Here is the Jasmine Sweater in Regal Orchid, or more particularly the back, ready for ribbing. It has taken me three weeks. I was intending to finish this sweater in April, but that looks unlikely.

It has been a hectic three weeks, of course. Still, I don't see how Knit the Classics knitters are really expected to complete a project every month, unless they resign themselves to just making hats.

The book for May is Pride and Prejudice. I just read that last month with my physical-world book club, so I was intending to make the second Jasmine sweater -- see, it's a repeat. But the spicy pink of Jasmine #2 is suitable for the demure yet spicy heroine of P&P, just as the bold purple is suited to the heroine of April's Moll Flanders. However, at this rate I will only finish the first Jasmine.

Yesterday The Princess and I unpacked six skids of product -- that is, 900 pounds of boxes. It took us an hour and a quarter, carrying boxes to and fro. At least we didn't have to climb up into the truck.

Then we began unpacking the boxes. We haven't finished yet, of course.

In the course of the desultory conversation -- when you have to fit conversation in between calls of "Do you have the labels for the Multicultural Play Food?" and "Have you seen any more DPYs?," it is bound to be desultory -- the topic of Beauty Brackets arose.

"Beauty Brackets" is, I think, Chanthaboune's term. It refers to the fact that people of roughly equal attractiveness are statistically more likely to have successful relationships than couples with a large gap in their respective degrees of attractiveness. While searching for a respectable source for this claim, I came upon this guide to flirting, which repeats the claim without substantiating it. There is a lot of interesting information on communication in this guide, by the way, as well as the UK customs in relation to flirting, and who knows when that might come in handy?

The Princess said that a girlfriend of hers had virtually met a fellow via an online dating service, but thought that he might be "too cute." Her friend prefers to date guys in a lower Beauty Bracket than her own, because it makes her feel good. The Princess said she had always tended to go that route, too -- "It didn't work out that way," she admitted, thinking of her handsome fiance, but she agreed that there was a self-esteem boost in having a partner a bit less cute than herself. I have met this attitude before, in a college roommate who said to me, in reference to a boy I was dating, "I always like to be sure that if the waiter is flirting, he's flirting with me."

I was always a sucker for a pretty face, myself.

But if it is more likely that choosing a partner from your own Beauty Bracket will lead to a lasting relationship, why would a woman choose a fellow from a lower beauty bracket than her own?

The guide to flirting referenced above suggests that men tend to overestimate their attractiveness and women to underestimate. It specifically suggests that women aim a bit higher than they find comfortable and men a bit lower.

There is an assumption here that Beauty Brackets are fairly clear demarcations.And it leaves out charm, which is often a large part of the attractiveness equation in real life.

But it is an interesting idea.

Now, since the term "Beauty Brackets" first arose in a discussion in which I used statistical analysis to prove to Chanthaboune that she would indeed be able to find a suitable husband eventually, I offer you this young man's statitistical analysis proving that he will never find a girlfriend. I would argue that he is making a false assumption: namely, that he has to date all the possible girls before choosing one as his girlfriend.  However, his math is way better than mine.

Later in the day, a teacher came in needing to spend $10,000 before it evaporated (money does that in schools). She needed quite a bit of help, not only finding good ways to spend it, but getting reassurance about it. We see that a lot. The Princess and The Poster Queen continued with the unpacking, but there is still quite a bit left. In fact, the rest of my work week is entirely predictable: unpack boxes.

That Man brought the palettes to my house. If my husband (who has lovely eyes and great cheekbones, but doesn't share my enthusiasm for making things -- or, to be fair, feels that I create too much mess in doing so) does not stop me, I intend to make Adirondack chairs from them, as suggested by KaliMama. That can be my weekend project, along with the Origami Bag, Jasmine sweater, Murder Mystery contest, and church bake sale. I plan to move toward that 90% resting rate, but this weekend won't be the one.

There we were in class balancing on our stability balls. We had our hands on the floor and our feet on the balls, and then we were supposed to pull our knees into our chests, and then push the balls back out again. If you are having trouble visualizing this, I don't blame you.

One of the other girls asked me "Where are you feeling this?"

