WARNING: Extremely graphic phrasing to follow. If you thought the anal bead conversation was too much, you may want to click over to I Can Has Cheezburger? now.
Go! Save yourself!
For the rest of you perverts:
You know how at Yahoo (and Comcast and probably just about every email client† out there) they have a "report as spam" button that you can click to... well, report email as spam?‡ And how they ostensibly use this information to discern patterns and words and such to better serve you, their email-loving public, and your need for no spam?
Discern this,§ Yahoo:
Massive cocks spearing eager young sluts. See these dick sluts take a pounding and get fucked every way possible.¶
This is an ACTUAL SUBJECT LINE# from one of the many spectacular porn spams I have received. The elusive and wily spammers are certainly coming up with clever and subtle ways to circumvent the filters, aren't they?
Right now, I have a mental image of someone straining beach water through a tennis racket and saying, "I don't understand why it's all so gritty."
In cheerier news, FAIK Kelly is back and I'm so relieved. I thought she'd been eaten by a manatee.
Um... sorry you got caught in the eager young sluts post, Kelly. Timing is everything.
Knitting tomorrow. Even some pictures. Pictures of a boy knitting.
Oh, yeah, I got your attention now.
Now go write me a Duh Song...
"And I don't know how you do it... making duh out of nothing at all."
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I may be using the term "email client" wrong. I never fully understood what that term meant, so I assigned it the Marin definition of "the thing that brings me my email." Please don't write to tell me how stupid I am.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Duh. Speaking of duh, have you seen the Hyundai Big Duh campaign? Brilliant. You know I'm a complete dork, 'cause I'm about to send you to the Hyundai Big Duh page.
(which has music, by the way -- turn the volume on your work computer down)
Look for the little "Compose Duh Song" picture on the right side of the screen and you can go compose your own... well, Duh Song. Duh.
Huh... you can substitute "duh" for "love" in many song lyrics and giggle like a fool. At least I did:
"You'd think that people would have had enough of silly duh songs. I look around me and I see it isn't so."
"Duh is in the air, everywhere I look around."
"...but here in my heart I give you the best of my duh."
"...I'm dangerously in duh with you."
"...I know I've found in you my endless duh."
Who says you can't tickle yourself?
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): I'm grabbing my balls and talking in a heavy Brooklyn accent, a la "I got your discernment right here."
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Imagine how this will up my Google hits. Hi guys! No eager young sluts here! Nobody here but us knitters!
#FOOTNOTE (pounded like an eager young slut): You shoulda seen the content of the email. Mostly, I wanted to correct the grammar -- well, then shower -- so I don't think it was a very effective marketing campaign.
Showing posts with label Kelly. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kelly. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
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:
†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.
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:
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Snakes on a Plane
TTHFCIF
I did something brilliant yesterday. Well, I think it's brilliant. Sarah laughed at me.*
See, Sarah, genius knitter, writes her patterns out on index cards, which helps eliminate that thing I do where I read the first six instructions on one row, then accidentally let my eyes drop to the next row and end up with some truly wonky cables.
Sarah has suggested several times, after watching me de-wonk my cables, I might want to try the index card method.
Red has seconded.
I have mostly ignored.
Until I had this brainstorm.†
I trotted over to my friendly neighbourhood Office Depot‡ yesterday and got some index cards for ink jet and laser printer.
Yeah, baby.
I put the cabled clutch pattern (row by row, with all the arcane cable instructions printed on each appropriate card) on MS Word index card templates and voilá!%
Cards I can reprint when wine is spilled on them.¶
Cards I can correct at will.§
[SUMMARY: Techmology. Making our lives better every day.]
I also discovered yesterday that it isn't easy taking a photo of a computer screen.
The cards in their natural habitat.
[SUMMARY: Techmology. Dangerous in the wrong hands.]
But look how pretty when they're all printed.
As I mentioned, there was media coverage of last night's Stitch Therapy. I still don't know where they came from (Hoboken? Mars?), but they were very nice and if I ever find my picture has been published or I've been quoted, I'll certainly make all of you read it/look at it and give me a Scooby treat and scratch behind my ears and all that.
[SUMMARY: Limelight ho!]
Anyway, Stitch Therapy meets New Camera:
Red brought her wheel.
Mary Kay spent her night patterning a 50-year-old crocheted skirt Lijia brought, while Sarah spent her night finding errors in the Vogue Stitchionary. Mary kay and Sarah may be WAYYYYY beyond my knitterly scope.
Heidi and Lisa-prounounced-Liza are just happy I didn't run the first picture I took of them. Mad photo skillz.
I hate to admit I don't remember the name of the lovely woman (hello, what's-her-name! I'm your new best friend!) on the left, and I'm not sure I know how to spell Lijia there on the right, though that's what we'll spell her for now, since that's how her name is pronounced.
Sylvia's sister, and by far the best photo I've ever taken of Sylvia, even though she looks terribly serious and she's mostly not terribly serious.
You know how I kinda dropped (clumsily) head-first into the DK Nation? ("Um, I don't know if anybody's interested or whatever but I kind of like knit at this bar...")
Well, last night Sarah was talking about hot springs and Red is planning a white-water rafting trip for Sunday and I said, "We should have a knitters' retreat to Jackson. I know a natural hot springs you hike into and we can go white-water rafting and last time I checked there's a really cool yarn store in Jackson..."
I guess I'm planning a knitters' retreat to Jackson, Wyoming in, say, September. Just puttin' that out there.
[SUMMARY: Joiner to leader in a blurt.]
By the by, I spoke too soon the other day: First Among Imaginary Kellys's blog has definite purplocity.
OK, enough of this knitting crap. Bob and Mira would be so proud if they knew I was actually delving into the socially relevant here.
There's an AP story y'all need to know about. And maybe help me out a little.
You can read the actual story here. Go now. I don't know how long it will be there.
The short of it: A man tried to smuggle 700 live snakes, including two cobras, onto a plane in his carryon bag at the Cairo airport yesterday.
Here's where you can help:
Happy Friday, ev'rybody.
*FOOTNOTE (asterisked, oddly enough): More because I was so pleased with myself than because of the actual idea, I'm sure.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Where, if you're into this sort of thing (and I have the feeling some of you are), they have Mr. Clean Erasers, the four-pack, on clearance for $5.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): How do you like my accent now? Boo-yah!
