My father used to say middle school is like an explosion in a cereal factory.
I trust you to get it.
But why do so many people stay flakey well beyond its useful life function?†
This is starting to look like my very first post, where I typed for DAYS and deleted and reworked and got all critical on my own ass... and eventually blurted. I've probably put six hours into various versions of who makes bad friends and why guys are easier than girls and the heartbreak of psoriasis.
The long and short? The eventual blurt?
I don't know.
I don't know how you make grown-up friends. I don't even know for sure if it's possible to "make" friends. Friends may just grow like metaphorical flowers on a trite piece of country-kitsch wallhanging.
For me, it boils down to honesty. Well, honesty and responsibility. Most people lack these in larger quantities than is strictly functional.‡ And that's why grown-up friendships are so rare.
I know you can eliminate a lot of the shitstorm by keeping things as shallow and one-dimensional as possible.
Not in a bad way.
In a low-maintenance, see-you-next-week-maybe, minimal responsibility/minimal chance for hurt feelings way. Knitting groups, adult education classes, bar-hopping -- ways to indulge in human contacts without necessarily making human contact.
It's like the styrofoam peanuts that fill the voids in your time and keep you from rattling around, but have no real nutritional value.
It's like babysitting and being able to give the kids back at the end of the night.
And it's probably a good way to test-drive a few folks and see if you want to take your mutual shallow thing outside that one-dimensional realm.
Not only that, if you have too many people in your world for whom you'd lay your life down, you're in imminent danger all the fucking time.
Seriously, those people you find (and thank gods we all have some of these) who are willing to be responsible for you, let you be responsible for them, and you can all be honest amongst yourselves... those people should be cherished. And encouraged. Possibly rewarded.
Go knit them socks.
[SUMMARY: Have a simile -- I made plenty.]
On the list of things to cherish, people who get my sense of humour.
Case in point: yesterday, I sent an email to various family members, thus:
*************
Would each of you please provide me the following measurements at your earliest convenience:
Chest (the biggest part):
Hand (around knuckles):
Glove length (fingertip to wrist joint, right under the heel of your hand):
Shoe size:
Head (measure around forehead where the band of a stocking cap would fall):
*************
I figured it would allow me to knit on a whim or for a gift-giving occasions without having to tip my hand and spoil any potential surprise.
("Dad? It's me. Could you please go right now and measure around your knuckles? What? No reason. Just... curious. I certainly wouldn't be knitting you some gloves for your upcoming birthday.")
My sister-in-law replied thus:
*************
> Chest (the biggest part): 3 wine bottles.
> Hand (around knuckles): 1/2 wine bottle
> Glove length (fingertip to wrist joint, right under the heel of your hand): 1/2 wine bottle
> Shoe size: 3/4 wine bottle
> Head (measure around forehead where the band of a
> stocking cap would fall): wine bottle and a half
I lost my tape measure today, but I'll send standard English measurements soon.
*************
See? Funny and gets my funny. We'll probably keep her.%
Um... knitting: I finished the second border piece for Stupid Blanket and will have someone who knows better show me how to crochet it to the body of the beast.
I bought sock yarn yesterday. Pictures when we all need to feel better.
I tried to buy a blocking board at Hancock Fabrics yesterday, but to no avail. I don't want to wait six weeks for one. I'll probably spend three months looking for one in the stores.
Cat Bordhi has a new sock book coming out. The blurbs are so intriguing, but vague. It's like reading a wine review and wondering what the oenologist means by "altruistic."
I'm tapped.
But I know I have a responsibility to y'all to provide you quality knitting and quantity verbiage. And I won't let you down, at least on the verbiage front.
Knit me socks?
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): You know, to balance out hormones and shit.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): That's the nod to the fact that we all have weak spots and bad days and not even the bestest of us is honest and responsible all the time. I seek not perfection; I seek only reasonable measure. And not fucking with me.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): At least long enough to find out exactly *how* she measured her bust with a wine bottle. I might have to demand a demonstration. I'll take pictures.
Tomorrow... BoyCraft 2, the Shopping Years
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Prometheus Bound
No, that's not the wine it took to get to bind-off. Not all of it. That's just wine for scale.*
Last night, after making some sort of Drunken Knitting error on Stupid Blanket; after realising I couldn't even figure out what the Stupid error was; after deciding the only way to fix it was to remove at least the last row-and-a-half of Stupid knitting... I made the executive decision to bind the sucker off and call it good.
There's still about 6 inches of border to be attached, so it won't be quite this paltry.†
No more stupid linen stitch. No more Stupid Blanket. Whatever will we do for entertainment now?
[SUMMARY: ding dong the witch is dead... la lala la lala la haha)
Meanwhile, back at the Male Lady...
As some of you know, the house next door to me is for sale.§
I took off a little early Friday and was sitting in the livknitting room, minding my own damned business and... well, knitting... with all the windows open and what to my wondering ears should appear? The screaming dulcet tones of one Roethlisbergerian Male Lady. Talking to my neighbours. About their house.
*coughchokecoughgagspew*
Maybe it's not her.
I can't go to the window, she'll see me.
It's probably not her.
Why would she even *pretend* to want to live next door to me?
So I ran into the neighbour Sunday afternoon and, yes, a Male Lady ("She works for the post office," said neighbour Jamie, cheerfully) was inquiring about the house.‡
My brother has suggested buying the property as an investment. After all, it would be easy to manage (and monitor) a property if you lived next door. And it would be easier to sleep at night if the Male Lady *didn't* live next door.
[SUMMARY: Lovely two-bedroom townhome, desirable urban setting, close to Starbucks, busline and drunken knitting, price just reduced, inquire within.]
Also? I was walking home from Drunken Knitting last night and she drove right by me, heading toward my house. I'm not saying she actually drove to or past or anything (cars are remarkably hard to distinguish once they're just a bunch of taillights in the distance), but she drove past and my skin crawled all over again.
I tell you, people, it's Kharmic Green Stamps. Things were going pretty well. I had Kelley to do stupid shit with, the Male Lady was still funny, it looked like The Boy and I might at least come to some detente, there were hops growing on the patio and orchids on the sill and the occasional hot young Sex Toy in my bed... and I got the gods all hubrised up one night and they threw up in my car.¶
[SUMMARY: My theology is pretty fucked up, my grasp of Murphy# is spot on.]
Smitten like a Pharisee, I'm off to work.
*FOOTNOTE (asterisked, oddly enough): The cat wouldn't hold still.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Let's see... about two wine bottles wide plus about two wine bottles tall... what? How do you measure baby blankets?
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): You can already see where this is going, can't you?
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): I almost said, "Oh, please, for the love of all that is holy, don't sell the house to that wildebeest!" but I figure that's taunting the gods in an all-too mythical fashion. I'd not only end up with the Male Lady as a neighbour, she'd probably get pregnant by The Boy and have twins on my front porch.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): It sounded funny in my head. I think it may be funnier as "hubrissed." OK. I thought that was funny too. I'm going to stop now. This can only end in tragedy.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Not Sarah's dog, Murphy (because y'all would most certainly question where I was grasping the poor creature, and you'd have good reason) -- Murphy of "if anything can go wrong, it will" fame.
Hey, Sarah, that's my own little shout out to your very cute and personable little dog. Scratch his ears for me. Tell him I was thinking of him. Tell him to bite any big, burly Male Ladies he may see.
Tomorrow... "How to Make Grown-Up Friends: a fantasy" by Marin
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
A Vow of Silence...
...might be my only hope.
Had you going there for a moment, didn't I?
What the HELL is wrong with me? I went to Favourite Bar last night for dinner and Eric the Wayward Bartender was working (he's been going to real estate school, so I haven't seen him in a month). It was all very pleasant and normal until... well, I'm pretty sure I said, "Guess who I'm sleeping with," then told him.
That's crass and grubbing for the limelight and unnecessarily forward and I'm sure TMI and not any of his business in all likelihood and not my story to bandy about like there's nobody else involved for sure.
What the HELL is wrong with me?
[SUMMARY: I was raised better than my recent actions would indicate.]
Anyway, how was your weekend?
*ahem*
I knit and knit and knit on Friday night,+ finishing the fuzzy, felty clutch. It's my first felted project. And the first time I've done cables since the first cables I did five years ago.
Because I'm such a fucking nightmare,† and we all know knitting pictures make everything better,‡ here are the pictures of the felted clutch:
Done knitting, not started felting
Fresh out of the washer, not yet blocked
Blocked, dry, no cool little magnetic clasp, but we'll get there soon enough
So, let's see... I'm supposed to do the who/what/when/where on this, right?
Pattern: Cleo Clutch by Chrissy Gardiner for Spun Magazine.
Yarn: Cascade 220, um... blue. Probably 9468. I have quite a bit of yarn left over (leftover yarn? Bah!), but probably not enough for a whole other purse.
Needles: US10, Denise, would have been much faster on Addis, but I either have no size 10 Addis or they're stuck in a WIP (or a wormhole in the time space continuum with all my fucking Book Club books§).
This was very pleasant to knit, and I dig the felted cables thing. It was a great break from Stupid Blanket, the cables made it interesting, and the pattern is obvious enough after the first repeat that I didn't lose count (much) doing the KIB thing at Other Bar. And that's saying something for your girl who can't count to four.
So that's good knitting.
[SUMMARY: Yea, me!]
In bad knitting, I did another repeat on the Lacy Racy Bellocqs, then realised I had misread the pattern just a tiny bit and instead of doing a repeat of the pattern before starting on the calf shaping, I just barrelled right in, plant the flags and damn the jam, and now I'm 108 stitches into the calf shaping and afraid to have my sis-in-law try it on for fear that ONE INCH of missing ankle ruins the whole thing and requires frogging.¶
[SUMMARY: Bad Marin! Learn to read!]
Back to good knitting (after a fashion, no pun intended). I received my gift tags from Knitterella via Stitch Diva Saturday. That's fast. That's service. I'm delighted.
Just look how cool!
Can I take a moment to sing the praises of Stitch Diva?
I love the patterns on Stitch Diva, and when I buy them, I always just download them. One of the patterns I scarfed up last week didn't download properly, so I shot off an email asking if someone could help me.
Within a half-hour, Chie at Stitch Diva had emailed me the full set of pdf's for the pattern and apologised and wished me enjoyment in knitting the pattern... I felt all warm and fuzzy. Really, shouldn't knitting make you feel all warm and fuzzy?
I also have to give props# to The Yarn and Fiber Company, and I should have done it sooner.
When I went on my quest for Rowan 40, the Y&FC price was about three dollars cheaper for a new copy ($19.99) than the cheapest used copy ($22.97) I found on ebay and all those other auction/used book sites.
THEN... they have free shipping on everything, so that was my price, period.
