Amuse?
Write?
Don't wanna.
Go read this.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Um...
Monday was the day the lawyers came. And the engineers. And one guy I think may have been a geologist.†
The HOA for my little corner of heaven is suing the builder of my little corner of heaven for a myriad of sins, so they had to do inspections of the decks, drywall, garages, windows.‡
Most of the house was oddly presentable,§ but the yarn room/library needed help.
[SUMMARY: *ahem*]
I put together some of those wire cube things from Target and set about organising the yarn. I have one bin for yarn to dye, one for leftovers and orphans, one for projects,¶ one for two-skein sets. Two for sock yarn.
The sock yarn overflowed.
I know common wisdom says, "Sock yarn isn't stash."
"I'm on a yarn diet, but sock yarn doesn't count."
We think of sock yarn as safe and inconsequential because it is slated for that particular project: socks. You don't have to buy ten or twelve balls.#
But I really think my sock yarn has gotten out of hand.
My next project will be six socks at once -- different lace patterns. I figure I already did the four-at-once with different sizes. After I finish the six, I'll do eight all the same size and pattern and it'll feel like a brain vacation.
[SUMMARY: The best-laid plans...]
I also have moths.
Before you gasp,†† I can't see that the moths have done any damage to my yarn. I personally fondled and dug through every single ball, skein, hank and wad of yarn in the yarn room and, while there are bug carcasses, there are no chewed spots.
I don't know how to take this. I should be more upset. But I can't see where these particular moths have done me any damage.
Honestly, if they ate a little sock yarn, it might be a blessing.
[SUMMARY: It's early. I may not have had enough coffee.]
We had a lovely dinner at The Palace Arms. I've wanted to go there for years. It's on my list% right next to Africa of places I want to go and may never get. The meal was superb, the service warm and impeccable,‡‡ we women got roses and salted chocolates§§ at the end of the meal. When I had to go to the restroom, one of the servers escorted me like we were going to a debutante ball.
[SUMMARY: *le sigh*]
Now I have to go meet with the client and get actual work done.
[SUMMARY: Different kind of sigh.]
Could be worse. Could be raining. Oh, wait...
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): He kept commenting on my rocks. Yeah, I said that for the benefit of the Brainless Twelvehood that lies within you.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): I'll take "things that may crack or leak or sink" for $500, Alec.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Odd to me.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Believe it or not, I have whole projects with the needles, pattern and all the yarn bagged up neatly and ready to go. I fondly refer to it as my retirement plan.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): I got tired of saying "skeins." I'd rather say "balls."
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): And possibly inhale a moth.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): I've found you often have one, but not the other.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): WAS... was on my list. Crossed that off last night.
§§FOOTNOTE (all in a whirl): I'm looking at you, Sarah.
The HOA for my little corner of heaven is suing the builder of my little corner of heaven for a myriad of sins, so they had to do inspections of the decks, drywall, garages, windows.‡
Most of the house was oddly presentable,§ but the yarn room/library needed help.
[SUMMARY: *ahem*]
I put together some of those wire cube things from Target and set about organising the yarn. I have one bin for yarn to dye, one for leftovers and orphans, one for projects,¶ one for two-skein sets. Two for sock yarn.
The sock yarn overflowed.
I know common wisdom says, "Sock yarn isn't stash."
"I'm on a yarn diet, but sock yarn doesn't count."
We think of sock yarn as safe and inconsequential because it is slated for that particular project: socks. You don't have to buy ten or twelve balls.#
But I really think my sock yarn has gotten out of hand.
My next project will be six socks at once -- different lace patterns. I figure I already did the four-at-once with different sizes. After I finish the six, I'll do eight all the same size and pattern and it'll feel like a brain vacation.
[SUMMARY: The best-laid plans...]
I also have moths.
Before you gasp,†† I can't see that the moths have done any damage to my yarn. I personally fondled and dug through every single ball, skein, hank and wad of yarn in the yarn room and, while there are bug carcasses, there are no chewed spots.
I don't know how to take this. I should be more upset. But I can't see where these particular moths have done me any damage.
Honestly, if they ate a little sock yarn, it might be a blessing.
[SUMMARY: It's early. I may not have had enough coffee.]
We had a lovely dinner at The Palace Arms. I've wanted to go there for years. It's on my list% right next to Africa of places I want to go and may never get. The meal was superb, the service warm and impeccable,‡‡ we women got roses and salted chocolates§§ at the end of the meal. When I had to go to the restroom, one of the servers escorted me like we were going to a debutante ball.
[SUMMARY: *le sigh*]
Now I have to go meet with the client and get actual work done.
[SUMMARY: Different kind of sigh.]
Could be worse. Could be raining. Oh, wait...
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): He kept commenting on my rocks. Yeah, I said that for the benefit of the Brainless Twelvehood that lies within you.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): I'll take "things that may crack or leak or sink" for $500, Alec.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Odd to me.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Believe it or not, I have whole projects with the needles, pattern and all the yarn bagged up neatly and ready to go. I fondly refer to it as my retirement plan.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): I got tired of saying "skeins." I'd rather say "balls."
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): And possibly inhale a moth.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): I've found you often have one, but not the other.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): WAS... was on my list. Crossed that off last night.
§§FOOTNOTE (all in a whirl): I'm looking at you, Sarah.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
I'm Laughing
I went to a linguistics site to translate "tacky even when wet" to Latin. I figured "tacky" would be a relatively contemporary word, so I started with "sticky even when wet." I got this:
lentesco vel ut madidus
I also figured I could reverse-engineer it to fine tune if the Latin-English translation turned out to be wonky.†
So I plugged the Latin back in and here's the English translation:
to become soft or when wet
I don't need to explain why I'm laughing. You feel me, right?‡
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): You know... if the website version of "sticky" turned out to mean "branches" or something.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Not *literally*. Trust me, I'm a little oversensitive. If you literally felt me, it'd be the high point of my week. I'd celebrate with champagne and send you a thank you note. Maybe a fruit basket.
lentesco vel ut madidus
I also figured I could reverse-engineer it to fine tune if the Latin-English translation turned out to be wonky.†
So I plugged the Latin back in and here's the English translation:
to become soft or when wet
I don't need to explain why I'm laughing. You feel me, right?‡
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): You know... if the website version of "sticky" turned out to mean "branches" or something.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Not *literally*. Trust me, I'm a little oversensitive. If you literally felt me, it'd be the high point of my week. I'd celebrate with champagne and send you a thank you note. Maybe a fruit basket.
Drop In, Opt Out, Co-Opt
Once again, I have almost nothing to say.
No wisdom to impart,† no sex,‡ no knitting.§
[SUMMARY: This could be a long post.¶]
I don't have wisdom, sex or knitting, what do I have?
I can lick the pig.
I take comfort in the thought that no matter how bleak things get, I can usually scrape together enough bits for a respectable pig-licking.#
[SUMMARY: I have a dream...]
*************
First, remember how I wanted to go to Slovenia?%
The fact that there is a Slovenian Pig Stamp doesn't make me want to go any less.
*************
Next, in a long-awaited update to the office trash situation,†† we did finally get our "piggy backs"‡‡ for our trash cans. The trash portion of the system is smaller than a ream of paper. Apparently they haven't seen my trash after a yarn shipment.
[SUMMARY: Still a knitblog!]
Anyway, I've already thrown my kleenex in the wrong bin twice.
Further updates as the situation warrants.
*************
Now for the co-opt portion of our program:
This is not my story, but Mary Kay doesn't have a blog, so it's not so much *stealing* as it is giving an outlet for Mary Kay's wonderful world.