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Not that I would ever spill wine on my knitting patterns. Actually, Sarah spilled wine on my cards and I said, "No big deal! I can reprint that at will!" That's just how I roll.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Not that I would ever accidentally put in an extra p2 on Card 4 or anything.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): OK, I made it a little about knitting. Just for you.
I'm getting a block (or maybe just two) of tickets for Stitch n' Pitch at Coors Field on July 28. Anyone interested (including cousins, sisters-in-law, brothers, random tourists, ladies, gentlemen, boys, girls, those undecided...) can let me know by, say, next Thursday (May 31st) and I'll include you.
It's $19 and you get a gift bag (you like gift bags), in case that sways your vote.
Blurt.
I did something brilliant yesterday. Well, I think it's brilliant. Sarah laughed at me.*
See, Sarah, genius knitter, writes her patterns out on index cards, which helps eliminate that thing I do where I read the first six instructions on one row, then accidentally let my eyes drop to the next row and end up with some truly wonky cables.
Sarah has suggested several times, after watching me de-wonk my cables, I might want to try the index card method.
Red has seconded.
I have mostly ignored.
Until I had this brainstorm.†
I trotted over to my friendly neighbourhood Office Depot‡ yesterday and got some index cards for ink jet and laser printer.
Yeah, baby.
I put the cabled clutch pattern (row by row, with all the arcane cable instructions printed on each appropriate card) on MS Word index card templates and voilá!%
Cards I can reprint when wine is spilled on them.¶
Cards I can correct at will.§
[SUMMARY: Techmology. Making our lives better every day.]
I also discovered yesterday that it isn't easy taking a photo of a computer screen.
The cards in their natural habitat.
[SUMMARY: Techmology. Dangerous in the wrong hands.]
But look how pretty when they're all printed.
As I mentioned, there was media coverage of last night's Stitch Therapy. I still don't know where they came from (Hoboken? Mars?), but they were very nice and if I ever find my picture has been published or I've been quoted, I'll certainly make all of you read it/look at it and give me a Scooby treat and scratch behind my ears and all that.
[SUMMARY: Limelight ho!]
Anyway, Stitch Therapy meets New Camera:
Red brought her wheel.
Mary Kay spent her night patterning a 50-year-old crocheted skirt Lijia brought, while Sarah spent her night finding errors in the Vogue Stitchionary. Mary kay and Sarah may be WAYYYYY beyond my knitterly scope.
Heidi and Lisa-prounounced-Liza are just happy I didn't run the first picture I took of them. Mad photo skillz.
I hate to admit I don't remember the name of the lovely woman (hello, what's-her-name! I'm your new best friend!) on the left, and I'm not sure I know how to spell Lijia there on the right, though that's what we'll spell her for now, since that's how her name is pronounced.
Sylvia's sister, and by far the best photo I've ever taken of Sylvia, even though she looks terribly serious and she's mostly not terribly serious.
You know how I kinda dropped (clumsily) head-first into the DK Nation? ("Um, I don't know if anybody's interested or whatever but I kind of like knit at this bar...")
Well, last night Sarah was talking about hot springs and Red is planning a white-water rafting trip for Sunday and I said, "We should have a knitters' retreat to Jackson. I know a natural hot springs you hike into and we can go white-water rafting and last time I checked there's a really cool yarn store in Jackson..."
I guess I'm planning a knitters' retreat to Jackson, Wyoming in, say, September. Just puttin' that out there.
[SUMMARY: Joiner to leader in a blurt.]
By the by, I spoke too soon the other day: First Among Imaginary Kellys's blog has definite purplocity.
OK, enough of this knitting crap. Bob and Mira would be so proud if they knew I was actually delving into the socially relevant here.
There's an AP story y'all need to know about. And maybe help me out a little.
You can read the actual story here. Go now. I don't know how long it will be there.
The short of it: A man tried to smuggle 700 live snakes, including two cobras, onto a plane in his carryon bag at the Cairo airport yesterday.
Here's where you can help:
- Does the term "smuggle" not connote some sort of... covertness?
- How covert can you be with 700 carryon snakes?
- Did Samuel L. Jackson ruin plane travel for the rest of us?
- You can carry on cobras but not DPNs?#
- As Brother pointed out, how fucked up does the security at the Cairo airport have to be that the guy even THOUGHT he might be able to bring live snakes (of any kind, of any number) on a plane?
- How funny is the concept of carryon snakes?
[SUMMARY: Snakes on a plane!]
Happy Friday, ev'rybody.
*FOOTNOTE (asterisked, oddly enough): More because I was so pleased with myself than because of the actual idea, I'm sure.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): And I'm sure it has nothing to do with my need to never, ever do anything the way someone else tells me I should, like a two-year-old saying, "I can do it myself!"
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Where, if you're into this sort of thing (and I have the feeling some of you are), they have Mr. Clean Erasers, the four-pack, on clearance for $5.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): How do you like my accent now? Boo-yah!
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Not that I would ever spill wine on my knitting patterns. Actually, Sarah spilled wine on my cards and I said, "No big deal! I can reprint that at will!" That's just how I roll.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Not that I would ever accidentally put in an extra p2 on Card 4 or anything.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): OK, I made it a little about knitting. Just for you.
I'm getting a block (or maybe just two) of tickets for Stitch n' Pitch at Coors Field on July 28. Anyone interested (including cousins, sisters-in-law, brothers, random tourists, ladies, gentlemen, boys, girls, those undecided...) can let me know by, say, next Thursday (May 31st) and I'll include you.
It's $19 and you get a gift bag (you like gift bags), in case that sways your vote.
Blurt.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Photophilia
Wanna witness my new camera in action? OK, not in action as such, since it's REALLY difficult to take pictures of your camera.†
Here are all the new orchids you haven't seen yet:
This Cattleya is the only one of the new orchids in bloom. It's fragrant. It also looks all raggedy because the first thing I did upon getting it home was to knock it over, breaking one of its blooms off and permanently scarring the other.
None of these are blooming, so they're not that interesting, but you have to look at them anyway, because (once again) I control this space:
L to R: tiny little Phalaenopsis, won't bloom for four or five years‡; bloom-sized something fragrant (it's a very pretty violet and white and I don't remember what variety it is... Dendrobium, maybe?); a tiny little jewel orchid that's purported to be very rare. This is the one I'm most likely to kill.