I had trouble processing the question. I was engaged in trying not to fall down, give up, or inadvertently shoot the stability ball off into the room, knocking down my classmates like bowling pins. I was not engaged in thinking about where I felt that exercise.

I also couldn't articulate that. I made a few guesses. "Legs," she puffed. "I think it's legs."

Some parts of the class are quite difficult. I am accustomed, during difficult exercise, to focus on the music and put energy into feeling the rhythmic movement. The music for this class is rhythmic, but the words are things like "Get up on the dance floor, Mama, and take off all your clothes, 'cause it's the freakin' weekend." I might have included more than one song in this quote, because they are all pretty similar. They run together. At one point in this set a female voice answered, "It's getting so hot I want to take off all my clothes," or something like that, but mostly it is just men saying they like it when their listener's body bumps 'cause it is apparently still a freakin' weekend.

Earlier, while warming up on the treadmill, I read that the average healthy American woman spends 90% of her weekend "resting." That means that, apart from roughly 4.8 hours, she is resting the entire time.

4.8 hours would cover an evening out, OR housework and grocery shopping, OR a trip to the park with the kids and church, OR one social occasion, with or without clothes. You couldn't do all those things and still get in that 90% rest time.

I thought I was a pretty good loller about, but if that is the average, then I look like a piker in the sloth department.

The Princess agrees with that article. Of course, she is a princess.

Now, all this makes me think about something on another xanga. Namely, blog manners. If a reader is offended, then is it the writer's fault?

I tend to feel that this is my diary, albeit a public diary, and nobody is forced to read it, so anyone who is offended can just quit reading.

But look at all the opportunities a person could have to be offended by my casual comments about cardiopump class! You could be offended by my light attitude toward what may be a highly-researched form of exercise. You could be my classmate, offended because I said you puffed (she did). You could feel miffed that I mocked your favorite songs. You could think that I was being self-righteous about idleness, or buying into stereotypes, or condescending to average women.

I have to admit that I am not tactful. It is not that I don't try to be tactful and thoughtful, because I do. I don't refer to Messrs. Cheney and Bush as "Dr. Evil and the Chimp" when I am speaking to a Republican, or make critical remarks about people. I think my problem is like one of my mother's examples. A doctor said to her, "Now, this procedure is interesting in that it is really excruciatingly painful."

I relate to the doctor with foot in mouth. I tend to approach things with a fairly abstract attitude, and when someone is offended by something I have said, I am most likely to be thinking "I wasn't talking about you." But many people take things personally.

Including things written on blogs.

One of the things I like about xanga (and there are lots of things I like about xanga) is that it is a nice neighborhood. You don't get a lot of rough talk here. The chances of getting cruel comments or accidentally starting a blogwar are slim. There are other blog communities where a chance remark about a knitting pattern can escalate into name-calling, and people routinely swear at one another in the comment sections. So it is possible that I have already chosen to hang out in a place where I can expect my readers to give me the benefit of the doubt and not take offense.

Does that give me (or you, for that matter) carte blanche to say whatever we like? Remember, we are talking not about free speech, but about blog manners.

Here's what I think. We should be able to write freely about our thoughts and feelings without excessive self-censorship, because these are our journals. We should be pleased to accept disagreement from readers, since we are writing our journals in public. We should -- in posts or in comments -- try to maintain civility, because we are civilized people. We should not write about other people in a way that would cause them pain if they were to read or hear about it, because that is a requirement of human decency.

I don't think that saying someone puffed during cardiopump is going to cause her pain.

Although I had been trying to persuade some of my budding plants to bloom for Easter, just so I would have some flowers on the table and something besides phlox to welcome my guests on the pathway, the disobliging flowers refused. I had plenty of phlox in bloom, but otherwise a mere puny few pink flowers.

The day after Easter, the irises bloomed, presumably whispering to one another what a lucky escape they had had, not ending up in a vase. And the columbines also bloomed. These are the small, shy woodland columbines, though, so I guess I forgive them. They are like the pinks and the lamastrium, the backup singers of the garden.

It is the salvia, the 5-foot tall bright yellow columbines, the hollyhocks and centaurea, the snapdragons and hostas and hydrangeas that make a show in this garden. I wasn't expecting any of them to show up in April. But I still think it was a bit spiteful for these guys to bloom one day after I wanted some early color.

