Lookie What I Did!

I'm doin' a little FO dance. Won't you join me?



Scarf for Dr. Doom:

Yarn: Muench Big Baby in Purples colourway
Needles: US11 (or maybe 13?)
Pattern: Illusion Rib (I think),† which goes like this:

• cast on a multiple of six stitches
• RS: k3 p3 all the way across
• WS: k1 p1 all the way across.

I think it may look better in a lighter yarn (like worsted) and does cool things with variegation, but I think it worked pretty well here.



[SUMMARY: One! One FO!]

Scarf for Tallest, Hairiest Nephew:

Yarn: Crystal Palace Popcorn in Oranges-Cherries colourway
Needles: US11
Pattern: Plain ol' garter stitch, though I seriously considered cabling.‡

[SUMMARY: Two! Two FOs!]

Baby Blanket for Jeron, who was due on my birthday and didn't show up for weeks:

Yarn: Muench Big Baby in Primary School colourway

Needles: US13

Pattern: Feather and Fan, with a garter stitch border.§

For those of you scoring at home, the ball band on Big Baby says to wash it cold, delicate cycle, don't put it in the dryer.

I say, "Throw that sucker in the wash in cold water and dry it on low to your heart's content!"

I couldn't believe they'd make baby yarn that couldn't be puked on (and it's 100% acrylic microfibre -- GOOD acrylic, mind you, but definitely should be washable/dryable/pukable), so I used Dr. Doom's scarf as the guniea pig. It's just lovely after washing.

[SUMMARY: Three! Three FOs!]

Waist shaping, just 'cause it fascinates me like a shiny object.

Sweater for your dear ol' AntiM:

Yarn: Brown Sheep Cotton Fleece in Lilac Haze¶
Needles: US7 (maybe 5?)
Pattern: Green Gable

Modification: Much longer sleeves than the pattern called for. Those of us with fat little arms don't like tiny little cap sleeves.

Speaking of, I bound off the left arm a little tighter than the right and if I put the sleeve where the sleeve is supposed to be,# I look like a sausage. If I put the sleeve where the sleeve fits, I get a fairly wide boat neck which is not at all unattractive. I'll have to think about whether I want to undo and re-do or just pretend I meant to do the boat neck all along.

Besides, it's a teeny bit tight (*ahem* 40 days and 40 nights = 10 lbs) so I may just use it as my measure for slimming progress.$

Did I mention I went to the gym?

[SUMMARY: Four! Four beautiful FOs! Mwahahahahaha! *ccchrrshccrrhshshs* *eeEeEEeeEEe* &]

Green Gables has the distinction of both being my first sweater and the first thing I've ever knit for myself. Secret Pal -- oops! I mean, Danielle -- sent me the yarn and the pattern and it's the coolest thing ever. I think it has the same cachet for me as the mystery projects: someone is leading me and I'm going willingly into that sheepy fog.

For the record (and I think Red said the same thing about hers), if I knit this again, I'd probably carry the filet at the neck down further. It's cool and it just looks like there could be more.

Cat for Scale is very fond of Big Baby.^

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go cast on my next Big Baby blanket (please ignore the fact that I still have 14 projects on the needles) for Dave's new daughter (finally! Girl colours!) who was ALMOST born on my birthday.

†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Kathryn, take notes -- this is the pattern from the Estes Wool Market you wanted.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): No, I really didn't. Remember the part in "Dressed to Kill" where Eddie Izzard says Englebert Humperdink just died in a car accident that very day, then proceeds to confirm and deny it for several minutes? If you do, that's where I'm going here. If you don't, how many times have I *told* you to get the DVD? Go on. I'll still be here when you get back. And you'll understand me, Red, jam, babies on spikes and Slap Benwalla so much better.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Also, I can't recommend *enough* giant yarn in a simple, interesting pattern for a baby blanket. Hey, even an dumbass like your dear ol' AntiM can learn when being whacked with the rolled-up newspaper that was Stupid Blanket.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I know. Purple went bye-bye. Lighting was bad. Too excited about FO to wait for the morning light.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): As opposed to, say, where a handcuff should be.

$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): Yeah, I'll go a long way to avoid fixing my errors. Sing with me: Justifi-CA-tion!

&FOOTNOTE (ampersanded): Those last two were thunder and bat sound effects, in case you were wondering. And if you're ever around me when I do this, you probably won't be surprised to find I actually do the full-on show, thunder and bats and all. There are hand gestures. And special faces.

^FOOTNOTE (careted): It's chewy.

SEE! I *TOLD* YOU IT WAS A KNITBLOG!

Why We Don't Mention the Stash in the Will

My mother began what became a rather impressive† array of cookie cutters when I was very young.

When I was about seven, I (in all seriousness) asked her, "Mom, when you die can I have your cookie cutter collection?"

Years later, when my parents devised/revised their wills, Mom confided that she had specifically asked the attorney to include the special bequest of cookie cutters to beloved daughter. The attorney advised against it, as it would then be valuated separately from the personal effects of the state, probably as some sort of valuable item,‡ which could red flag the IRS that this was a priceless heirloom and that monolith would be inclined to tax it accordingly.

Therein lies the lesson: don't mention your stash specifically in your will, lest the recipients be punished for it.

Even if your stash is where all your money went.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Who am I kidding? The thing is mammoth, monster, overwhelming. I'm guessing there are three hundred cookie cutters. You need a cookie cutter of a cactus? Got it. A flamingo? Got it. Clubs, diamonds, hearts and spades? Check. Musical note? Sailboat? Billy goat? A letter you wrote? Yes, yes, yes and yes.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Because who goes out of their way to mention a plain, ol' gathering of cookie cutters. Must be SPECTACULAR collector's items. You know, solid gold or Cro-Magnon or some shit. Which makes me wonder how much one could get on eBay for a collection of every G-rated cookie cutter known to mankind. Not that I would, mind you. I *like* having all the cookie cutters.

Weebles Wobble

TTHFCIF

So I went to the gym this morning...

Don't laugh. It could happen to you.