[SUMMARY: This is not an orchid blog. But it is a picture blog. Ignore the lack of knitting. Revel in the pictures.^]
And you're WAYYYYY more interested in this. It's yarn. You like yarn.§
L to R: Austermann Bamboo Soft in pink, blue, white and brown with a hint of olive; Colinette Jitterbug in the Jewels colourway; Knit Picks Wool of the Andes in Amethyst Heather (which looks more plum than amethyst to me%) for the Rowan 40 Juno.
Closeups. Because I can.
I hate to brag, but my new camera has a lifetime subscription to purple, so I no longer have to suck the blue out of my photos in Photoshop, lending that Hiroshima glow to all surrounding items, just to show a little purple to my peeps.
[SUMMARY: I have found a camera smarter and more colourful than me. I Robot had it wrong; the revolution will not be perpetrated by robots, we will be taken over by digital cameras.]
Speaking of Juno...¶
I have a serious knitterly numbers problem. Here's the stitch sitch:
Yarn the pattern calls for: 4.5 - 5 stitches per inch on US 6-9 needles
Yarn I got: 5.5 - 6 stitches per inch on US 8-9 needles
I. Can't. Count. To. Four.
So why did I think I was going to be able to substitute yarn?
The most upsetting part is I remember being really excited that the Knit Picks yarn was the exact same gauge (per the ball band, at least) as the Rowan yarn mentioned in the pattern.
Clearly it's not.
Clearly I'm deranged.
Juvenile onset Alzheimer's. Take my car keys from me. Roll me to the home before I kill again.
What's more, the pattern calls for the yarn to be doubled, which, if I'm reading it correctly -- and I'm probably not -- would make a hell of a difference in gauge. I think there's algebra involved in this, 'cause you don't just double the yarn, the needle size and the gauge, right? There're averages and means and quadratic equations and imaginary numbers# and shit, aren't there?
Is it going to be too, too fucked up? Should I save the amethyst WotA for... something else? Is there a protocol for figuring this out I should be aware of to avoid future fuck ups?
Of course, that last question is moot, because even if I'd known the protocol... well, I really thought I was buying yarn of a sufficiently similar if not identical weight/gauge, so I probably would have just started wrong and stayed wrong regardless.
Still, it seems this is something I should know. You know, to avoid future fuck ups.
[SUMMARY: We hates the maths.]
I'm guessing the only thing I can do is knit a swatch and see what happens. Maybe being the world's tightest knitter will serve me well this time.
[SUMMARY: Sing with me... Justifi-CA-tion!]
Having nothing to do with photography at all, but TOTALLY noteworthy even in its lack of purplocity, First Among Imaginary Kellys FINALLY got her blog up! Be the first on your block to join the Kelly revolution!
And, finally, no photographic boondoggle would be complete without a Cat for Scale*:
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Of course I tried it. What do you use your self-portrait setting for?
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): I gave one just like it to Tani, mother of baby Bert for whom Stupid Blanket was forged. I thought it would be kinda cute for him to grow up with his own little Bert orchid. They'll grow and bloom together. Awwwww...
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): "It has raisins. You like raisins." Hmmmm... maybe one of my hundred or so pairs of socks in the chute needs to be a Better Off Dead pair of socks. Lotsa good quotes there.
^FOOTNOTE (careted): I'm doing the Jedi mind trick on you, in case you missed it. It's only a matter of moments before I start waving a bagel in the air, saying, "Droids, sir."
%FOOTNOTE (percented): Somewhere, my brother is singing, "purple is purple so why should it be you and Mom just want to call it burgundy..." If you're a child of the 80s, you get it.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Yes I was.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): As far as I'm concerned, *all* numbers are imaginary numbers.
*FOOTNOTE (asterisked): I'm wondering how long it will take for Ally or Red to point out the bottle of KY on the nightstand. Ha! Beat you to it!
Here are all the new orchids you haven't seen yet:
This Cattleya is the only one of the new orchids in bloom. It's fragrant. It also looks all raggedy because the first thing I did upon getting it home was to knock it over, breaking one of its blooms off and permanently scarring the other.
None of these are blooming, so they're not that interesting, but you have to look at them anyway, because (once again) I control this space:
L to R: tiny little Phalaenopsis, won't bloom for four or five years‡; bloom-sized something fragrant (it's a very pretty violet and white and I don't remember what variety it is... Dendrobium, maybe?); a tiny little jewel orchid that's purported to be very rare. This is the one I'm most likely to kill.
[SUMMARY: This is not an orchid blog. But it is a picture blog. Ignore the lack of knitting. Revel in the pictures.^]
And you're WAYYYYY more interested in this. It's yarn. You like yarn.§
L to R: Austermann Bamboo Soft in pink, blue, white and brown with a hint of olive; Colinette Jitterbug in the Jewels colourway; Knit Picks Wool of the Andes in Amethyst Heather (which looks more plum than amethyst to me%) for the Rowan 40 Juno.
Closeups. Because I can.
I hate to brag, but my new camera has a lifetime subscription to purple, so I no longer have to suck the blue out of my photos in Photoshop, lending that Hiroshima glow to all surrounding items, just to show a little purple to my peeps.
[SUMMARY: I have found a camera smarter and more colourful than me. I Robot had it wrong; the revolution will not be perpetrated by robots, we will be taken over by digital cameras.]
Speaking of Juno...¶
I have a serious knitterly numbers problem. Here's the stitch sitch:
Yarn the pattern calls for: 4.5 - 5 stitches per inch on US 6-9 needles
Yarn I got: 5.5 - 6 stitches per inch on US 8-9 needles
I. Can't. Count. To. Four.
So why did I think I was going to be able to substitute yarn?
The most upsetting part is I remember being really excited that the Knit Picks yarn was the exact same gauge (per the ball band, at least) as the Rowan yarn mentioned in the pattern.
Clearly it's not.
Clearly I'm deranged.
Juvenile onset Alzheimer's. Take my car keys from me. Roll me to the home before I kill again.