Last night I got some knitting time at last, and I am getting close to the point where I was when I frogged it ("it" being M's Jasmine sweater). Xanga will not allow me to show you a picture, for some reason, so you will have to take my word for it that it looks better than the first time around. I will try again later.

One of the things that #2 daughter and I were talking about while waiting for the bus on Sunday was Holland Codes. Richard Bolles, author of many variations on What Color is Your Parachute, introduces these in the form of a party.

You arrive at a party and find that people have sorted themselves into groups according to this classification model. You pick the group you would most like to hang out with. After 15 minutes they all leave, so you move on to your next preferred group. After 15 minutes, they all leave. Fighting down your feelings of paranoia, you move on to another group. The initial letters of the three groups give you your Holland Code. #2 daughter is an ACE, and I am an AIS, so I guess we are both aces. Here, among other places, you can find a list of the careers that will fit you according to your Holland Code.

Mine, even if I am willing to shuffle my letters around, are all things like teaching and writing which I already know about and do. It would perhaps have been more fun if I had discovered that I was suited to something I had never thought of doing -- being a zookeeper or a mining engineer or something -- but it is probably a good sign overall that I am already doing what I would expect to enjoy doing.

This book is a very good one for high school and college students who are thinking "whither?" Other books of Bolles's are good for people in other stages of life who are still thinking "whither?"

And, since I am doing an entirely disjointed post this morning, I will also mention that today is the first anniversary of my completion of the Overcoming Agoraphobia program. I have to say that I still suffer a lot when I have to drive on scary roads, and I get prickly when I have a lot of appointments in a week (like, more than one). However, I can go anywhere I want. I make appointments, even if I don't like it. I nearly always answer my phone. I make it all the way through my grocery list almost every week, and actually own a reasonable amount of clothing -- well, okay, that one probably isn't true. But I have improved a lot in that area, and actually bought clothing in a store on my own once this year. Okay, it was a bathrobe at Target picked up while waiting for a prescription, so that probably doesn't count as shopping.

Ahem. I may not be much of a shopper or much of a driver, but I am better than I was before. And, since people with agoraphobia usually get worse over time, I really should think not in terms of how much closer I am to being absolutely normal, but (as with my weight and lipids profile) in terms of how much better I am than I would have been, had I not made those efforts.

Okay, I think I am now through rambling. Anyone who read this far, I salute you!

We had a great Easter. The music was wonderful -- #2 daughter said something about "braying," but I enjoyed hearing people rockin' out on the Hallelujah chorus. You wouldn't want a recording of it, but the sheer enjoyment made it a pleasure to hear.

Then we had a splendid Easter dinner with family. Bonanza, my brother's friend whom we met in the hospital over spring break, told us about riding the rails in her youth. She also brought a handsome loaf of whole-wheat bread. My parents brought the ham, which allowed us time to fool around with fancy vegetables and desserts, which are the most fun part of the meal.

#2 son was the enthusiastic wielder of the cleaver and the mixer that morning, with good results in the areas of strawberries, whipped cream, and meringue.

Here is one of the dogs, demonstrating how much fun we all had.

Following all this fun, #2 daughter and I went to the bus station in good time for her to catch her bus.

We ended up staying there for three hours. The bus had had some kind of difficulty on the road, and the driver had turned back to trade it for another bus. We did not know this, of course, so we just sat there for three hours.

"How nice to have the time to visit," a friend of mine said when I told her that last night. That was true for a while. But our conversation, which began with things like future plans and moral relativism in a pluralistic society, deteriorated into disjointed remarks about passing cars after a couple of hours sitting in uncomfortable chairs in the hot sun and a cloud of other people's cigarette smoke.

In our town, there is a northbound bus and a southbound bus each day, and that is all. The station is closed on Sundays, so people sit helplessly outside waiting, like some stage production of Purgatory.

A couple of truck drivers, heading to Springfield to pick up their next assigned truck, gave up after a bit and left, planning to drive instead. A mother and daughter, waiting for a friend coming from Mexico, stayed with us and worried. My husband drove down at one point to check on us. He suggested that the bus company ought to have speakers on the walls, with which they would broadcast the bus's whereabouts and condition every 15 minutes. I love that idea, but don't think it will happen soon.