See, Mary Kay is a Drunken Knitter and shows up at Patrick Carroll's on Tuesday nights with some regularity, but she's a double agent.
A group of acedemicians, of which Mary Kay and her husband (The Professor) are members also meets at Patrick Carroll's on Tuesdays. So Mary Kay rides the fence, spending some time fiber-geeking with us and some time science-geeking with the other crowd.
So last Tuesday, Mary Kay had the most wonderful story, a story whose punchline has innumerable potentials.§§
See, a good friend of The Professor has a .45## in his house for protection.
Now is the time I introduce you to the concept of Ninja Monkeys: "Ninja Monkeys" is a blanket term¶¶ for any threat from assaulter to zombie that may beg the presence of a firearm.%%
So this guy became concerned about what might happen should Ninja Monkeys attack while he's in the shower. His hands would be wet. The gun might slip.
He did what any respectable denizen of the 21st century would do: he Googled aftermarket grips for his gun and came across a saying I'd like to have emblazoned across my boobs:†††
Tacky Even When Wet
And I want to translate it to Latin and use it as part of a coat of arms for the Drunken Knitters.
And Mary Kay and I started using it as a call and refrain@:
AntiM: Tacky...
Mary Kay: Even when wet!
[SUMMARY: Oh, the places you'll go!]
*************
I just cashed in a whole pile of Kharmic Green Stamps on titanium sporks.‡‡‡
When Dad took me to the Flyfishing Film Fest, they had a bunch of raffle prizes. I was totally hoping I'd win the titanium spork. Unfortunately, it went to the obnoxious, ungrateful wretch behind us, who (besides being loud through the whole event) did nothing but complain that he got a stupid titanium spork.
Some people don't know a good thing when they have it.
I decided it would be a funny and -- probably -- even useful gift for my father for his upcoming birthday, so I Googled it. REI has a flagship store really close to me, so I checked to see if REI carried such a thing.
Their online store has several.
As you may remember, Shane turned 40 recently.§§§ And Hinch is turning 40 soon. And I got it into my head that a titanium spork would be a perfect gift for a 40 year old guy. And I really want one too.
So I need at least four titanium sporks, an errand I haven't yet accomplished.
Let's look in on Hans.
Hans had his golf clubs stolen right out of his car recently. When his insurance company asked for receipts or photographic evidence that he'd ever actually owned golf clubs,¶¶¶ he found... he couldn't prove a damned thing.###
So he has to get an affidavit from a friend saying he golfs and had golf clubs.
Said friend is meeting him at REI.
I asked him to check and see if they have titanium sporks in stock.
Who knew the theft of Hans's golf clubs would turn out to be so beneficial to me?
Oh, yeah. I won't get a good parking space for weeks for all the Kharmic Green Stamps I've cashed in.
[SUMMARY: Somewhere a Buddhist rolls in his grave.]
*************
Oh, cripes. The boss just called and one of my clients%%% is flying in from Houston at 6:00 tonight and is staying at the Brown Palace. She wants to have a business dinner at 7:00 at the Brown to get a head start on tomorrows round of meetings.
Fuck.
Y'all know I love me some Brown Palace. What's not to love? It's elegant, well appointed, upscale, cosy, well executed, helpful, has the best spa in the city and they feed and water me about once a month.
But tonight is Drunken Knitting night. And I'd like to have more notice. And I have to go home and change and put on war paint. And I just don't want to.
This is what Ange calls a White Girl Problem.
[SUMMARY: You'll note it's still a problem.]
*************
UPDATE: Hans JUST came back and REI does, indeed, have titanium sporks in stock.
*************
Damnit.
With the Brown Palace field trip tonight, I doubt I'll have the time or inclination to offload my camera. I have such splendid out-my-office-window pictures too...
*************
Dang. You know it's a bad blogday when the footnotes outnumber the actual texts.
I better get laid soon or y'all will never have anything good to read again.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Duh.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Trust me, this hurts me more than it hurts you.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): I actually have been knitting. Some. But how many times can you see the same 4x1 red silk rib before you give up on me entirely?
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Not long like my usual prolixity (look it up), but long like watched-pot-not-boiling long.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Heheheh. What do you suppose "respectable" means in terms of pig-licking?
%FOOTNOTE (percented): Oh, and I still do!
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): I think I should get credit for the fact that the last office trash story was also under a pig-licking and I didn't try to make it a full post all on its own. I may get writer's block* now and then, but at least I keep office trash politics in perspective.
*FOOTNOTE WITHIN A FOOTNOTE: Thinker's block?
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Note the clever pig tie-in.
§§FOOTNOTE (dizzy... confused...): Can potential be plural?
##FOOTNOTE (numbers. We are talking numbers here.): Or a .44. Or a Glock something millimetre. Doesn't matter. For our purposes, a handgun. Can you tell I'm not much of a gun buff?
¶¶FOOTNOTE (why not just club them?): And one that might not be capitalised in anyone else's world.
%%FOOTNOTE (2 percent!): This was superfluous but so much fun. After all, I could probably do this whole story without ever saying "Ninja Monkeys," but why on earth?
†††FOOTNOTE (cross me again...): Not directly on my boobs, mind you. In fact, it would *have* to be on a t-shirt to be really funny, wouldn't it?
@FOOTNOTE (atted): Kinda like an adult beverage version of Marco Polo.
§§§FOOTNOTE (put a foot on the floor and it will stop spinning): You think I just took a total left turn, don't you? You may even think I've forgotten what story I'm telling. A good pig-licking always contains an element of surprise. Or confusion.
¶¶¶FOOTNOTE (one iron! three iron! five iron!): You'll love the fact that not only was his insurance agent the one who left his car window open so his golf clubs *could* be stolen, but the dink called him a couple of days later to ask him to go golfing.
###FOOTNOTE (triple pounder. With cheese.): Let this be a lesson: make sure you have a picture of you golfing. Even if you're drunk and have that smeary look on your face. You may be called upon one day to prove you had clubs.
%%%FOOTNOTE (3 percent!): I only have two right now, so every client is a big client.
No wisdom to impart,† no sex,‡ no knitting.§
[SUMMARY: This could be a long post.¶]
I don't have wisdom, sex or knitting, what do I have?
I can lick the pig.
I take comfort in the thought that no matter how bleak things get, I can usually scrape together enough bits for a respectable pig-licking.#
[SUMMARY: I have a dream...]
*************
First, remember how I wanted to go to Slovenia?%
The fact that there is a Slovenian Pig Stamp doesn't make me want to go any less.
*************
Next, in a long-awaited update to the office trash situation,†† we did finally get our "piggy backs"‡‡ for our trash cans. The trash portion of the system is smaller than a ream of paper. Apparently they haven't seen my trash after a yarn shipment.
[SUMMARY: Still a knitblog!]
Anyway, I've already thrown my kleenex in the wrong bin twice.
Further updates as the situation warrants.
*************
Now for the co-opt portion of our program:
This is not my story, but Mary Kay doesn't have a blog, so it's not so much *stealing* as it is giving an outlet for Mary Kay's wonderful world.
See, Mary Kay is a Drunken Knitter and shows up at Patrick Carroll's on Tuesday nights with some regularity, but she's a double agent.
A group of acedemicians, of which Mary Kay and her husband (The Professor) are members also meets at Patrick Carroll's on Tuesdays. So Mary Kay rides the fence, spending some time fiber-geeking with us and some time science-geeking with the other crowd.
So last Tuesday, Mary Kay had the most wonderful story, a story whose punchline has innumerable potentials.§§
See, a good friend of The Professor has a .45## in his house for protection.