What's more, the pattern calls for the yarn to be doubled, which, if I'm reading it correctly -- and I'm probably not -- would make a hell of a difference in gauge. I think there's algebra involved in this, 'cause you don't just double the yarn, the needle size and the gauge, right? There're averages and means and quadratic equations and imaginary numbers# and shit, aren't there?
Is it going to be too, too fucked up? Should I save the amethyst WotA for... something else? Is there a protocol for figuring this out I should be aware of to avoid future fuck ups?
Of course, that last question is moot, because even if I'd known the protocol... well, I really thought I was buying yarn of a sufficiently similar if not identical weight/gauge, so I probably would have just started wrong and stayed wrong regardless.
Still, it seems this is something I should know. You know, to avoid future fuck ups.
[SUMMARY: We hates the maths.]
I'm guessing the only thing I can do is knit a swatch and see what happens. Maybe being the world's tightest knitter will serve me well this time.
[SUMMARY: Sing with me... Justifi-CA-tion!]
Having nothing to do with photography at all, but TOTALLY noteworthy even in its lack of purplocity, First Among Imaginary Kellys FINALLY got her blog up! Be the first on your block to join the Kelly revolution!
And, finally, no photographic boondoggle would be complete without a Cat for Scale*:
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Of course I tried it. What do you use your self-portrait setting for?
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): I gave one just like it to Tani, mother of baby Bert for whom Stupid Blanket was forged. I thought it would be kinda cute for him to grow up with his own little Bert orchid. They'll grow and bloom together. Awwwww...
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): "It has raisins. You like raisins." Hmmmm... maybe one of my hundred or so pairs of socks in the chute needs to be a Better Off Dead pair of socks. Lotsa good quotes there.
^FOOTNOTE (careted): I'm doing the Jedi mind trick on you, in case you missed it. It's only a matter of moments before I start waving a bagel in the air, saying, "Droids, sir."
%FOOTNOTE (percented): Somewhere, my brother is singing, "purple is purple so why should it be you and Mom just want to call it burgundy..." If you're a child of the 80s, you get it.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Yes I was.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): As far as I'm concerned, *all* numbers are imaginary numbers.
*FOOTNOTE (asterisked): I'm wondering how long it will take for Ally or Red to point out the bottle of KY on the nightstand. Ha! Beat you to it!
Thursday, May 10, 2007
The Nature of Intellect: a Treatise on Jackasses
I had a date last night. With a smart guy. I'm growing to loathe smart guys.
Let's explore this, shall we?
I'm smart. Scary smart. But I'm a dork lush with a filthy, dirty mind who can't count to four, so it mitigates the "scary" portion of "scary smart."
Some people are too wrapped up in the cloak of their intellects to join us here in the real world. Last night's date, case in point. And every time a friend says, "You should meet Bob. You're both so smart..." I cringe, because I know Bob is one of those intellectual weenies who will make me want to put his head through a wall about ten minutes into our first meeting.
Bob doesn't like sports.
Bob doesn't own a TV, but Bob believes in Start Trek.
Bob doesn't drink beer.
Bob uses big words for the sake of using big words and doesn't appreciate it one little bit when the chica drinking beer from a bucket in the corner, who is his intellectual equal or better, is verbing nouns right and left. And probably sleeping with the DJ to boot.^
Bob is an intellectual jackass.
[SUMMARY: I don't think much of Hypothetical Bob.]
Intellectual jackasses tend to say "Ah" a lot, as in, "Ah, yes... the transient nature of the slug dichotomy," or "Ah, the vagaries of Shakespearean physics in the context of modern blasphemy." Intellectual jackasses often use "Ah" the way dumbasses use "um."
Case in point from last night's date: Almost every sentence out of Bob's† mouth started with "Ah." Almost every observation I made was answered with "Ah." OK, "Ah," and a smug smile that I know very well (being scary smart and all) means, "You lost me two sentences ago, but all I have in the world is my jackass intellect so I'm going to act smug and condescending and give you this little Mona Lisa smile while I say, 'Ah.'"
Intellectual jackasses take a long time to answer questions, because they have to think thoroughly (or at least give that impression) *before* they answer and/or their answers are so unnecessarily complicated and wordy‡ you could hard-boil an egg (at altitude, no less) before they get the thought out of their mouths.
Case in point: Bob, after being asked if he has siblings, took a good 30 seconds to answer, finally saying he had three.
I asked, "Any sisters?§"
He clasped his hands in an attitude of prayer, placed the tips of his index fingers on his lips and inhaled slowly, indicating he was thinking about his next revelation, and he said, "One."
It took a *full* TWO MINUTES for Bob to answer "Do you have siblings" and "Any sisters?"
Intellectual jackasses are hyperanalytical. And they want the under-brained dorks of the world to know it.
Case in point: Immediately after proclaiming one sister, Bob said, "Would you care to venture a guess in what order I fall?"
"No," I said.
(I honestly don't sit around studying people's every moves and moods to try to figure out their birth order.)
He looked surprised, then laughed like I was just too, too droll. I believe he said, "Ah."
"I'm the youngest of three. My sister is older than me, then my two brothers are older than her. We're fairly close in age; I believe seven years separates us."
Noting that Bob also can't count to four (youngest of three?), but would never admit it as cheerfully as I, I said, "Ah."
"I would guess you have a brother." (pause for applause)
"Yep."
"And you are older." (pause for applause)
"Uh-huh."
Yes, I know he was dying for me to giggle and clap in dewy-eyed awe, to ask him how ever he knew all that... but I didn't. I basically said, "Ah."
He also went to the bathroom, and I was watching baseball (damned Yankees) while he was gone. When he came back and sat down, I returned my attention to him, which prompted him to say, "Ah. You look like a very attractive woman who is being hit on by some nerd in a bar."
"Really," said I, not as a question, but as a statement.
"Your body language..."
I interrupted him, "I wouldn't get too wrapped up in body language if I were you."
He laughed as if to say, "Ah, silly girl..." and said, "Haven't you heard that 93% of communication is body language?"
(I honestly don't sit around studying people's every moves and stressing that each raise of the eyebrow or twitch of the pinkie means they're disgusted with me or rejecting my religion or something.)
"Don't believe everything you read."
'Cause me punching you in the nose would be REAL body language.
Intellectual jackasses can't *stand* not getting it. And they'll never, ever simply admit to not getting it.
