Knit Sisters

Turns out that even if you are only going to move next door, you still have to pack. It seems at first like you don’t, but then you get to thinkin’. In your mind’s eye, you see yourself as the central figure in an absurdist tableau in which you are walking from your current house to your new house with a brass candlestick in one hand and a ball of yarn in the other.

Seventeen days later, you have a Richard Nixon bobblehead doll in one hand and your original copy of Frampton Comes Alive! in the other. A fistful of broken rubber bands in one hand and an accordion under the other arm. Excruciatingly, you are still carting these items from your old home to your new home.

No, there’s nothing for it but to pack.

I have to admit that I am a downright, stone Marine drill sergeant when it comes to moving. I find myself making announcements to Alex like, “Everything in this house must be sorted and all items that are clearly trash must be thrown away! All items that are of some value but are not being used at this time must be given to Goodwill! No unnecessary items will be moved next door!” (I draw the line at actually addressing him as “soldier,” but it has crossed my mind.)

As is well known, if “unnecessary items” are moved next door, a plague of locusts will be visited upon us and the Lord will smite us by killing all of our sheep and goats. There’s a lot at stake here, people!

Alex hasn’t packed one thing. If the past is any indicator, that situation will persist until 24 hours before the move at which point he will panic and start throwing his own things willy-nilly into boxes, many of which will never be sealed and some of which will contain poorly-packed breakable items that may not survive the trip from one house to the next.

Inevitably, some of these things will be “unnecessary items.” Naturally, this pains me (not to mention what it does to the goats), but I have learned not to become too emotionally involved in his method (if his approach is indeed to be dignified by that moniker) of moving. He has his ways and I have mine.

Anyway, this weekend I sorted through all my clothes (and, to be honest, some of Alex’s), the non-clothes items in two closets, and packed up all the decorative objects in the house. I also decided that this move was a good excuse to organize my stash.

I hasten to point out that I never intended to get rid of any yarn, however. Yarn is in a “protected category” and therefore never to be deemed unnecessary. Soldier.

Here I am in the midst of “Operation Stash and Awe”:

Well, hello there, cashmere!

A partial-stash shot:

This excludes yarn in opaque bags that is slated for particular projects, “core” stash yarn that I’ve had for twenty years+, and five balls of gorgeous periwinkle silk that I recently sneaked into the house and have not yet come to terms with having bought, even though I got it at a steep discount and there was really no way I could pass it up and…

Remarkably, as soon as I had taken all of my yarn out of its various natural habitats and placed the entire array of it on the bed (and at auxiliary locations around the bedroom), my first thought was, “You know, I really don’t have that much yarn.”

Right. The same way that the American South doesn’t have “that much” kudzu.

Oh, by the way, Marsha, sadly blogless, had a very fine idea in her comment on my sister’s last post: in the event that my sister cannot finish Rumpelstiltskin by June 21st, our mother could wear Icarus to the wedding. That is, if she is planning on wearing something that harmonizes with pink. Oh, wait! She was angling for the Handsome Triangle. She obviously has no problem with pink. (And I mean serious pink!) So…consider the offer made.

But I still think Sarah can make the deadline. I have faith.

On Friday night, whilst I was at her house playing a game, Mother announced to me that I really needed to get to work on that new shawl, because she and I are both going to need a pretty shawl to wear to the wedding.  

(See, I was working on the pink baby blanket at the time.  Admittedly, this is a hard project to justify, seeing as how I am neither pregnant myself nor do I know anyone with a new baby girl who is near and dear enough to me to merit a baby blanket with an intrinsic value of $400.  In fact, the only person who is near and dear enough to me to receive such a baby gift actually recently gave birth to a baby boy.  But I digress.)

“Oh?” I said.  “How do you figure that?”

“Well,” she said, “I figure it’s going to be pretty chilly out there on that headland, and summer in the San Francisco area isn’t that warm at the best of times.  And a pretty shawl will look ever so much more elegant than a jacket.  If we don’t have something pretty to wrap up in, we’ll have to have jackets to wear!”

