Off Off Off Off Broadway

Guess what I saw Thursday night?

First some background.†

This is the Denver Performing Arts Complex (DPAC). When I was in high school, it was the Denver Centre for the Performing Arts (DCPA). I still like the way that rolls off the tongue better. D-pack sounds like some military ration. DCPA has a lilt.

OK, I'm a snob.

In any case, I suspect whether you're a DCPA teenager or a DPAC teenager, if you ever took a photography class or fancied yourself a photographer, you spent a certain amount of darkroom time‡ on these sorts of images.

When I was in Photo II in high school, we got a half-day off school to go take pictures.§ Jeff (my best friend) and I went downtown and took many of these self-same photos that you see here today. Sometimes the obvious, well... obviates the creative force.

Believe it or not, I sat in the bottom loop in this sculpture. Climbed up my own self. I wish I had a cat for scale so you could see how impressive that really is.

Hmmm. I kinda wonder if Jeff still has a picture of that. Cause, y'all know, the "believe it or not" part would be moot if I had photographic evidence.

In case you're interested, this is where my high school graduation was held. When I was there, my high school was pretty white and pretty upper class.¶

Oh! Oh! If you look just to the right of the needle scuplture in this one, you'll see a person standing there. That should give you some scale. See? I told you my climb was impressive. Damn near Everest.

Shoulda planted a flag.

The Buell Theatre wasn't around when I was in that phase, so I didn't get this shot in high school...

...but since the first time I saw this sign, it's reminded me of the stories of people's shadows etched into concrete walls by the blast at Hiroshima. I'm guessing that's not what the designer intended.

Anyway...

The DPAC couple enstatued# here (i.e. -- not the real one walking, but the big one on pedestals) wasn't around when I was in high school either.$ I really like them. I guess I like that a couple of fat people found each other in the courtyard outside the theatre, and that they can be icons of a destination like this.

And that brings us around to background a little closer to the foreground: Thursday, my cousin Jo said, "I have an extra ticket, meet us at the Fat Lady at 7:30."

Since I'm perpetually 15 minutes early, I had time to take pictures.

The Little Mermaid is currently pre-Broadway. They've been rehearsing and developing in Denver for the better part of a year (near as I can tell) and Thursday night was the first ever (ever!) performance. From there, they go into what's basically a two or three month dress rehearsal in front of Denver audiences (read: Mary Kay bunnies%) before heading to NYC for the *real* opening.

Now, I'm delighted to be on the leading edge, but there is a tiny shiver of insult that goes into knowing your town is not good enough for the actual production, just the dress rehearsal.

Just sayin'.

Meanwhile, back at the critique: It's an amazing production that I'd recommend for many pros:

1. Costumes -- 'specially counting the minimal amount of clothing sailors and mermen wear. Y'all know. Triton... yum.
2. Heelies -- 'cause to make play-fish swim requires some ingenuity.††
3. Spectacular sets. I can't begin to tell you how innovative and sparkly and colourful and fun and architectural and watery and technologically marvelous it all was.

On the con side, they added 15 new songs (or some ridiculous number) and they all sucked. And the prince was a mealy-mouthed, simpering, Opie Pollyanna‡‡ of a weenie.

But I'd still recommend it. If nothing else, half-naked men. With sick abs.

And now for some scenery of the non-ab variety:

The western sky through the Ricketson councourse.


St. Cajetan's across the street at the Auraria campus

Dancing Aliens. Yeah, those weren't around when I was in high school either.

[SUMMARY: Half-naked men. Were you not paying attention?]

†FOOTNOTE (crossed): You knew there had to be background, right?

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Or, for you DPAC-era photogs, Photoshop time. Poor little latter-day photogrpahers... they'll never know the joy of the vinegary scent of developing solution and stop baths while getting stoned in the darkroom with Mr. Neiberger, the photography teacher.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): I don't know whose bright idea this was. How many teenagers would you trust to just wander off to "take pictures" unsupervised? OK, OK... so Jeff and I actually went downtown and took pictures, but we were complete fucking dorks.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): "Spoiled" may be the word you're looking for. Not me, personally, of course. You can see I turned out way too well to have been spoiled. Shut up.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Is that a word? Should be.