Case in point: Bob told me the following joke:
"What's the difference between Rush Limbaugh and the Hindenberg?"
I've heard it, I pretty much knew where it was going, but I didn't remember the punchline. So I said, "What?"
"One's a flaming Nazi gasbag and the other is a dirigible."
So I said, "I have a joke."
"You're going to do me one better?"
(No, Bob, I'm not going to do you at all...)
"Well, not better, just completely different: There's a guy sitting on his front porch enjoying and ice-cold beer, watching his wife slave away, mowing the yard. His little 70-year-old neighbour lady wags her finger at him and says, "Young man, you should be hung!"
He says, "I already am. That's why she mows the lawn."
*cricketcricketcricket*
"Ah," said Bob, after a painfully long pause for processing, "She should have said 'you should be well hung.'"
And he laughed at that.
"Uh, well, that would negate the crux of the joke. See, besides being mildly perverted, which is sort of my state of being, this joke speaks to one of my linguistic pet peeves, which is that in the process of strangling someone, he is hanged, not hung."
"Ah, you are right, you are quite right. Because hung is the future... no wait... yeah, the future perfect..."
"No. It's past tense. But pictures are hung. Men are hung. Criminals in the old west dangling from the gallows are hanged."
"Ah. So you hate men."
"WHAT?!"
"Well you just said all men should be hung!"
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Bob. The joke wasn't funny enough to put this much effort into making it work."
No, I didn't say that. What I said was, "No, what I said was the proper term for someone who died with a noose around their neck is 'hanged,' which distinguishes it from putting a picture on the wall (hung) or a man of excellent manly endowment (also hung)."
"Ah. So you're delusional."
"I don't get it Bob."
To get into a Bob-level state of analysis, I think a lot of smart people don't have anything else going for them. It's like the very pretty people who never make an effort to learn anything because they can get by on their looks. There are a ton of intellectual jackasses out there who beat everybody else over their collective head with stunning jackass intellect because they never found any use for social skills or personal grooming.
In fairness to Bob, he was dressed reasonably and had good hair.
[SUMMARY: And I don't think a whole lot of Bob-Not-His-Real-Name either. And I didn't even get into the part where he MADE FUN OF KNITBLOGS and proclaimed knitting probably the DULLEST and MOST USELESS thing you could possibly blog about. And tried to make a case that computer programming is as sociable as knitting. And he analysed me based on my FAVOURITE CARTOON CHARACTER as his first trick of the night, and God DAMN, I don't care for Bob.]
all wound up deep breath deep breath deep breath...
Speaking of jackass and dumbass and all other kinds of ass, First Among Imaginary Kellys asked for a closeup of Stupid Blanket in the comments yesterday (aaaack! Stupid Blanket as ass, not First Among Imaginary Kellys as ass!). I think it's very sweet y'all are trying to understand Stupid Blanket when, truly, Stupid Blanket is as Stupid Blanket does.¶
This also gives me a chance to defend (as far as I can) the impetus behind Stupid Blanket.
See, here's the lovely linen stitch scarf I knitted a full three square inches on before deciding to invest my life and future arthritis in forty acres of Stupid Blanket:
Isn't it cool? Classy? Makes variegated yarn all woven and sexy and stuff?
And here's Stupid Blanket:
Ah.
I do like the back, though:
Red will want to drink an entire bottle of Jack when she hears this, but I think I'm going to take the leftover (once again, is there really any such thing as leftover yarn?) mercerised cotton (*gasp*) from a past baby blanket and knit it in linen stitch (*gasp*) to make washcloths (*gasp*) because I think this bumpy back would make a cool exfoliating surface.
Short-repeat variegated yarn creates a marked pictorial difference from long-repeat striping yarn when worked in linen stitch over three square inches or forty acres. Compare and contrast.
[SUMMARY: Stupid Blanket. Serving your entertainment needs since mid-February.]
Funny story (sort of): the boss got a huge, *gorgeous* orchid from his mother when his mother-in-law passed away last month. The blooms were laying the stalks flat on the table, where they made a dramatic display, but took up too much room. As I have set myself up as a sort of orchid expert (I'm not, I just have had some luck growing the easy ones), he asked what could be done.
"These need to be staked," I said. He started discoursing on having to repot to do that, etc., but I said, "Nah. They make curved stakes and bamboo stakes. There's an orchid store right up Broadway..."
"Oh, yeah. That's never going to happen. I'm not going into an orchid store. It's Guy Rule #244."
"OK, how 'bout if I go at lunch."
"Yeah. You go. I'll go get toner. It's manly."
So I got the stakes and, because I'm weak, I bought a new orchid. I approach the purchase of orchids the same way I approach the purchase of sock yarn: I chant over and over, like a mantra, "I *so* don't need another orchid/ball of sock yarn... I *so* don't need another orchid/ball of sock yarn."
Would you believe no yarn pusher (Sylvia) or orchid seller has ever even acknowledged my bitching and moaning? No, they just cheerfully swipe the VISA and wrap it all up like the enablers they are.
[SUMMARY: Sell me something.]
But isn't it pretty?
All four of my moth orchids are blooming now.
If you look out the window on the right, there are the still-sad hops plants. If you look on the windowsill right next to the new orchid, you'll see the catgrass Secret Pal sent for Cat for Scale.
Poor Cat for Scale.
I mean, the catgrass has made it to the windowsill after sitting in the living room with the rest of the knitting accoutrement (I know, I know) for the last several weeks, but because it requires overnight soaking (therefore, forethought), it is only nominally closer to becoming a kitty treat than it was the day it arrived.
[SUMMARY: Still dorky after all these years.]
Maybe I should put cat grass on my to-do list for the weekend.
Maybe it'll stop the cat looking at me and saying, "Ah," in that smug tone of voice.
^FOOTNOTE (I bite intellectual jackasses): Take that, Bob.
†FOOTNOTE (don't cross me, you intellectual jackass): Hello, kettle? You're black, but at least I'm funny and I get laid once in awhile.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossing intellectual jackass!): Not his real name, mind you, but "Bob" for continuity's sake.
§FOOTNOTE (snake in the grass intellectual jackass): I firmly believe boys who have sisters, particularly older sisters, tend to make better boyfriends. They've been beaten, abused, learned about strong women and generally have recieved an education in how to treat women from women who know.
