather not find out.

It seems #10 on my bucket list needs revision - daily servings of chocolate cake are out.  

Bucket List

Last week an internet friend posed the question "What would you do if you had 30 days to live?"  I'd just spent the morning paying bills and cleaning dog vomit off the bed so my first thoughts were of the things I wouldn't need to do - file my 2011 taxes, deal with stubborn stains, go to the dentist...  In that frame of mind, I came up with the following: 1. Toss out my dental floss. 2. Hire a cleaning service. 3. Update my will (still on my "To Do" list from last year). 4. Visit my home town. There are lots of more exotic places I'd love to visit but I'd rather spend my time in a place I know and love. 5. Buy white bed linens since I wouldn't need to worry that they're not practical. 6. Hug my kids, even though it embarrasses them. 7. Throw a party and invite everyone I know (but I wouldn't tell them it was a farewell party because that would put a damper on things). 8. Pick my favourite of my several dozen unfinished craft projects and get it done. 9. Get Pat to take me dancing, even though it embarrasses him. 10. Acknowledge that I'm probably never going to lose those last 10 lbs. and eat chocolate cake every day. Another friend, reading my list, suggested I do all of these things this year - with the exception of abandoning dental hygiene.  Yesterday being my 51st birthday, it seems like a good time to start working my way through the list. But what should I toss instead of the dental floss?  My hair dye?  If I had only 30 days to live, would I really care about my grey roots?  Or would I choose to go out looking my best?

Feral Knitting

Many years ago when I was a much younger and less experienced knitter, I decided to make a fairisle sweater for my then 3 year old daughter.  In my youthful enthusiasm, it did not occur to me that the project might be beyond my abilities nor did I think to consult a more experienced knitter or even an instruction manual.  I picked up my needles and jumped in.  I enjoyed the experience - it's always fun to make children's clothes because they work up quickly - and my daughter seemed quite happy with the result.

When I proudly displayed the sweater to my mother in law, she promptly turned the sweater inside out and showed me all of the errors I'd made in carrying, or failing to carry, the yarn across the motifs.  "I didn't know that you knit" said I.  "I don't, but I know how not to knit" she replied.

Undeterred, I made plans to knit co-ordinating sweaters for the entire family to wear in our Christmas photo.  A two year stint in Miami derailed my knitting career for a bit - working with wool in the sub-tropics is of limited appeal - and by the time we returned to a cooler climate, our family had grown in number, in girth and in taste.  Knitting four largish sweaters and coaxing them onto the backs of unwilling models was beyond me.  I swore off knitting in two colors and embarked upon a, mercifully brief, affair with novelty yarns.

Until I spied a kit for a fairisle purse in my favorite cottage country yarn shop and my friend Jan presented it to me as an unbirthday gift.  I consulted my sister who provided me with directions for the two-handed fairisle technique, purchased the requisite bobbins and needles and installed the project in my knitting basket.

Where it sat for over a year.  It wasn't just the fairisle that intimidated me.  The base of the bag is knit in seed stitch - possibly the world's most boring stitch.  It also required I knit an i-cord which made me think of some painful gynecological procedure.  And I discovered an error in the pattern but lacked the confidence to make the obvious correction.  I felt quite paralyzed.

Periodically Jan would ask how the bag was coming along.  I admitted that I kept it confined to my knitting basket, at a safe distance from my armchair, from where I imagined I sometimes heard it snapping and snarling at me.  We took to referring to it as the "feral" bag.

Little by little, I moved the chair closer to the bag until one day, outfitted in suitable protective gear, I picked up the needles and set it free.  Apart from the i-cord, it was not nearly so ferocious as I'd thought.  (I have this to say about i-cord: it's silly.)  I quite enjoyed taking the project on outings; it impressed novice knitters ("that looks hard!") as though I had a tiger on a leash.  (They didn't realize I would return home to spend an hour or more undoing what I had knit in their company - keeping the feral beast in line required my undivided attention.)

Here is the finished project.  It's lined with a remnant of quilting fabric and I used webbing for the handles rather than i-cord.  A second bag is on the needles as I write.  And I'm considering the color options for our 2015 family Christmas photo...

Patchwork

The interior of the farm house is decorated in a style I call "mid-century old lady" - a lot of dusty rose and smoky blue and several hundred feet of almond trim.  Mercifully, there is no shag carpet or country themed wallpaper border to be removed.  There was, however, a bevelled mirror "feature wall" spanning the first and second floor stairwell.

I attempted to take a "before photo" but the resulting flash burned my retinas.  Think "Vegas hotel" or "Liberace's bathroom" and you'll capture the image.

Pat removed the mirrors with great care.  We're both somewhat superstitious and 48 mirrors at 7 years each might have resulted in several generations of bad luck.  Thanks to his efforts, the mirrors survived unscathed but not the drywall.

Our options - fill and repair a few hundred holes or cover the entire space with new drywall.