$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): Seriously, when I was in high school, it was mostly dragonflies the size of 747s and lizards trying to evolve wings.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Like guniea pigs, only more 90s. Turns out I have no idea what lab animal is being exploited for what in today's world.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): So the players have to sing, look good half-naked AND be able to roller skate.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): No offence to Anna-Liza and Lyda. Not your kind of Pollyanna, who comes with ultra-cool Needles of Doom, but the kind that makes you want to slam the little Mormon boys in the door wholesale when they come knocking with their pamphlets.

ETA: I just went to the website, and the DCPA is still calling it the DCPA. How on earth do so many people get off changing it to the DPAC? Or maybe it's one of those picky semantic distinctions. Doesn't matter... DPAC didn't exist when I was in high school.

Don't Get Excited

Do you realise this is my first full week of work in a month?

[SUMMARY: I know: sympathysympathy*smack*sympathy]

Can I get a hearty TTHFCIF from my peeps? Where my knitta heads?

*bock bock*†

[SUMMARY: Out of my ever-lovin' mind.]

Anyway, I did something kinda cool last night‡ and I do have pictures, but it'll have to wait.§ The pictures are still in the camera, cozy and warm and not available for your viewing pleasure.

[SUMMARY: eca teases Marin. Marin teases the world. Kharma.]

I do have a little news, which I am deliberately posting today because it involves Ally,¶ and Ally is currently weekending in the 80s and probably won't even see this until Monday. Serves her right for being younger than me.

See, Ally found this blog through our mutual involvement with Secret Pal 10.

It was originally nerve-wracking for me because when she started commenting here, I had to suck up all vestiges of personality when I sent her stuff.

I am your father, Luke.

I imagine she had an inkling, maybe a suspicion, possibly a gleeful near-knowledge, but let's make it all official-like, shall we?

'Cause, while it was originally nerve-wracking trying not to give myself away, it's now nerve-wracking because she apparently hasn't received my final package and it's been 25 days.

Pissing match blah blah Canadian Post blah passports blah customs blah blah delays...

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Patience, my ass. I'm gonna kill something.

So this is the big reveal.

C'est moi!

I are it!

As you may have suspected!

Hope you get your package soon! If the diamonds and caviar are gone, go pound the Canadian Postal worker nearest you!

Tell him the Male Lady sent you.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): You may not get that AT ALL. It's really for Brother. I hope he was drinking something carbonated when he read it.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): No, not that. Hey! Not that either! Sheesh... I do have some standards.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Don't get excited. And there's a funny story behind that phrase: I was puttering through the mall with my cousin Tani (mother of Stupid Blanket) one day, years back, and I started a sentence and she squealed and grabbed my arm and gasped and said, "Oh my god! That just reminded me! I have something for you! I've been carrying it around and I almost forgot to give it to you and I can't believe I didn't remember and I almost forgot and I found it and it made me think of you immediately and I had to get it for you and I have it here and...!!!" Then she opened her purse, looked me in the eye and said, "Don't get excited."

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Y'all know Ally. She wanted to fly to my house to save the wool from dead Marin fumes when that whole Grim Reaper vs. The Stash thing started.

Knitblog in the Moonlight

It took me hours to figure out what setting and how to take this picture of the Lake in moonlight,† then I forgot to post it yesterday. Good thing I'm in charge here so we can preempt your regularly scheduled knitblog to make you unwillingly appease my vanity by looking at my pretty pictures.

[SUMMARY: HKIC: it has its advantages.]

These are the yarns that showed up Tuesday and Wednesday last week. I didn't even open them before I left -- I just tossed them wholesale, packaging and all, into the Mini and took off for Nebraska.

Knowing what was waiting for me when I unpacked on the other end inspired me to the discipline necessary to organise myself and stick with the program and...

Who am I kidding? It mostly inspired me to drive about 100 all the way there.

But look:

Clockwise from upper left: Cider Moon Glacier in Rainbow Trout, Louet Gems Opal in Violet and Shamrock, Lorna's Laces in Baltic, Watercolor and Maple Leaves.



Wouldn't you drive fast if you knew this was on the other end of your journey?

The infamous Lorna's Laces, fresh from their worldwide tour.





...and the shamrock Louet is for these...

Cookie A! Twisted Flower!




...and the violet Louet is for this...