¶FOOTNOTE (intellectual jackass intellectual jackass intellectual jackass): Style over substance, as always.
Let's explore this, shall we?
I'm smart. Scary smart. But I'm a dork lush with a filthy, dirty mind who can't count to four, so it mitigates the "scary" portion of "scary smart."
Some people are too wrapped up in the cloak of their intellects to join us here in the real world. Last night's date, case in point. And every time a friend says, "You should meet Bob. You're both so smart..." I cringe, because I know Bob is one of those intellectual weenies who will make me want to put his head through a wall about ten minutes into our first meeting.
Bob doesn't like sports.
Bob doesn't own a TV, but Bob believes in Start Trek.
Bob doesn't drink beer.
Bob uses big words for the sake of using big words and doesn't appreciate it one little bit when the chica drinking beer from a bucket in the corner, who is his intellectual equal or better, is verbing nouns right and left. And probably sleeping with the DJ to boot.^
Bob is an intellectual jackass.
[SUMMARY: I don't think much of Hypothetical Bob.]
Intellectual jackasses tend to say "Ah" a lot, as in, "Ah, yes... the transient nature of the slug dichotomy," or "Ah, the vagaries of Shakespearean physics in the context of modern blasphemy." Intellectual jackasses often use "Ah" the way dumbasses use "um."
Case in point from last night's date: Almost every sentence out of Bob's† mouth started with "Ah." Almost every observation I made was answered with "Ah." OK, "Ah," and a smug smile that I know very well (being scary smart and all) means, "You lost me two sentences ago, but all I have in the world is my jackass intellect so I'm going to act smug and condescending and give you this little Mona Lisa smile while I say, 'Ah.'"
Intellectual jackasses take a long time to answer questions, because they have to think thoroughly (or at least give that impression) *before* they answer and/or their answers are so unnecessarily complicated and wordy‡ you could hard-boil an egg (at altitude, no less) before they get the thought out of their mouths.
Case in point: Bob, after being asked if he has siblings, took a good 30 seconds to answer, finally saying he had three.
I asked, "Any sisters?§"
He clasped his hands in an attitude of prayer, placed the tips of his index fingers on his lips and inhaled slowly, indicating he was thinking about his next revelation, and he said, "One."
It took a *full* TWO MINUTES for Bob to answer "Do you have siblings" and "Any sisters?"
Intellectual jackasses are hyperanalytical. And they want the under-brained dorks of the world to know it.
Case in point: Immediately after proclaiming one sister, Bob said, "Would you care to venture a guess in what order I fall?"
"No," I said.
(I honestly don't sit around studying people's every moves and moods to try to figure out their birth order.)
He looked surprised, then laughed like I was just too, too droll. I believe he said, "Ah."
"I'm the youngest of three. My sister is older than me, then my two brothers are older than her. We're fairly close in age; I believe seven years separates us."
Noting that Bob also can't count to four (youngest of three?), but would never admit it as cheerfully as I, I said, "Ah."
"I would guess you have a brother." (pause for applause)
"Yep."
"And you are older." (pause for applause)
"Uh-huh."
Yes, I know he was dying for me to giggle and clap in dewy-eyed awe, to ask him how ever he knew all that... but I didn't. I basically said, "Ah."
He also went to the bathroom, and I was watching baseball (damned Yankees) while he was gone. When he came back and sat down, I returned my attention to him, which prompted him to say, "Ah. You look like a very attractive woman who is being hit on by some nerd in a bar."
"Really," said I, not as a question, but as a statement.
"Your body language..."
I interrupted him, "I wouldn't get too wrapped up in body language if I were you."
He laughed as if to say, "Ah, silly girl..." and said, "Haven't you heard that 93% of communication is body language?"
(I honestly don't sit around studying people's every moves and stressing that each raise of the eyebrow or twitch of the pinkie means they're disgusted with me or rejecting my religion or something.)
"Don't believe everything you read."
'Cause me punching you in the nose would be REAL body language.
Intellectual jackasses can't *stand* not getting it. And they'll never, ever simply admit to not getting it.
Case in point: Bob told me the following joke:
"What's the difference between Rush Limbaugh and the Hindenberg?"
I've heard it, I pretty much knew where it was going, but I didn't remember the punchline. So I said, "What?"
"One's a flaming Nazi gasbag and the other is a dirigible."
So I said, "I have a joke."
"You're going to do me one better?"
(No, Bob, I'm not going to do you at all...)
"Well, not better, just completely different: There's a guy sitting on his front porch enjoying and ice-cold beer, watching his wife slave away, mowing the yard. His little 70-year-old neighbour lady wags her finger at him and says, "Young man, you should be hung!"
He says, "I already am. That's why she mows the lawn."
*cricketcricketcricket*
"Ah," said Bob, after a painfully long pause for processing, "She should have said 'you should be well hung.'"
And he laughed at that.
"Uh, well, that would negate the crux of the joke. See, besides being mildly perverted, which is sort of my state of being, this joke speaks to one of my linguistic pet peeves, which is that in the process of strangling someone, he is hanged, not hung."
"Ah, you are right, you are quite right. Because hung is the future... no wait... yeah, the future perfect..."
"No. It's past tense. But pictures are hung. Men are hung. Criminals in the old west dangling from the gallows are hanged."
"Ah. So you hate men."
"WHAT?!"
"Well you just said all men should be hung!"
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Bob. The joke wasn't funny enough to put this much effort into making it work."
No, I didn't say that. What I said was, "No, what I said was the proper term for someone who died with a noose around their neck is 'hanged,' which distinguishes it from putting a picture on the wall (hung) or a man of excellent manly endowment (also hung)."
"Ah. So you're delusional."
"I don't get it Bob."
To get into a Bob-level state of analysis, I think a lot of smart people don't have anything else going for them. It's like the very pretty people who never make an effort to learn anything because they can get by on their looks. There are a ton of intellectual jackasses out there who beat everybody else over their collective head with stunning jackass intellect because they never found any use for social skills or personal grooming.
In fairness to Bob, he was dressed reasonably and had good hair.