And while their shipping policy says if you order after 3:00 any business day (which I did), it will probably go out the next day, they shipped mine within an hour of my placing the order and it arrived two days later (rather than the four promised in their shipping policy).
[SUMMARY: Yea, Stitch Diva! Yea, Yarn and Fiber Company!]
Let's see... we've covered the good and the bad. How 'bout the ugly?
Yeah. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. But I had fun. Actually, I think if I wasn't paralysed by the point where the twist meets the draft, I'd be pretty good at this spinning thing.
Kate is laughing her ass off somewhere right now.
[SUMMARY: I didn't pay my purple bill again this month, but look what I can do with a few yards of roving and a spindle!]
I got up fairly early% Saturday morning and went to Fantasy Orchids to get a little something for (new-mom and future proud owner of Stupid Blanket) Tani. And maybe me.
I can't believe I forgot to take pictures of the box of orchids I came home with. I have more than doubled the orchid population at the Barfly Beach & Resort in the last week.
While I was at the hothouse perusing the flowers, Kathryn of the Drunken Knitters texted to see if I'd like to have breakfast a Kyle's and I said yes. Kyle's is across the street from Patrick Carroll's where the drunken knitting happens (at least the more organised version of it) and just down the street from Sylvia's House of Fuzzy Crack. Not a bad locale for a breakfast joint.
That was all lovely diversion while I was waiting for Kelley not to call, then I went to see Spiderman 3 with dear old buddy Mick, an Elk, whom you may remember from poker night.
We had a couple of beers,†† saw the movie, and agreed it was 40 minutes too long. Then we had dinner (in the form of a trio of fried things off the Chili's menu. Chilli's menu. Whatever).
Then I went to Favourite Bar where everybody asked where Kelley was and told me she had been in earlier with The Boy and I took Sex Toy home and had a brief‡‡ but body-bending romp then Saturday was over.
[SUMMARY: A shitload happened on Saturday.]
Sunday brought fresh ink:
Didn't know you were getting half-naked Marin pics, did you? Hide the children!
This just goes to show that with a little judicious positioning and cropping, back fat can look like arm muscle.
Yes, it does.
Shut up.
And up close. Dear gods, I'm white.
I got the MOM 2-22-06 last year in Vegas on Mother's Day, but I asked the nice buzz-boy to make it 50% greyscale so it wouldn't be very dark. I changed my mind this year and asked my friendly neighbourhood buzz-boy (Justin at Celebrity Tattoo on Tennyson) to darken it up.
Justin also drew the dove, since I didn't want one with a baby Jesus in its mouth or a rainbow-coloured halo or flames shooting out of its eyes.
On a side note, it's damned difficult to take pictures of your own shoulder. I have half a big-assed memory card full of shit like this:
Look! It's Marin hair!
I took the close-up by setting the camera on top of the oversized TV in the livknitting room and taking full advantage of the time lapse between pushing the button and taking the picture.
Who knew that annoying 5-second delay would come in handy?
Then we had Mother's Day dinner at the brother's, which was very nice.
Then it was Monday and I barfed all over my blog and I had dinner at Favourite Bar and stuck my foot so far down my throat I qualify for the Tracy Lords (Traci Lords? Whatever) discount at the dentist and Kate saved me by calling to say she was at Patrick Carroll's having dinner and I joined her and it rained like I might need to take two of every animal into the Mini Coop and now it's Tuesday.
[SUMMARY: One more day of this crap and I may qualify for my own telethon. Am I whining again? So soon? Did I not learn my lesson?]
Time to go kiss a frog and see if I can get all better.
Maybe if I slip him some tongue.
+FOOTNOTE (plussed -- non-plussed?): You know, with no Kelley to lead me otherwise.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Today, tomorrow and apparently always. Holy fucking cats, I'm ashamed of myself. What the HELL is wrong with me?
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): And frogs. Frogs make everything better. Only I don't have any frogs, which might explain the horrifying lapse into personal fuckitude. Lack of frogs can turn your whole world sideways.
§FOOTNOTE (does that thing have a name?): Have I been cursing way more than usual today? No, stop, that was mostly rhetorical. Yes, yes I have. I know it. And I'm kinda sorry. I mean, it certainly speaks to the mood of the day, but really, it's not your fault. Have a frog or a bubble bath or some ecstasy or something and try to pretend it never happened.
¶FOOTNOTE (para'd): Not the good frogging we've been discussing, not the frogging that makes it all better, but the frogging that would truly suck because I have no lifelines that far back and it's all lace, baby. Pray for me. Better yet, pray my sister-in-law has short ankles.
#FOOTNOTE (numbered): Yeah, I said it and it's tired, but I'm old and I'm probably going to pretend it's ironic so maybe I should get some slack here.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): You know, no Kelley keeping me out late and all that.
††FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Like I'm going to continue non-alcoholic solidarity with Kelley when she blows me off. I try to be the bigger person; I'm not THAT big.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (double-double-crossed): Just an hour this time. He had to be at work at o'dark thirty. Hey, just because Eric doesn't need to know about my sex life doesn't mean you're off the hook.
TOMORROW... return of the Male Lady.
Had you going there for a moment, didn't I?
What the HELL is wrong with me? I went to Favourite Bar last night for dinner and Eric the Wayward Bartender was working (he's been going to real estate school, so I haven't seen him in a month). It was all very pleasant and normal until... well, I'm pretty sure I said, "Guess who I'm sleeping with," then told him.
That's crass and grubbing for the limelight and unnecessarily forward and I'm sure TMI and not any of his business in all likelihood and not my story to bandy about like there's nobody else involved for sure.
What the HELL is wrong with me?
[SUMMARY: I was raised better than my recent actions would indicate.]
Anyway, how was your weekend?
*ahem*
I knit and knit and knit on Friday night,+ finishing the fuzzy, felty clutch. It's my first felted project. And the first time I've done cables since the first cables I did five years ago.
Because I'm such a fucking nightmare,† and we all know knitting pictures make everything better,‡ here are the pictures of the felted clutch:
Done knitting, not started felting
Fresh out of the washer, not yet blocked
Blocked, dry, no cool little magnetic clasp, but we'll get there soon enough
So, let's see... I'm supposed to do the who/what/when/where on this, right?
Pattern: Cleo Clutch by Chrissy Gardiner for Spun Magazine.
Yarn: Cascade 220, um... blue. Probably 9468. I have quite a bit of yarn left over (leftover yarn? Bah!), but probably not enough for a whole other purse.
Needles: US10, Denise, would have been much faster on Addis, but I either have no size 10 Addis or they're stuck in a WIP (or a wormhole in the time space continuum with all my fucking Book Club books§).
This was very pleasant to knit, and I dig the felted cables thing. It was a great break from Stupid Blanket, the cables made it interesting, and the pattern is obvious enough after the first repeat that I didn't lose count (much) doing the KIB thing at Other Bar. And that's saying something for your girl who can't count to four.
So that's good knitting.
[SUMMARY: Yea, me!]
In bad knitting, I did another repeat on the Lacy Racy Bellocqs, then realised I had misread the pattern just a tiny bit and instead of doing a repeat of the pattern before starting on the calf shaping, I just barrelled right in, plant the flags and damn the jam, and now I'm 108 stitches into the calf shaping and afraid to have my sis-in-law try it on for fear that ONE INCH of missing ankle ruins the whole thing and requires frogging.¶
[SUMMARY: Bad Marin! Learn to read!]
Back to good knitting (after a fashion, no pun intended). I received my gift tags from Knitterella via Stitch Diva Saturday. That's fast. That's service. I'm delighted.
Just look how cool!
Can I take a moment to sing the praises of Stitch Diva?
I love the patterns on Stitch Diva, and when I buy them, I always just download them. One of the patterns I scarfed up last week didn't download properly, so I shot off an email asking if someone could help me.
Within a half-hour, Chie at Stitch Diva had emailed me the full set of pdf's for the pattern and apologised and wished me enjoyment in knitting the pattern... I felt all warm and fuzzy. Really, shouldn't knitting make you feel all warm and fuzzy?
I also have to give props# to The Yarn and Fiber Company, and I should have done it sooner.
When I went on my quest for Rowan 40, the Y&FC price was about three dollars cheaper for a new copy ($19.99) than the cheapest used copy ($22.97) I found on ebay and all those other auction/used book sites.
THEN... they have free shipping on everything, so that was my price, period.
And while their shipping policy says if you order after 3:00 any business day (which I did), it will probably go out the next day, they shipped mine within an hour of my placing the order and it arrived two days later (rather than the four promised in their shipping policy).
[SUMMARY: Yea, Stitch Diva! Yea, Yarn and Fiber Company!]
Let's see... we've covered the good and the bad. How 'bout the ugly?
Yeah. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. But I had fun. Actually, I think if I wasn't paralysed by the point where the twist meets the draft, I'd be pretty good at this spinning thing.
Kate is laughing her ass off somewhere right now.
[SUMMARY: I didn't pay my purple bill again this month, but look what I can do with a few yards of roving and a spindle!]
I got up fairly early% Saturday morning and went to Fantasy Orchids to get a little something for (new-mom and future proud owner of Stupid Blanket) Tani. And maybe me.
I can't believe I forgot to take pictures of the box of orchids I came home with. I have more than doubled the orchid population at the Barfly Beach & Resort in the last week.
While I was at the hothouse perusing the flowers, Kathryn of the Drunken Knitters texted to see if I'd like to have breakfast a Kyle's and I said yes. Kyle's is across the street from Patrick Carroll's where the drunken knitting happens (at least the more organised version of it) and just down the street from Sylvia's House of Fuzzy Crack. Not a bad locale for a breakfast joint.
That was all lovely diversion while I was waiting for Kelley not to call, then I went to see Spiderman 3 with dear old buddy Mick, an Elk, whom you may remember from poker night.
We had a couple of beers,†† saw the movie, and agreed it was 40 minutes too long. Then we had dinner (in the form of a trio of fried things off the Chili's menu. Chilli's menu. Whatever).
Then I went to Favourite Bar where everybody asked where Kelley was and told me she had been in earlier with The Boy and I took Sex Toy home and had a brief‡‡ but body-bending romp then Saturday was over.
[SUMMARY: A shitload happened on Saturday.]
Sunday brought fresh ink:
Didn't know you were getting half-naked Marin pics, did you? Hide the children!
This just goes to show that with a little judicious positioning and cropping, back fat can look like arm muscle.
Yes, it does.
Shut up.
And up close. Dear gods, I'm white.
I got the MOM 2-22-06 last year in Vegas on Mother's Day, but I asked the nice buzz-boy to make it 50% greyscale so it wouldn't be very dark. I changed my mind this year and asked my friendly neighbourhood buzz-boy (Justin at Celebrity Tattoo on Tennyson) to darken it up.