I'm finally taking advantage of the five-pack of personal training sessions I got† when I signed up with 24-Hour Fitness. In my defense,‡ it's not as bad as it sounds.

They were building the gym less than a block from my house and they put a flier on my door saying, "Join now! Pre-sale! Spectacular deals! We'll sex you up and be your slaves and clean your floors! Call now!"

Naturally, I did.

And they sent me to Highlands Ranch, which, for those of you not in the know, is not quite the other side of the earth from northwest Denver, but damned close. It is close to the office though, so, y'know, I went.

And the gym across the street was supposed to open in March. I think it finally opened in mid-May, about the time of the 40 days/40 nights thing which 1) sapped my will to gym, and 2) took up a LOT of "free" time.

That's my story and I'm sticking with it.

[SUMMARY: The sun was in my eyes. Nobody told me we had a deadline. I didn't see the sign, officer.]

But I'm all jimmy§ now. And it was such a good morning for it, right after going to see Rasputina last night and staying out late-ish and indulging in a little blueberry vodka (and gallons and gallons of water, not to worry).

How was Rasputina? Glad you asked.

I love going to these shows. Two girls on cellos and one odd guy with a flask and an enormous-and-ever-increasing¶ percussion set.# Gothy. Rocky. Costumed.& Funny. Music? Outstanding!

Plus, the concert shirt has a big ol' skull on it. And they had knitting bags$ with the big ol' skull too. Thus:



And the crowd... oh, the crowd. The standard goths, dripping mopey black haircuts into broad black eyeliner; the fey and elegant white-skinned girls with improbably-coloured hair in fitted velvet jackets and frothy white dresses; the handful of jock types with their super-coiffed fashionista†† arm candy; the emogranola kids, all goth below the waist and ill-fitting bright t-shirts above, slinging Himalayan-weave hippy messenger bags across their bodies; the row of high school geometry teachers sporting short-sleeved plaid seersucker dress shirts and implied pocket protectors; the three neo-disco goth children up front who banged their heads and made the international hand signal for devil music‡‡ the whole concert; the Art Garfunkel look-alike (smaller fro) in a black dress shirt, brown shorts and Doc Martens looking like an escapee from IBM...

[SUMMARY: The circus is in town. Come one! Come all!]

I'm not sure Red was as into it as I was, but I know she'd agree with me that the sheer pageantry of the crowd was worth the price of admission.

Ah, people watching. Who needs birds?


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): In *coughdecembercough*

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Yes, I feel a little defensive. Did you catch the part where it's taken me seven months to set foot inside the gym for which I've been paying for... well, seven months?

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): I started with "gymmy," but it looked wrong. Ditto "gymmie," "gymmee" and "gymmiee." To say I'm jimmy seems kinda hip and street or something. At least like something from Heathers. It'll be very.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): We speculate that Melora (read the history if you want to know more), who seems to rule her concept with an iron fist in a barbed-wire glove and sports a rolicking revolving door of second-chair musical talent (Melora, always and ever, being first chair), has allowed the drummer to have more bits on his trees every year he manages not to piss her off enough to fire him. Or perhaps he just sneaks them on when he hopes she's not looking, in which case, she may trade him in when she figures it out.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): More cowbell!

&FOOTNOTE (ampersanded): Thus (Melora on the right):

$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): OK, maybe not exactly what the designer intended, but it was clearly meant to be my knitting bag. Y'all know.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Prompting me to sing, "One of these things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn't belong..." Of course, I was wearing olive green cargo pants and a red split-neck tshirt, so there's probably some little goth version of me blogging her heart out about the muggles that showed up on her turf last night.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): You know. Like Beavis and Butthead. Shout at the devil. Blizzard of Oz. That shit.

Going to Nebraska in My Mind

Today, I was supposed to be at Lake McConnaughey. Sort of.

A month ago, my friend Brad let me know Rasputina would be in town tonight and did I want to go? Brad and I have been to two Rasputina shows so far, and I know I can speak for both of us when I say, "Duuuuuuude." Best live show ever. Funny. Smart.

But I digress.

See, I told Brad I couldn't go 'cause this is Lake Week. Then he emailed me yesterday and said, "A little birdy tells me the Lake is next week. You might want to rethink Rasputina."

I checked the receipt on my deposit for the cabin and, sure enough, July 19.

Tonight I will be at the Bluebird, enjoying the hell out of Rasputina. It may be my last time. With Alzheimer's as advanced as mine, I won't even remember I *like* Rasputina the next time they come through.

[SUMMARY: Take my car keys.]

*************

Red and I went shopping Sunday. Coming downstairs from the knitting section of Borders,† she was telling me of something in Alterknits, only it took about fifteen minutes for us to get to what that something was because she said, "She felted herself..." and then just stopped.

OK, she was fishing for the right word. I was figuring it for a complete sentence.

We had to wave people by us on the landing because we couldn't proceed further for the laughing.

As always, sophistication of a four-year-old, filthy dirty brain of a hormonally-carbonated 14-year-old boy.

[SUMMARY: Tell me a dick joke. I promise to laugh.]

*************

Speaking of books, on one of my many trips to Barnes & Noble over the last couple of weeks,‡ I discovered a section in the store that amazed me: Religious Fiction.

I guess it could be frightening, encouraging or redundant, depending on your perspective.

[SUMMARY: Not passing judgment -- oh, no. Just passing information.]

*************

And now, the very serious knitter topic for today, brought about by a comment from a morbid Canadian who is out for my stash.§

OK, OK... first, let's address a serious topic for we, the single folk. My friend Annie and I used to worry about this very thing¶: what happens if I, say, break my neck putting the roasting pan back up on the high shelf and nobody notices until the flies reach Amityville level? Single people worry about this shit sometimes.

Well, I worry about it.

I work contract. I travel sporadically at last minute. I occasionally have adventures. I have a stalker.$ It wouldn't necessarily be weird if nobody heard from me for three or four days. By then it could be too late. Does anybody have a solution for this? Other than blogging every day?