[SUMMARY: And I don't think a whole lot of Bob-Not-His-Real-Name either. And I didn't even get into the part where he MADE FUN OF KNITBLOGS and proclaimed knitting probably the DULLEST and MOST USELESS thing you could possibly blog about. And tried to make a case that computer programming is as sociable as knitting. And he analysed me based on my FAVOURITE CARTOON CHARACTER as his first trick of the night, and God DAMN, I don't care for Bob.]
all wound up deep breath deep breath deep breath...
Speaking of jackass and dumbass and all other kinds of ass, First Among Imaginary Kellys asked for a closeup of Stupid Blanket in the comments yesterday (aaaack! Stupid Blanket as ass, not First Among Imaginary Kellys as ass!). I think it's very sweet y'all are trying to understand Stupid Blanket when, truly, Stupid Blanket is as Stupid Blanket does.¶
This also gives me a chance to defend (as far as I can) the impetus behind Stupid Blanket.
See, here's the lovely linen stitch scarf I knitted a full three square inches on before deciding to invest my life and future arthritis in forty acres of Stupid Blanket:
Isn't it cool? Classy? Makes variegated yarn all woven and sexy and stuff?
And here's Stupid Blanket:
Ah.
I do like the back, though:
Red will want to drink an entire bottle of Jack when she hears this, but I think I'm going to take the leftover (once again, is there really any such thing as leftover yarn?) mercerised cotton (*gasp*) from a past baby blanket and knit it in linen stitch (*gasp*) to make washcloths (*gasp*) because I think this bumpy back would make a cool exfoliating surface.
Short-repeat variegated yarn creates a marked pictorial difference from long-repeat striping yarn when worked in linen stitch over three square inches or forty acres. Compare and contrast.
[SUMMARY: Stupid Blanket. Serving your entertainment needs since mid-February.]
Funny story (sort of): the boss got a huge, *gorgeous* orchid from his mother when his mother-in-law passed away last month. The blooms were laying the stalks flat on the table, where they made a dramatic display, but took up too much room. As I have set myself up as a sort of orchid expert (I'm not, I just have had some luck growing the easy ones), he asked what could be done.
"These need to be staked," I said. He started discoursing on having to repot to do that, etc., but I said, "Nah. They make curved stakes and bamboo stakes. There's an orchid store right up Broadway..."
"Oh, yeah. That's never going to happen. I'm not going into an orchid store. It's Guy Rule #244."
"OK, how 'bout if I go at lunch."
"Yeah. You go. I'll go get toner. It's manly."
So I got the stakes and, because I'm weak, I bought a new orchid. I approach the purchase of orchids the same way I approach the purchase of sock yarn: I chant over and over, like a mantra, "I *so* don't need another orchid/ball of sock yarn... I *so* don't need another orchid/ball of sock yarn."
Would you believe no yarn pusher (Sylvia) or orchid seller has ever even acknowledged my bitching and moaning? No, they just cheerfully swipe the VISA and wrap it all up like the enablers they are.
[SUMMARY: Sell me something.]
But isn't it pretty?
All four of my moth orchids are blooming now.
If you look out the window on the right, there are the still-sad hops plants. If you look on the windowsill right next to the new orchid, you'll see the catgrass Secret Pal sent for Cat for Scale.
Poor Cat for Scale.
I mean, the catgrass has made it to the windowsill after sitting in the living room with the rest of the knitting accoutrement (I know, I know) for the last several weeks, but because it requires overnight soaking (therefore, forethought), it is only nominally closer to becoming a kitty treat than it was the day it arrived.
[SUMMARY: Still dorky after all these years.]
Maybe I should put cat grass on my to-do list for the weekend.
Maybe it'll stop the cat looking at me and saying, "Ah," in that smug tone of voice.
^FOOTNOTE (I bite intellectual jackasses): Take that, Bob.
†FOOTNOTE (don't cross me, you intellectual jackass): Hello, kettle? You're black, but at least I'm funny and I get laid once in awhile.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossing intellectual jackass!): Not his real name, mind you, but "Bob" for continuity's sake.
§FOOTNOTE (snake in the grass intellectual jackass): I firmly believe boys who have sisters, particularly older sisters, tend to make better boyfriends. They've been beaten, abused, learned about strong women and generally have recieved an education in how to treat women from women who know.
¶FOOTNOTE (intellectual jackass intellectual jackass intellectual jackass): Style over substance, as always.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Here Now, the Gnus
Did you know a gnu and a wildebeest are the same thing?
Yep, it's one a them educational Fridays. Maintain your brain.
Yep, it's one a them educational Fridays. Maintain your brain.
We got gnus, we got news and we got knews. Two kinds of knews.
First, because it covers two bases and MLB opening day is Monday, so in honour of, um, second base... do y'all ever get worn out with the stream-of-consciousness of AntiM World? Anyway...
News: Kelley is not speaking to The Boy. In the fifteen years they've been best friends, they've feuded more since the Male Lady hit the scene than in the rest of the time combined.
After she called me the other morning, she decided she'd had enough of his passive aggression; not just that, but that he relies on her to provide the aggression and gets mad when she doesn't.
This is my interpretation. Her version goes more like, "I've had enough of both of them. I just said, 'Have a nice summer.'"**
I figure anyone who won't take action on a stalker, expects his best friend to provide the bitch in the equation (not to be anti-feminist, but what kind of man asks a woman to do his wet work for him? He's either enlightened or a pussy. Guess where I'm placing The Boy) and asks a friend to give a girl his phone number (OK, that's the self-centred portion of our program. It still nibbles at my innards that he couldn't just give me his number himself or -- heaven forfend -- get my number from me. Or even Kelley. And call me his damnself)... well, that Boy is a boy and not much of a man.** Until The Boy grows some sack, he's without his Kelley.
This also counts as knews, as in, "So long for now, Boy, we hardly knew ye."
Gnus news: The plural of "wildebeest" is either "wildebeest" or "wildebeests."
Knitting Knews: Joanne Conklin, who sells lace weight qiviut (I feel that should be capitalised: Qiviut... or perhaps there should be a chorus of angels embedded in the link somewhere) and is on my Denver Knits Yahoo group (yes, I'm just that kind of dork), has started a Mile High Sock Challenge (my title, not hers). The text of the challenge is at the bottom of the post, for those Denver knitters who are interested.