As it began to grow dark, a pregnant woman got out of her car where she had been waiting and came to try to use the pay phone. Her mother was on the missing bus, she said, and she was going to call her if she could find enough change. #2 daughter offered her cell phone, and we all crowded around while the woman talked to her mother. This was when we learned about the bus's mechanical troubles. They were only ten or fifteen minutes away, the woman reported.

Hope sprang anew. The weather seemed cooler. We all smiled again. We began to talk to one another.

The bus arrived. The mother who had provided the good news about the bus sprang down the steps. She was a gray-haired woman with very tight jeans and a large, aging, tatoo-covered bosom spilling out of a tiny tank top. She was one of those women who get stuck with a particular way of dressing -- in her case, a rebellious 17-year-old look -- but she seemed happy, and her daughter was glad to see her, too. I was thankful to them both.

The expected friend from Mexico was not on the bus at all. After all that waiting, it seemed tragic.

My own daughter climbed onto the bus with her sketch pad, a book, and a package of cold pizza and chocolate to tide her over till breakfast. I assume she got back to school safely.

Today #1 son heads up to Kansas City with friends (and friends' parents) for a Bob Dylan concert. He is realistic about how Dylan is likely to sound, but aware that there is a historic element to this concert. They will also go to Worlds of Fun, and miss one day of school, so it will count as an adventure.

Happy Easter!

It is a gorgeous Easter morning. We did go to the pancake breakfast yesterday, and ordered in pizza for dinner, so all pretense of healthy eating was removed for the day. Only #1 son ventured to eat the famous deep-fried bacon, though.

We went to the farmer's market, where we got  a job offer (me) and a social invitation (#2 daughter) and a chance to meet up with friends and to hear quite a lot of random music ranging from a plastic recorder to a virtuoso violin. We also bought this bouquet, and salad greens. When we came home, we colored eggs and baked a pineapple upside-down cake for today's feast. #2 daughter assisted me with the necessary shopping, we did a bit more house and garden stuff, and then we enjoyed the day. It was the perfect temperature. Sometimes, when the air is soft and sweet with flowers and just the right temperature, just being in the air is a great sensual pleasure. It's like swimming, except that you can also read and knit.

I have now made my customary holiday to-do list. I make sure everything is on it, and then whenever I see someone looking idle, I encourage him or her to check the list and pick something, until everything is checked off. Will this be one of the things that my kids will do themselves when they grow up, or one of the things about which they complain to therapists? Too early to say.

In any case, now while the house is still I will put Easter candy in baskets, get breakfast into the oven, and make three pies: key lime, fresh strawberry, and #2 son's favorite possum pie. 

After a bit we will go to church, sing the Hallelujah chorus (of which Janalisa says, "You know, this is really good," and she is right), and celebrate. My parents and my brother and his sweetheart are coming to lunch. Then we will put #2 daughter onto the bus for her trip back to school. The one thing lacking for complete perfection is #1 daughter and son in law, who are off in the Frozen North. However, this life does not offer perfection.

I walked to work yesterday, and thus had the opportunity to experience the truly perfect spring day. Then we closed early, so #2 daughter and I got to have a proper dinner before the Tenebrae service, and even to spend some time working on the garden.

#2 son helped, too, but he complained the whole time, so it was a lesser help. There were worms in the dirt, which he didn't care for, and he doesn't like planting things close together, and he thought we were going to plant vegetables, which he prefers to flowers... Very teenager-like.

One year my husband did plant vegetables in the front garden. There was the fine cloud of phlox, the pink azaleas, the hostas with their flowering spikes, the tall crepe myrtles. He planted Thai basil along the paths, so people could enjoy the scent when they brushed against it.  And then there were monstrous tomato plants.

Europeans grew tomatoes as ornamentals for years before they considered eating the fruits, of course, but there was something odd in it to me. And that was the case even though I routinely plant flowers in the vegetable garden. It is like the old story of the boy who asked if he could pray while smoking. Of course he could; didn't the Apostle Paul say to pray unceasingly? But could he smoke while he prayed? Equally certainly, he could not.