Justin also drew the dove, since I didn't want one with a baby Jesus in its mouth or a rainbow-coloured halo or flames shooting out of its eyes.
On a side note, it's damned difficult to take pictures of your own shoulder. I have half a big-assed memory card full of shit like this:
Look! It's Marin hair!
I took the close-up by setting the camera on top of the oversized TV in the livknitting room and taking full advantage of the time lapse between pushing the button and taking the picture.
Who knew that annoying 5-second delay would come in handy?
Then we had Mother's Day dinner at the brother's, which was very nice.
Then it was Monday and I barfed all over my blog and I had dinner at Favourite Bar and stuck my foot so far down my throat I qualify for the Tracy Lords (Traci Lords? Whatever) discount at the dentist and Kate saved me by calling to say she was at Patrick Carroll's having dinner and I joined her and it rained like I might need to take two of every animal into the Mini Coop and now it's Tuesday.
[SUMMARY: One more day of this crap and I may qualify for my own telethon. Am I whining again? So soon? Did I not learn my lesson?]
Time to go kiss a frog and see if I can get all better.
Maybe if I slip him some tongue.
+FOOTNOTE (plussed -- non-plussed?): You know, with no Kelley to lead me otherwise.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Today, tomorrow and apparently always. Holy fucking cats, I'm ashamed of myself. What the HELL is wrong with me?
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): And frogs. Frogs make everything better. Only I don't have any frogs, which might explain the horrifying lapse into personal fuckitude. Lack of frogs can turn your whole world sideways.
§FOOTNOTE (does that thing have a name?): Have I been cursing way more than usual today? No, stop, that was mostly rhetorical. Yes, yes I have. I know it. And I'm kinda sorry. I mean, it certainly speaks to the mood of the day, but really, it's not your fault. Have a frog or a bubble bath or some ecstasy or something and try to pretend it never happened.
¶FOOTNOTE (para'd): Not the good frogging we've been discussing, not the frogging that makes it all better, but the frogging that would truly suck because I have no lifelines that far back and it's all lace, baby. Pray for me. Better yet, pray my sister-in-law has short ankles.
#FOOTNOTE (numbered): Yeah, I said it and it's tired, but I'm old and I'm probably going to pretend it's ironic so maybe I should get some slack here.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): You know, no Kelley keeping me out late and all that.
††FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Like I'm going to continue non-alcoholic solidarity with Kelley when she blows me off. I try to be the bigger person; I'm not THAT big.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (double-double-crossed): Just an hour this time. He had to be at work at o'dark thirty. Hey, just because Eric doesn't need to know about my sex life doesn't mean you're off the hook.
TOMORROW... return of the Male Lady.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Smack My Bitch Up
I feel so bad about dumping that amazing crapload of whine on y'all that I'm tossing out a couple of bonus tidbits to make things a little more Marin around here:
First, ploughing through Rabbitch (someday I'll tell you about blogrules and OPBs), I found one of those blogthingies where they quiz you then give you html coding to cut and paste. So I answered the questions (what's your name, what's your birthday, if you must know), cutted and pasted, and here's my obituary:
At least they got the sex stuff in there.
Second, I took a quick peek at Analytics to find out how many people are reading this and why. Here is a list of some select search engine phrases that brought people to AntiM:
tragedy knitting
"please send vodka" photography
mini cat baby blankets
Mormon
falsely accused of stalking
...and (my personal favourite)
antim party star
There is one little question I'd like answered:
Why, in the name of all that is holy, are there 714 visits to AntiM today? It's like 89% of the entire traffic for the last week. What happened today?
Wait, I lied... two little questions:
And why did my daily average visits triple on April 26? There's this huge, glaring spike in the April 26 graph and I can't for the life of me figure why.
Anybody? Bueller? Bueller?
*whew*
I hope you feel better. I feel better.
First, ploughing through Rabbitch (someday I'll tell you about blogrules and OPBs), I found one of those blogthingies where they quiz you then give you html coding to cut and paste. So I answered the questions (what's your name, what's your birthday, if you must know), cutted and pasted, and here's my obituary:
 |
| 'What will your obituary say?' at QuizGalaxy.com |
At least they got the sex stuff in there.
Second, I took a quick peek at Analytics to find out how many people are reading this and why. Here is a list of some select search engine phrases that brought people to AntiM:
tragedy knitting
"please send vodka" photography
mini cat baby blankets
Mormon
falsely accused of stalking
...and (my personal favourite)
antim party star
There is one little question I'd like answered:
Why, in the name of all that is holy, are there 714 visits to AntiM today? It's like 89% of the entire traffic for the last week. What happened today?
Wait, I lied... two little questions:
And why did my daily average visits triple on April 26? There's this huge, glaring spike in the April 26 graph and I can't for the life of me figure why.
Anybody? Bueller? Bueller?
*whew*
I hope you feel better. I feel better.
Welcome to Moody Monday
I kinda want to hit something.
Maybe romance and friendship simply can't mix. We all know it's a scenario fraught with danger, but don't you find yourself in situations now and then that make it seem possible, if not downright desirable?
I'm not even talking about falling in love with a friend or trying to be friends with The Boy or any of those sitcom clichés.
Sorry, Kellys of the world, Kelley is doing nothing to advance your cause. Maybe it's that extra E that throws everything out of balance. Maybe I shouldn't paint all Kellys with the Kelley brush.
Here's the thing: I'm a small person inside who mostly feels compelled to be the bigger person on the outside. I will secretly throw shameful, selfish, petulant little tantrums in my own head (my brother is laughing right now. Please note that siblings are exempt from displays of false civility) and cry and whine and... outwardly, I'll be gracious, reasonable and hospitable.
So when Kelley spends all her time with The Boy, I'm in a state. I know they're best friends. I know I'm Marin-come-lately. I know I can't come between them and shouldn't begrudge them their time. But I don't have to be happy about it.†
And when Kelley says she'll call Saturday night and doesn't, and then (having missed Saturday) some time this week and doesn't, I know it's not like we bought tickets, gassed up the car and put on our best clothes and then she flaked; it's just a phone call. But I don't have to be happy about it.‡
And when I email her on Friday and say, "Hey, I know you're not drinking, but do you want to go grab a bite tonight or something?" and she says, "Bummer. The Boy is taking me out for pizza," I don't have to be happy about it.§
I'm not sure I'm allowed to be mad or hurt about any of this, even though I kinda am. And that brings its own variety of angst, because I *know* if I say something, the answer is, "Well, The Boy and I are best friends. We've been best friends for fifteen years," and she'd only be right.
[SUMMARY: I am a bad girl. I'm not sure I care.]
BUT... when Kelley calls Friday night and says, "The Boy's softball game wasn't cancelled like he thought so we can hang out for a little bit until he's done," I think the little twitch that develops under my right eye has some validation.
And when she reveals to Favourite Bartender that The Boy isn't even taking her out for pizza, he just said, "Maybe we can order a pizza or something when I get home," that's a little worse, isn't it?
And when she spends all our brief time together Friday night telling me she hung out with The Boy all week, doing nothing in particular, but couldn't take the time to call me last Saturday or "some time this week" because she was busy sitting on the steps with The Boy#, that's a little upsetting, right?
And when we had specific plans for this Saturday that waited only on a call from Kelley to say she was done with a Saturday morning work meeting and she never called and I went to Favourite Bar Saturday night to see if Sex Toy might be willing and able¶ and Susie and Brooks and Pete and Kris all took the time to tell me that Kelley and The Boy were in earlier and now it's Monday morning and I still haven't heard a peep and I'm hurt hurt hurt and being hurt sucks because tough girls don't cry and all this girly emotional shit doesn't sit well with me so I'm starting to get mad to mask the petty little hurt girl sniffling in the corner of my mind I'm allowed a growl or two, right?
[SUMMARY: Validation, people. I'm looking for validation.]
*sigh*
*growl*
I'm pretty straighforward, but rarely confrontational. If Kelley calls me, I'll tell her I'm upset, but it doesn't seem right to call her solely for the purpose of telling her I'm upset. So I'm stuck in this same-shitstorm-different-day world.
I wish I didn't like to talk so much. Hermit is looking like a pretty good career path right now.
So, OK, thanks for letting me vent. Don't worry about me. There was knitting (I even F'd an O this weekend. Not Stupid Blanket, no, but an O was F'd nonetheless) and fresh ink and a nice breakfast with a Drunken Knitter and a trip to the orchid farm. All this will be explored in time.
For today, I'm going with pissy and unreasonable.
Seems like a good choice for a Monday.
*growl*
*sigh*
p.s. -- The preceding message was brought to you by the number four. Now go check out Red's blog. She YouTubed the Eddie Izzard flag bit for your edification and enjoyment. It should help clear the palate of your mind of the shitstorm I have laid upon it.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Small. I know
‡FOOTNOTE (other crossed): Small. I know.
§FOOTNOTE (curvy thinged): Small. I know. Really, I'm not proud of any of this.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Seriously.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): The answer is yes, in case you were wondering. At least I have that going for me.
Maybe romance and friendship simply can't mix. We all know it's a scenario fraught with danger, but don't you find yourself in situations now and then that make it seem possible, if not downright desirable?
I'm not even talking about falling in love with a friend or trying to be friends with The Boy or any of those sitcom clichés.
Sorry, Kellys of the world, Kelley is doing nothing to advance your cause. Maybe it's that extra E that throws everything out of balance. Maybe I shouldn't paint all Kellys with the Kelley brush.
Here's the thing: I'm a small person inside who mostly feels compelled to be the bigger person on the outside. I will secretly throw shameful, selfish, petulant little tantrums in my own head (my brother is laughing right now. Please note that siblings are exempt from displays of false civility) and cry and whine and... outwardly, I'll be gracious, reasonable and hospitable.
So when Kelley spends all her time with The Boy, I'm in a state. I know they're best friends. I know I'm Marin-come-lately. I know I can't come between them and shouldn't begrudge them their time. But I don't have to be happy about it.†
And when Kelley says she'll call Saturday night and doesn't, and then (having missed Saturday) some time this week and doesn't, I know it's not like we bought tickets, gassed up the car and put on our best clothes and then she flaked; it's just a phone call. But I don't have to be happy about it.‡
And when I email her on Friday and say, "Hey, I know you're not drinking, but do you want to go grab a bite tonight or something?" and she says, "Bummer. The Boy is taking me out for pizza," I don't have to be happy about it.§
I'm not sure I'm allowed to be mad or hurt about any of this, even though I kinda am. And that brings its own variety of angst, because I *know* if I say something, the answer is, "Well, The Boy and I are best friends. We've been best friends for fifteen years," and she'd only be right.
[SUMMARY: I am a bad girl. I'm not sure I care.]