Since I have the sis-in-law Bellocq (hereafter known as "Lacy Racy Bellocq") stockings (if the yarn ever comes), a pair of toe-up (just because I've never done it before) sparkly socks (hereafter called "Sparkle Socks") for Lorree in NYC and a pair of Knitty's/Aija Goto's BMP socks (hereafter called "Invasion of the Socks") for Jeff in NYC (Jeff and Lorree are enabling... um, FACILITATING my pilgrimage to Rhinebeck this October. They deserve socks) on deck (ha! Baseball reference!), I'm all about contributing my two socks' worth to the 5280** cause.
[SUMMARY: In keeping with our theme (one of them), links are very educational. Maintain your brain. And remember: if the gusts of words leave you weak, you can always skip the stuff in the parentheses. This public service announcement has been brought to you by the number four.]
More Gnus: The name wildebeest originates in the Dutch words "wild" and "beest" which, together, mean "wild beast". (Can I just say here: duh?) Although the name is derived from the Dutch, the name wildebeest doesn't officially exist in the Dutch language. Gnu is from the Khoikhoi language, in which they pronounce the G, much like I do when I think I'm cute.
Weird News: Did you see this?
It's a giant cane toad, purported to be "the size of a small dog," or in Knitter's Measurement, the size of three hanks of Interlacements Toasty Toes, the eight ounce kind.
Personal Knitting Knews: In my ongoing vendetta against the number four, I erroneously reported that I was more than halfway through the Heathers ("Chaos was what killed the dinosaurs, darling."). There are nine repeats on the pattern and I finished the fourth last night, proving once again I can't count to five.
I also did FIVE rows (maybe. Could be four. Could be six. Can't trust your ol' AntiM to count to five) on the Stupid Blanket. It seems the Stupid Blanket and I are coming to terms just in time for me to finish it and miss it terribly when it's gone. This is familiar territory, being how I work with most of the guys I date.
Did I mention I still don't have my Gloss from Knit Picks? Did I mention this makes me crazy -- not just for the normal reasons** -- because I have the worst mail carrier on the face of the planet?
Last Little Bit of News: The boy from last week? The one that caused the highly unnecessary sex post on Sunday? Shall we call him Sex Toy? He got my number from Kelley and called last night. I do believe I have received my first booty call. Points for me!
For those who need to know (and possibly to ameliorate the "This is NOT little brother approved" comment winging my way), I said, "Not tonight dear, but don't count me off your list."
I do have *some* self-control.
Last Little Bit of Gnus:
"Did you see that herd of gnus?"
"Heard of what?"
"Herd of gnus."
"Of course I've heard of news!"
"No... a gnu herd."
"A gnu?"
"Yes, a gnu herd."
"So what if a gnu heard? Who's he going to tell?"
[SUMMARY: I still think I'm funny. And I think homophones are funny.]
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): And she said I'm a breath of fresh air in her life. Poor girl. More like a hurricane. Hurricane Marin.
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Yes, I still kinda like The Boy. But Kelley's here with me and asked for my phone number her ownself and talks to me and stuff, so I tend to be a Kelley Supporter in this battle. Besides, if she hooks me up with hot tamale Jason, I suspect I've traded up from The Boy or my Sex Toy. More than you needed to know? Maintain Your Brain!
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Two socks' worth. WAHAHAHAHAHA! Get it? Two socks? Like two cents' worth? I crack me up.
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): You know, normal crazy, like Obsession, Compulsion, Nymphomania, Senility and Fourophobia.
**FOOTNOTE (unasterisked): While I'm a little better than I was yesterday, I forgot this morning how I like my coffee. I got the coffee, got to my desk. Realised there was no cream. Went and got...
...wait for it...
...a STIR STICK.
Went back to my desk. Considered drinking coffee black. Took a stand against Juvenile Onset Senility. Got cream. Drank lukewarm coffee.
**SPECIAL BASEBALL FOOTNOTE (unasterisked): As Kelly-with-a-Maren so adroitly pointed out in the comments, SUNDAY is opening-opening day. Monday is the ROCKIES' opening day.
*************
5280 FEET
OK, technically, we're looking at 10,560 feet, but you get the gist.
This is Joanne's message:
Here is a long-term project and challenge for you. How long will it take for DenverKnits knitters to make 5280 pairs of socks? One year? Two? Five?
Let's find out. And, I'm going to see if I can get donations from a number of sources so that the person who knits the 5280th pair will get a great gift basket of goodies.**
Here are the rules:
1. Knitting begins on April 1st, 2007. You can NOT count any socks that were started before then.
2. Each time you finish a pair of socks, send me an email: joanne@jconklindesigns.com with the word 5280 Challenge in the subject line. Tell me 6 things about the pair (note that I said PAIR, not single sock!!)
- Size (e.g. women's medium)
- Needle size used
- Yarn
- Method (toe up, toe down, magical loop, etc.)
- Who are the socks for (self, friend, family, charity, etc.)
- Date finished.
Only entries with answers to those 6 questions will be counted in the final tally and entered into the contest.
3. I will keep a spreadsheet and will report back to the group from time to time. At the end, I'll tell you the results of the survey questions.
4. Please DO report to the list any time you like about your progress and current finished sock. Tell us your blog name if you'd like us to check out progress and/or pictures.
5. I've created a database on our website where you can list your name and your blog so others can visit from time to time.
If anyone here is good at making blog buttons, please let me know. I'm sure that bloggers would like to be able to find you. The link can be back to the DenverKnits web page, or I'm open to suggestions.
Store owners, dyers, or anyone else who would like to contribute prizes for the final gift basket, please let me know. Keep in mind that the prize may not be given out for sometime, so if you're offering a gift certificate, make sure that it can be used far into the future. Prizes should be knitting related, but don't necessarily have to be sock related. Be sure to include something that will tell the winner who was kind enough to donate the prize. I will purchase a basket for the prizes... hopefully a very large basket!!
You might print out this email for future reference... just a suggestion.
Okay... dive into that huge stash of sock yarn. You know that you have one. Get out the needles.
On your mark.............
Joanne
**FOOTNOTE (it's funny 'cause it's socks and feet like twelve inches... see the funny? And it is asterisked): Last I looked, Joanne had gotten Blue Moon Fibre Arts to donate some Socks That Rock yarn, so we're off to a good start.
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