Now is the time I introduce you to the concept of Ninja Monkeys: "Ninja Monkeys" is a blanket term¶¶ for any threat from assaulter to zombie that may beg the presence of a firearm.%%
So this guy became concerned about what might happen should Ninja Monkeys attack while he's in the shower. His hands would be wet. The gun might slip.
He did what any respectable denizen of the 21st century would do: he Googled aftermarket grips for his gun and came across a saying I'd like to have emblazoned across my boobs:†††
Tacky Even When Wet
And I want to translate it to Latin and use it as part of a coat of arms for the Drunken Knitters.
And Mary Kay and I started using it as a call and refrain@:
AntiM: Tacky...
Mary Kay: Even when wet!
[SUMMARY: Oh, the places you'll go!]
*************
I just cashed in a whole pile of Kharmic Green Stamps on titanium sporks.‡‡‡
When Dad took me to the Flyfishing Film Fest, they had a bunch of raffle prizes. I was totally hoping I'd win the titanium spork. Unfortunately, it went to the obnoxious, ungrateful wretch behind us, who (besides being loud through the whole event) did nothing but complain that he got a stupid titanium spork.
Some people don't know a good thing when they have it.
I decided it would be a funny and -- probably -- even useful gift for my father for his upcoming birthday, so I Googled it. REI has a flagship store really close to me, so I checked to see if REI carried such a thing.
Their online store has several.
As you may remember, Shane turned 40 recently.§§§ And Hinch is turning 40 soon. And I got it into my head that a titanium spork would be a perfect gift for a 40 year old guy. And I really want one too.
So I need at least four titanium sporks, an errand I haven't yet accomplished.
Let's look in on Hans.
Hans had his golf clubs stolen right out of his car recently. When his insurance company asked for receipts or photographic evidence that he'd ever actually owned golf clubs,¶¶¶ he found... he couldn't prove a damned thing.###
So he has to get an affidavit from a friend saying he golfs and had golf clubs.
Said friend is meeting him at REI.
I asked him to check and see if they have titanium sporks in stock.
Who knew the theft of Hans's golf clubs would turn out to be so beneficial to me?
Oh, yeah. I won't get a good parking space for weeks for all the Kharmic Green Stamps I've cashed in.
[SUMMARY: Somewhere a Buddhist rolls in his grave.]
*************
Oh, cripes. The boss just called and one of my clients%%% is flying in from Houston at 6:00 tonight and is staying at the Brown Palace. She wants to have a business dinner at 7:00 at the Brown to get a head start on tomorrows round of meetings.
Fuck.
Y'all know I love me some Brown Palace. What's not to love? It's elegant, well appointed, upscale, cosy, well executed, helpful, has the best spa in the city and they feed and water me about once a month.
But tonight is Drunken Knitting night. And I'd like to have more notice. And I have to go home and change and put on war paint. And I just don't want to.
This is what Ange calls a White Girl Problem.
[SUMMARY: You'll note it's still a problem.]
*************
UPDATE: Hans JUST came back and REI does, indeed, have titanium sporks in stock.
*************
Damnit.
With the Brown Palace field trip tonight, I doubt I'll have the time or inclination to offload my camera. I have such splendid out-my-office-window pictures too...
*************
Dang. You know it's a bad blogday when the footnotes outnumber the actual texts.
I better get laid soon or y'all will never have anything good to read again.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Duh.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Trust me, this hurts me more than it hurts you.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): I actually have been knitting. Some. But how many times can you see the same 4x1 red silk rib before you give up on me entirely?
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Not long like my usual prolixity (look it up), but long like watched-pot-not-boiling long.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Heheheh. What do you suppose "respectable" means in terms of pig-licking?
%FOOTNOTE (percented): Oh, and I still do!
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): I think I should get credit for the fact that the last office trash story was also under a pig-licking and I didn't try to make it a full post all on its own. I may get writer's block* now and then, but at least I keep office trash politics in perspective.
*FOOTNOTE WITHIN A FOOTNOTE: Thinker's block?
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Note the clever pig tie-in.
§§FOOTNOTE (dizzy... confused...): Can potential be plural?
##FOOTNOTE (numbers. We are talking numbers here.): Or a .44. Or a Glock something millimetre. Doesn't matter. For our purposes, a handgun. Can you tell I'm not much of a gun buff?
¶¶FOOTNOTE (why not just club them?): And one that might not be capitalised in anyone else's world.
%%FOOTNOTE (2 percent!): This was superfluous but so much fun. After all, I could probably do this whole story without ever saying "Ninja Monkeys," but why on earth?
†††FOOTNOTE (cross me again...): Not directly on my boobs, mind you. In fact, it would *have* to be on a t-shirt to be really funny, wouldn't it?
@FOOTNOTE (atted): Kinda like an adult beverage version of Marco Polo.
§§§FOOTNOTE (put a foot on the floor and it will stop spinning): You think I just took a total left turn, don't you? You may even think I've forgotten what story I'm telling. A good pig-licking always contains an element of surprise. Or confusion.
¶¶¶FOOTNOTE (one iron! three iron! five iron!): You'll love the fact that not only was his insurance agent the one who left his car window open so his golf clubs *could* be stolen, but the dink called him a couple of days later to ask him to go golfing.
###FOOTNOTE (triple pounder. With cheese.): Let this be a lesson: make sure you have a picture of you golfing. Even if you're drunk and have that smeary look on your face. You may be called upon one day to prove you had clubs.
%%%FOOTNOTE (3 percent!): I only have two right now, so every client is a big client.
Friday, May 2, 2008
I Lied
OK, not so much lied as jumped the gun.† I do have a little something to tell you, as it turns out. See, Hans was just in my office to show me something kinda funny.
A ticket.
You may wonder what is funny about a ticket.
[SUMMARY: Master of the obvious.]
Remember when my license plates were expired? For five months?
I don't know how it works in your state, but in Colorado, your license plate has a month sticker on one side and year sticker on the other and you have a month of grace period after the date represented on your plate to get good with the DMV.
Again, my plates were expired for FIVE MONTHS before anyone even noticed.‡
Hans's plates expired in March. So he had April to take care of it.
And he didn't.
And he got a ticket.
Yesterday morning.
[SUMMARY: Revel in the inequity, but wait for it...]
At 3:59 a.m.§
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Remember when jumping the gun was a fun thing you did in the back room at a Halloween party in college and vaguely regretted the next morning? Good times, good times...
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Yeah, there go all my kharma points. I also think this may be the equivalent of going to Bimini with a B-list model as far as my campaign for sainthood goes.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): I envision some hypervigilant meter maid (I'm sure that's a politicially incorrect term... Ticketing-American?) dozing off at 11:37 p.m. on the 30th of April, only to awake with a snort at 3:57 a.m., gleefully writing the ticket before going home to bed.
A ticket.
You may wonder what is funny about a ticket.
[SUMMARY: Master of the obvious.]
Remember when my license plates were expired? For five months?
I don't know how it works in your state, but in Colorado, your license plate has a month sticker on one side and year sticker on the other and you have a month of grace period after the date represented on your plate to get good with the DMV.
Again, my plates were expired for FIVE MONTHS before anyone even noticed.‡
Hans's plates expired in March. So he had April to take care of it.
And he didn't.
And he got a ticket.
Yesterday morning.
[SUMMARY: Revel in the inequity, but wait for it...]
At 3:59 a.m.§
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Remember when jumping the gun was a fun thing you did in the back room at a Halloween party in college and vaguely regretted the next morning? Good times, good times...
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Yeah, there go all my kharma points. I also think this may be the equivalent of going to Bimini with a B-list model as far as my campaign for sainthood goes.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): I envision some hypervigilant meter maid (I'm sure that's a politicially incorrect term... Ticketing-American?) dozing off at 11:37 p.m. on the 30th of April, only to awake with a snort at 3:57 a.m., gleefully writing the ticket before going home to bed.