On closer inspection, the previous owner had already installed a second layer of drywall - whether as additional support for the mirrors or to cover an earlier "feature wall" (I envision flocked velvet wallpaper) we don't know.  So we're working on the first option.

It's a long process.  Each hole must be primed to prevent moisture from accumulating in the drywall then filled, sanded and primed a second time before we can prime and paint the entire surface.

Viewing our work in process, my daughter came up with a third option - install a large tapestry.  A vintage tapestry is beyond my means but the challenge of creating a 10' x 20' applique quilt  has a certain appeal.

So Pat continues with his patchwork and I with mine - we'll see who gets there first.

The stockings were hung...

on the stairway with care, as we don't have a fireplace in the farm house.

A few years ago, I made stockings using vintage linen napkins for the cuffs and a remnant of upholstery fabric for the sock. There were not enough of the blue stockings for our blended family, so Pat's old sock was pressed into service.

While I still have dozens of linen napkins in my stash, the last of the blue fabric was used to make the tiny stocking for Roxy the wonder dog.

One of my perennial New Year's resolutions is to start Christmas projects in January (rather than December 20 as has been my habit) so I've started knitting a set of wool stockings.  I have an endless supply of cream yarn left over from an afghan project that went sadly awry - more than enough to make stockings for our current family and any new additions - human or otherwise - that may join our household in the years to come.

Here's the first one:

Five more stockings and 354 Christmas crafting days to go...

"A garden is a friend you can visit any time."

I like this quotation but this year my garden looks at me reproachfully when I venture to visit - where have I been and why am I so neglectful?

Last year I tackled a long time plan and replaced my front lawn with a perennial garden. I hired Eric Saywell to do the hardcore landscaping - remove the existing lawn, build the beds, restore the driveway. Left to my own devices, I would have simply replaced the rectangle of grass with a rectangle of plants. Fortunately I deferred to Eric's design sense as well as his building skills. He built three beds of varying elevations and tied them in to the existing driveway. The result is much more interesting than my flat plot would have been.

Recognizing that the garden would benefit from expert advice, I made up a list of plants that I like (echinacea, sedum, peonies) and don't like (hostas - I have no justification for my aversion to hostas except to say they're dumb) and presented it to the designer at my local nursery. He reviewed my list - made some additions and deletions - and gave me a planting layout.

I put in about half of the suggested plants last fall and supplemented with garden mums. The resulting "instant garden" had passersby stopping to admire so I was quite pleased with my efforts.

The perennials survived the winter and their new companions have been added. I feel I should be out in the garden every day weeding, watering, talking to the flowers but it seems I'm a fairweather garden friend. It's been too hot, too cold, too damp. I've been too tired to spread fresh mulch, too distracted to investigate the cause of the brown edges on the hydrangeas. I suspect the root of my neglect is the knowledge that I'll soon be leaving this garden when I move to the farm. I'm trying to prepare both of us for our eventual parting.

Passing Inspection

I spent a morning this week touring the farm house with the building inspector. I was expecting to uncover a few skeletons in the closet - or the basement. The house is 112 years old and the previous owner, Ted, the person responsible for the majority of the upgrades, is, to say the least, eccentric. On our first visit to the house, Ted assured us that all of the wiring and plumbing met or exceeded code, that the foundation was sound and the well was in perfect order. He warned us that the barn was past salvaging - it predates the house - and we should consider the expense of removing it when calculating the cost of the property. But, he added, the crows and the skunks would be included in the offer.

Crows and skunks? It seems the crows are used to being fed at the back door and he told us they will gather and squawk until their dinner is served. The skunks like to sun themselves in the driveway. They're quite used to people and pets and won't spray but are useful for deterring unwanted visitors.

Ted then told us about his wife - 6'2" and 250 lbs., she eats so much that there are 2 ovens and 2 fridges in the kitchen. We asked where she was and he said she was at church praying to lose weight. On our next visit, he made no mention of his wife and proposed marriage to our real estate agent. The tall tales grew at an alarming rate. We left unsure what to believe. In my worst moments, I concluded the renovations were a figment of his imagination but the skunks are probably real.

The building inspector confirmed that, at least as far as the house is concerned, Ted's word is reliable. There are some minor repairs that we can take of ourselves and we've been advised to budget for a new furnace in a couple of years but otherwise we've found our ideal - a century home solidly built and properly maintained.

Ted simply nodded his head when he heard the inspector had given his approval and asked if I had any other questions so I enquired what I should feed the crows. He was visibly relieved; "we've actually been very worried about that". He proceeded explain that his wife saves up crusts of bread and fries them in oil (he's promised to leave the jug of oil), adding whatever leftovers happen to be around. I'm a reluctant cook at the best of times, as my children will attest. Since I avoid cooking for my kids, I'm hard put to see myself cooking for the crows, but I didn't tell Ted that.

It seems I passed inspection as well as the house. When I was leaving, Ted gave me a horseshoe which he says came from the original farm. I'm to hang it over the door and he assures me it will bring us luck.

I'm going to need it when the skunks show up.