[SUMMARY: The world is a scary place when you're all alone with 33 stairs and an opportunistic cat.]

Anyway, back to the knitter issue.

What happens to your stash if you die unexpectedly? Is your family aware of your wishes?# Y'know, my driver's license says my organs go wherever they need to go when I die. My family is well aware of this, and wouldn't argue with the driver's license anyway.&

We need a Stash Donor card that tells the paramedics who to call for stash distribution, or to what charities the qivuit goes. It could save lives.†† It could ease the burden of those left behind.

Won't you sign your Stash Donor card today?

[SUMMARY: Only you can prevent forest fires.‡‡]

Now I have to go revise my living will to stipulate that no knitters are allowed to decide when to pull the plug.

I could go in for a teeth cleaning and end up dead, a mad, morbid Canadian making for the border with all the wool.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): See: Book Problem, Knitting Problem

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): ibid

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Remaining nameless to protect her innocence. *cough* And I'd hate to have to mention that she wasn't so much worried about my cat eating my face as she was that the resulting odors would taint the yarn.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): And then Annie got married and no longer cares about the plight of the single person. It may be ironic that she's a Democrat who probably disdains people who turn Republican when they get some money.

$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): Who called me on June 6 at 7:10 pm, June 27 at 1:10, 1:12, 1:34, 1:35 and yesterday at 5:45. Just in case the police ask you when they find my poor, battered body in a ditch. If they find my poor, battered body in a ditch, see the pounded footnote below for disposition of stash.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): For those of you scoring at home: Sylvia gets the Sea Wool, Red gets anything with alpaca, eca gets the sock yarn and patterns, and Kathryn gets anything feltable. The rest (and, yes, there's a LOT of "rest") goes to whomever reaches it first. Hey, just 'cause I'm dead doesn't mean I can't have a little fun.

&FOOTNOTE (ampersanded): Partly out of respect for my wishes, partly because nobody wants to be seen arguing with a driver's license. That's one step away from wearing a tin foil hat and, as Crazy Aunt Purl says, eating your hair.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Mostly I'm thinking of women with sharp sticks here.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Figuratively.

ETA: I posted this before the Yarn Harlot's story. Being in Nebraska in my mind in NO WAY constitutes any sort of compliance or condoning of the actions of a particular fuckhead judge in Nebraska, implicit or specific.

To Talk of Many Things...

Above and beyond all else, I'd like to introduce my spectacular Secret Pal, Sassy Gina-D. As you can tell by the abundant photos of the packages she sent and absent chocolate, she's been the bestest secret pal ever ('specially for someone like me who always got the crappiest of Secret Santas in elementary school) and a real life-saver some days (chocolate, people).

I'm starting her blog, but just because I have my little neurosis about linking blogs doesn't mean you shouldn't check her out before I get done.

Go ahead. I'll wait here.

[SUMMARY: Bestest. Secret. Pal. Ever.]

Now, to cover for my long absence (tell me you noticed I wasn't around), I'm taking requests.

Seriously.

First, just for myself, I want to show you this bracelet:



It's gorgeous, yes, but more important, it's very, very sentimental and it represents something bigger than a pretty heart-shaped rock for my wrist.

As I've mentioned, my mom died last year. Mom was the one who got almost all the presents for almost everyone. Once in awhile, Dad would find some great gift he thought was perfect and we'd all marvel, "He picked it out himself!"

Poor Dad. He has to get all the presents himself now, and it's not always easy. I know. I've helped him pick out some things for the nephews and they have to be easier to shop for than I am.† But this is what he found for my birthday. And it's beautiful. And he picked it out himself.

I’ll be wearing my heart on my sleeve.

Mom would be so proud of him.

Dad isn't allowed to read this blog (for what I hope are obvious reasons), but I want everyone who comes across this to know just how touched and grateful and misty-eyed I am about my wonderful, amazing father. I have the best family in the world, and he's the cream of that particular crop.

[SUMMARY: *sniff*]

On to the fibre.‡ And Sylvia's request.

See, for my birthday, I treated myself to a little fuzzy crack from Posh. While I got enough Louisa Harding Kimono Angora to make a sweater, and some lovely Life Style sock yarn, the real star of the show is the Fleece Artist Sea Wool, all soft and fuzzy and soft and smelling of the ocean and pretty, pretty colours and so soft...

Counter-clockwise from upper left: Louisa Harding, sock yarn, Sea Wool


The stuff has been flying off the shelves at Sylvia's House of Fuzzy Crack.§ You can see why, can't you?



[SUMMARY: Sea Wool. You want it. You can't have mine. Maybe not Sylvia's either.]

At the request of DK Steph and several knitters from Thursday night Stitch Therapy¶, here are some pictures from my bacchanale at the Brown Palace.

The room. The bed. That's a lot of bed for just one girl... drat.


The table setting at dinner, complete with champagne and Tiffany box.


Pretty people in pretty dresses (Cindy in front, Jo behind her, Raelene on the right)


Even your scruffy ol' AntiM cleaned up for the event.

The shoes.


The Hogwarts dress.


The skirt (just 'cause it's pretty and looks cool in the picture).


But, of course, it's all about the boobs.


See, Cindy was worried about the amount of cleavage she was showing in her Marilyn-Monroe-over-the-grate dress, so I promised her I'd find something to put the girls out there so she wouldn't be alone. I'm supportive that way.

The gifts. This is as close to Enron as I'm ever going to get.#


Wanna see what was in the box?


So for all that were wondering, that's a brief overview. Did I mention open bar?

[SUMMARY: Hey! Where'd all the luxury go? Bartender? Concierge? Where are you?]

Meanwhile, back in reality, your dear ol' AntiM turned her hand at a little dyeing Monday night. I know First Among the Imaginary Kellys (whatever happened to Other Imaginary Kelly? I miss her) wanted to see how that went.

So at FAIK's request:

Set up.


You have to soak the yarn in warm water for at least a half-hour. Don't ask me why. Google it if you must.


Then you lay it out...