Speechless
TTHFCIF
I really have nothing to say.
This doesn't mean I don't wish you well and want you to be happy. So go look at Tommy.
Here's another one.
I really have nothing to say.
This doesn't mean I don't wish you well and want you to be happy. So go look at Tommy.
Here's another one.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Monkey Days and Candlelit Nights
Do you want to block my monkey?†
Blocking is magic. Why have I been so resistant to blocking? I only do it when I absolutley have to,‡ but it's always such a thrill to see a wad of knitting go all smooth and competent.§
The Monkey Pack has this keen design element, kinda like racing stripes designed by Garanimals.¶
[SUMMARY: You say potayto, I say potahto.]
It has a lining. With frogs.#
Monkey Pack
Punk Rock Backpack pattern from Stitch 'n' Bitch (Debbie Stoller)
Elann Superwash Worsted in 3 moss green (wasn't quite enough), 1 each ivory, russet, rich chestnut and deep rose (which was more than enough -- I'm making mousies with the leftovers)
Size 4 needles (the yarn called for size 6, the pattern called for size 5, the fabric was just better tighter. And it was kind of an accident.)
Lined with frogs, which was a pain in the ass. The lining... not the frogs.
Zippered, which was scary. I've never done a zipper before. It's not so bad.
Serious modification: I knit for size, rather than stitch count, so I cast on 65 rather than 45 to get the right size.
Another modification: I didn't knit straps. I thought they would be too stretchy. So I went to my local Ross (dress for less!) store and bought a very small, very cheap backpack and cut the straps off of it.
Due to unforeseen sewing machine circumstances,†† I was more than an hour late and missed dinner.
I did not, however, miss cake.
[SUMMARY: Not rain nor snow nor vagaries of sewing machine...]
Or singing Happy Birthday. I like singing.
Throughout the construction of this backpack, I was worried it was too small. The finished size was supposed to be 9.5"‡‡ across, and when I stretched out the little snake sweaters, it was going to be right to scale, but it looked way small.
Dr. Doom pulled it out of the gift bag and the first thing he said?
"It's HUGE!"
[SUMMARY: Yeah, buddy... that's what she said.]
Turns out in all its lumpy, bumpy, dorky glory, it's perfectly Dr. Doom-sized.
And that's all I ever really wanted.§§
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): You couldn't have told me this earlier? I spent an hour and a half blocking the monkey. You could have saved me a lot of time.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Like when the Monkey Pack looks like a garter snake cosy and I have to explain to someone for the fifteenth time, while holding various resistant edgepoints out with my fingers, that it's really 10.5" and will make a fine small-person backpack.
(When I said 10.5", did anyone else get a little chill?)
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Despite its procedural pain in the assedness.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): We will continue to refer to it as a "design element" through all the nagging little voices in our heads trying to remind us we ran out of green yarn with *that* much left to go on the gusset.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): And many hidden treasures in the form of jungles of thread loops where I didn't have the bobbin threaded correctly. Then I had the tension set wrong. Then I found out the bobbin winder isn't working and I had to wind all my bobbins by hand, just like they did in the old days. All this, buried between the wrong side of the knitting and the back side of the lining, lurking, waiting to pop forth and expose me for the hot mess I am.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Well, and issues of thinking I have superpowers and can line a backpack and set a zipper, even never having done these things before, in a couple of hours. See Hat Attack for delusional thought process.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): There's that chill again. Did anybody feel that?
§§FOOTNOTE (turnaroun): Well, that and a pony. And a Brasilian houseboy with very little chest hair and a knack with a refreshing rum beverage.
Blocking is magic. Why have I been so resistant to blocking? I only do it when I absolutley have to,‡ but it's always such a thrill to see a wad of knitting go all smooth and competent.§
The Monkey Pack has this keen design element, kinda like racing stripes designed by Garanimals.¶
[SUMMARY: You say potayto, I say potahto.]
It has a lining. With frogs.#
Monkey Pack
Punk Rock Backpack pattern from Stitch 'n' Bitch (Debbie Stoller)
Elann Superwash Worsted in 3 moss green (wasn't quite enough), 1 each ivory, russet, rich chestnut and deep rose (which was more than enough -- I'm making mousies with the leftovers)
Size 4 needles (the yarn called for size 6, the pattern called for size 5, the fabric was just better tighter. And it was kind of an accident.)
Lined with frogs, which was a pain in the ass. The lining... not the frogs.
Zippered, which was scary. I've never done a zipper before. It's not so bad.
Serious modification: I knit for size, rather than stitch count, so I cast on 65 rather than 45 to get the right size.
Another modification: I didn't knit straps. I thought they would be too stretchy. So I went to my local Ross (dress for less!) store and bought a very small, very cheap backpack and cut the straps off of it.
Due to unforeseen sewing machine circumstances,†† I was more than an hour late and missed dinner.
I did not, however, miss cake.
[SUMMARY: Not rain nor snow nor vagaries of sewing machine...]
Or singing Happy Birthday. I like singing.
Throughout the construction of this backpack, I was worried it was too small. The finished size was supposed to be 9.5"‡‡ across, and when I stretched out the little snake sweaters, it was going to be right to scale, but it looked way small.
Dr. Doom pulled it out of the gift bag and the first thing he said?
"It's HUGE!"
[SUMMARY: Yeah, buddy... that's what she said.]
Turns out in all its lumpy, bumpy, dorky glory, it's perfectly Dr. Doom-sized.
And that's all I ever really wanted.§§
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): You couldn't have told me this earlier? I spent an hour and a half blocking the monkey. You could have saved me a lot of time.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Like when the Monkey Pack looks like a garter snake cosy and I have to explain to someone for the fifteenth time, while holding various resistant edgepoints out with my fingers, that it's really 10.5" and will make a fine small-person backpack.
(When I said 10.5", did anyone else get a little chill?)
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Despite its procedural pain in the assedness.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): We will continue to refer to it as a "design element" through all the nagging little voices in our heads trying to remind us we ran out of green yarn with *that* much left to go on the gusset.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): And many hidden treasures in the form of jungles of thread loops where I didn't have the bobbin threaded correctly. Then I had the tension set wrong. Then I found out the bobbin winder isn't working and I had to wind all my bobbins by hand, just like they did in the old days. All this, buried between the wrong side of the knitting and the back side of the lining, lurking, waiting to pop forth and expose me for the hot mess I am.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Well, and issues of thinking I have superpowers and can line a backpack and set a zipper, even never having done these things before, in a couple of hours. See Hat Attack for delusional thought process.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): There's that chill again. Did anybody feel that?
§§FOOTNOTE (turnaroun): Well, that and a pony. And a Brasilian houseboy with very little chest hair and a knack with a refreshing rum beverage.
Shameless
Every time Tommy goes up on the blog, the hit counter whirls around like the dollars on display at the pump on a tank of premium gas for an 18-wheeler.
Note the topicality.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Signifying Nothing
TTHFCIF
Thanks to Robin for allowing me not to think on this sunny Friday.
Except to ponder that:
You Are An ENFP |
|
Thanks to Robin for allowing me not to think on this sunny Friday.
Except to ponder that:
- Should be amended to read: "Incredibly perceptive, you can usually sense if someone has hidden motives unless it's a boy who has romantic possibilities, particularly if he has not realised the door to that sexual identity closet opens."
- That heartbreaker thing? Feh. I don't think I've ever broken a heart in my life.
- My job acumen? Marin for President, 2012! Oh, hey, wait... saint isn't on the list...
- How I see myself? They forgot fuzzy.