More Cookie A! Thelonius!



...or maybe these.

Cookie, Cookie, Cookie A! Gothic Spire!



Just love me some Cookie A. Theoretically, I mean, since I bought four patterns and have yet to do more than fondle and drool and daydream.

Now, the Cider Moon (new best friend!) didn't picture up as well as I'd hoped, so I took a new picture this afternoon, with the wound skein attached to its chosen project, Sulala's Swirl Socks.

The colour is called Rainbow Trout and I hope to get more to make socks for my dad. Not that my dad is so into the rainbow part, but I think when I tell him it's all about the trout, he'll snap right in line.

Isn't it gorgeous?




Just look at the progression of colours along the needle...




*sigh* Beauty surrounds us.

[SUMMARY: We've learned something important here today: I am a sock whore.]

You know one thing I really like about the Swirl Socks and the Cider Moon? Sport weight.

Here are my other current socks, the debtor's socks for my brother for Father's Day. They're not sport. They're fingering.‡ It'll probably be really good for the intarsia Arrrgyle pattern I'm putting on the leg, but it is a LOT of stitches. 72 per round, to be exact.

[SUMMARY: No greater love hath a seester...]




When I wasn't knitting the debtor's socks at the Lake, I was knitting this washcloth.§

Look! Purple!



The pattern's cool, isn't it? And pretty easy.

My big gripe¶ is that the Fiber Trends pattern is printed on dark green paper, defying photocopying, so I can't write all over it, which would be helpful since there's a lot of on-beyond-four counting involved. Plus, it's getting pretty beat up. I'm just going to have to break down and put it on my very special computer-generated index cards one of these days.

Soon, if I'm smart.#

[SUMMARY: Modern technology: Garbage In, Garbage Out. Or, in my case, Nothing In, Nothing Out.]

And this would be the Girl Colours Big Baby Blanket for Dave's daughter.



I know, I know, but after the forgetting-the-border debacle (particularly since I'd just sent First Among Imaginary Kellys the pattern that very day), I was a little demoralised.

Don't worry, I'll get there. I have to. It's deficit knitting and I want to be out of debt and free to live my life.

And...



All the way in from the coast...



Wait for it...



Cat for Scale!



Your camera strap, it fascinates me.



[SUMMARY: Not a knitblog without a cat.]

I heard the most interesting thing†† on ESPN Radio this morning.

The New York Yankees will be playing in KC tonight, which is almost irrelevant to this story. This little statistical gem goes like this:

A-Rod hit his 499th homer last night. The Yankees have won six straight.

On Friday, prior to a regularly-scheduled game, the Yankees and Orioles will be playing the last couple of innings of a game that was suspended on June 28. Anything that happens during those makeup innings will be statistically counted on June 28.

So... assuming the Yankees win tonight in KC, they will have a seven-game winning streak going into Friday.

Here's the good stuff: if they lose those makeup innings, that loss will be counted for June 28, thus the winning streak will still be alive.

Even better: if A-Rod hits his 500th during the makeup innings, that will be credited to June 28, putting last night's 499 as 500 in the record books.

It's like quantum baseball: "If Alex Rodriguez hits his 500th homer prior to his 499th homer, will there be anybody there to celebrate?"

[SUMMARY: Hate me some Yankees, but love me some weird-ass statistics.]

Wow. Is it Thursday already?

†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Oddly, the simpler the camera, the harder to take pictures of the moon.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): eca, pray for me. Steph, I can hear you giggling.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Yes it is.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): You knew there had to be one somewhere, didn't you?

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): RHETORICAL. No need to comment.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Now, now... you have your interests, I have mine.

ETA: Take my car keys. As I was typing and such, I realised I got the WRONG WEIGHT in the Louet yarn. Cookie A would really like me to knit her lovely patterns in FINGERING,‡ and I apparently think I should be doing them in SPORT.

Thank the wool gods I'm dealing with Wendy at Lanas de Libelula.

Wendy is marvelous.

Wendy will probably secretly laugh and wonder if she should take my car keys but she'll exchange my yarn cheerfully. For putting up with all my senility (and you haven't even heard the story about how I didn't get enough yarn the first time around and she -- thanks be -- still had the same dye lot which turns out not to matter so much when it's all going back and we're going to have to start over hopefully without all the Marin angst...), she has my undying devotion.