We haven't encouraged my husband to choose the plants for the front garden since. Instead, we checked to see what was already blooming or looking as though it planned to -- columbines, pinks, azaleas, and that's about it -- and decided to put in a flat of impatiens to keep these guys company.

Every spring I think I will plant some bulbs so as to get flowers in April, and every fall I get too busy and forget.

#2 daughter raked out the leaves from among the perennials and #2 son and I planted.

Then we got ready for the Tenebrae service. This is the service for Good Friday, a lessons-and-carols thing that ends in darkness and silence. This is to commemorate the crucifixion of Jesus, so it is supposed to be solemn and dramatic. We sang Benjamin Harlan's cantata "Behold the Darkness," not difficult, but satisfying, with some very beautiful bits. It was good to hear plenty of sniffling from the congregation.

#2 daughter sang soprano, and they were very glad to have her. "She's gone over to the dark side!" the basses were crowing as she moved to the soprano section. The soprani were outnumbered last night, so they needed her. I don't think they minded being called "the dark side." This is the same choir in which we were told not merely to were our blacks for the Tenebrae, but "Black, no bling." And the only choir in which I have ever heard anyone say, "Hot damn!"

It was being said in the choir last night that this morning's pancake breakfast would feature deep-fried bacon. The Easter Saturday breakfast is cooked by the men, and is a major male-bonding experience. This sort of thing apparently leads to deep-fried bacon. They said it was delicious, but I may pass on that. I have a long list of stuff to do today. Deep-fried bacon would probably cause a person to need a nap.

This is a progress picture only if we allow the idea of negative progress.

Unblocked lace is so notoriously bad-looking that I went almost to completion of the back of the sweater before I looked closely enough at the lace to realize that I had lost a couple of yarnovers early on. The pretty pattern of openwork down the left was thus not matched by the right, which had a pretty pattern of yarnovers broken by a sort of archipelago of stockinette.

So here we see the sweater pulled back to the armscye. The moral of the story is, do not be led into a sense of false security by the simplicity of a lace pattern. It is still lace, and therefore treacherous.

I used to have an aerobics teacher who said she liked having me in her class because she could always look up and see a smile. I began yesterday's cardiopump class with a smile, but that was before we got into planks and push-ups and T-things. From that point on, I think my expression wavered between "I beg your pardon?!" and "Surely you jest." She did say, many times, "Feel free to put down the weights," so I cannot say that she was being like a drill sergeant or anything.

Then I got up at 12:30 am to pick #2 daughter up at the bus station. I am very proud of her for being brave enough to take the bus home. I took the bus all over the place when I was young, and have very positive feelings about the old Greyhound, but all my kids have been very negative about buses. I don't know why. It is true that there are crazy scary people at bus stations and even on the buses, but you can't let that stop you in this world, is what I say. I got back to bed around 2:30.

The result of these two factors is that I am heading in to work with sore shoulders and a bleary gaze. The rest of the family is staying home, where I rather hope that they will feel inspired to clean, bake, and/or garden. At the moment, #1 son is playing Madden06 and the guitar simultaneously, #2 son is off at a sleepover, and #2 daughter is playing with the animals.

I have been waiting for inspiration to strike, on the subject of breakfast. It has become time to go make breakfast, with or without inspiration.

I  skipped going to the gym on Monday because I had to take #2 son to the dentist, and on Tuesday because -- since I didn't have to take #2 son to school, it being conference day -- I needed to finish hemming my curtains and shovel out the house a bit in order to avoid embarrassment in front of my Easter guests.

On Wednesday I was back at the gym, finishing up a half hour's stroll on the treadmill, when the teacher of the cardiopump class came up. "Are you coming to class today?" she asked sweetly.

"No," I said "I have to go to work. And with rehearsals this week, I'm just getting in 30 minutes on the treadmill."

Rehearsals?! I do usually have extra rehearsals at this time of year, but this year I just have one extra this week -- two total for the week. The week's calendar shows two extra church services, several appointments with my kids, a workshop, a meeting, housework and baking, and knitting that I was hoping to do, but what came out of my mouth was "rehearsals."

She looked a little confused, as well she might.

