I'm already bored by the Super Bowl.

Reruns of "The Closer," and knitting, that's the plan. I'm working on a scarf from some handpainted wool/mohair blend that has been in the stash for a couple of years. This scarf will be mine.

Boy called today to mock weather people. He says he's going to apply for a job predicting the weather in the mountains, he'll use a Magic 8 Ball. Today was supposed to be partly cloudy, maybe a few light random flurries. When he called me it was snowing like hell. He was working, but everybody was in agreement that if the roads started getting bad they would knock off early and go watch the Super Bowl. He needs socks and gloves. I need to get cracking on that.

I have not bought yarn or a knitting book or magazine in at least 6 weeks, and I have not been really tempted until the WEBS catalog showed up. There are a couple of sweaters in there that I really do like, and I think I need the Spring Rowan and the Spring/Summer Tahki Yarns. But no yarn.

I like this: Thermal I am sure I have something in the stash from hell for it.

I started a crocheted shawl, Helen's Lace, the pattern in in FCEK Spring 2003. I saw it back then, had no idea what Helen's Lace was, and now I have enough in my stash to make it. I love the pattern, it's another of my standard "can watch TV, answer the phone and drink wine while making it" patterns. I'm using the Watercolor colorway and I'm not sure about it, it's kinda flashy for me, but I think it will work as a casual shawl with jeans. So the Knitting of Flat Things continues. I like knitting flat things. I'm not apologetic in the slightest. It makes me happy. I do need to get back to socks.

Crazy Aunt Purl as usual hits nerves all over the internets with her honesty and observations. I agree with a chunk of it. I didn't gain my extra pounds through anxiety eating, for me it's middle age and a job that involves business lunches. And primarily not enough exercise. I'm working on that via the elliptical trainer but really, that's just holding ground. I still need to lose 30 pounds.

I can't blame age alone, one of the VPs at my company just turned 50 and is the cutest little thing you've ever seen and would swim in a size 8.

But the discomfort in my own skin - oh yeah, I identify. I am having a really hard time with the excuse/platitude that "Oh, you look good for your age, because that's the kind of condescending head-pat given to little old ladies. I'm not there yet. I will know when I'm there, honest, but I'm not there.

I killed my gray roots today, and actually toyed with the idea of not killing them and growing in the gray. Because I have a lot of gray. No, not gray, white. This is weird because in my family nobody goes gray this early. My mother will be 81 next month and HER HAIR IS NOT WHITE. It is steel gray and brown. I honestly attribute this freak early white hair to the stress of my husband's death - I thought that stuff about going gray overnight was a cliche, but damn, it really did happen. So I was looking at my roots in the mirror and thinking about letting it go, but no. Because I'm not ready for that yet. Maybe the next time I get a wild urge to cut my hair, but not now, while it is growing out so nicely. Changing from brown-from-a-bottle to damn near white would be a long, and not pretty, process. But I think it would look good. Jamie Lee Curtis is really rocking her gray hair. I work with a woman who is gorgeous and has stunning silver hair. But men don't get the hipness of premature gray, so I will continue to kill the roots.

I can be pudgy or gray but I can't be pudgy AND gray. I am not ready or willing to be that way, and I am not going down without a fight.

I do believe in the adage that "If your dog is fat, you aren't getting enough exercise." I know this to be true. Murphy is the poster dog. Murphy has never had a weight problem, but had pudged up at his last vet check, and I know he is getting less exercise these days. He plays with Dudley and runs around the house and yard, but long walkies haven't happened regularly in many months. He's on the road to Porky Yorkie. I'm sure it's purely a coincidence that my own weight is creeping up insidiously. So today I asked him if he would like to have a stroll, and of course he said yes, thank you, that would be lovely. And we went out and I intended to take him on the shorter walk, because we hadn't walked in months and I was worried about his pudgy self and his bad knees, but he was having none of it, he wanted to go to the lake and do the full long lake walk. And because it was his idea, he didn't drag and bitch and make me carry him halfway through. He walked briskly, pausing for a sniff and pee at appropriate times, and we did a mile in a half hour, not bad when we are both middle-aged and one of us has extremely short legs and we both have bad knees.

I wanted to take Dudley on a walk too, but as Murphy and I were coming up the street, we saw Psycho Dog Next Door's invisible fence had been turned off yet again, because she was up the street taking a crap in a neighbor's yard. Charming.

I have been bitten by that dog before, it has attacked Murphy before, and I'm afraid to take Dudley out there when she's not restrained. I can't tell you how much this pisses me off, because we are not in the kind of neighborhood where dogs roam around, we are in the kind of neighborhood with a HOA that bitches if your garbage cans don't vanish immediately after the garbage truck goes through. We do not have stray dogs. We just have Psycho Dog. So poor Dudley didn't get a walk tonight, but I promise I'm going to make more time for walkies in the future. I can't do it after dark, because we have the aforementioned Psycho Dog Next Door, and also, yes, visiting bears. And no, we are not at all in the country. These are Yogi Bears, they like garbage cans. I don't want to meet one in the dark, thanks.

I am setting up the coffee and going to bed madly early. I can watch The Closer and finish the scarf from the comfort of my bed. Tomorrow is Monday. Shit.