And stripe it one colour at a time.







Then microwave four minutes a side.

Darling eca, who has burned herself countless times, gave me the very fine tip to be careful of the very hot yarn. I dumped it all out of the plastic bags in which it had cooked onto paper plates, then gingerly opened the plastic wrap, then left them the hell alone for, oh, one episode of Angel until they were cool.


Cooling. Being left the hell alone.



Hung to dry.



Now, this was the Louets dye kit, and it's a little different from the typical acid dye kits you can get many other places. For one, I'm pretty sure there was no acid involved, since I didn't have to add vinegar and there weren't any dire warnings about never, ever using the utensils again for cooking once they had been part of the dyeing process.


I have some tips for those of you who feel you might want to purchase a Louets dye kit:

1. Add the boiling water and the dye powder at the same time, streaming them together into your glass measuring cup, rather than pouring the powder into the cup and adding the boiling water as the instructions instruct. If you pour boiling water on top of the powder, it congeals and melts into a glob reminiscent of... did anyone else ever accidentally leave a bunch of crayons on the bed with the heating pad when they were a kid? Like that.
2. Save all the dye you mixed in the measuring cup for each batch of dye. Despite the fact they want you to mix up six ounces of dye, they only give you a four-ounce bottle to put it in. I just dumped the remaining blue and green before I caught on that I was going to run out of dye. Consequently, my yarn is predominantly yellow (the only colour I was smart enough to save the dregs to top off the squeeze bottle) and I'm not much into yellow.
3. Maybe don't do it. The dye doesn't dissolve (minutes upon minutes of agitating boiling water and what were apparently coloured rocks, waiting on full geologic-style erosion to fully dissolve), getting stuck in globs in the squeeze tip and causing frustration and occasional splattering. I think even if I'd been smart enough to save all the dye from each batch, it wouldn't have been quite enough dye to really saturate the yarn the way I would have liked. There should have been pictures in the instructions.††

OK, not dire reasons not to get the kit, but I was a little disappointed. I guess I got my feet wet,‡‡ but it wasn't very satisfying.

[SUMMARY: There's more to dyeing than this. I have faith. And I should get points for not making ANY of the dopey die/dye puns I wanted to in the last three hundred words or so.]

Perhaps tonight I will inaugurate my Hello Yarn acid dye kit in Red's Crock Pot.

Pray for me.

Meanwhile, I bet you've missed the cat. Here he is performing his pre-bedtime ablutions.§§

[SUMMARY: Awwww... wookat da kitty!]

You're welcome.

†FOOTNOTE (crossed): LYS gift registry notwithstanding.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Still a knitting blog. Of sorts. Really -- go check. I'll wait here.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Despite the fact that Sylvia stuck it in a bin on the bottom which I'm sure in no way has anything to do with her wanting to save the yarn for herself.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I know those of you not in/from Denver may not get it, but the Brown is a big deal. It'd be kinda like telling people you're going to England and are going to spend the night in Buckingham Palace. OK, not quite that extreme, but everybody knows it's the pinnacle of luxury in this once-cowtown and a lot of people never actually get to stay there. After all, you don't often stay in a hotel in the city where you live. And I don't think you often spend $200 a night to stay in a hotel in the city where you live.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Read "The Smartest Guys in the Room." It'll turn your stomach a little, but you have to marvel at the sheer excess Enron heaped on their favoured ones.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): For someone who can't count to four, vaguely mathematic instructions like, "lay the skeins out with no space between them. Apply the dye in lines a couple of inches apart perpendicular to the yarn," required much counting on fingers and drawing of diagrams. I know, I know, but sometimes the words just don't get through right and you can't quite picture the thing in your mind.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Not literally. I was very, very clean and didn't even turn my hands colours.

§§FOOTNOTE (so curvy): If you think it's easy getting the picture that actually shows the cat's tongue... well, you'd be underestimating.

...or Wednesday...

Happy Fourth, ev'rybahdy!

('specially my darling Canadians. Just 'cause you don't celebrate for the same reasons doesn't mean you shouldn't celebrate the 4th of July. Or Wednesday. Go have a drink.)

Let's see...

Got a spectacular dress for the Big Brown Shindig,† got my first little blue Tiffany box at said Shindig,‡ danced like a fiend, got to the office at 7:30,§ had an 80-minute massage at 10:00 and went home.

And got ready for the giant cap to the 40 days and 40 nights, which required a LOT of shopping¶ and cleanup. And building of patio furniture.

But I got it all done, despite all procrastination efforts to the contrary.

Many, many people came, there was more than enough food, I was loved and didn't drink much at all. How in the hell did that happen?

Sunday was our family dinner to celebrate my birthday. Sis-in-law not only purchased a large quantity of yarn from my gift registry# at Sylvia's House of Fuzzy Crack, she shepherded two very ill-behaved, very destructive nephews†† through the yarn buying process. I maintain the yarn fumes got to them.

Sis-in-law told the boys to pick out yarn they would like for a scarf and AntiM would knit the scarves for them.

Tallest, hairiest nephew picked this§§:

Crystal Palace Popcorn in Oranges-Cherries

It has been weird to knit so far. The ball band says, "wide range of gauges alone or as a knit-along yarn." Thinking I was being smart, I chose a needle about the same size as the popcorn bits.¶¶ I cast on until it looked... well, it looked like it was going to be about six inches wide, but I was using size 13 needles and there were already twenty stitches, so I threw caution to the wind and started swatching.## And ended up with something that appeared destined to slipcover the Mini. So I frogged.

Frogging popcorn? (*snarf*) Not so easy. Basic physics.

So I changed to size 11 needles and cast on ten stitches and swatched for a bit and came up with something that appeared destined to slipcover a toothpick. So I frogged.

No easier the second frog around.

The Popcorn rests for the moment. I will cast on fifteen later today and see how that pans out.

This is the yarn Dr. Doom picked out:

Muench Big Baby in Rainbow

Though Sis-in-law confided she wasn't sure it was actually his *favourite* per se, she was pretty sure it was the one he tore apart so she had to buy it so that's what his scarf would be made of.