Certainly a fate worse than death. 

Then, she went on and on about how beautiful Rumpelstiltskin was looking, and how it was ephemeral and gossamer-light and gorgeous.

“You’ll have to wear that one, though,” she said.  “Because as beautiful as it is, if I wore it I’d look like I was the same color as the shawl.”  (Our mother is convinced that she cannot wear light-colored neutrals.)

Huh. 

I believe this is an elaborate scheme on Mother’s part to cabbage onto the Handsome Triangle shawl.  It’s obvious to me that she wants it.  If I let her wear it at the wedding, my goose will be cooked.  I’ll never wear that shawl again.

Nevertheless, the challenge has been issued. 

The gauntlet has been thrown down.

Can I finish Rumpelstiltskin in time to wear it to Ellen’s wedding?  Like the dutiful and obedient daughter that I am, I have been working on it.

I am into the second ball of yarn and into the 11th pattern repeat.  Of thirty-nine.  And then there’s the elaborate edging.

Place your bets, ladies and gents!  Can I finish this shawl in time?  Given my notorious propensity for laying aside a project in the middle to pursue something new?  Well, I’ll just have to be diligent about this one.

After all, I wouldn’t want to have to wear a (gasp) jacket to my only sister’s wedding.

P.S.  OK, I have snuck in a few more squares on the baby blanket.  It’s just so portable! 

 

Sorry, Mom!  Happy Mother’s Day anyway!

First things first: thanks so much to all of you who left such lovely comments about our dream house! It’s hard for me even to express how much this house means to us.

I also think it was very brave of Sarah and the Incomparable Kate to admit that they are a little jealous. This revelation of an ignoble emotion makes me admire the two of them all the more because it shows a certain genuineness that I greatly value. It is also the case that I have often been the one who was “a little jealous.” Sometimes a little jealous like Medea. Here’s what I can say: we all deserve to live in a place we love.

Or none of us do.

But that’s a broader philosophical topic and would probably involve invoking original sin and a number of other outmoded notions about the moral poverty of the human condition that only a handful of us still seem to find instructive.

So erring on the side of generosity towards our species, I would wish a dream house for all of you, but especially my sister, who is actively hunting for that house now.

Here’s some Greek oregano and a mint plant I am growing in pots for easy transport to the new house.

In the midst of all of our wonderful news and good fortune, of course, the days until the wedding continue to tick away. Tick, tick, tick, tick…

But in the course of a conversation with my friend Heidi, who is a professor at Harvard and therefore arguably more likely than the average bear to have insight into all things bearish, I realized why it is that I so dislike being a bride. Or perhaps more accurately, why I so dislike anticipating being a bride.

Wanna hear? Oh, I knew you would!

While I’m at it, here’s my progress on Nasser’s sock. The yarn is Mountain Colors Bearfoot in color “Deep Blue.” It’s a wool/mohair/nylon blend and absolutely scrumptious. The pattern is, of course from Interweave’s Favorite Socks, a book I’m coming to know and love.

Heidi, in her wisdom, offered the astute observation that for many of us, being a bride has some parallels with the coming-out experience for a gay man or a lesbian. In other words, the experience mobilizes anxieties about gender roles, the expectations of others and the gap between those expectations and reality, and the strong possibility of being judged and found wanting.

In both cases, even if things go as well as could possibly be expected, those anxieties are still lively and we carry them into our interactions, especially with our family members, and they color our judgements when we interpret how people respond to us. And in both cases, these anxieties center around gender issues.

In the case of a living, breathing, flawed (and sometimes relatively old) bride, the cultural archetype against which she is measured is a hyper-feminized, exquisitely beautiful, fecund young woman. And the process of preparing for your wedding is, inevitably, bound up (at least at certain junctures) in how well you reflect that ideal. Guess what?

Bzzt. You lose!