BUT... when Kelley calls Friday night and says, "The Boy's softball game wasn't cancelled like he thought so we can hang out for a little bit until he's done," I think the little twitch that develops under my right eye has some validation.
And when she reveals to Favourite Bartender that The Boy isn't even taking her out for pizza, he just said, "Maybe we can order a pizza or something when I get home," that's a little worse, isn't it?
And when she spends all our brief time together Friday night telling me she hung out with The Boy all week, doing nothing in particular, but couldn't take the time to call me last Saturday or "some time this week" because she was busy sitting on the steps with The Boy#, that's a little upsetting, right?
And when we had specific plans for this Saturday that waited only on a call from Kelley to say she was done with a Saturday morning work meeting and she never called and I went to Favourite Bar Saturday night to see if Sex Toy might be willing and able¶ and Susie and Brooks and Pete and Kris all took the time to tell me that Kelley and The Boy were in earlier and now it's Monday morning and I still haven't heard a peep and I'm hurt hurt hurt and being hurt sucks because tough girls don't cry and all this girly emotional shit doesn't sit well with me so I'm starting to get mad to mask the petty little hurt girl sniffling in the corner of my mind I'm allowed a growl or two, right?
[SUMMARY: Validation, people. I'm looking for validation.]
*sigh*
*growl*
I'm pretty straighforward, but rarely confrontational. If Kelley calls me, I'll tell her I'm upset, but it doesn't seem right to call her solely for the purpose of telling her I'm upset. So I'm stuck in this same-shitstorm-different-day world.
I wish I didn't like to talk so much. Hermit is looking like a pretty good career path right now.
So, OK, thanks for letting me vent. Don't worry about me. There was knitting (I even F'd an O this weekend. Not Stupid Blanket, no, but an O was F'd nonetheless) and fresh ink and a nice breakfast with a Drunken Knitter and a trip to the orchid farm. All this will be explored in time.
For today, I'm going with pissy and unreasonable.
Seems like a good choice for a Monday.
*growl*
*sigh*
p.s. -- The preceding message was brought to you by the number four. Now go check out Red's blog. She YouTubed the Eddie Izzard flag bit for your edification and enjoyment. It should help clear the palate of your mind of the shitstorm I have laid upon it.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Small. I know
‡FOOTNOTE (other crossed): Small. I know.
§FOOTNOTE (curvy thinged): Small. I know. Really, I'm not proud of any of this.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Seriously.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): The answer is yes, in case you were wondering. At least I have that going for me.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Preppy Prosty?
So there I was, walking down the street, wearing jeans, orthopedic sandals and a GREEN LACOSTE SHIRT WITH A FUCKING ALLIGATOR ON IT.
A scraggly dude in a green Ford Taurus pulled up and asked me how much for a date.
Seriously.
A scraggly dude in a green Ford Taurus pulled up and asked me how much for a date.
Seriously.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Too Much is Never Enough
(was that a Tattinger champagne commercial?)
Looky what I got last night at Sylvia's House of Fuzzy Crack:†
and...
It was a reward for knitting five rows on Stupid Blanket.
OK, so I hadn't actually *started* those five rows when I rewarded myself, but I am a creature of integrity and some discipline and I followed through even though I got the carrot long before I towed the donkey cart to market.‡
Also yesterday (*ahem* you'll begin to see a pattern of excess here shortly), I went to Barnes & Noble because I just got paid and I need my fix, dude.
I got one of these:
Stunning book. Lovely patterns.§ You really should get it.
and one of these...
I honestly don't know why. I love socks, but I tend to be pretty pedestrian¶ in knitting them. Perhaps that's as good a reason as any to have hundreds of thousands of exotic sock patterns on hand, should I ever wish to drop everything and knit exotic socks. I could burst into an exectutive action sock knitter at any moment because I have the tools.
And jam.#
and I got one of these...
At lunch, I also went to Knit Picks and ordered one of these and a set of these and one of these and enough of this†† to make this.‡‡
Oh, and this, this, this and a tin of these from Stitch Diva.
Let's see, if I push the weekly beerfest to Wednesday, move the bathwhore meetings to Saturday afternoons, push the Sex Toy romp back a couple of hours... I should be able to sleep some time in 2009.
[SUMMARY: Books and knitting: two great addictions that taste great together!]
I also got this:
...which is the Book Club book for May.
OK, Knitketeers, I have a mission for you. I have placed the Book Club book on the shelf over the fireplace (mantel, for short), thus:
Said mantel is in the living room, thus:
Now, come, oh... May 18 or so when I decide I should actually *read* the book, if I panic and whine and question my sanity, I'm putting it in y'all's capable hands to REMIND ME WHERE THE FUCKING BOOK IS.
I am determined to break the cycle of paying each and every author *twice* for his book. No matter how good the book is, I'd rather not pay double. And I see no point in tipping authors. It's not like they'll comp you a drink if you tip them well enough often enough. Y'all understand.
So remember: book on mantel, mantel in living room.
[SUMMARY: There is more than one type of book problem. I have them all.]
Also remember: Mother's Day Sunday. Love your mother. Kiss your mother. Cherish your mother. Fete and pamper and appreciate your mother.
I can't give you any better reason than to tell you how much I miss my mother.
[SUMMARY: Word to your mothers.]
†FOOTNOTE (plus!): As always, the roving is far purpler than it looks here. I thought the camera had recently gotten purple (remember how excited I was? Good times, good times...), but it turns out it's like those HBO specials where they run it for a weekend and you get all excited 'cause you think you're really pulling one over on the fucking cable company and getting HBO for free and it turns out it's just a tease and all the purple leaks out of your camera overnight because you didn't pay your purple bill.
‡FOOTNOTE (plusplus!): I have a really clear picture of that process in my head. Was anyone else following the analogy?
§FOOTNOTE (esssss!): Not all garters and underwires, either -- there's skirts and really, really cute tops. Seriously, check it out.
¶FOOTNOTE (peeeee!): Mwahahahahahah!
#FOOTNOTE (nooooo!): Seriously, rent... no, don't rent -- BUY -- Eddie Izzard's Dressed to Kill. Jam will take on a whole new meaning for you. And you may be eligible to join the Red-n-Marin Secret Dash Clever Jam & Flag Society.
All will be clear once you embrace your inner Izzard.
††FOOTNOTE (bonus!): In amethyst.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (woo-hoo!): It's a Rowan pattern, but I like what Vanessa did with hers, and it's what the Yarn Harlot is doing, so I'm copying because I'm a joiner with no imagination. Except the purple. Vanessa and Stephanie didn't do purple.
Looky what I got last night at Sylvia's House of Fuzzy Crack:†
and...
It was a reward for knitting five rows on Stupid Blanket.
OK, so I hadn't actually *started* those five rows when I rewarded myself, but I am a creature of integrity and some discipline and I followed through even though I got the carrot long before I towed the donkey cart to market.‡
Also yesterday (*ahem* you'll begin to see a pattern of excess here shortly), I went to Barnes & Noble because I just got paid and I need my fix, dude.
I got one of these:
Stunning book. Lovely patterns.§ You really should get it.
and one of these...
I honestly don't know why. I love socks, but I tend to be pretty pedestrian¶ in knitting them. Perhaps that's as good a reason as any to have hundreds of thousands of exotic sock patterns on hand, should I ever wish to drop everything and knit exotic socks. I could burst into an exectutive action sock knitter at any moment because I have the tools.
And jam.#
and I got one of these...
At lunch, I also went to Knit Picks and ordered one of these and a set of these and one of these and enough of this†† to make this.‡‡
Oh, and this, this, this and a tin of these from Stitch Diva.
Let's see, if I push the weekly beerfest to Wednesday, move the bathwhore meetings to Saturday afternoons, push the Sex Toy romp back a couple of hours... I should be able to sleep some time in 2009.
[SUMMARY: Books and knitting: two great addictions that taste great together!]
I also got this:
...which is the Book Club book for May.
OK, Knitketeers, I have a mission for you. I have placed the Book Club book on the shelf over the fireplace (mantel, for short), thus:
Said mantel is in the living room, thus:
Now, come, oh... May 18 or so when I decide I should actually *read* the book, if I panic and whine and question my sanity, I'm putting it in y'all's capable hands to REMIND ME WHERE THE FUCKING BOOK IS.
I am determined to break the cycle of paying each and every author *twice* for his book. No matter how good the book is, I'd rather not pay double. And I see no point in tipping authors. It's not like they'll comp you a drink if you tip them well enough often enough. Y'all understand.
So remember: book on mantel, mantel in living room.
[SUMMARY: There is more than one type of book problem. I have them all.]
Also remember: Mother's Day Sunday. Love your mother. Kiss your mother. Cherish your mother. Fete and pamper and appreciate your mother.
I can't give you any better reason than to tell you how much I miss my mother.
[SUMMARY: Word to your mothers.]
†FOOTNOTE (plus!): As always, the roving is far purpler than it looks here. I thought the camera had recently gotten purple (remember how excited I was? Good times, good times...), but it turns out it's like those HBO specials where they run it for a weekend and you get all excited 'cause you think you're really pulling one over on the fucking cable company and getting HBO for free and it turns out it's just a tease and all the purple leaks out of your camera overnight because you didn't pay your purple bill.
‡FOOTNOTE (plusplus!): I have a really clear picture of that process in my head. Was anyone else following the analogy?
§FOOTNOTE (esssss!): Not all garters and underwires, either -- there's skirts and really, really cute tops. Seriously, check it out.
¶FOOTNOTE (peeeee!): Mwahahahahahah!
#FOOTNOTE (nooooo!): Seriously, rent... no, don't rent -- BUY -- Eddie Izzard's Dressed to Kill. Jam will take on a whole new meaning for you. And you may be eligible to join the Red-n-Marin Secret Dash Clever Jam & Flag Society.
All will be clear once you embrace your inner Izzard.
††FOOTNOTE (bonus!): In amethyst.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (woo-hoo!): It's a Rowan pattern, but I like what Vanessa did with hers, and it's what the Yarn Harlot is doing, so I'm copying because I'm a joiner with no imagination. Except the purple. Vanessa and Stephanie didn't do purple.
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.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Sweater Puppies Save the Day
Well, almost.
I think.
See, Kelley and I walked First Friday on Friday (duh) night. Then we went to New Bar, where we met Ken.
Ken is, I'd guess (and I'm bad at this, so take it with a grain of salt) 60 years old. Kelley and I, being nice people,* talked to him. Because of that, he picked up our tab. New Bar is not cheap.
There is some speculation that the cute Calvin Klein tshirt shows a LOT of cleavage (a lot of the boobs in general, cleavage included) and that may also have something to do with Ken's largesse. Now, Ken was a very nice man and I'm not downplaying him in any way, but he did talk to my chest a few times.