Good grief, I'm a dork.

Admit it...

...you want to knit this.

Morticia Knits

This is the song that never ends...

Like Monday, we are re-visiting the "what to do with my fibre when I die" issue. I'm going to have to join the American Association of Undertakers if this doesn't stop.

And, like Monday, I open with the operative comment (from Red this time) so you don't have to go find it:

How are we going to knit your projects at your gauge? It's going to need to be picked and done again. For the love of wool don't start any big projects like afghans! Remember Stupid Blanket and his sudden growth spurt? (Is stupid Blanket a he? I just sort of assumed)

First, OK... I hadn't thought of that. "Tight knitter" is apparently a huge understatement in my case. I do have a theory, though: If you knit each stitch as tight as it will go, you have reached the single finite point to be found in tension, thus allowing you to have perfectly even stitches.*

I wouldn't necessarily recommend it to anyone, and it's not my actual strategy,† but I think it's a good point.

Shut up.

Second, c'mon... frogging and reknitting socks under promise of cashmere.‡ Are you telling me it's not worth it? eca would do it. I know she would. 'Specially for Brother.

Third, hmmmmm... lessee: Stupid Blanket looked simple, carefree -- even fun -- at the beginning; rapidly became a pain in the ass; became difficult to leave because of time invested; eventually inspired so much bitching, moaning and loathing as to drive away friends and family; required professional help and lots of wine to get over the hump toward closure; when finished, looked oddly lovely and when delivered away from me, aroused rear-view mirror longing after time.§

Yep. Pass out the cigars. It's a boy!

*ahem*$

So, yeah, when I die, you may have to frog entire socks and reknit them, lest they be mistaken for wine glass cozies, but won't it be worth it?

As for the afghan issue, you know Lizard Ridge is on the horizon, but I figure it's done in individual squares, so y'all will just have to block the HELL out of my pieces and shove yours into a vaguely geometric shape before sewing them up.

[SUMMARY: Ghouls. You're all ghouls. And my brother? Lord High King of the Ghouls.]

In other news...

Back Story:

Years ago, I had an issue with Amazon.com and they lost my business.

See, I had moved and changed my address with them and blithely shopped with them and everything was peachy and suddenly, one day, my package didn't show. And didn't show. And didn't show.

With increasing impatience, I followed their instructions to "wait one more week" and "check with your local post office" until I could take it no more. Through some digging, it turned out their software, in some sort of pre-destined audit function, had spontaneously regenerated an old address and the package had been sent to that erroneous place out of my past.

Of course, this was after I'd been away from that address for over a year, so, of course, the forwarding was expired. And, of course, the lowlife who lived in my old apartment probably just kept the shipment of CDs for himself so I was, of course, screwed.

Amazon offered me a $10 gift certificate for my trouble, but did not offer to replace the lost purchase. Cherry on top? While I had no intention of being an Amazon customer anymore, I did decide to use that gift certificate.

It didn't work.

[SUMMARY: Fuck Amazon...]

Fast forward to 2007.

In May, I ordered six skeins of Lorna's Laces from Yarnela on eBay.

EBay uses the same software platform as Amazon. Can you see where this is going?

Because the shipment came from Canada and there is this ongoing pissing match betwixt the Canadian Postal Service and all things American, the proprietor of Yarnela begged me to "wait two more weeks."

Holy fucking cats, that sounds familiar.

When we finally concluded the package was missing, said proprietor¶ was ready to ship new yarn to me right away. The email with the particulars showed my old address.

Where I haven't lived for a year-and-a-half.

My stomach made a beeline for my toes.

I pointed out that I've only had my PayPal account for a couple of months, therefore the PayPal address couldn't be anything but my current address. Les (see¶?) pointed out that the confirmation he/she got apparently drew the address from whatever eBay was dishing out. And forwarded me his/her confirmation to prove it.