I could have said, "Well, I have a rehearsal tonight, which is making me feel that I need to get home and put dinner on and do something about the garden and clean that back bathroom and do my Lenten study which I have totally been ignoring, and also I have to have a second cup of tea before I go to work, and plus just the fact of having to go places every single day the way that I have been for the past six weeks and will be for the next six weeks makes me feel kind of oppressed, so no way am I going to come in there and do 800 crunches with you, thanks anyway."

Nope. I did not say that. I left as fast as possible and came home for my tea and getting ready for work. I pulled four weeds, read three paragraphs of Quantum Grace, cleaned up four or five things in various places in the house. Really, for all I accomplished, I might as well have gone to the class.

I am going to that class this morning. But the interaction made me think about excuses.

An excuse is not the same as a reason. A stupid mathematical error is the reason for my early debacle with the Jasmine sweaters. I have no excuse.

I am pretty intolerant of excuses. That doesn't stop me from blurting them out when I feel pressed, obviously. It doesn't stop them from coming to my mind, either.

I was bad with excuses when I was a kid. I can remember, even into my teens, using excuses to try to escape getting into trouble, or to avoid conflicts. That is still where they come up for me.

When I think about my upcoming doctor's appointment, and the possibility that my lipids profile might not be as great as it was last year (both The Empress and The Poster Queen had rises in their cholesterol numbers, so naturally if illogically I am worrying about mine), I find excuses crowding into my mind. Birthdays, holidays, traveling, my family's lack of support for that whole no-saturated-fat, no-simple-carbohydrates bit, appointments interfering with gym time -- I have rafts of them. All excuses, not reasons. I behave, at least mentally, as though my doctor were my parole officer, and revert to the bad habit of coming up with excuses to stay out of trouble with him.

However, I will not be using those excuses. I think of them, but at least I keep myself from saying them. Because I know that I have had 30 minutes every day in which I could have exercised, and on some days I have just chosen to use them in other ways. And I know that I have chosen to enjoy sausage and cake of my own free will, and I don't regret it, either.

But I think that is another reason people use excuses: to avoid making changes.

I hear a lot of excuses, and many of them do seem to be about avoiding confrontation (the grown-up equivalent of getting into trouble). Stories about why a customer has to keep us late or why an order was delayed seem to me to be about that. But people also tell us plenty of excuses for why they don't read, why they don't spend enough time with their children -- why they don't get to the gym, for that matter. They tell us their excuses for overspending or for having bad relationships with their kids' other parent or for choosing not to volunteer.

I used to wonder why they were telling us these things. I am there to help them choose a book or outfit their classroom, and beyond that, I don't really care.

But of course I collaborate in their excuses. I listen sympathetically, nod and murmur agreement, help them flesh out the story if they are having trouble with that. Someone they know might call them on it, but we never do.

So, having told us the story and had it validated, they can go on out and continue to do what they wanted to do in the first place, with their guilt assuaged.

Regret and remorse cause us discomfort, but only actual repentance causes us to make changes in our behavior. Excuses keep us from moving from regret to repentance.

I don't regret a few missed exercise sessions, and I feel no remorse for eating barbecue. I do regret making excuses, whenever I catch myself doing so. Fortunately, I also repent of it, and rarely do it.

So, looking at the clever schedule I worked out that would ensure my finishing the Regal Orchid Jasmine sweater by the end of April and seeing that I am three balls of yarn behind, I feel no temptation to offer excuses. A reason, yes. It has been a very busy month chez fibermom. That's it. I always think that multiple reasons equals an excuse.

Last night, at the UMW meeting where we discussed the importance of Fair Trade, one of the women said to another -- of me -- "She'd fit perfectly into our Thursday group if it weren't for her family."

By this they did not mean that my family is too savage for the Thursday group, but that the Thursday group is for single women.

It is common for us to divide ourselves up in this way -- but is it wise? In another group, we were talking about the fact that people no longer "fix up" their friends. Matchmaking would be considered interference. A generation ago, a single person could expect that older, married friends and relatives would try to herd presentable people in his or her direction. Now, no one would feel free to do so.

"I wouldn't mind," said one single person in that group, and there was a chorus of agreement.