Lucky Dr. Doom. It just so happens my friend Dave became the proud father to a (Nine! Pound! Six! Ounce!) baby girl (though with those stats, she may be older than we think) and I've dearly wanted to do the Big Baby feather-and-fan in those pretty girl colours for so long... so I told Sis-in-law I'd simply buy the appropriate number of rainbow balls††† for the new baby girl and find a more masculine colourway for Dr. Doom. I got him purples:

Sis-in-Law got me ten balls (all Sylvia had) of this:

Louisa Harding Fauve in #3 Ecru


With the welcome disclaimer that I could switch for a different colour. 'Cause AntiM don't do white all that well. It'd get all grubby while I was knitting it, then I'd get ketchup on it seconds after finishing the sweater. I'm thinking a pretty teal.

DK nation got me ten balls of this:

Louisa Harding Kashmir Aran in #6 Grass Green


Yummy, yummy, softsoftsoft. And such a pretty green.

Funny little side story: I wore just about nothing but black for, oh, fifteen years. I can still hear my college boyfriend saying, "It wouldn't hurt you to wear a colour once in awhile."

"What, you want me to wear a fuzzy pink sweater?" (utter disdain of all things pink and/or fuzzy in my tone.‡‡‡)

"Pink would be nice!" (exasperated)

Ah, if he could see me now.

Anyway...

Adding to this my personal procurement based on the giant bonus I got and my birthday discount from Sylvia, and I may have, in the last week, reached SABLE point.

No. NO. NONONO!!!

What am I saying?!

Not for years.

Or many more balls of yarn. Hanks of yarn. Skeins of yarn. SCADS of yarn.

That was just the FORTY talking.

You can stop laughing now. I may be old, but I'm not deaf yet.

I told you last week I got the lovely, lovely package from Crafty Fool, my beloved Secret Pal, and here it is:

Love the card:

Love the package (including, L-ish to R-ish: a brown photo album embroidered with paisleys perfect for project photos, CHOCOLATE,§§§ "Punk Knits," [long on my list], grow-your-own-vacation, YARN, patterns, Purell-on-a-keychain, a rose pendant and magnetic paper clips and notecards.)

Let's zoom in on a couple of items, shall we?

For anyone thinking of participating in the Secret Pal thing, I highly recommend the pattern and yarn thing. It's certainly not how I shop,¶¶¶ and that in itself makes it novel. But it also compels me to try new stuff (like knitting sweaters, which I'd always wanted to do but stalled out until Secret Pal sent the Green Gables kit my way. Yes, I'm still knitting it. Sleeve one is almost done and sleeve two shouldn't take too long. I know this is a very long parenthetic phrase, but I'm starting to get embarrassed over the state of my footnotes).

And for those of you scoring at home, Bag Lady Kathryn of the Drunken Knitters was with me when I met my NEW NEIGHBOUR today. I am SO EXCITED! Know why? That's right! 'Cause she's NOT THE MALE LADY!

Welcome to the neighbourhood, Nicki. Don't ever let anyone tell you you aren't the most beautiful thing in the townhomes.

†FOOTNOTE (crossed): 1) if I do say so myself, and 2) I call it my Hogwarts dress because it was way bigger inside than out. When I saw it on the hanger, I knew it was a size four they'd accidentally mis-marked. It not only fit, it was comfy.

Oh, and I bought a pair of Cole Haan peep-toe pumps with Nike Air technology in them. Gravity still wasn't on my toes's side, but they were ridiculously comfortable for all that.

And kinda "fuck me."

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): I always figured my first Tiffany box would come to me either from the hands of a passionate suitor or via one of those "fuck you, I'm doing for me," right-hand ring acts of self-congratulation.

I never figured it'd be at a corporate dinner.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): It was so quiet even the crickets were listening for crickets.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): What do you do when you've filled up one shopping cart at Costco and you still think you need more?

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): All LYSs should have gift registries.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Sorry Sylvia! They're usually pretty good! Even Dr. Doom!

§§FOOTNOTE (very curvy): I stole all the yarn pictures off the web. My camera battery just died.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (how many paragraphs does one footnote need?): I may not be able to count to four, but I like to think my grasp of basic physics is pretty solid. Solid! Ha! Pun!

##FOOTNOTE (pounded all to hell): The kind of swatch that becomes a scarf if it turns out OK. Y'all know.

†††FOOTNOTE (triple-crossed? Really? Is this a record?): Rainbow balls. Heheheheh. I'm four and I'm a pervert.

‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (triple double!): For those of you Buffy fans out there, kinda like when Bizarro-World willow came to Buffy's Sunnydale and when she saw Willow's pink daisy sweater, she said, "Oh, look. I'm fuzzy." Same tone.

§§§FOOTNOTE (can you handle the curves?): Um... there used to be much more chocolate, but, um... well, I had a lot of housecleaning and patio furniture building and sometimes that goes smoother if I have a Scooby snack now and then. *ahem*

¶¶¶FOOTNOTE (dear gods, when will the paragraphs end?): How I shop for knitting usually takes the form of either, "Ooooh! Pretty book! Buy! Find yarn later!" or "Ooooh! Pretty yarn! Buy! Find pattern later!" While the former certainly works better than the latter (and facilitates LYS gift registry), neither one makes me make girl noises the way having the yarn and the pattern show up together does.

Quick Like a Bunny...

(though probably not a Zen Bunny. They don't seem that quick to me.)

...'cause I have to go get a dress for the Brown Palace thing tonight, though I'm not sure why I'd bother since I'm going stag.

Ah, well. Maybe breakfast in bed tomorrow.

In my king bed.

At the Brown.

By myself.

But yesterday was lovely, and I got a truly spectacular package from Secret Pal.* Pictures to follow -- maybe Sunday or Monday.

The 40 days/40 nights continues...


*FOOTNOTE (asterisked, if you can imagine): Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!

40

39

39

39

Oh, For...