Three items of interest for those who shop eBay/Amazon/whomever else uses that software platform:

1. The address on Les's confirmation was, indeed, the old address, BUT there was also a specific note (marked by a question mark) that said the address wasn't confirmed and should be confirmed with the purchaser before any shipping took place. I assume PayPal concedes its address database to that of the vending website, but warns if the billing address they have doesn't match. EBay sellers: HEED THE QUESTION MARK.
2. The address on my confirmation from PayPal was the correct one. It is the only email confirmation I got, so I can't tell you if the screen eBay gave me had the correct address or not. I didn't pay that close of attention, having purchased things from eBay, via PayPal, that had shown up just fine. EBay buyers: HEED THE CONFIRMATION SCREEN.
3. When the package of Lorna's Laces finally showed up (much marked for the non-forwarding, returning and re-sending) last Wednesday, I went to check my eBay account to be sure I'd changed the address as thoroughly as possible, it showed yet another address, this from two moves ago, where I haven't lived for seven years. Everybody#: PERIODICALLY CHECK YOUR EBAY INFO.

Does it seem a little stupid and cumbersome that one has to think of one's address change for upwards of seven years? Does it seem outside the lexicon of modern living that one would have to change one's address harder and more thoroughly?

[SUMMARY: ...and the software they rode in on.]

To para-quote Buffy again, I suddenly find myself having to know the plural of "apocalypse."

That's my public service for the month, unless you count the one about hiring trained professionals for waxing, which is more a pubic service.††

TOMORROW: Actual pictures of the actual yarns you saw on the bed in the Lake series. WIPs. Perhaps a Cat for Scale picture. You know... real knitblog shit.

*FOOTNOTE: (asterisked... yeah, yeah): "Tight stitches are all alike; every loose stitch is loose in its own way." Anna Karenina as knitter.

†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Like I have a strategy.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Note to self: must add cashmere to stash so knitters won't exhume and re-kill after finding they reknit socks for no cashmere. Or opt for cremation. Mental image: betrayed knitters peeing on charred remains.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Wow. Who knew that analogy was going to be so apt? Like dating situations gone babies-on-spikes, I think we're going to have to add to the argot "Stupid Blanket" for those guys you stay with too long for all the reasons listed.

$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): That's my changing-the-subject-away-from-the-embarrassing-revalation throat clear, for those of you scoring at home.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): On whom I'd like to bestow a pronoun, but whose name may be short for either Leslie or Lester.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Or maybe it's just me.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): No, I didn't use this whole post just as a setup for that stupid joke, though I can see why you might think so. You know me too well.

Lake! A Story in Pictures

Hello Lake. Hello cabin.




Oh, cabin, how I love your multiple choice selection of beds, your kitchenette, your running water...




...but I love your air conditioning most of all.




Heaven on a bed means different things to different people.†




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

Junie Mae's for breakfast is a must.




Junie Mae's has wonderful food, including (but not limited to) biscuits and gravy, migas and...

...JAM!‡ Homemade!

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

Dino prints make the walkin' beach go 'round. Mary, as her father says, is "cute as socks on a squirrel."§

Mary is well-equipped both in playthings and playmates.¶

Mary and Mom (Connie)

And she shares her bounty. The orphaned turtle we found washed up on the beach ended up with his own amusement park ride.

Does it look like someone buried Dolly Parton here?

And a architecturally marvelous turtle kiva. When I asked what the hole in one room was, Mary said, simply, "Hot tub."

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

Sometimes it's a little cloudy and you can just hang out.

Mary's dad (Shanny)

Or float on already.

Kevin and Linda

When the sun beats down, we raise the roof.

Sun worshipers bask.#

Bobbi and Cami

Children play.

Mary and Drew

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

Trust me, you don't get a lot of this with Mary.

Drew wore Mary out and now turns his attentions to Paulie.

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

Connie and Shanny say, "This doesn't suck."

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

A golf cart rides off into the sunset.$

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

Let the fire pit begin!

S'mores, anyone?

Mary and Connie

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

Bye bye Lake. See you next year.

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

By the way, I left out the sixteen-photo series on feet in the mud.%

†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I know you can hardly believe this is where I went with "heaven on a bed," but there was a shipment (or two) of yarn that showed up just before I left.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Just for you, Red.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Mary was born on my birthday -- almost deliberately. Connie had a scheduled C-section and in her choice of four or five dates, chose my birthday.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Shanny said to Mary, "I'm sorry more grown-ups don't play like Kevin does." Mary turned to me and said, "You're like that, Marin. You play with me." Break my heart...