- How others see me? They forgot breezy.
Shout out to my Avalanche. "Were you hoping they'd buy you breakfast?" to my Rockies.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Old Friends
I'm in a sentimental place today.
I'm not sure that's even the best word, since there are negative connotations to "sentimental" I've never had any truck with.†
But last night, watching the slideshow presentation on 100 years of St. Mary Land & Exploration, I was taken by surprise at the depth of feeling I have for this industry.
While I know when I tell people I'm in the oil & gas business, I frequently fall to someplace between tapeworm and lawyer‡ on the acceptability scale, I will hold out to the end that not every company runs an oil tanker onto a reef in Prince William Sound and not every oil company cheats its employees and the world in general out of stock benefits.
Not every oil company rapes the earth and bilks little old ladies out of their rightful royalties.
In fact, most don't.
And there are companies like St. Mary that are so conscious, so smart and so close to their family-owned roots§ that I take pride in my long association with them.
Part of what I love about my career¶ is most of what I love about this industry: history. No matter what your overall temperature on drilling and mining, you can't deny the enormous impact they've had on our history. The interstate highway system, fast food and California can all be argued to be inextricably linked to landman activity.%
I like being a part of history. I like that I helped put in the largest pipeline system in Wyoming. I like that my dad did landwork on the Alaska pipeline. I like that St. Mary had Russian drilling permit number 001 after the fall of the Soviet Union.
We're all a part of history, of course, but there are days I feel exactly *where* my place in history might be.
[SUMMARY: Why say in ten words what you can say in ten hundred words?]
Anyway, I'm kinda sentimental today.
So when I was puttering through my blogreading and found Yvette's Excellent Kissing Adventure, I thought to myself, "Self, everybody should take a moment and inventory the truly amazing kisses in their lives.
Seriously.
Go do it.
You might be surprised at the number and/or quality of kisses you remember. You may be astonished at the details you can dredge up surrounding that one perfect liplock.
However it hits you, you can't help having a happy, dopey little moment.
It's good blogfodder, too, if you're inclined to share. Now, I'm not meme-ing you# or tasking you,†† I'm just sayin'... in a totally Blogging Without Obligation‡‡ frame of mind, it could make a cool post, and one that might make you grin in that goofy way you do.§§
[SUMMARY: I love blogs for sentimental reasons...]
I also got an email from one¶¶ of my oldest friends## today. It goes like this:
I knew only you would appreciate this. I generally like the format on Jack 105FM, play anything and everything. However, this week they have had 2 of the worst segues ever.
1. Ironman by Black Sabbath to Summer of 69 Bryan Adams - actually stopped me cold
2. Cherry Pie by Warant to Vacation by the GoGos - from Hair Metal to what ever the hell the GoGo's were.
Do you think they off shored their programming and somebody in India is picking song that they they think go together?
Apu - "Cherry Pie is something you eat on Vacation, so this is wonderful telephonic conversion"
The sentimental connection?
As I was reading the two examples, my immediate thought was, "They've outsourced our radio to India."
Some people, I don't know why I even consider them friends. Others? There's no way we wouldn't be friends.
[SUMMARY: It's a day of absolutes.]
That's my rose-coloured sentimental journey.
I may have to beat a small child to balance my chi after all that.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I'm not a sap. Am *not*!
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): You will note I'm not saying which is more acceptable, tapeworm or lawyer, just that I may fall between.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Philosophically. Literally, St. Mary went public in 1966 or so.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Not job. Career.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): Of course, hairy palms and going blind might also be linked to landman activity, but that's not our focus of study.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Stacey.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): All grammar issues aside, if you do blog it, would you please let me know?
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Thus:
§§FOOTNOTE (twisting like the perfect kiss): Oh, I may not *know* you know you, but I know you have a goofy grin you trot out for special occasions.
¶¶FOOTNOTE (March of the penguins. April of the penguins, maybe -- oh, yes it is. It's snowing outside again. 80 yesterday, snow today.): Actually, two. Marky B wrote me from London to say absolutely nothing noteworthy has happened since the last time we corresponded, though he will be in Florida soon and I should drop by if I get a chance.
##FOOTNOTE (pounded like the heavy hand of a bad joke): Well, not old, per se, but I have been bestest friends with him since high school. For a kid who attended five elementary schools, it's pretty awe-inspiring to have a friend for 26 years.
I'm not sure that's even the best word, since there are negative connotations to "sentimental" I've never had any truck with.†
But last night, watching the slideshow presentation on 100 years of St. Mary Land & Exploration, I was taken by surprise at the depth of feeling I have for this industry.
While I know when I tell people I'm in the oil & gas business, I frequently fall to someplace between tapeworm and lawyer‡ on the acceptability scale, I will hold out to the end that not every company runs an oil tanker onto a reef in Prince William Sound and not every oil company cheats its employees and the world in general out of stock benefits.
Not every oil company rapes the earth and bilks little old ladies out of their rightful royalties.
In fact, most don't.
And there are companies like St. Mary that are so conscious, so smart and so close to their family-owned roots§ that I take pride in my long association with them.
Part of what I love about my career¶ is most of what I love about this industry: history. No matter what your overall temperature on drilling and mining, you can't deny the enormous impact they've had on our history. The interstate highway system, fast food and California can all be argued to be inextricably linked to landman activity.%
I like being a part of history. I like that I helped put in the largest pipeline system in Wyoming. I like that my dad did landwork on the Alaska pipeline. I like that St. Mary had Russian drilling permit number 001 after the fall of the Soviet Union.
We're all a part of history, of course, but there are days I feel exactly *where* my place in history might be.
[SUMMARY: Why say in ten words what you can say in ten hundred words?]
Anyway, I'm kinda sentimental today.
So when I was puttering through my blogreading and found Yvette's Excellent Kissing Adventure, I thought to myself, "Self, everybody should take a moment and inventory the truly amazing kisses in their lives.
Seriously.
Go do it.
You might be surprised at the number and/or quality of kisses you remember. You may be astonished at the details you can dredge up surrounding that one perfect liplock.
However it hits you, you can't help having a happy, dopey little moment.
It's good blogfodder, too, if you're inclined to share. Now, I'm not meme-ing you# or tasking you,†† I'm just sayin'... in a totally Blogging Without Obligation‡‡ frame of mind, it could make a cool post, and one that might make you grin in that goofy way you do.§§
[SUMMARY: I love blogs for sentimental reasons...]
I also got an email from one¶¶ of my oldest friends## today. It goes like this:
I knew only you would appreciate this. I generally like the format on Jack 105FM, play anything and everything. However, this week they have had 2 of the worst segues ever.
1. Ironman by Black Sabbath to Summer of 69 Bryan Adams - actually stopped me cold
2. Cherry Pie by Warant to Vacation by the GoGos - from Hair Metal to what ever the hell the GoGo's were.
Do you think they off shored their programming and somebody in India is picking song that they they think go together?
Apu - "Cherry Pie is something you eat on Vacation, so this is wonderful telephonic conversion"
The sentimental connection?
As I was reading the two examples, my immediate thought was, "They've outsourced our radio to India."
Some people, I don't know why I even consider them friends. Others? There's no way we wouldn't be friends.
[SUMMARY: It's a day of absolutes.]
That's my rose-coloured sentimental journey.
I may have to beat a small child to balance my chi after all that.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I'm not a sap. Am *not*!
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): You will note I'm not saying which is more acceptable, tapeworm or lawyer, just that I may fall between.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Philosophically. Literally, St. Mary went public in 1966 or so.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Not job. Career.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): Of course, hairy palms and going blind might also be linked to landman activity, but that's not our focus of study.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Stacey.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): All grammar issues aside, if you do blog it, would you please let me know?