Fuck's Sake!†

Since y'all are commenting, I assume you can see yesterday's post. Perhaps you can even see yesterday's post with the proper spacing, since I tried so hard to fix it and maybe I did but how would I know because Blogger is (once again) playing peek-a-boo with my posts.

Sometimes I can see yesterday's Feelings post, sometimes not. I still have never seen my little note to the DK Nation, so I have no idea if it's floating around there in the unseeable ether, or if it's firmly anchored to every version of the Innernets but mine.

It makes me cranky, not seeing what you're seeing.

And just a little jealous.

[SUMMARY: Blogger... it sucks you in and spits you out.]

I bought a bazillions dollars' worth of patio stuff for the big shindig Saturday. A ten-piece patio furniture set (plus umbrella!‡) and a big ol' fancy gas grill. I know I'm going to get a lot of use out of this stuff, but spending upwards of $500 at my GROCERY STORE is a little weird.

Dad brought his big, black truck to move stuff. The patio furniture (some assembly required!) was mostly packed in one, brick-like, 200-lb box. We began rolling it, step by step, to my front door,§ when a very nice young man (New best friend Vincent, you rock! Katie, take him home to meet your parents!) offered to help. Moments later, Dad hurt his back.

Oh, the daughterly guilt.

And Dad says, "It was in no way your fault."

"Well, except for the needing patio furniture and asking you to carry it."

Then we went for Thai food and ice cream and it was better. And by that, I mean, "Certainly better than pushing giant, heavy boxes up stairs."

I hope Dad's back heals right up. I don't like it when my last remaining parent show signs of being out of warranty, y'know?

Despite all this drama, I will give major points to the manufacturer. The instructions for assembling the chairs were written for English speakers, by English speakers. The illustrations are clear. Best of all, all the hardware required for each individual chair is blister-packed together with its own allen wrench, so there's no counting out 24 of the cross-bar bolts and 12 of the back bolts and keeping them separate and all... just open each little package as you build the chair and when all the pieces are gone... voilá! Done!

[SUMMARY: I still get excited by little things.]

This weekend? Oh, yeah...

Friday: drinks with Kelley and The Boy,¶ knit on Green Gables at Favourite Bar, met a boy, got a hickey, lost my cell phone.

Saturday: thespian reunion,# bought a new cell phone, dinner with Dad (and Grandma and Aunt Teri), forgot how to do the magic cast-on (so didn't knit), cell phone found by kindly neighbour (New best friend Jim, you rock! You and Vincent should start a band!), new boy called (said he was bringing a bottle of wine, brought vodka and KOOL-AID, got terribly drunk, expressed several sexual ideas WAYYYYY out of my purview††)

Sunday: brunch with Kelley and The Boy Sunday, golf, beer, collapsed into bed, filthy and exhausted.

[SUMMARY: Whirlwind! Shitstorm!]

I didn't get my laundry done this weekend.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Which brings me to a funny "here, now, the news": A court in Sweden has determined it is a convicted rapist's right to read porn in prison. RIGHT. And I'm using that both as a very baffled "a just claim?!??" and a very sarcastic "yeah, sure." In any case, it gives new meaning to the phrase, "for fuck's sake."

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Plus umbrella stand! Which is separate! For why?

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): There are a LOT of stairs in my home life. The living room is a storey off the street. Everything that comes in the house has to be carried up a full flight of stairs. At least. In retrospect, rigging some sort of pulley system to the deck might have been worth the effort.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Yeah, I know.

Kelley went to the bathroom and The Boy leaned over and said, "So you and Kel OK?"

I said, "I guess."

He said, "She does this all the time. Sometimes I'll call and she won't call me back or she'll get pissy and I just leave her alone for a couple of days, then we go grab a beer and it's like nothing happened."

I said, "Good to know. And if you think of anything else that would save me some grief, you just pass it right along, OK?"

He laughed.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): I highly recommend this form of reunion. As my high school drama teacher/director said about class reunions vs. the thespian reunion, "Yeah, those guys are just your classmates. This is family."

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): You didn't know that was possible, did you? Forgive the crudity, but any boy who says, "I'm going to Atlanta on Thursday. Are you going to fuck anyone else while I'm gone? Doesn't matter... I'm going to have to fuck the shit out of you Wednesday night," and, "You like ass-play, right? I brought anal beads," loses me quickly and completely. He was honestly bewildered when I told him it was time for him to leave. And he left his beads behind -- no pun intended.

Note to Drunken Knitters

If you're out there, I still don't have my cell phone back, so I don't have (for instance) Steph's number.

I am planning on being at Patrick Carroll's per usual, but possibly a little later than usual (someone's takin' me out to an early dinner... probably). If I get the cell back, I'll send the normal text message, but if not, know I will be there.

Feelings, Nothing More Than Feelings...

First, I still have nobody to take to the Brown Palace. What is up with that?

[SUMMARY: feeling unpopular...]

Second, I golfed this weekend. I love hitting balls. I love that whistling swoosh, then the satisfying *thwock* when I hit a good shot. I even love whiffing the ball and being able to say, "I came up on that one. Again," like I know what I'm doing. I love my little golf glove.

I'm not overly good at golf, but I seem to have a knack, so I figure a little practise and I'm ready for the pro circuit.

[SUMMARY: feeling delusional... and, frankly, a little stiff in the back today.]

Third, I got really yummy yarn† from the eca this weekend. Lookie!‡

Yarn too sexy for this blog, too sexy to frog...

[SUMMARY: feeling special...]

There's LOTS of the gorgeous purple sock yarn, so now I must find a good pattern§ for it. I am paralysed by the sheer force of the options available and the responsibility I feel to the yarn to make it into the best socks possible to show off all its attributes. Am I a dork or what?

[SUMMARY: feeling pressure...]

Fourth, I got the 2007 Food & Wine Annual Cookbook from my aunt and grandmother Saturday.

[SUMMARY: feeling domestic...]