Believe it or not, that's never happened to me. Not that I've noticed.
[SUMMARY: I am granting mystical powers to my boobs.]
We tottered off to Favourite Bar, where Favourite Bartender said, "Give me some gossip. What's going on with you and Sex Toy?"†
"I don't think there *is* a me and Sex Toy, really," says I.
"It's just one of those things?"
"I'm pretty sure. But we're having fun."
I find it touching that Favourite Bartender seemed disappointed that there isn't some wild romance going on between me and Sex Toy. Of course, I could have given him details of what *does* go on between me and Sex Toy and that would probably have satisfied his... curiosity...
Is that what the kids are calling it these days?
So Sex Toy and I were flirting in that not-so-much-flirting-as-foreplay way when a guy came in and said, "Are you Sex Toy?"
"Uh, yeahhhh..." said Sex Toy.
"Some girl is out here looking for you and she says she needs money."
He laughed, looked at me and said, "She came to the wrong place. I better go see what's going on."
A few minutes later, he came back in with a stumbling blonde. Literally. In fact, she fell over trying to pick up a cigarette she dropped on the floor. Seems she was out with her friends, got beyond hammered and decided to check in on her old buddy Sex Toy.
The first thing she did (after scraping herself off the floor) was wobble to the bar to be immediately cut off by Favourite Bartender.
[SUMMARY: Go, Favourite Bartender!]
So my potential for a mighty romp dwindled to nothing as he attempted to get water into her and keep her away from the irritated patrons of Favourite Bar.
"Shit," said Sex Toy a little later, coming in for more water whilst Stumbling Blonde smoked and cried on the patio. "I'm going to have to get her home."
"I like that you take care of your friends," said I, "but I worry about all you're missing." I can do a hell of a pout and eyelash bat when I want to.
"Oh, no..." he said as I bellied up to his bar.
"Yep. Just look at 'em, all alone now, nobody to play with."
"Stop it, you're killing me."
"And I just got new sheets. I was hoping you could take them for a test drive."
"Stop, stop, stop..."
"And you know that thing I do with my tongue...?"
"Oh, God..."
"Sorry, darlin'. Just playing with you. I know you have to take care of your friend. I'll stop now. But thanks for the reaction. Makes me feel wanted."
A few minutes later, Stumbling Blonde tripped my direction to say, "You're so sweet. Thanks for letting Sex Toy take me home." Which I think is funny, since, y'all know, Sex Toy and I don't really have a thing, just a thing. But apparently he let her know his thing was in a sling taking care of her.
When the night was closing, he came up to the bar to settle up and leaned on me in a pointed way,‡ so I leaned back a little for a final flash of the girls and licked my lips in what may have been considered a suggestive manner.
"Aaarrrggghhh..." he said softly in my ear, putting his arms around me and nuzzling my neck.
"Now stop that!" I said, "Don't get me all worked up and leave me. Go!"
He laughed. One of the things I like about him -- he gets my weird sense of humour.
So that's my near-sex experience from Friday.
[SUMMARY: I can be mean, can't I?]
Saturday, I went to Jack's 40th birthday, which was a casino theme. The party was at a golf course, and the party room right over the giant garage where the golf carts live. The Texas Hold 'Em table was right over the garage door, and they kept opening and closing it.§ And it buzzed my chair. And I saw that it was good.
Begat, begat, begat.
Marin-be-Marin, I started playing it up.
"Pony ride!" I shrieked at one point.
The dealer started cracking jokes about how the play had to come to a grinding (ha!) halt when the garage door was running until Marin could concentrate again.
"This is saving me a fortune in batteries," said I.
[SUMMARY: I can be distracted easily, can't I?]
Do two near-sex experiences make a single sex experience?
So that's the tale of lust, loss and longing.
And garage doors.
*FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Well, Kelley more than I.
†FOOTNOTE (almost a religious experience): You do realise everyone else calls him by name.
‡FOOTNOTE (is that a dagger I see before me?): Oh yes I did. No joke is too cheesy or sleazy for this chick.
§FOOTNOTE (twining, vining, sixty... oh, stop): We speculated through the night as to why on earth they had to open and close the garage door *that* many times. Not that I was complaining, mind you, just wondering. Don't the golf carts just come in and stay in, say, after dark?
I think.
See, Kelley and I walked First Friday on Friday (duh) night. Then we went to New Bar, where we met Ken.
Ken is, I'd guess (and I'm bad at this, so take it with a grain of salt) 60 years old. Kelley and I, being nice people,* talked to him. Because of that, he picked up our tab. New Bar is not cheap.
There is some speculation that the cute Calvin Klein tshirt shows a LOT of cleavage (a lot of the boobs in general, cleavage included) and that may also have something to do with Ken's largesse. Now, Ken was a very nice man and I'm not downplaying him in any way, but he did talk to my chest a few times.
Believe it or not, that's never happened to me. Not that I've noticed.
[SUMMARY: I am granting mystical powers to my boobs.]
We tottered off to Favourite Bar, where Favourite Bartender said, "Give me some gossip. What's going on with you and Sex Toy?"†
"I don't think there *is* a me and Sex Toy, really," says I.
"It's just one of those things?"
"I'm pretty sure. But we're having fun."
I find it touching that Favourite Bartender seemed disappointed that there isn't some wild romance going on between me and Sex Toy. Of course, I could have given him details of what *does* go on between me and Sex Toy and that would probably have satisfied his... curiosity...
Is that what the kids are calling it these days?
So Sex Toy and I were flirting in that not-so-much-flirting-as-foreplay way when a guy came in and said, "Are you Sex Toy?"
"Uh, yeahhhh..." said Sex Toy.
"Some girl is out here looking for you and she says she needs money."
He laughed, looked at me and said, "She came to the wrong place. I better go see what's going on."
A few minutes later, he came back in with a stumbling blonde. Literally. In fact, she fell over trying to pick up a cigarette she dropped on the floor. Seems she was out with her friends, got beyond hammered and decided to check in on her old buddy Sex Toy.
The first thing she did (after scraping herself off the floor) was wobble to the bar to be immediately cut off by Favourite Bartender.
[SUMMARY: Go, Favourite Bartender!]
So my potential for a mighty romp dwindled to nothing as he attempted to get water into her and keep her away from the irritated patrons of Favourite Bar.
"Shit," said Sex Toy a little later, coming in for more water whilst Stumbling Blonde smoked and cried on the patio. "I'm going to have to get her home."
"I like that you take care of your friends," said I, "but I worry about all you're missing." I can do a hell of a pout and eyelash bat when I want to.
"Oh, no..." he said as I bellied up to his bar.
"Yep. Just look at 'em, all alone now, nobody to play with."
"Stop it, you're killing me."
"And I just got new sheets. I was hoping you could take them for a test drive."
"Stop, stop, stop..."
"And you know that thing I do with my tongue...?"
"Oh, God..."
"Sorry, darlin'. Just playing with you. I know you have to take care of your friend. I'll stop now. But thanks for the reaction. Makes me feel wanted."
A few minutes later, Stumbling Blonde tripped my direction to say, "You're so sweet. Thanks for letting Sex Toy take me home." Which I think is funny, since, y'all know, Sex Toy and I don't really have a thing, just a thing. But apparently he let her know his thing was in a sling taking care of her.
When the night was closing, he came up to the bar to settle up and leaned on me in a pointed way,‡ so I leaned back a little for a final flash of the girls and licked my lips in what may have been considered a suggestive manner.
"Aaarrrggghhh..." he said softly in my ear, putting his arms around me and nuzzling my neck.
"Now stop that!" I said, "Don't get me all worked up and leave me. Go!"
He laughed. One of the things I like about him -- he gets my weird sense of humour.
So that's my near-sex experience from Friday.
[SUMMARY: I can be mean, can't I?]
Saturday, I went to Jack's 40th birthday, which was a casino theme. The party was at a golf course, and the party room right over the giant garage where the golf carts live. The Texas Hold 'Em table was right over the garage door, and they kept opening and closing it.§ And it buzzed my chair. And I saw that it was good.
Begat, begat, begat.
Marin-be-Marin, I started playing it up.
"Pony ride!" I shrieked at one point.
The dealer started cracking jokes about how the play had to come to a grinding (ha!) halt when the garage door was running until Marin could concentrate again.
"This is saving me a fortune in batteries," said I.
[SUMMARY: I can be distracted easily, can't I?]
Do two near-sex experiences make a single sex experience?
So that's the tale of lust, loss and longing.
And garage doors.
*FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Well, Kelley more than I.
†FOOTNOTE (almost a religious experience): You do realise everyone else calls him by name.
‡FOOTNOTE (is that a dagger I see before me?): Oh yes I did. No joke is too cheesy or sleazy for this chick.
§FOOTNOTE (twining, vining, sixty... oh, stop): We speculated through the night as to why on earth they had to open and close the garage door *that* many times. Not that I was complaining, mind you, just wondering. Don't the golf carts just come in and stay in, say, after dark?
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Sex and Spas and Sticks and Strings
I'm terribly busy and cheating on today's post by making Sarah write it for me. In the comments, Sarah said:
Come on, tell us about the sex! It's been 24 hours. I think we've waited long enough. (I am a boring smug-married, so I like stories.)
Oh, and ... the blanket looks really beautiful! Seriously! I think the differences in stripe placement make it look like a Navajo blanket or something expensive one might purchase in the Southwest on a spa vacation..... yes that's it. A spa vacation.
Uhm, can you por favor tell us why you chose to use linen stitch for a blanket? (Did I miss that somewhere, or is it just implied by virtue of Stupid Blanket's nomenclature?)
*************
Dear Sarah (and anyone else who's interested),
Sex tommorrow, sex yesterday, never sex today...
Sorry, very busy at work. But I PROMISE sex tomorrow. Well, there wasn't any actual sex... I'll try to make it as lusty as I can.
And the garage door was funny and a little prurient.
Linen stitch is really what *makes* Stupid Blanket stupid; I don't like most variegated yarns (flashing, pooling, all that) but I found a pattern using linen stitch w/variegated yarn and it's really cool. All woven and classy lookin'. So when my beloved cousin picked this yarn for her baby's blanket, I thought, "Variegated! I can use linen stitch!"
Please keep in mind that 1) I had knit about three square inches of linen stitch and didn't realise the implication of forty acres of stupid, and 2) I didn't know it was actually more of a striping yarn than a short-repeat variegate that would look all woven and classy in linen stitch.
By the time I had realised how stupid it all was, It was a little late. My brother even suggested switching to something else in the middle and using the linen stitch on both ends, but everything I tried got too busy (there's also a leaf/lace pattern border in solid grey that will be added when the body of Stupid Blanket is done).