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Thus:
§§FOOTNOTE (twisting like the perfect kiss): Oh, I may not *know* you know you, but I know you have a goofy grin you trot out for special occasions.
¶¶FOOTNOTE (March of the penguins. April of the penguins, maybe -- oh, yes it is. It's snowing outside again. 80 yesterday, snow today.): Actually, two. Marky B wrote me from London to say absolutely nothing noteworthy has happened since the last time we corresponded, though he will be in Florida soon and I should drop by if I get a chance.
##FOOTNOTE (pounded like the heavy hand of a bad joke): Well, not old, per se, but I have been bestest friends with him since high school. For a kid who attended five elementary schools, it's pretty awe-inspiring to have a friend for 26 years.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Happy Birthday!
Today, I wear shoes that are shiny.
Today, I wear underwear that is flossy.
Why?
*************
In conjunction with the
100TH Anniversary
Tony Best, CEO and President of
ST. MARY LAND & EXPLORATION COMPANY
cordially invites you† and a guest to join him for a night of celebration on
Tuesday, April 15th, 2008 ▪ 5:30-7:30 p.m.
Brown Palace Hotel-Grand Ballroom
321 17th Street, Denver, Colorado 80202
Business Attire
Hor [sic] d’oeuvres and Cocktails will be served.
*************
Today's pig-licking in particulates was brought to you by:
St. Mary Land & Exploration,
The Brown Palace,
The letter U
and
The number 4.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): And by "you," they mean, "Marin."
Today, I wear underwear that is flossy.
Why?
*************
100TH Anniversary
Tony Best, CEO and President of
ST. MARY LAND & EXPLORATION COMPANY
cordially invites you† and a guest to join him for a night of celebration on
Tuesday, April 15th, 2008 ▪ 5:30-7:30 p.m.
Brown Palace Hotel-Grand Ballroom
321 17th Street, Denver, Colorado 80202
Business Attire
Hor [sic] d’oeuvres and Cocktails will be served.
*************
Today's pig-licking in particulates was brought to you by:
St. Mary Land & Exploration,
The Brown Palace,
The letter U
and
The number 4.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): And by "you," they mean, "Marin."
Fashion Forward?
Do they do this so it will look just as good on the bedroom floor as it does on the girl?
Spoken Word
A slightly incredulous smile gave way to a big grin, clearly for someone behind me.
A whip-thin boy with dark hair, a labret piercing and a black t-shirt commemorating some death/thrash/goth/industrial band I've never heard of walked up to our table.
"Joey C!" said The Spelling Bee Champ. They indulged in that urban handshake ritual that may never end: the clasp, the twist, the link, the pound... what if someone forgot and added an angel wing?
Anyway...
Introductions were made and Joey C and The Champ talked music for a moment. Then Joey C excused himself to another flurry of hand spasms.
I looked at The Champ, one eyebrow cocked.
AntiM: Look at you! You say you don't know street, but then you're all with the urban handshake.
The Spelling Bee Champ: That's how I roll.
AM: It's pretty hot.
SBC: Not as hot as knitting.
A whip-thin boy with dark hair, a labret piercing and a black t-shirt commemorating some death/thrash/goth/industrial band I've never heard of walked up to our table.
"Joey C!" said The Spelling Bee Champ. They indulged in that urban handshake ritual that may never end: the clasp, the twist, the link, the pound... what if someone forgot and added an angel wing?
Anyway...
Introductions were made and Joey C and The Champ talked music for a moment. Then Joey C excused himself to another flurry of hand spasms.
I looked at The Champ, one eyebrow cocked.
AntiM: Look at you! You say you don't know street, but then you're all with the urban handshake.
The Spelling Bee Champ: That's how I roll.
AM: It's pretty hot.
SBC: Not as hot as knitting.
Touch My Monkey
Go on... you know you want to.
In other intarsia news, I am frogging† Brother's Father's Day Arrrgyles. Not all the way... not even back to dick warmer. Just enough to get rid of the colourwork I've already done.
While I stand fast to the idea that you can do unstranded colourwork in the round, I am conceding you probably shouldn't.
After my test Arrrgyle and after the operative part‡ of the Monkey Pack, I believe it will go a LOT faster if I just work the picture portion flat.
I'm still debating with myself as to whether to try to do it completely flat, sew it into a tube, then graft it onto the sock part... or just start working back and forth on the existing sock, sewing up the back when I'm done.
[SUMMARY: Too many options, too little experience.]
And the red silk thing is holding steady at 5", no matter how hard I knit on it.§
[SUMMARY: Still a knitblog!]
Let's just be twelve today and not think of silly things like objects in the mirror that aren't as large as they appear and taxes and werk...
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Note to Brother: That's the "rip it, rip it" thing.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): That would be the monkey.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): So many opportunities for Brainless Twelvehood, I hardly know where to start...
In Which I Find Religion
"God, I have to admit, I've really felt alone a lot. I've felt like you didn't exist. I just didn't believe in you for awhile."
She said, "Do you remember that day you were walking on the beach?"
I said, "Yeah."
"Well, I was there."
"But there was just one set of footprints."
She said, "I was on your back."
"I thought I felt heavy that day. I thought it was water retention."
"No," she said, "Know that when you are bloated, I am there."
--Ellen Degeneres
the funny thing is...
©2003
She said, "Do you remember that day you were walking on the beach?"
I said, "Yeah."
"Well, I was there."
"But there was just one set of footprints."
She said, "I was on your back."
"I thought I felt heavy that day. I thought it was water retention."
"No," she said, "Know that when you are bloated, I am there."
--Ellen Degeneres
the funny thing is...
©2003
Monday, April 14, 2008
Un Petite Pictorial Pig-Licking
1) BWAHAHAHAHAHA!
2) This was on Jaxon's blog. It's some sort of naked mole, but most people in her comments identified it as a dick with teeth.†
My first thought was, "Pocket walrus!"
Do I have to relinquish my Brainless Twelvehood card?
3) Awwww...
Still a knitblog!
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): And isn't THAT a horrifying thought. Vagina dentata my ass. Well, not my ass, literally... you know what I mean. But it was a good round of visuals, wasn't it?
2) This was on Jaxon's blog. It's some sort of naked mole, but most people in her comments identified it as a dick with teeth.†
My first thought was, "Pocket walrus!"
Do I have to relinquish my Brainless Twelvehood card?
3) Awwww...
Still a knitblog!
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): And isn't THAT a horrifying thought. Vagina dentata my ass. Well, not my ass, literally... you know what I mean. But it was a good round of visuals, wasn't it?
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Bobmas Morning
You know when you toddle out of bed and there's a party hat and a lei on the stairs and the cat is chasing a magic wand, it was a good party.
The Bobmasrevelers Ravelers started trickling in early.
Mary Kay brought all the fixings for party hats. I have revamped my list of people a woman should have in her life† to include former pre-school teachers.
She gave me a magic wand. I've always wanted a magic wand.
I used it to try to make the red silk cami reach its tenth inch‡ of 4x1 rib...§
...but I may have used up all the mojo trying to turn a knitter into a sheep.
We had a small Bobmas celebrant.%
KariBeri left her twelve week old son home with her husband for the first time# to join us.
Vanessa tells a hell of a story. And forever endeared herself to me by telling me she hates me for my four-socks-at-once adventure. I consider that high praise.
The Downtown Denver SnB chicas†† made the field trip.
Zoomiejr is between that girl I turned into a sheep and Kari -- she's also a denizen of the DDSnB. And her little dog, Tyler, too.
I counted once, and based on the comings and goings, I'd guess we had fourteen people most of the time, with gusts of up to twenty and a total of twenty-five individuals.