Lastly, and this won't mean much to many of you, but I went to Jay's Patio Café Friday afternoon before I got my hair cut (4" off the length... FOUR INCHES), sort of late for lunch, and when I sat down with my sandwich, I noticed that the large-ish party next to me was none other than George Karl and most of the Denver Nuggets's front office discussing who they wanted to pick up in the draft, who they wanted to trade, movies, how AI would work with that NCAA problem child, self-help issues, the prevalence of high school players in sports media, food, Kobe Bryant...

I had knitting patterns with me (no lie -- lace socks. Two of 'em.#) and I pretended to be very, very interested in every little nuance of my knitting patterns as I leaned over and eavesdropped. And tried to figure how to surreptitiously photograph them. And how to surreptitiously call my brother so he could come listen.¶

[SUMMARY: feeling privy...]

Happy Monday. As always, the weekend update tomorrow. And trust me, with a reunion and a dinner with Grandma, you don't want to miss all the excitement!

[SUMMARY: feeling... well, Monday...]


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): For those of you scoring at home, it's from Fearless Fibers on Etsy. It's boingy, it's over 500 yards (which means I can knit almost any socks in the world, and even knee-highs and any variety of lace or cables... *breatheinthebag* ...so many choices) and it's PURPLE.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Pay no attention to the blur! And pay no attention to the fact I deleted the big shot where you can see the label and everything! I'm a wreck! Take my car keys! Be my new best friend! Go to the Brown Palace with me!

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Who am I kidding? I must find the PERFECT pattern. Any ideas? Bueller? Bueller?

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Two sock patterns. Not patterns for two socks. Y'all know. But I can hear my snide little brother saying, "Um... aren't socks usually in twos?"

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): And maybe translate.

Blogger will not let me fix the spacing. I've tried. On behalf of Blogger, I'd like to apologise. I, personally, would never do this to you.

Holy Schroedinger's Cat, Batmarin!

TTHFCIF

My friend who works for the IRS† took me to dinner and a movie for the 40 days festival. We saw Ocean's Thirteen,‡ which, as a strong proponent of style over substance, I must recommend.

Line for which I was the only one in the theatre who laughed:

Setup: the Malloy brothers are in the bowels of the casino. Virgil is trying to hack an FBI transmission revealing the faces of all the compatriots.

Turk: Are you in yet?

Virgil: I hate that question.

Still a pervert, still twelve. Happy Friday, ev'rybahdy.

Aren't paper lanterns festive?

Downtown, everything's great when you're downtown...

This may not trip your trigger the way it tripped mine,§ but I have to share.

Now, when you look at the picture below, you may think to yourself, "Self, this is a knitting blog (sort of . some of the time. well, she *says* it is.), so maybe that's... a moth egg?"

Nope. If I'd had the cat at the office, I'd have used him for scale. As it was, I had to use this pen. That tiny blue (yes, it is) blob is a perfectly formed dwarf Jelly Belly.¶

Awwwww... wookat da jelly bean!

And, by request, the bat tattoo. It is very difficult to take pictures of your hip.

Maybe I shouldn't paint us all with the same brush: it was very difficult for me to take a picture of my hip.

And I couldn't tell if it was focusing, so it isn't. And I couldn't use the flash (too close -- it looked like a scene out of Close Encounters of the Third Kind when I used the flash) so it's all orangey from the hall light.

Trust Marin, I'm not nearly this tan.

Finally, I'm leaving you with this:

If you haven't discovered "I can has cheezburger?" you may be missing a lot of time-killing goodness. This cat came from there and I think it's hysterically funny.

This weekend? Housecleaning. Golf. Reunion. Waiting on boys.

You know. The usual.

†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Don't hold it against her. Hold it against her that she's a LAWYER and works for the IRS. Although the poor girl is going to Houston next week, so she may gain sympathy points.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Corner Bakery for dinner. Salad trio, if you must know. The mixed berry salad contained eleven strawberries and one blueberry. "Mixed berries" strictly in the technical sense.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): As always, this would be a saving grace for you.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Daquiri flavoured.

Pop-Ups They REALLY Need...

I read it as "Mega-Breasts."

Photographic Evidence

I believe there are more footnotes than post today.

If you have any truck with independent bookstores, you may have heard of the Tattered Cover in Denver.

The Tattered Cover has a long and storied (hahahahaha!) history, and publishers, readers and writers† recognise it as a Mecca for small publishers, niche writers% and independent-thinking literary-minded types all over the world. I know many people (and have overheard others at the airport) who specifically arrange long layovers in Denverish so they can visit the Tattered Cover when they travel.

Among the many sweet details that make the Tattered Cover what it is:

1. Chairs and sofas.
2. A coffee shop in every store (until just a few years ago -- maybe 12 -- there was only one store in Cherry Creek).
3. A "stay as long as you like, read as much as you want" policy.
4. A strident stance against the turning over of customer purchase information to the government.
5. A box of index cards and a cup of pencils in the cookbook section so you can copy a recipe if it strikes your fancy.
6. An abnormal number of author appearances.
7. Staff that reads... *really* reads. Reads-with-a-capital-R Reads.
8. Wood floors, wood shelves.
9. A vast and varied newsstand.
10. MiniCooper.

I was perusing the Tattered Cover website to find out (first) when the LoDo‡ store opens in the morning (6:30 am, for those of you scoring at home), and (second) seeking "Dyeing to Knit," since I never start a new hobby without books,§ and, you know, two dye kits, miles and miles of naked, waiting, willing yarn...

mmmmmmmmmm...

Sorry. Reverie.$

Anyway, to make a long story short,¶ when I went to the TC website, I happened to catch the right portion of the slide show in the upper left hand corner and, lo and behold, there is my Mini Cooper, from last summer, parked outside the Highlands Ranch Tattered Cover.

I remember the guy taking pictures. I joked with him about upping the cool quotient on the Tattered Cover# by including the MiCo in the shot, and... there she is. The Cutest Little Car in the Whole Wide World.^

You can see for yourself by going to the website and watching the slide show. CLCWWW is the ninth photo,†† right after the two little blond kids reading.