And since culture is NEVER “just culture” and since it is nearly impossible to simply put all of these influences and expectations completely out of your head at all times, even if you think they are complete rubbish and utter bollocks and you in fact feel pretty good about yourself, you will find yourself some days looking in the mirror and thinking, “I’m almost forty years old, I’m not as thin as I used to be, I have no interest in childbearing, I tend to be opinionated, I laugh really loudly, and I bench press ninety pounds. So much for the delicate fairy-tale princess, folks!”

Good times, good times.

But there are even worse days than that, of course. And on those days, you find yourself cringing at the thought of meeting all of those guests who are friends and family of your beloved’s parents, people you’ve never met before and may well never meet again. Since you don’t know them, you tend to project your anxieties onto them. Even though you are sure, intellectually, that they are lovely people.

But let me repeat and clarify: this is not about intellect and it isn’t even about reality. It’s about archetypes. It’s about the eternal feminine. It’s about being exposed and on display. It’s about the awful undertow of cultural expectations.

And when you have a really bad day, you think to yourself, “Those people probably don’t know how old I am. They will be expecting a much younger woman. A woman with nary a grey hair. A woman without laugh lines. Will I confront their irrepressible ‘looks of horror’ at my own wedding reception? On the drive home will they turn to one another and say, ‘I had no idea she would be that old. Poor Alex, he’s ruining his life.’?

Now, returning back to Planet Earth, the truth is that they will probably spend the ride home discussing the high price of gasoline in California, talking about their son’s baseball game, opining about the most recent season of American Idol, and deciding where to go for Sunday brunch.

For better or for worse, we just don’t think about other people all that much.

You see, I do know this. I also don’t want you to waste your breath in the comments telling me that I’ll look lovely, that I should feel confident, etc., etc. I actually know that too. And when the day of the reception comes, I’ll have a great time because at that moment, I’ll feel just fine being me. Like I do 99% of the time.

But this confrontation with the archetype…this is the really bad, bad stuff. This is the shadow-boxing part. This is the anticipation of being publicly scrutinized based not on your intellect, your sense of humor, your talents, or your rare and delightful personal qualities, but on your appearance and—at some dark, primitive subterranean level—on your reproductive viability.

Under those circumstances, a person like me is maybe, just maybe, going to go just the tiniest bit crazy. Just the tiniest bit.

Forty-two more days. Then it will all be over and I can go back to ignoring the eternal feminine, as I have all my life, and those who love me will still love me and those who are disappointed in me or find me off-putting will still basically dislike me and all will be well with the world.

See how easy? Forty-two more days. Piece of cake. Wedding cake, that is.

Congratulations to Ellen and Alex on their great good fortune in getting such a swell little house to live in and to Alex for his acquisition of that fellowship!  I tell you, it couldn’t have happened to two nicer people.

Having said that, though, I confess to just a wee bit of jealousy.  I can’t help feeling that it’s about time a little bit of good luck fell to me, as well.  I kid you not, folks, it’s been a tough, tough winter.

Harvey and I looked at the other little house yesterday.  It’s a perfectly nice place, but somewhat bland.  I have a hard time picturing myself living there–carpeting everywhere but the kitchen and bath, square little rooms, square little house.  I didn’t find it very inspiring. 

Then we went back to the first little house this afternoon with the realtor and a contractor to get a rough idea of what it would cost to gut and remodel the kitchen and bath.  Um…quite a bit.  I left with a good deal of sticker shock.

Can you tell I’m having a pity party this evening?  Complete with domestic beer and ice cream.

It’s a good thing that I started yet another new knitting project.  That can always make one feel better–or at least as though, as bad as it may get, something may yet be accomplished.

 

I decided, although I don’t know anyone who is currently pregnant with a baby girl nor anyone who has just had a baby girl, to start a very girly baby blanket. 

With mitered squares!