And now I have too much pride to be beaten by something I've called Stupid for the last three months. It will be finished soon. I have faith. In the meantime, I have the southwest spa concept to keep me going (thank you).
Really, Sex Toy and the garage door tomorrow.
Love,
Marin
Come on, tell us about the sex! It's been 24 hours. I think we've waited long enough. (I am a boring smug-married, so I like stories.)
Oh, and ... the blanket looks really beautiful! Seriously! I think the differences in stripe placement make it look like a Navajo blanket or something expensive one might purchase in the Southwest on a spa vacation..... yes that's it. A spa vacation.
Uhm, can you por favor tell us why you chose to use linen stitch for a blanket? (Did I miss that somewhere, or is it just implied by virtue of Stupid Blanket's nomenclature?)
*************
Dear Sarah (and anyone else who's interested),
Sex tommorrow, sex yesterday, never sex today...
Sorry, very busy at work. But I PROMISE sex tomorrow. Well, there wasn't any actual sex... I'll try to make it as lusty as I can.
And the garage door was funny and a little prurient.
Linen stitch is really what *makes* Stupid Blanket stupid; I don't like most variegated yarns (flashing, pooling, all that) but I found a pattern using linen stitch w/variegated yarn and it's really cool. All woven and classy lookin'. So when my beloved cousin picked this yarn for her baby's blanket, I thought, "Variegated! I can use linen stitch!"
Please keep in mind that 1) I had knit about three square inches of linen stitch and didn't realise the implication of forty acres of stupid, and 2) I didn't know it was actually more of a striping yarn than a short-repeat variegate that would look all woven and classy in linen stitch.
By the time I had realised how stupid it all was, It was a little late. My brother even suggested switching to something else in the middle and using the linen stitch on both ends, but everything I tried got too busy (there's also a leaf/lace pattern border in solid grey that will be added when the body of Stupid Blanket is done).
And now I have too much pride to be beaten by something I've called Stupid for the last three months. It will be finished soon. I have faith. In the meantime, I have the southwest spa concept to keep me going (thank you).
Really, Sex Toy and the garage door tomorrow.
Love,
Marin
Monday, May 7, 2007
Blanket of Notes
There was almost sex this weekend. There was a very interesting, vibrating garage door this weekend. I will speak of neither here today.^
[SUMMARY: Even when I claim not to be talking about sex, there's a good chance I'm talking about sex.]
I will speak of relatively clean knitting... um, living rooms.
Note the utter lack of a sea of yarn right in front of the television. Note the freshly-vacuumed carpet. Note the healthful snacks† awaiting the Stupid Blanket Brigade.
I was going to move the knittliving room fibre to the Yarn Room, but decided, "Hell, if you're going to invite fibre geeks into your home, you may as well give them something to get geeked about." But do note the neat ziploc'd tidiness of it all.
Here is what Stupid Blanket looked like before the crew arrived. Note the number and position of stripes for comparison later on.
[SUMMARY: It takes a village AND the kind of preparation normally reserved for royal weddings to knit a Stupid Blanket.]
Here, Sarah takes a turn on Stupid Blanket. I'm *sure* Sarah and Red are laughing WITH Stupid Blanket rather than AT Stupid Blanket.
This is also where Sarah discovers just how tightly I knit (the blanket would be a queen-sized afghan if anybody but me was knitting it). This is also just about the time she learns just why Stupid Blanket is Stupid (through no fault of its own).
Kathryn claimed to be too novice a knitter, or the Stupid Blanket too important -- maybe a combination of the two (she wasn't taking any chances) -- for her to work on it. Kathryn had a happy, relaxed Sunday of knitting.
Here is Action Red:
Here is Executive Red:
If you can guess what we're watching by those last two lines, you can be in the secret club. If you can't, go right now to your local video store and check out Eddie Izzard's "Dressed to Kill."
After eight hours of wine, bitching, snacks, disbelief, pizza and total validation for the Marin angst over Stupid Blanket#, we accomplished this:‡
For those of you scoring at home, it's almost THREE INCHES of Stupid Blanket. In one afternoon. Of marathon Stupid Blanket knitting.§ I'd like to remind you here that it takes ten rows to the inch, 150 stitches to the row. This means we knit more than 4000 Stupid Stitches. It also means that for the first time since I started this debacle, there was *visible* progress over a single day.
[SUMMARY: Sarah and Kate are KnitGoddesses who deserve the rank of Conqueror of Stupid Blanket.]
Because of Red-and-Sarah-driven Blanket Magic, I was able to make some progress on Green Gables...
...and Big Baby...
...and even this Cleo Clutch from Spun Magazine, which you haven't seen before right now (the grand unveiling is less than climactic, isn't it?¶).
Bonus! Early-morning Cat for Scale. Please ignore the quantity of kitty litter tracked onto the chair. It's pretty much his chair and he can decorate it however he wants.
[SUMMARY: Much was accomplished. My spoiled cat has his own chair. What does a cat need with a recliner anyway?]
It should be noted (but you probably didn't, 'cause I didn't tell you to) that Megan-from-Work was also there. I'm sort of re-teaching Megan-from-Work to knit. I liked having Megan around. While she can count to four, unlike her KnitYoda^^, she can't count to SIXTY-four, so I felt ever-so-slightly better about my math skills.
[SUMMARY: Always revel in other people's shortcomings. It makes you look so much better by comparison. Yes, I'm rolling my eyes.]
And, yes, I stopped drinking for a couple of weeks (see footnotes) out of solidarity with my bestest drinking buddy, Kelley. Kelley has to be on some hellacious antibiotics for a couple of weeks to clear up a lingering ear infection††. She can't drink at all whilst under the thumb of medical science, so I offered to join her.
Among the other notes, you may have noted the prevalence of wine glasses in the photos above. Yes, I did have some wine yesterday. But I went to Jack's (you remember Jack -- he flipped me off at the Elks' poker party a few weeks back) 40th birthday Saturday night and didn't drink a drop of alcohol. Turns out Kelley didn't start her moratorium on adult beverages until Sunday, so I gave myself the excuse.
Besides, please note... STUPID BLANKET. Anaesthetic was *necessary*.
[SUMMARY. Alcohol tomorrow, alcohol yesterday, but never alcohol today‡‡.]
^FOOTNOTE (pointed): Nya-nya-ny-nya-nyahhhh
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): If you cater it, they will come.
#FOOTNOTE (we're number one!): It was put forth that 1) nobody should ever do a linen stitch baby blanket ever again, 2) linen stitching hurts your hands and 3) this was a bad week to stop drinking (any week with a Stupid Blanket is a bad week to stop drinking).
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): I so very don't get why the striping pattern changed. I started a new ball of yarn... well, see how it goes, very evenly, wide dark grey-wide dark blue-skinny light grey-wide light blue? And see that really skinny little dark blue? And see that really skinny little light blue that then goes into a wide band of what looks like the light grey? Then the skinny little light blue again? Then the wide band of light grey again? I started the new ball right in the middle of the skinny dark blue stripe. I could understand if the skinny dark blue stripe was the only anomaly, but the anomalies are taking over the pattern now.
Lie to me.
Tell me it just adds to the handmade look.
§FOOTNOTE (sexy curvy): It was such a turn-on to sit and knit on something I *wanted* to knit and know the Stupid Blanket was somehow magically getting done.
¶FOOTNOTE (paranormal paragraph): Seriously, if sex was as *meh* as that unveiling, I'd have fewer problems figuring out what to do with my time.
^^FOOTNOTE (toothy): That'd be me, in case I out-clevered myself.
††FOOTNOTE (heist, double-cross): I figured I'd better explain WHY antibiotics rather than leave it to the collective imagination of blogworld. I know where y'all can go without proper guidance.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (what the hell kind of double-double-cross is this?): Kate, do I get points for the obscure, round-about jam reference?
[SUMMARY: Even when I claim not to be talking about sex, there's a good chance I'm talking about sex.]
I will speak of relatively clean knitting... um, living rooms.
Note the utter lack of a sea of yarn right in front of the television. Note the freshly-vacuumed carpet. Note the healthful snacks† awaiting the Stupid Blanket Brigade.
I was going to move the knittliving room fibre to the Yarn Room, but decided, "Hell, if you're going to invite fibre geeks into your home, you may as well give them something to get geeked about." But do note the neat ziploc'd tidiness of it all.
Here is what Stupid Blanket looked like before the crew arrived. Note the number and position of stripes for comparison later on.
[SUMMARY: It takes a village AND the kind of preparation normally reserved for royal weddings to knit a Stupid Blanket.]
Here, Sarah takes a turn on Stupid Blanket. I'm *sure* Sarah and Red are laughing WITH Stupid Blanket rather than AT Stupid Blanket.
This is also where Sarah discovers just how tightly I knit (the blanket would be a queen-sized afghan if anybody but me was knitting it). This is also just about the time she learns just why Stupid Blanket is Stupid (through no fault of its own).
Kathryn claimed to be too novice a knitter, or the Stupid Blanket too important -- maybe a combination of the two (she wasn't taking any chances) -- for her to work on it. Kathryn had a happy, relaxed Sunday of knitting.
Here is Action Red:
Here is Executive Red:
If you can guess what we're watching by those last two lines, you can be in the secret club. If you can't, go right now to your local video store and check out Eddie Izzard's "Dressed to Kill."
After eight hours of wine, bitching, snacks, disbelief, pizza and total validation for the Marin angst over Stupid Blanket#, we accomplished this:‡
For those of you scoring at home, it's almost THREE INCHES of Stupid Blanket. In one afternoon. Of marathon Stupid Blanket knitting.§ I'd like to remind you here that it takes ten rows to the inch, 150 stitches to the row. This means we knit more than 4000 Stupid Stitches. It also means that for the first time since I started this debacle, there was *visible* progress over a single day.
[SUMMARY: Sarah and Kate are KnitGoddesses who deserve the rank of Conqueror of Stupid Blanket.]
Because of Red-and-Sarah-driven Blanket Magic, I was able to make some progress on Green Gables...
...and Big Baby...
...and even this Cleo Clutch from Spun Magazine, which you haven't seen before right now (the grand unveiling is less than climactic, isn't it?¶).
Bonus! Early-morning Cat for Scale. Please ignore the quantity of kitty litter tracked onto the chair. It's pretty much his chair and he can decorate it however he wants.
[SUMMARY: Much was accomplished. My spoiled cat has his own chair. What does a cat need with a recliner anyway?]
It should be noted (but you probably didn't, 'cause I didn't tell you to) that Megan-from-Work was also there. I'm sort of re-teaching Megan-from-Work to knit. I liked having Megan around. While she can count to four, unlike her KnitYoda^^, she can't count to SIXTY-four, so I felt ever-so-slightly better about my math skills.