Despite the prevalence of beer glasses, some knitting was done.
I'm very pleased. It was a great bunch with much laughter.
♪♪I'm dreaming of the next Bobmas...♪
'Specially since now I have to go do my taxes.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): A mechanic you can trust, a plumber who can make the flood stop, a good gynecologist...
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Um, yeah. It's currently at about 5 inches.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): I'm tired of ribbing. What genius thought it was a pleasure?
%FOOTNOTE (percented, because the paragraph thing isn't working): Skyler. Or Schuyler. Or some other version. I've never seen Skchuyler's name in print, so all apologies to the little lady herself and her mom, the inimitable Steph.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Brave woman. It all turned out OK, though, so... yay, Kari!
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Well, that's Mary Kay on the left, but then aemcdraw, moxieknits and koolkat62 (Ravel-wise) from left to right.
The Bobmas
Mary Kay brought all the fixings for party hats. I have revamped my list of people a woman should have in her life† to include former pre-school teachers.
She gave me a magic wand. I've always wanted a magic wand.
I used it to try to make the red silk cami reach its tenth inch‡ of 4x1 rib...§
...but I may have used up all the mojo trying to turn a knitter into a sheep.
We had a small Bobmas celebrant.%
KariBeri left her twelve week old son home with her husband for the first time# to join us.
Vanessa tells a hell of a story. And forever endeared herself to me by telling me she hates me for my four-socks-at-once adventure. I consider that high praise.
The Downtown Denver SnB chicas†† made the field trip.
Zoomiejr is between that girl I turned into a sheep and Kari -- she's also a denizen of the DDSnB. And her little dog, Tyler, too.
I counted once, and based on the comings and goings, I'd guess we had fourteen people most of the time, with gusts of up to twenty and a total of twenty-five individuals.
Despite the prevalence of beer glasses, some knitting was done.
I'm very pleased. It was a great bunch with much laughter.
♪♪I'm dreaming of the next Bobmas...♪
'Specially since now I have to go do my taxes.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): A mechanic you can trust, a plumber who can make the flood stop, a good gynecologist...
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Um, yeah. It's currently at about 5 inches.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): I'm tired of ribbing. What genius thought it was a pleasure?
%FOOTNOTE (percented, because the paragraph thing isn't working): Skyler. Or Schuyler. Or some other version. I've never seen Skchuyler's name in print, so all apologies to the little lady herself and her mom, the inimitable Steph.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Brave woman. It all turned out OK, though, so... yay, Kari!
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Well, that's Mary Kay on the left, but then aemcdraw, moxieknits and koolkat62 (Ravel-wise) from left to right.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Wandering in Circles
I'm Twelve
TTHFCIF
No, really.
Ever since I found out I have a date on Saturday, I've been cropping new zits with alarming and redoubling frequency.
That's *so* twelve.
Know what? It's not Murphy's Law. It's not stress. It's the fact that I've been scrubbing and buffing and exfoliating and masquing and moisturising and night-creaming and... my face is in rebellion.
I imagine it saying, "Bleagh!" and spitting out another screaming zit† every time I come near it with a washcloth.
[SUMMARY: I'm twelve and I have a talking zit.]
I've also had a lot of health food in my life this week... and no caffeine. And no sweets. And no soda of any kind.
Only *one* Bobmas beer.
People who push detox diets or juice fasts or the like often say your skin may break out and you may have horrible digestive issues for a few days.
"That's the toxins escaping!"% they say, cheerfully.
Know what? All this attention to detail, all this unseemly purity, all aimed at the flattest stomach possible@ and I woke up this morning with serious premenstrual bloat.
I feel like someone inflated a raft in my pants. And not in a good way.
[SUMMARY: God is an iron.]
I redded my hair.
Oh, it's reddish all on its own,‡ but every year around the end of March, I look up and the stuff right by my head is the dull, darkish brown of winter, while the ends are the glittery, damaged gold of late summer.§
So I decide to indulge in a little semi-permanent dalliance with the middle ground, my natural colour. It brightens the winter and enrichens the summer and I feel like my old hair again.
I did this about a week ago.
Then with the impending date, I decided it wasn't enough. I thought to myself, "Self, if Spiced Tea, the light auburn you believe youself to be, is too light, perhaps you should try Cinaberry, the medium auburn brown."
So I did.
And when I look in the mirror, I see the flat charm of a redwood picnic bench. It's too dark. It's too red. It's too... one colour.
I tried so hard for just a little boost!
I striped a little around the roots and let it sit for a couple of minutes. Then I combed those puny little stripes down into the mangled meadow of the ends. Yet, I ended up with a solid, blocky red.
OK, nobody in the office has noticed.¶
None of the knitters noticed.#
But it's making me neurotic.††
If anybody sees me at Walgreens in the Clairol Natural Instincts aisle, knock me over the head and drag me out.
You don't want the responsibility of colour-on-colour-on-colour on your head.
Or mine.
[SUMMARY: I can't remember the last time I thought this much about my hair.]
AND... I'm in full-on "what will I wear?" mode.
Only it's a lot more panicky.
Like this: "WHAT will I *wear*?!!?!?"
I never realised lunch was a much harder date to dress for than dinner.
How much cleavage can you show before 4:00?
Two words that strike fear in the lumpy and bumpy: Day. Light.
I did get a sort of cute top last weekend‡‡:
But is it date-cute or wine-with-my-friends-cute?+
[SUMMARY: I'm not weird. This is a totally classic female dilemna.§§]
I shaved my legs Wednesday. For the first time in...
Yeti.
And I've been slathering my body in lotion every morning and vaseline every night. I am *soft*.
I have madly prepped, pre-boudoir.$
Yet, I may like this guy -- I *think* I like this guy -- well enough *not* to sleep with him.
I'm sure he'd be thrilled to know that.
Which brings me to the philosophic musing that should balance all the angst and whining:
A wise woman I know -- and to whom I attribute preternatural powers of reason -- had a date. She said they decided they liked each other enough to take it slow. I nodded emphatically at the screen,^ then thought, "Huh?"
In my callow age,¶¶ I held to the principle that I know within five minutes whether I *would* sleep with a guy, and within about a half-hour if I *should* sleep with a guy,## so why play all the games?
As I've matured, I've relegated my immediate and rampant sexuality to guys I don't see any future with.
Not even next week.
Not even breakfast tomorrow.
Oh, I won't sleep with anyone I don't like, or who doesn't make me laugh, but there's boyfriend material and there's guiltless romp material. And never the twain shall meet.
A guy I respect has to wait long enough to give us a chance to find we may never sleep together. Because if we sleep together too soon, we may not get a chance to find what we could have emotionally.
It's a weird little web of romance and sex that is so interdependent it becomes fragile. One little snap of one silken thread can set the whole thing to unravelling.
I guess that's what makes it so amazing if it stays together. And why we indulge in this reverse logic when it comes to dating and mating. And why we frantically spit-splice when it starts to come apart.†††
[SUMMARY: How deep, Mr. Wizard.]
Oh, hell. Now I have to decide whether to shave my legs again or not.
Holy fucking cats... when did I become such a girl?
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Which reminds me of a story: I was once telling my mother of a zit -- one of those deep, sore, rock-hard things that make you feel like you may have the mumps -- and she looked at it and said, "Ooooh... that looks angry."
"It's more than angry, Mom. It's downright pissed off."
%FOOTNOTE (percented): I'd like to point out all the handy exit routes to the toxins: you DON'T have to take my skin with you. Feel free to leave by my nose, quietly, as I sleep.
@FOOTNOTE (atted): I am shallow. I admit it. Did I mention date on Saturday afternoon?