 

Now, I’m not one of those people who thinks that mitered squares are attractive just anywhere.  Like, say, on a skirt.  But I do hold with a mitered square baby blanket.  It seems to go more quickly than your average baby blanket.  Each little square gives one such a sense of satisfaction!   (Particularly helpful at the pity party!)  Plus, it’s so easy to figure up just how much time making this baby blanket will take.  If every square takes about 45 minutes, and I’m going to need 48 squares, I will invest….

Thirty-six hours of my life in mitered squares. 

Plus whatever kind of cute little edging I devise at the end.

So, let’s say a nice round 40 hours.  If you paid yourself $10 an hour for your work, that would be a $400 baby blanket.  Even if you paid yourself only $5 an hour, it would be a $200 baby blanket.

Sheesh.  Give me another beer and some more ice cream, somebody.

Party on!

Sometimes, friends, you are in the right place at the right time. And when that happens, you gotta savor it. Because it doesn’t come along all that often.

The weekend kicked off on Friday afternoon when we learned that Alex had received a very tasty fellowship for the next academic year from the Department of Energy. Very tasty. In fact, with the combination of his DOE fellowship and my fellowship from Berkeley, we may soon be able to enter the ranks of the lower middle class.

From have-nots to premium have-nots!

You can imagine our excitement.

Upwardly mobile and it feels so good.

Already in a celebratory mood, we wended our way homeward to find a letter from one of our next-door neighbors in our mailbox. This neighbor is, in fact, the one who lives in the most desirable house on our street, the house that I have beheld often, I will admit it, with envy in my heart.

The house about which I have often remarked to Alex, “Wouldn’t it be great if we could have a house like that someday?” and “J. and P.’s house is my dream house,” and “They must be deliriously happy every day, living in a house like that and not having a lying, cheating, craphound landlord to poison their very existence,” and so on and so forth.

A house like this is one of the world’s sweet things.

Yes, a letter from J. and P., the owners of the blessed little house.

The letter said this (I am paraphrasing and editing for brevity. I am also embellishing, but that’s no more than you have come to expect from me, I’d wager.):

Dear Ellen and Alex,
We are moving to a new house in a nearby town, but we don’t really want to sell our current house right now.

Warmly,
J. and P.

Side entrance of little dream house.

I read this letter, my hand trembling with amazement and disbelief. Interested? Try, say, “possessed by the deepest sort of soulful longing.” Try “my heart’s desire.” Try “nothing could make me happier.”

So I appeared in the doorway of Alex’s office, waving the letter in my left hand. “Is there any reason, aside from being incredibly stupid or certifiably insane, that we wouldn’t take them up on this offer? Any reason you can think of?”

“No,” he said. “I can’t think of any.”

And so, since we are only moderately crazy and really not at all stupid, we called them and we will be moving next door to my dream house in mid-June.

I CANNOT BELIEVE OUR LUCK!

One more thing. You know how we are having our East Coast wedding reception at our home in July. Yeah? Well, this is our new backyard:

The gardeners, I hasten to remind you, will be coming every week.

Lest you had forgotten, this is how our current backyard looks, pursuant to the removal of the Lost Patio of Atlantis:

Hallelujah, I’ve been saved!

Oh, about that knitting. I’ve been making some socks for Nasser to thank him for driving me to the Bridal Barn for my gown fitting. He richly deserves these socks.

Close-up:

I’m going blind working with navy blue, but it’s worth it for such a good friend.

And now, let me leave you with one last shot of the house:

People, it just doesn’t get any better than this.

Here’s what I decided:

To knit this shawl,

out of my silver and gold laceweight mohair.

Here is my progress thus far:

 

Two and half repeats finished.  Out of thirty-two.  Plus the rather complex edging.  I think that’s a pretty good start, don’t you?  I can already tell that this shawl is going to be a gossamer, cobwebby froth, as feminine in its own way as the Handsome Triangle.

The book calls this shawl a rather uninspired “Diamonds and Triangles,” but I believe that I will dub my version “Rumpelstiltskin,” in honor of transformation, spinning, beautiful maidens, little men dancing around fires in the forest, and most of all, this line:  “The Devil told you that!”