[SUMMARY: Always revel in other people's shortcomings. It makes you look so much better by comparison. Yes, I'm rolling my eyes.]
And, yes, I stopped drinking for a couple of weeks (see footnotes) out of solidarity with my bestest drinking buddy, Kelley. Kelley has to be on some hellacious antibiotics for a couple of weeks to clear up a lingering ear infection††. She can't drink at all whilst under the thumb of medical science, so I offered to join her.
Among the other notes, you may have noted the prevalence of wine glasses in the photos above. Yes, I did have some wine yesterday. But I went to Jack's (you remember Jack -- he flipped me off at the Elks' poker party a few weeks back) 40th birthday Saturday night and didn't drink a drop of alcohol. Turns out Kelley didn't start her moratorium on adult beverages until Sunday, so I gave myself the excuse.
Besides, please note... STUPID BLANKET. Anaesthetic was *necessary*.
[SUMMARY. Alcohol tomorrow, alcohol yesterday, but never alcohol today‡‡.]
^FOOTNOTE (pointed): Nya-nya-ny-nya-nyahhhh
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): If you cater it, they will come.
#FOOTNOTE (we're number one!): It was put forth that 1) nobody should ever do a linen stitch baby blanket ever again, 2) linen stitching hurts your hands and 3) this was a bad week to stop drinking (any week with a Stupid Blanket is a bad week to stop drinking).
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): I so very don't get why the striping pattern changed. I started a new ball of yarn... well, see how it goes, very evenly, wide dark grey-wide dark blue-skinny light grey-wide light blue? And see that really skinny little dark blue? And see that really skinny little light blue that then goes into a wide band of what looks like the light grey? Then the skinny little light blue again? Then the wide band of light grey again? I started the new ball right in the middle of the skinny dark blue stripe. I could understand if the skinny dark blue stripe was the only anomaly, but the anomalies are taking over the pattern now.
Lie to me.
Tell me it just adds to the handmade look.
§FOOTNOTE (sexy curvy): It was such a turn-on to sit and knit on something I *wanted* to knit and know the Stupid Blanket was somehow magically getting done.
¶FOOTNOTE (paranormal paragraph): Seriously, if sex was as *meh* as that unveiling, I'd have fewer problems figuring out what to do with my time.
^^FOOTNOTE (toothy): That'd be me, in case I out-clevered myself.
††FOOTNOTE (heist, double-cross): I figured I'd better explain WHY antibiotics rather than leave it to the collective imagination of blogworld. I know where y'all can go without proper guidance.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (what the hell kind of double-double-cross is this?): Kate, do I get points for the obscure, round-about jam reference?
Friday, May 4, 2007
Long, Dark Laundry Time of the Soul
You know, I uploaded pics Wednesday night and got started on a fresh and lively new post and... yesterday sucked the time right out of me.
So this picture of the new project (Green Gables. You didn't think I was going to let the needles that came out of Heathers^ sit idle, did you?) is a little tiny outdated. This only shows, oh... three repeats of the neck pattern and I now have five repeats of the neck pattern. Woo-hoo!
Anne... Green Gables... you're no Heather, but I love you so...
[SUMMARY: Same knitting problem, different day.]
In other knitting knews, a Red concept that's been fomenting for a week or so is coming to fruition: It Takes a Village to Knit a Stupid Blanket.
As y'all know, the Stupid Blanket is my own fault. It's beautiful in a way I can no longer see and truly a labour of love, but so tedious. Do NOT do a baby blanket in miles of linen stitch if you can help it. That's my best knitting advice to you. Right up there with "don't poke your eye out with a DPN."
Anyway, I'm having a whole phalanx of Drunken Knitters to my house Sunday to help with Stupid Blanket. I'll be screening Eddie Izzard and probably Office Space and everybody will drink wine and eat chocolate and take a turn on the Stupid Blanket. When one person simply can't take it any longer, she'll pass it to the next victim... um, volunteer. Because I'm just the dork you know me to be, I will record the process for posterity.†
[SUMMARY: If you're loud enough, someone will shut you up. Sometimes by rewarding you by helping you with Stupid Blanket. This is a poor way to raise children or train dogs, but I like it for me.]
Fortunately or un-, this means I will have to make my house presentable for company. I'm hoping the provision of wine will help gloss over some of the minute details, but I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to get a lot of this...
...out of the middle of the living room and where it belongs. Much of it will go to the Yarn Room...
...but since Sarah really wants to see the Yarn Room‡, I'll probably have to straighten that up too.
Anybody read Rabbitch? She claims to be the third worst housekeeper. I'm not sure whether to claim the two spot or the four spot, but... let's just say your dear ol' AntiM would rather be knitting than cleaning. Part of that has to do with the tiny little OCD thing that won't let me *stop* cleaning once I start cleaning.
Hear that wee little *gritchgritchgritch* in the middle of the night? That'd be me, scrubbing around the bathroom fixtures with a toothbrush until three o'clock in the morning. Speaking of Lady MacBeth and her bloody hands, I never feel anything is really clean, but I'll scrub 'til we're all scraped raw to try to make it so.
Call me Lady McBath.
The funny thing? Other funny thing? I cleaned all my knitting up a couple of weeks ago. Well, all the knitting in the knitting room... er, living room. Y'all may remember. I broke out the ziploc bags and organised and straightened up§ and placed all the knitting that I wasn't going to be working on immediately in a laundry basket to take upstairs.
Said laundry basket sat, full of fibre, for more than a week. Then I needed the laundry basket for laundry. Floor fibre!
Then I folded the laundry, per my usual ritual, and placed it in the laundry basket(s) to be taken upstairs to be put away.
And I've been coming downstairs every morning for a week to pick my clothes out of the laundry basket(s) that still sit in the middle of the living room, right next to the massive pile of displaced knitting problem. There is an ever-growing pile of dirty clothes at the top of the stairs awaiting an empty laundry basket to give it a place to belong.
Is there anything simpler than just carrying the fucking basket up the stairs, emptying it appropriately, perhaps using it to cart the knitting problem to the Yarn Room, then giving the dirty clothes an appropriate home?
Tedious? No more tedious than Stupid Blanket or any cast-on.
Time consuming? No more time consuming than knitting. That was understatement for the sake of humour, in case you missed it.
Irritating in its mundanity? No more irritating than wandering around the living room naked, trying to put together an outfit from items I can almost *hear* wrinkling as they sit, day after day.
My conclusion is simple: logic can not be applied to housekeeping. Not in my world. To paraphrase Douglas Adams, housekeeping is an illusion, laundry doubly so.¶
I'll take "after" pictures.
^FOOTNOTE (pointed): Just for old times' sake: "My parents wanted to move me into high school out of the sixth grade, but we decided to chuck the idea because I'd have trouble making friends, blah, blah, blah. Now blah, blah, blah is all I ever do. I use my grand IQ to decide what color lip gloss to wear in the morning and how to hit three keggers before curfew..."
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): In lieu of "posterity," you may read "blogdork endeavours."
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Even though it's also where the books live, I call it the Yarn Room to fibre geeks because they get that dopey smile and dreamy, faraway look. I'm all about spreading the love -- it's just how I roll.
§FOOTNOTE (snaky): Be kind! Rewind!
¶FOOTNOTE (paraphrasing paragraph): It makes no sense. Style over substance, and style that allows me to paraquote Douglas Adams.
#FOOTNOTE (number five in a series, unmarked): All thanks to Secret Pal for the series of symbols to make my footnoting less... hilarity ensuing. Besides, I know she'll feel better once the proper marks are in place. Even if I don't put them in the right place around commas.
So this picture of the new project (Green Gables. You didn't think I was going to let the needles that came out of Heathers^ sit idle, did you?) is a little tiny outdated. This only shows, oh... three repeats of the neck pattern and I now have five repeats of the neck pattern. Woo-hoo!
Anne... Green Gables... you're no Heather, but I love you so...
[SUMMARY: Same knitting problem, different day.]
In other knitting knews, a Red concept that's been fomenting for a week or so is coming to fruition: It Takes a Village to Knit a Stupid Blanket.
As y'all know, the Stupid Blanket is my own fault. It's beautiful in a way I can no longer see and truly a labour of love, but so tedious. Do NOT do a baby blanket in miles of linen stitch if you can help it. That's my best knitting advice to you. Right up there with "don't poke your eye out with a DPN."
Anyway, I'm having a whole phalanx of Drunken Knitters to my house Sunday to help with Stupid Blanket. I'll be screening Eddie Izzard and probably Office Space and everybody will drink wine and eat chocolate and take a turn on the Stupid Blanket. When one person simply can't take it any longer, she'll pass it to the next victim... um, volunteer. Because I'm just the dork you know me to be, I will record the process for posterity.†
[SUMMARY: If you're loud enough, someone will shut you up. Sometimes by rewarding you by helping you with Stupid Blanket. This is a poor way to raise children or train dogs, but I like it for me.]
Fortunately or un-, this means I will have to make my house presentable for company. I'm hoping the provision of wine will help gloss over some of the minute details, but I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to get a lot of this...
...out of the middle of the living room and where it belongs. Much of it will go to the Yarn Room...
...but since Sarah really wants to see the Yarn Room‡, I'll probably have to straighten that up too.
Anybody read Rabbitch? She claims to be the third worst housekeeper. I'm not sure whether to claim the two spot or the four spot, but... let's just say your dear ol' AntiM would rather be knitting than cleaning. Part of that has to do with the tiny little OCD thing that won't let me *stop* cleaning once I start cleaning.
Hear that wee little *gritchgritchgritch* in the middle of the night? That'd be me, scrubbing around the bathroom fixtures with a toothbrush until three o'clock in the morning. Speaking of Lady MacBeth and her bloody hands, I never feel anything is really clean, but I'll scrub 'til we're all scraped raw to try to make it so.
Call me Lady McBath.
The funny thing? Other funny thing? I cleaned all my knitting up a couple of weeks ago. Well, all the knitting in the knitting room... er, living room. Y'all may remember. I broke out the ziploc bags and organised and straightened up§ and placed all the knitting that I wasn't going to be working on immediately in a laundry basket to take upstairs.
Said laundry basket sat, full of fibre, for more than a week. Then I needed the laundry basket for laundry. Floor fibre!
Then I folded the laundry, per my usual ritual, and placed it in the laundry basket(s) to be taken upstairs to be put away.
And I've been coming downstairs every morning for a week to pick my clothes out of the laundry basket(s) that still sit in the middle of the living room, right next to the massive pile of displaced knitting problem. There is an ever-growing pile of dirty clothes at the top of the stairs awaiting an empty laundry basket to give it a place to belong.
Is there anything simpler than just carrying the fucking basket up the stairs, emptying it appropriately, perhaps using it to cart the knitting problem to the Yarn Room, then giving the dirty clothes an appropriate home?