What does it say about my book problem that the Tattered Cover captured my car for its website? What do you suppose are the odds?‡‡

I'm so proud. The rest of you can stop laughing now.

†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Like the Yarn Harlot, to personalise it for y'all.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): As I read that, it sounds (reads?) like it's some freaky-deaky little place. They do carry all the bestsellers and trite beach trash, but it all feels like quality literary material when you put it in real wood shelves over real wood floors, adjacent to antique couches and good coffee.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Lower Downtown, the hip and happening portion of downtown Denver that was re-engineered from a slum that made us feel mad, bad and dangerous to know in high school to the home of trendy, expensive restaurants and bars in the late 80's. And the LoDo Tattered Cover is about four blocks from the office.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Often many, many books. You shoulda seen the stack when The Boy wanted me to golf with him last summer. Potential for Humiliation + Potential for Learning + Opportunity for Book Procurement = Serious Book Problem That Makes Family and Friends Laugh at Me.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Hahahahaha! Too late!

$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): You needn't ask if the reverie is over yarn or sexual reference. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Seriously, that's funny too. The Tattered Cover is the height of cool to the hip and/or literary around here.

^FOOTNOTE (carated): Do you think this is how photographers flirt? Do you think the photographer would like to go to the Brown Palace with me next week? Do you think he'll be my new best friend?

††FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): OK, she's technically IN the ninth photo, but for me, she IS the ninth photo.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): In case you're not my sister-in-law, I'll give you a hint: the odds are WAYYYYY better if you're at the Tattered Cover an obsessive number of times in any given week. Like four or five.

*FOOTNOTE (unmarked): Is it kinda funny that the title of this post is "Photographic Evidence," but I have no actual photos to post in the post? Tomorrow I will have at least a picture of my bat tattoo, by request.

Why...

...is this book not coming out until November?

Super Zen Bunny Shibui Much Happy Sock!†

So I noticed this last Thursday on the way to Knit Therapy:

Dude, I got this new tattoo. It's Japanese for, "All your bunnies are belong to us."

The Zen Bunny Fountain.

Awwww... wookat da widdle plastic bunnies!

Invasion of the Bunny Snatchers

I will give all my carrots to the Reverend Sung Myung Moon...

I like to think the neighbours that display this are hip and ironic and find plastic bunny zen fountains as funny as I do, but I'm pretty sure they're serious.

I can't quite decide if that's tragic, or if it just makes it funnier.

[SUMMARY: You're no bunny 'til some bunny loves you... you're right, it's not a summary, but I had an overwhelming desire to get that cheesy line in.]

So, meanwhile, back at the Brown Palace... You remember this thing at the Brown Palace? I invited The Boy. I sent him an actual paper invitation. OK, so I copied the engraved invitation they sent me and mailed it to him with a note§, but an actual paper invitation with actual handwriting on it.

He called this morning to decline.

The story goes (and yes, I believe him) he tried to get the day after off so he could, but the guy who covers for him is on vacation that day. Since it's so unlike him to call at all, ever, I was touched he called. Since he hates to talk on the phone, I was pleased he continued conversing for a half-hour after turning me down.

I also asked him if there was a reason Kelley was pissed at me, because when I'm not four, I'm apparently in middle school.

He said she told him I'd left a message, but she didn't really say what was up. He also said he'd asked her Friday if she'd talked to me. And asked her Sunday if I was going with them... wherever they were going.

One hand: Not a lotta help on the Kelley front.

Other hand: Asked about me? He asked about me? He wanted me to go with them?

I'm such a stupid girl.

I have no plans to get any smarter.

I do have a list of boys, in order of preference, to invite to the lap of luxury. I'm not sure exactly what it says about me or them or nothing at all that the boy least likely to say yes was the first boy on my list... and it just follows on down from there. The guy who will definitely say yes? He's the last guy on my list.

[SUMMARY: Stupid as a blanket, sneaky like cactus.]

Yarn P0rn, anyone?

You really, really want this yarn. Now, I haven't knit with it yet, but I'm going to go out on a limb and say it will be simply *outstanding* for lace knitting, because it's sososososo boingy and crisp. And the pretty, pretty colours.

Shibui!‡

Y'all think I've gone over the edge now, just wait 'til Red leaves for Tobago and loans me her Crock Pot. I'm talking thousands upon thousands of yards of hand-dyed yarn that I will make you look at every day.

I'm not guaranteeing it will be scenic, I'm only guaranteeing it will be here.

[SUMMARY: Let there be yarn!]

Happy hump day!¶

†FOOTNOTE (crossed): A first! Footnoting the title! Anyway, all credit to Sarah, whose "super fun times homeowner purchase!" inspired me to both spit coffee out of my nose [speaking of, do any Drunken Knitters remember why I nosed my Strongbow last night? I thought it would be a funny story, but then, juvenile-onset Alzheimer's... please remove me from my car keys] and indulge in the sincerest form of flattery.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Now I want to go read Shibumi. And I want to call the yarn "Shibumi." Check this:

• Nicolai Hell was born in the turbulent China of the First World War, of an aristocratic mother and a mysterious German father, and educated in the spiritual gardens of a Japanese Go master. Surviving the destruction of Hiroshima he appears as the world's most consumate and artistic lover - though better paid as an assassin. Genius, mystic, master of cultures and languages, Hel's secret is his determination to reach that rare personal purity and state of perfection known as Shibumi. Living in an isolated mountain stronghold with a beautiful Asian companion, he meets his most sinister enemy, a vast monolithic spy organisation. The battle lines are drawn: merciless power and corruption on one side, and on the other...

Dontcha wish your sock yarn was Shibumi like mine?

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Proud of the note. Said I have no intention of spending that night on my own, want someone who knows his way around a woman's body, think he'd be a lot of fun in this capacity... but he should RSVP ASAP as I would be inviting someone else if he wasn't coming. Sarah may be a genius knitter, but nobody puts it on the table like I do.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Seriously, it would be a lot happier if there was some actual humping involved. It may be crude, but I'm just sayin'.