 

I myself have been waiting patiently for an opportunity to use that line in everyday life.

In other news, Harvey and I took a look at some of the real estate around town last week.  We’re in the market for a smallish, affordable, 2-bedroom house that we can both feel comfortable in.  Such houses are hard to find.  We looked at a couple of places that were absolute dumps, one of which was astoundingly overpriced, even for this inflated (well, for this area) real estate market.  Then we looked at a couple that were OK, but just way too much house for me.  I don’t fancy spending all my time doing upkeep and yardwork.  The one little house that we both liked and seemed like a good possibility would need to have the bathroom completely gutted, and possibly the kitchen as well.  But the size and price is right, and the location is really nice–within walking distance of school, church, library, downtown, and Grandma & Grandpa.  And a fenced backyard for Mr. Puppy.  I have an appointment tomorrow to see another little place that’s for sale by owner, so we’ll see what that looks like.

Moving on takes patience, courage, intestinal fortitude, and deep breathing techniques.

But you know what I always say?

“The Devil told you that!  The Devil told you that!”

I am experiencing that knitting mini-slump that so often comes after finished a large, complicated, and time-consuming project.

Oh, I cast on and finished a quick dishcloth out of hemp yarn, but that hardly counts.  That is so small and utilitarian a project as to be almost embarrassing. 

And I made a little swatch out of the Elann Pakucho organic cotton

 

to calculate gauge for the baby sweater I will soon be making, but I need to throw it in the washer and dryer in order to really get started, and I haven’t done that yet.

Naturally, I have other items I could work on, not to mention spinning projects, but somehow I’m just not hearing the siren’s call from any of them.

And what is calling my name right now?

Well, in a word, lace.  More lace.

The Handsome Triangle turned out so well–really just the way I had envisioned, which is truly a rare and wonderful thing, that I just feel this inexplicable urge to start another large lace project.

This yarn,

which the observant will note has appeared on the blog before, has been burning a hole in my stash, so to speak, since it arrived on my doorstep several weeks ago.  (As an aside, isn’t it funny how some yarns can live in the stash for weeks, months, years and never present themselves inexorably to our minds?  Yet others, like this yarn, insist on being used right away.  I feel almost a compulsion to cast on with this gorgeous stuff.)

Anyway, I’m thinking (as noted a few weeks ago), of making another shawl from Victorian Lace Today.  I’ve narrowed it down to a couple of choices.

This:

Or this:

 

And, with the weekend coming up, what’s to stop me, really?

I’m glad to learn from your comments that some of you found The E. Bales “Seven Pillows of Strength” a valuable source of wisdom and—naturellement!—self-help.

As Oscar Wilde once said, “You have to give advice. Heaven knows you can’t use it yourself.”

In fact, just today I was headed down the path to what I like to call a “Seven Pillows of Strength” day, but was derailed from my planned exercise routine by a mid-afternoon flute of champagne (or two…or four…) with Kerry and Sean. While we were working at the yarn shop. Normally, we don’t drink and try to sell yarn because disastrous gauge and yarn substitution errors can easily occur after hittin’ the sauce, but today was special.

Our apologies to our late afternoon customers. We may not have shown the same incisive, razor-sharp knitting acumen that you’ve come to expect from us.

Here’s why we were swilling champagne at 3 p.m.: Sean bought the store! Yes, he is now the proud (and sometimes worried sick) owner of Harvard Square’s very own yarn shop. Hop on over to his blog and give him some love, support, and congratulations, will you? This is big bananas.

Let’s take a moment to honor the fact that Sean has achieved one of his dreams, shall we? Days like this don’t come along very often, and when they do, you really have to pause and feel the joy.

Champagne can facilitate that.

I also started knitting again and I even have a F.O. to display, although after Sarah’s revelation of her splendid Handsome Triangle shawl, I feel my offering is a tad underwhelming:

There is something so mid-80s, so Reagan-Years, so Flock-of-Seagulls, so (Lord help us) Bryan-Adams about these socks that it almost brings a tear of nostalgia to your eye. Key word being “almost.”