Tedious? No more tedious than Stupid Blanket or any cast-on.
Time consuming? No more time consuming than knitting. That was understatement for the sake of humour, in case you missed it.
Irritating in its mundanity? No more irritating than wandering around the living room naked, trying to put together an outfit from items I can almost *hear* wrinkling as they sit, day after day.
My conclusion is simple: logic can not be applied to housekeeping. Not in my world. To paraphrase Douglas Adams, housekeeping is an illusion, laundry doubly so.¶
I'll take "after" pictures.
^FOOTNOTE (pointed): Just for old times' sake: "My parents wanted to move me into high school out of the sixth grade, but we decided to chuck the idea because I'd have trouble making friends, blah, blah, blah. Now blah, blah, blah is all I ever do. I use my grand IQ to decide what color lip gloss to wear in the morning and how to hit three keggers before curfew..."
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): In lieu of "posterity," you may read "blogdork endeavours."
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Even though it's also where the books live, I call it the Yarn Room to fibre geeks because they get that dopey smile and dreamy, faraway look. I'm all about spreading the love -- it's just how I roll.
§FOOTNOTE (snaky): Be kind! Rewind!
¶FOOTNOTE (paraphrasing paragraph): It makes no sense. Style over substance, and style that allows me to paraquote Douglas Adams.
#FOOTNOTE (number five in a series, unmarked): All thanks to Secret Pal for the series of symbols to make my footnoting less... hilarity ensuing. Besides, I know she'll feel better once the proper marks are in place. Even if I don't put them in the right place around commas.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
This Just In...
...would you believe IRL Kelly is actually IRL Kelley? Just thought y'all should know.
I'm going to revise my whole world now.
Love,
Marin
I'm going to revise my whole world now.
Love,
Marin
Another Day, Another Random
This post says, "I have a digital camera and I know how to use it (more or less)."**
Sunday, I went and dug these out of MJ's garden. Guess what they are.
Those poor, downtrodden creatures are Cascade Hops (probably not supposed to be capitalised when it's all said and done, but it's beer ingredients). If they don't die, I intend to grow them for the purpose God and Benjamin Franklin intended them: love beer.
I don't kill all my plants, but I can't prove it to you right now. Three out of my four orchids are blooming and I took pictures, but (per normal) the pictures sucked so I'm just telling you and you'll have to believe me.
I live in fear that, in Marin's world, orchids are easier to grow than hops.
[SUMMARY: Orchids, easy to grow, not useful. Hops, hard to transport, very useful. It's like my own little experiment in botanical Darwinism.]
Knitting! Exciting knitting! And knitting pictures to make it all better!
First, that's the Heathers ("Great paté,** mom, but I gotta motor if I wanna be ready for that party tonight.") so that's the end of the Heathers quotes.
Second, when did my camera get purple?
Third, don't you love my ultra-catalogue shots of the Heathers over the birds of paradise in my tropical bathroom? Trés, trés artistique (I know zero French that wasn't in a 70s song, so if "artistique" isn't a word, I don't need to know), no?
The particulars:
Name: Heathers
Like how I did that all professional, like I'm a real knitter-with-a-capital-K?
[SUMMARY: FO! Not the Stupid Blanket!**]
In future knitting... the Green Gables Drunken Knit Along starts tonight.
KIB, y'all.
[SUMMARY: Apparently anything to avoid Stupid Blanket.]
So there I am, not going to buy a thing, not needing a thing, until I saw...
Let's zoom in for a closer look, shall we?
If only she had red hair.
IRL Kelley has her own Angry Little Girls bag that simply says, "I hate people." Picture Kelley and I, a couple of misfit joiners, calling each other in the morning: "Are you wearing your Angry Little Girls bag? Cool! I'll wear my Angry Little Girls bag! We'll be twins! And BFF!"
[SUMMARY: Who doesn't need a F*@K! bag?**]
What picture blog would be complete without a cat for scale?
You'll note said cat is NOT sleeping on his nice, comfy kitty bed. No, no, he chooses to sleep right where he will get the most cat hair per square inch where my nose goes when I'm trying to sleep. It's an evil but brilliant plot to keep me awake and ear-scratching** late into the night.
[SUMMARY: Cats are sexy. *ahem*]
I mentioned I saw Casino Royale with Steve Friday night. A quick review: not bad. I could look at Daniel Craig all day, the opening sequence was brilliant, there were some very funny bits, but there was too much romantic for James Bond for my taste.
Now the funny. Well, it falls into the category of "I think I'm funny," but Steve thought it was funny too, so you have to sit through it (a little validation goes a long way with me):
For those who haven't seen the movie, it's the first of the 007 stories, and sets up a lot of the James Bond schtick for future episodes. In one scene, Vesper, the love interest, witnesses Bond killing two bad guys. He sends her to arrange clean-up and proceeds to his James Bond thing. Later, he goes to the hotel room and finds her sitting in the shower, fully clothed, water running over her.
He goes to her and takes her in his arms. She says, "I feel like I can't get the blood off my hands." He gently takes her hands and starts sucking on her fingers.**
I turned to Steve and said, "See? If Lord Macbeth had just managed a little of that action, the story could have ended right there. Happily ever after."
Thinks-she's-funny and snobbily literary. Throw in the cat and the knitting and how am I still single?**
[SUMMARY: Macbeth is my favourite play of all time. Any blood-on-hands reference is going to get the Macbeth treatment from me.]
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): ...and it doesn't say much else. I'm only mentioning it so you don't have to.
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Yeah, boooyyyy! All thanks to Secret Pal for the accent mark that makes it all worthwhile!
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Stupid Blanket? The baby was due yesterday...
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): That's me scratching the cat's ears, not me scratching my ears.
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Huh. Look at that. The computer thinks it's an email address just 'cause there's a "@" in it. Where do you suppose the email would go? Do you think it's like 867-5309 Jenny and some marketing genius has claimed that handle so he can get email from all over the world? Contrast and compare.**
. . . **FOOTNOTE WITHIN A FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Sorry. The Macbeth thing has me on an AP English kick.
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Show of hands for who loves finger-sucking! Yeah, me too.
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Rhetorical. And I'm rolling my eyes at least as much as you are.
Sunday, I went and dug these out of MJ's garden. Guess what they are.
Those poor, downtrodden creatures are Cascade Hops (probably not supposed to be capitalised when it's all said and done, but it's beer ingredients). If they don't die, I intend to grow them for the purpose God and Benjamin Franklin intended them: love beer.
I don't kill all my plants, but I can't prove it to you right now. Three out of my four orchids are blooming and I took pictures, but (per normal) the pictures sucked so I'm just telling you and you'll have to believe me.
I live in fear that, in Marin's world, orchids are easier to grow than hops.
[SUMMARY: Orchids, easy to grow, not useful. Hops, hard to transport, very useful. It's like my own little experiment in botanical Darwinism.]
Knitting! Exciting knitting! And knitting pictures to make it all better!
First, that's the Heathers ("Great paté,** mom, but I gotta motor if I wanna be ready for that party tonight.") so that's the end of the Heathers quotes.
Second, when did my camera get purple?
Third, don't you love my ultra-catalogue shots of the Heathers over the birds of paradise in my tropical bathroom? Trés, trés artistique (I know zero French that wasn't in a 70s song, so if "artistique" isn't a word, I don't need to know), no?
The particulars:
Name: Heathers
Pattern: Wavy from knitty.com
Yarn: Cascade 220 Heathers (duh), colour 2421
Needle: Denise (not that the brand matters) size 7 US (but size *definitely* matters)
Finished dimensions: 5" x 68"
Like how I did that all professional, like I'm a real knitter-with-a-capital-K?
[SUMMARY: FO! Not the Stupid Blanket!**]
In future knitting... the Green Gables Drunken Knit Along starts tonight.
KIB, y'all.
[SUMMARY: Apparently anything to avoid Stupid Blanket.]
So there I am, not going to buy a thing, not needing a thing, until I saw...
Let's zoom in for a closer look, shall we?
If only she had red hair.
IRL Kelley has her own Angry Little Girls bag that simply says, "I hate people." Picture Kelley and I, a couple of misfit joiners, calling each other in the morning: "Are you wearing your Angry Little Girls bag? Cool! I'll wear my Angry Little Girls bag! We'll be twins! And BFF!"
[SUMMARY: Who doesn't need a F*@K! bag?**]
What picture blog would be complete without a cat for scale?
You'll note said cat is NOT sleeping on his nice, comfy kitty bed. No, no, he chooses to sleep right where he will get the most cat hair per square inch where my nose goes when I'm trying to sleep. It's an evil but brilliant plot to keep me awake and ear-scratching** late into the night.
[SUMMARY: Cats are sexy. *ahem*]
I mentioned I saw Casino Royale with Steve Friday night. A quick review: not bad. I could look at Daniel Craig all day, the opening sequence was brilliant, there were some very funny bits, but there was too much romantic for James Bond for my taste.
Now the funny. Well, it falls into the category of "I think I'm funny," but Steve thought it was funny too, so you have to sit through it (a little validation goes a long way with me):
For those who haven't seen the movie, it's the first of the 007 stories, and sets up a lot of the James Bond schtick for future episodes. In one scene, Vesper, the love interest, witnesses Bond killing two bad guys. He sends her to arrange clean-up and proceeds to his James Bond thing. Later, he goes to the hotel room and finds her sitting in the shower, fully clothed, water running over her.
He goes to her and takes her in his arms. She says, "I feel like I can't get the blood off my hands." He gently takes her hands and starts sucking on her fingers.**
I turned to Steve and said, "See? If Lord Macbeth had just managed a little of that action, the story could have ended right there. Happily ever after."
Thinks-she's-funny and snobbily literary. Throw in the cat and the knitting and how am I still single?**
[SUMMARY: Macbeth is my favourite play of all time. Any blood-on-hands reference is going to get the Macbeth treatment from me.]
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): ...and it doesn't say much else. I'm only mentioning it so you don't have to.
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Yeah, boooyyyy! All thanks to Secret Pal for the accent mark that makes it all worthwhile!
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Stupid Blanket? The baby was due yesterday...
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): That's me scratching the cat's ears, not me scratching my ears.
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Huh. Look at that. The computer thinks it's an email address just 'cause there's a "@" in it. Where do you suppose the email would go? Do you think it's like 867-5309 Jenny and some marketing genius has claimed that handle so he can get email from all over the world? Contrast and compare.**
. . . **FOOTNOTE WITHIN A FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Sorry. The Macbeth thing has me on an AP English kick.
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Show of hands for who loves finger-sucking! Yeah, me too.
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Rhetorical. And I'm rolling my eyes at least as much as you are.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)