The Princess also agreed. She is planning her wedding to a man she met through an internet dating service. It seemed odd, she said, and it is true that you meet some odd people that way, but there aren't many options in the modern world. She works (with me) in a woman-rich environment, attends a church with few young single members, and, as she says, "You don't want to meet people in a bar."

College students are entirely surrounded by single people. Do they fare better? Maybe not. #2 daughter is a college student, and has plenty of guys to date. But -- while her dating exploits make good blog stories -- she isn't necessarily any more satisfied with her options than the single women in the conversation I described above.

Instead of a lack of possible romantic interests, she has an unsorted pool. Like a big-box bookstore where you have to get through hundreds of shelves of books you won't enjoy, in hopes of finding one you will like.  It might be better for a friend to say, "Here's a book I think you'll love."

That isn't likely to happen in all-singles groups, because the girls don't think, "Now there is a great guy. He's handsome, intelligent, virtuous, and fun. I think I'll introduce him to my girlfriends." No, that fellow she will keep for herself. (Not to mention that, in many cases, he will turn out actually to be handsome, superficially clever, a rogue, and prone to temper tantrums and whining, once she gets to know him. He didn't come with references, after all.)

We need to mix the married and single people up more. And maybe it is time to lift the ban on matchmaking.

I also went to a CAPS conference yesterday. This is the meeting with a counselor in which kids map out their high school course of study. I've done this with three other kids, and it has always consisted of the kid trying to arrange the easiest possible schedule while the counselor and I try to persuade the kid to take something challenging.

I think that is the norm. All around me yesterday I heard whines of "I don't know what I want to take" and fretful adults responding "Well, you have to take something!"

#2 son said that he wanted to take AP Macroeconomics next year. He thought he would do two or three AP courses each year, and chose a balanced program which he thought would prepare him for the career he has chosen and look good on his college applications. I was thinking, "Who are you, and what have you done with my kid?" but in a good way.

I wonder what approach he will take to dating?

Something I forgot to mention, and I have not seen it mentioned anywhere else either...

The folks who recently -- and unsuccessfully -- sued Dan Brown (author of The Da Vinci Code) were three men who wrote a "sensationalist but historically discredited" book called Holy Blood, Holy Grail. Their names are Lincoln, Leigh, and Baigent. The expert character in The Da Vinci Code who explains such utter falsehoods as that the Emperor Constantine decided what books would be in the New Testament is named Leigh Teabing -- Teabing of course being an anagram of Baigent. I keep waiting for the author of the book I am reading to mention this, but he never does, though I am sure he must have noticed it.

I did a history workshop yesterday. I was in a local city which has a bit of a rivalry with the town where I live, and occasionally forgot and mentioned my city as though it were the center of the universe, or at least the county seat (which it is). I think they forgave me, though. They didn't want to be at an after-school inservice to begin with, so I threw in a cheesy joke early on. I pointed out that we have the most exciting state history around. We have pirates, duels, murders, bandits, and wars -- and that is just the government!

True, all true. And yet it is still a cheesy joke. However, it got their attention, and things went well from then on. I told them some of the most exciting stories from our state history, and not just the bloodthirsty ones, either. Our computer had crashed at work, so I did not have handouts for them, and it was too short for make-and-take, so storytelling had to be the keystone of the thing. Fortunately, we have a lot of good stories.

My copy of Moll Flanders, the book for this month at Knit the Classics, has not yet arrived, but the Netflix of the movie came yesterday, so I watched it.

It was quite a good movie, and confirmed my choice of the Regal Orchid Jasmine for the April KTC piece. The rich boldness of the color, the humble cotton yarn enlivened with a shining thread, the simple shape of the sweater with its saucy lace insertions. And I am making it for a friend, and friendship is a central theme -- at least of the movie version.

Perfect.

This is Jasmine from Elsebeth Lavold's Summer Breeze Collection, in Endless Summer's Luna, on #2 needles. This is the picture from the book (or, more properly, from Lavold's web gallery).

CAP conference today, UMW meeting tonight. I will be skipping class for that meeting tonight, and will skip the gym this morning in order to finish hemming and clean house. If I am enormously efficient, I may get into the garden as well. Or if the weather is so lovely that I cannot resist.

We are having some suspense about whether #2 daughter will be able to get home for Easter or not. Anyone out there coming south from Kansas City this weekend?