The traditional eye-of-newt heel shot.

The specs go something like this:
Pattern: Flame Wave Socks (aka Material Girl Socks) from Favorite Socks: 25 Timeless Designs from Interweave. A wonderful book, although the way I made these socks, they were anything but timeless. But why pick nits? I modified the pattern slightly by using the eye-of-newt heel and a different toe.

Yarn: Cascade Fixation in Pink. 2 balls. Leftovers: two marble-sized balls. Certainly not enough to choke a horse.

Needles: 2 each of US Size 5 and US Size 4 twenty-four inch Addi Turbo circular needles. Or, as Alex once quite earnestly called them, “the Speedy-Dos.”

When I laughed uproariously at his error, he pointed out to me that “Speedy-Dos” was not, after all, a priori a more silly name than “Addi Turbos,” and I’m afraid I was forced to concede the point.

I told Sean I would finish these babies today, and by God, I did! Consider them a tribute to your business ownership, Sean.

On another note, I’ve been meaning to mention a couple of things that have made me very happy anew that we have this blog and that I now know so many delightful people in the knitting blogosphere, people I would never have met otherwise.

The first wonderful occurrence was that Hanna wandered into Woolcott a while back and, after reading her comments and corresponding with her for several months, I finally got to meet her in person. She was just as beautiful, thoughtful, smart, and wise in person as she is on the internets.

I also recommend that you have a look at her new hat pattern on MagKnits. Not only is it an extremely pleasing hat, but one of the photos also features a very fine-looking dog.

Secondly, I’d like to thank Laura for putting me onto The Decemberists, specifically their Crane Wife. It was her enthusiasm for the band that piqued my interest and I’d like to give credit where credit is due.

Not only is the music great, but it earned me some desperately-needed hipness points with Alex, who had previously been thoroughly convinced that I knew nothing of any music recorded after 1990 (yes, ladies and gents, the year he turned nine and I turned, um, twenty-two) and that the popular music of the 1980s, with its grave aesthetic shortcomings and retrospectively comical use of synthesizers, could fairly be thought of as “The Music of My Life.”

This unfortunate impression was only reinforced when he discovered me in a shameful, nostalgic reverie over a-ha’s iconic video of Take On Me. I’m sorry to report that he laughed at me, trampling mercilessly upon the vestiges of my youth, ripping the gauzy veil of nostalgia from my eyes, and forcing me to the painful conclusion that the 80s were crap.

Young people can be so cruel.

I finished the Handsome Triangle shawl late last week, and stayed up late on Friday night blocking her.

 

I stretched this baby mercilessly–to a total of 104 inches across the top, without the ruffle.  It’s a good thing my apartment has carpet, that’s all I can say.  And that I really don’t have that much furniture residing on that carpet.

(If you’re wondering why this second shot looks so different color-wise, it’s because I sometimes turn my camera to the “nighttime” setting in lowish light situations.  Actually, Handsome’s true color is nearer to the first picture.)

Here I am wearing her.  (Photo courtesy of my dear boy, Harvey.)

 

And wrapped up in ruffly femininity.

I wore her to church on Sunday morning and garnered several compliments, some of which I admittedly fished for a bit.  But someone did say that they couldn’t believe I had made this myself.

That’s what a knitter likes to hear! 

And what complicated, gorgeous project did I start next?  Why, a dishcloth, of course.  Made of hemp yarn from Elann.  Somewhere I read that hemp is supposed to have natural anti-bacterial properties.  Seems like a match made in heaven for a dishcloth, doncha think?

Thanks to Shelley for stepping in last week during my time of need! By popular (canine) demand, she will be receiving a steak dinner for her troubles.

After all I’ve done for you, it’s about friggin’ time.