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): I insist the DMV puts "light auburn" on my driver's license.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): It's possible I should get my hair cut more often, but that opens a whole can of worms I'll save for my next bad haircut.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): OK, it's mostly Hans, and... y'know... Hans boy, boy no notice hair, but other than that, it's mostly women.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Of course, it was kinda dark.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Stop laughing. I know I can't blame my hair.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Keeping in mind that I have more boobs and less collarbones than the model in the picture.
+FOOTNOTE (plussed. non-plussed. possibly pissed.): I would totally wear this with dark wash or black jeans. By the way.
§§FOOTNOTE (at least my hair is still curly...): Damnit! Dilemma. Maybe I can just charm him with bad spelling all day and he won't even notice my lack of fashion sense and patio furniture hair.
$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): Oh, yes I did!
^FOOTNOTE (careted): This was an email. I don't want you to think we were chatting over tea and I was nodding at the TiVi.
¶¶FOOTNOTE (now I'm seeing tears flowing from black eyes. Footnote symbology as Rorschach test): Up 'til last Tuesday.
##FOOTNOTE (pounding like the heart of an insecure woman): Though I've never, apparently, figured out how to tell if a guy is gay before I sleep with him. But that's another story for another day.
†††FOOTNOTE (left? no, right? no... left. no...): Lookie! Knitting reference! Still a knitblog!
No, really.
Ever since I found out I have a date on Saturday, I've been cropping new zits with alarming and redoubling frequency.
That's *so* twelve.
Know what? It's not Murphy's Law. It's not stress. It's the fact that I've been scrubbing and buffing and exfoliating and masquing and moisturising and night-creaming and... my face is in rebellion.
I imagine it saying, "Bleagh!" and spitting out another screaming zit† every time I come near it with a washcloth.
[SUMMARY: I'm twelve and I have a talking zit.]
I've also had a lot of health food in my life this week... and no caffeine. And no sweets. And no soda of any kind.
Only *one* Bobmas beer.
People who push detox diets or juice fasts or the like often say your skin may break out and you may have horrible digestive issues for a few days.
"That's the toxins escaping!"% they say, cheerfully.
Know what? All this attention to detail, all this unseemly purity, all aimed at the flattest stomach possible@ and I woke up this morning with serious premenstrual bloat.
I feel like someone inflated a raft in my pants. And not in a good way.
[SUMMARY: God is an iron.]
I redded my hair.
Oh, it's reddish all on its own,‡ but every year around the end of March, I look up and the stuff right by my head is the dull, darkish brown of winter, while the ends are the glittery, damaged gold of late summer.§
So I decide to indulge in a little semi-permanent dalliance with the middle ground, my natural colour. It brightens the winter and enrichens the summer and I feel like my old hair again.
I did this about a week ago.
Then with the impending date, I decided it wasn't enough. I thought to myself, "Self, if Spiced Tea, the light auburn you believe youself to be, is too light, perhaps you should try Cinaberry, the medium auburn brown."
So I did.
And when I look in the mirror, I see the flat charm of a redwood picnic bench. It's too dark. It's too red. It's too... one colour.
I tried so hard for just a little boost!
I striped a little around the roots and let it sit for a couple of minutes. Then I combed those puny little stripes down into the mangled meadow of the ends. Yet, I ended up with a solid, blocky red.
OK, nobody in the office has noticed.¶
None of the knitters noticed.#
But it's making me neurotic.††
If anybody sees me at Walgreens in the Clairol Natural Instincts aisle, knock me over the head and drag me out.
You don't want the responsibility of colour-on-colour-on-colour on your head.
Or mine.
[SUMMARY: I can't remember the last time I thought this much about my hair.]
AND... I'm in full-on "what will I wear?" mode.
Only it's a lot more panicky.
Like this: "WHAT will I *wear*?!!?!?"
I never realised lunch was a much harder date to dress for than dinner.
How much cleavage can you show before 4:00?
Two words that strike fear in the lumpy and bumpy: Day. Light.
I did get a sort of cute top last weekend‡‡:
But is it date-cute or wine-with-my-friends-cute?+
[SUMMARY: I'm not weird. This is a totally classic female dilemna.§§]
I shaved my legs Wednesday. For the first time in...
Yeti.
And I've been slathering my body in lotion every morning and vaseline every night. I am *soft*.
I have madly prepped, pre-boudoir.$
Yet, I may like this guy -- I *think* I like this guy -- well enough *not* to sleep with him.
I'm sure he'd be thrilled to know that.
Which brings me to the philosophic musing that should balance all the angst and whining:
A wise woman I know -- and to whom I attribute preternatural powers of reason -- had a date. She said they decided they liked each other enough to take it slow. I nodded emphatically at the screen,^ then thought, "Huh?"
In my callow age,¶¶ I held to the principle that I know within five minutes whether I *would* sleep with a guy, and within about a half-hour if I *should* sleep with a guy,## so why play all the games?
As I've matured, I've relegated my immediate and rampant sexuality to guys I don't see any future with.
Not even next week.
Not even breakfast tomorrow.
Oh, I won't sleep with anyone I don't like, or who doesn't make me laugh, but there's boyfriend material and there's guiltless romp material. And never the twain shall meet.
A guy I respect has to wait long enough to give us a chance to find we may never sleep together. Because if we sleep together too soon, we may not get a chance to find what we could have emotionally.
It's a weird little web of romance and sex that is so interdependent it becomes fragile. One little snap of one silken thread can set the whole thing to unravelling.
I guess that's what makes it so amazing if it stays together. And why we indulge in this reverse logic when it comes to dating and mating. And why we frantically spit-splice when it starts to come apart.†††
[SUMMARY: How deep, Mr. Wizard.]
Oh, hell. Now I have to decide whether to shave my legs again or not.
Holy fucking cats... when did I become such a girl?
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Which reminds me of a story: I was once telling my mother of a zit -- one of those deep, sore, rock-hard things that make you feel like you may have the mumps -- and she looked at it and said, "Ooooh... that looks angry."
"It's more than angry, Mom. It's downright pissed off."
%FOOTNOTE (percented): I'd like to point out all the handy exit routes to the toxins: you DON'T have to take my skin with you. Feel free to leave by my nose, quietly, as I sleep.
@FOOTNOTE (atted): I am shallow. I admit it. Did I mention date on Saturday afternoon?
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): I insist the DMV puts "light auburn" on my driver's license.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): It's possible I should get my hair cut more often, but that opens a whole can of worms I'll save for my next bad haircut.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): OK, it's mostly Hans, and... y'know... Hans boy, boy no notice hair, but other than that, it's mostly women.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Of course, it was kinda dark.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Stop laughing. I know I can't blame my hair.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Keeping in mind that I have more boobs and less collarbones than the model in the picture.
+FOOTNOTE (plussed. non-plussed. possibly pissed.): I would totally wear this with dark wash or black jeans. By the way.
§§FOOTNOTE (at least my hair is still curly...): Damnit! Dilemma. Maybe I can just charm him with bad spelling all day and he won't even notice my lack of fashion sense and patio furniture hair.
$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): Oh, yes I did!
^FOOTNOTE (careted): This was an email. I don't want you to think we were chatting over tea and I was nodding at the TiVi.
¶¶FOOTNOTE (now I'm seeing tears flowing from black eyes. Footnote symbology as Rorschach test): Up 'til last Tuesday.
##FOOTNOTE (pounding like the heart of an insecure woman): Though I've never, apparently, figured out how to tell if a guy is gay before I sleep with him. But that's another story for another day.
†††FOOTNOTE (left? no, right? no... left. no...): Lookie! Knitting reference! Still a knitblog!
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