WINTER

I happen to like winter. No, that isn't entirely accurate.

I LOVE WINTER! I love snow. I love snowstorms. I love winter, pure and simple. Because I love winter and I love snow, I live in Chicago, though oftentimes I spend a portion of the winter bemoaning how those lucky people in Indiana and Buffalo, New York get all the good snow. I am at my happiest when it is snowing like a scene from The Long Winter.

I don't understand Chicagoans -- particularly TV weatherpersons in Chicago. I'm not exaggerating -- at the very first hint that so much as a flake of snow could possibly fall from the sky they start running around in front of the camera screaming, "Oh my G-d! We're all going to die!" The next thing I know people are stalking around, whispering, asking if it's possible the office might close early "because of the weather". Complete strangers expect me to empathize as they moan and groan about it being a "freezing" 28 degrees.

This is Chicago, people! Man up! Quit your bellyachin' and grow a pair! We don't go home early because it might snow! We don't even go home early if it DOES snow. The worst thing that could happen is we get snowed in and end up sleeping under our desks, which, far from being the end of the world, builds character! Try to look on the bright side! If we do all sleep under our desks, I bet the firm will bring in breakfast!

This week we are expecting a blast of arctic air, with daytime high temperatures hovering at the -2 degree mark. And I have a response to every person who feels entitled to bitch and moan.

"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven..." So shut up already.

But Some of My Best Friends Are...

Canadian?

I think we can all agree that I am NOT an intellectual heavyweight. Oh, I attended the lectures in Philosophy 402, but I didn't understand a word of them. I went to class, but mostly sat there while the professor talked about Martin Heidegger and Richard Kleindienst and Dog knows what else and allowed myself to be distracted by shiny things. I remain to this day well-intentioned but easily confused.

SO you will understand why this article has left me vehrstimmeled.

When Stephanie Pearl-McPhee says she's Canadian, is she trying to tell me something? Not that I care. Some of my best friends really are Canadian. Or black. Or are they French?

I park my car every day at a parking garage in Chicago's Loop. It is twelve stories high, and, in order to make it easier for people to find their cars, each floor is assigned a "country" and a song associated with that country plays in the elevator lobby on that floor.

As I think I noted, I am easily confused, so I always park in Greece -- the 7th floor. Even though there are spaces on 6 when I pull in in the morning, I drive on up to Greece. And waiting for the elevator I am treated to Kritikos Horos' Theme from Zorba the Greek.

Invariably, on the way down, the elevator stops at 4 to pick up parkers, and Canada's national anthem, Oh Canada, reverently enters my ears.

Now I'm going to suspect the intentions of the 4th floor of the car park.

Do you think the guys who draw Southpark knew about this?

IT'S NOT YOU, IT'S ME.

Norbert and I were out in the burbs yesterday to pick up his best friend, who also happens to be named Norbert. (I know...what are the odds? We thought he'd be the only Norbert in his class, and it turns out there are four of them.)

Anyway, I've been wanting Galina Khmeleva's book "Gossamer Webs Design Collection", and we were driving right by, so I asked Norbert if we could stop in at Chix With Stix, a yarn shop in Forest Park, right next to Oak Park. It was fine with him.

I could instantly tell that this was not going to be a good visit. There were three women sitting at a table knitting and talking, and when we walked in the door, they fell silent. I strolled over to the books and startled looking when a woman came up to me and asked me, "Are you looking for something?" Not "Good afternoon. How can I help you?" or "Is there anything I can help you find?"

I told the woman what I was looking for, and she said "We don't have that." Then -- I kid you not -- she turned, walked away, and sat down at the table and picked up her knitting. She didn't ask "Can I recommend 'A Gathering of Lace'?" or "What kind of a shawl are you interested in knitting?"

Norbert wanted to buy some orange baby alpaca that he thought would make a great scarf for Myfanwe, but I didn't want to spend any money there.*

While walking to our car from the AIDS Walk today, I mentioned this to Myfanwe, who has heard me recount similar experiences at several other shops in the past. While I was firmly convinced that this rude behavior was certainly because of prejudice against men who knit, my wife suggested that maybe it wasn't gender bias and that maybe the sales people just didn't like me.

I said, in response, "These sales people didn't even know me!"

Her reply? "Lots of people who don't know you, don't like you."

I couldn't really argue with her.

*I ended up ordering the book used from Amazon.com. I'll take Norbert by Loopy Yarns sometime soon to look for some yarn for his stash. They like boys.

Because I Don't Like You.

(Note: In consideration of, if not compliance with, The Pearl Principles, names have been changed to protect the guilty.)

There is this woman I know, Darla, who really ticks me off. She goes to a Stitch n Bitch I used to attend. I'm not exaggerating -- I would rather stay home and stick hat pins in my thigh than have to attend the SnB when she is there.

One of the (many) things that I don't like about Darla is that she is an unnecessary yarn snob. She will brag about the brand and price of every yarn she knits. I have actually heard her tell people knitting on an inexpensive yarn that she wouldn't be caught dead knitting with cheap yarn such as theirs. I kid you not -- if you tell her that you just found out that a friend of yours has cancer, she will find a way to steer the conversation back to how expensive her yarn is and how much better it is than yours. (This has happened.) That was almost offensive as the time she told a woman who was crocheting a shawl that she thought crochet would be a good skill to teach retarded people.

And I swear to Dog, if I have to hear about her trips to Europe (always as if Europe was a country, not a continent) one more time, the hat pins are going to be used for a trans-orbital lobotomy. (Don't ask if the lobotomy is for her or me -- I've not decided yet.)

I don't believe writing this violates the Pearl Principles. I know for a fact that this woman won't read what I'm writing. When I mentioned something I'd posted on this blog, she said, "Oh, I never read blogs. They are all written by stupid people -- if these people knew what they were doing, they wouldn't be giving it away."

And even if she read this, she wouldn't know it was her. I could read it to her myself and she would ask me if she knew the person. She is that oblivious.

Because of this woman, I stopped attending one of my SnBs. I really miss it. I miss my friends. My Bitches are important to me. But I did not and would not and could not have even a moment of fun if this woman was there.

Writing this won't do anything, I understand. It certainly won't change Darla's personality. It isn't going to make me find her less offensive. And I doubt it will even make me feel any better. I'm not exactly sure why I wrote it. Except that you all are great people and sometimes talking to you makes me feel loads better.

(I miss my friend, Hugs, who would have known what to do with this woman. His solution would have started with a bag of Sacrete and ended with a pack of cigarettes and a micro-brew, but he would have know exactly what to do. Hugs, dearest -- you are missed.)

Now I think I'll go clear my mind and knit on the Prayer Shawl for a little while. It will be good to think positive thoughts.