I have to tell you: this has been one tough week. This virus hangs on and hangs on and hangs on. But it’s deceptive, you know? After the first couple of days of nightmarish eruptions—the volume of which, by the way, seemed downright improbable (We aren’t really that large, are we? How much can be in there at one time?)—the illness isn’t completely debilitating, so you get bored at home, you go out somewhere, and then after an hour or so you realize, “Oh crap. I have to go home right now or I’m going to run utterly and completely out of energy and have to lie down in the street in front of oncoming traffic.”

It’s not a good feeling.

This bug is so clearly the flu, too. Both Alex and I have had horrible aches and exhaustion to go along with the exciting gastrointestinal symptoms. I was so achy, in fact, that even knitting was not appealing to me.

Can you imagine the horror?

So I have decided to distract you from the fact that I have done almost no knitting with some photos of flowers from my neighborhood. Which just goes to show you that we have lovely flowers in New England, too.

And if you look closely on one of the four days in late April and early May that constitute our “blooming season,” you too may spot them!

So, yes…back to our story: thanks to our buddy Mr. N. Flewinza, the weekend’s activities were a tad paltry. But yesterday we were feeling just well enough to have coffee in the late afternoon with the Incomparable Kate, who was in town for the weekend. (In the spirit of full disclosure: yes, we did inform her that she might be risking her health, but she seemed to want to see us anyway. She has the heart of a lion, this woman!)

It was well worth saving up our energies to see the Incomparable Kate, of course, and afterwards—due to the unconscionably infrequent buses on Sundays…ahem, MBTA are you listening?—we had about fifty minutes to kill, so we naturally went to the bookstore.

Somehow I ended up in the self-help section and, as I do every time I wind up in the self-help section, I marvelled at the sheer number of these kinds of books that have been produced in the past ten or fifteen years. Whether it was the last vestiges of the virus or just the thought of how much money must be wasted spent every year on these tomes, I started to feel just a bit woozy.

A restorative tree. That is not, alas, in my yard.

My family knows already that I am not a big fan of the self-help genre and that I largely think that any time spent reading these books is reading time that you sacrificed when you could have been reading, say, Proust. Or Joyce. Or Elmore Leonard.

And it’s a zero-sum game, people! We only have so many minutes, hours, days given to us to live on this earth, and in my view, life is always too short to read self-help books.

At the same time, life is terribly complex and often difficult, full of ill-timed hailstorms, truculent relatives, colonoscopies, the bridal-industrial complex, obstreperous children and dogs, oral exams, beef byproducts, intestinal parasites, recalcitrant paving stones, sanctimonious neighbors, the poetry of Robert Frost, and the IRS. We must, in fact, help ourselves. We need guidance.

Given this grim set of facts, I have worked out a set of “take-home” messages that I think should be the central tenets of the self-help genre. Not that I’d know since I never read these books. But when did that ever stop me?

The whole point of going to graduate school is to learn to speak with authority about books one has never read! Even whole genres of books one has never read!

So, without further ado, and in an effort to save everyone a lot of time and money, I give you “The E. Bales Seven Pillars of Self-Help” (also known in some quarters as “The Seven Pillows of Strength,” although this phraseology was almost certainly based on a mishearing):

1. Drink plenty of liquids.

2. Get plenty of rest.

3. Get some exercise every day. If possible, go outdoors.

You might see something uplifting, like this.

4. Eat nutritious foods.

5. Have some laughs.

6. Spend time around people you enjoy. Inasmuch as possible, avoid those you find wearisome, odious, or draining.

7. If you do not already have a dog, get a dog.

See how simple? I’m sure someone will point out that all problems in life cannot be solved by these seven measures. I’d be the first to agree. But I think if we all did these things (not that I find them all particularly easy to achieve on a daily basis, Lord knows), we’d have a better shot at handling with aplomb the basic “challenges” that life tends to throw our way. Like, say, an exploding toilet or an unexpected tax audit or a lying, scheming, craphound landlord. I’m just talking about foundational matters here.

Everything else? Well, that requires thinking on your feet.

I don’t know about you, but I’m a lot quicker on my toes when I’m hydrated and I’ve had a few laughs.