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Bobbi is Drew's mom. Cami is Paulie's wife. For those of you scoring at home.

$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): Golf carts everywhere. The first day, as we headed back for dinner, we found a row of parked golf carts, their occupants watching the sunset. It looked so odd; it really was a WTF moment.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Specifically, my feet in the mud. You're welcome.

Death & Yarn

Apparently an ongoing series.

For those of you who don't read comments or might miss comments or who would be grateful to your dear ol' AntiM for not making you go dig the comment out, this from Brother:

Yo - wait, wait, wait. I wanna go back. (How far you gonna go back? We're gonna go way back...but you aren't really NWA people, are you?)

As Administrator of my sister's estate (and you wool-sucking vampires should be ashamed of yourselves), I would like to make all claimants aware of a new caveat AntiM's bequeathments:

Anybody who should come into possession of yarn promised but not delivered as socks either to Brother or to Great White Father at the time of AntiM's death shall be obligated to complete said socks for delivery to promisee.

The Executor has spoken. Put that on your needles and knit it, you vampires.

[SUMMARY: I'm dead, you ghouls! Is anyone going to mourn my untimely passing or are we all going to fight over the disposition of the fibre in all its myriad forms? Yeah, don't answer. Totally rhetorical. And in answer to your question, Brother, we're really KWA people. You know what I'm sayin'.]

A new knot in the WIP that is this whole Grim Reaper vs. The Stash† is knitted into the mix. Which brings me to a tangent I've been fomenting over the weekend: Deficit Knitting.

As of this morning before I checked the vast sea of OOT‡ email, I was one baby blanket and one pair of Father's Day socks in debt. Then I read that another friend had a baby§ last Monday and I should probably oughtta knit a little something (sweater?) for New Gretchen. So sort of three projects in debt.

In the red on the knitting.

Writing fibrous checks the needles can't yet cash.

Post-dating your knitting.

Oh, c'mon. I know y'all have done it: wrapped a half-finished Christmas scarf with a note you'll finish by Valentine's Day, deviously suggested you really want to make X pattern for BFF, but you want her to be able to pick out her very own yarn (like you're doing her some sort of special favour, but knowing full well you forgot her birthday until her husband called and invited you for dinner at the last minute), plopped an enormous bag of sock yarn in front of brother (*ahem*) and magnanimously offered to knit WHATEVER HE WANTS out of your considerable stash because you missed the boat on the only major holiday he gets to claim as his own.¶

And like credit card debt, you probably SHOULD pay off the debt you have before you incur more.

And like credit card debt, there are always occasions that lead you into the temptation of more more more debt, even possibly getting an entirely new credit card to segment your debt that much more.

And like credit card debt, you know there are things on the horizon that have the very real potential to put you in debt that much further.#

[SUMMARY: Debt is debt, though my brother is slightly less likely to levy your bank account than the IRS.]

Which brings us full circle to the macabre subject at hand: Knitting After Death.

And the ongoing feeling that dying takes a lot of work and organisation.

If I got hit by a bus tomorrow, the IRS would get theirs. CitiCards would get theirs. Even the electric company, I suspect, would get theirs. But who looks after the yarn creditors?

Add to the ever-growing list that someone must complete AT LEAST the debt projects. So anybody who wants to partake of the stash inheritance will have to finish something on my needles in proportion to the quality and quantity of stash for which you are vying.

[SUMMARY: I can't die! I haven't written all the rules yet!]

Brother, you may need to educate yourself on the finer points of fibre to make an educated decision on equitable project distribution vis-a-vis stash desires.

Don't let the knitters guide you. They're lovely people, but morally... unpredictable when cashmere is as stake.

Speaking of the IRS, I got a couple of really splendid letters from them just before I left for the Lake. This will necessitate, I'm sure, HOURS of re-straightening what has already been straightened.

Fucking money suckers.

[SUMMARY: 1) Got almost all the way through a post without using the F-word, and 2) vampires one and all.]


TOMORROW: Lake. Maybe even a movie about a turtle if I can figure out how to post it.

SERIOUSLY: Murphy -- not the bastard lawyer, but the cute little doggie -- is no longer with us. More particularly, no longer with poor Sarah. Take a moment of silence for sweet, fuzzy, compelling Murph and cuddle your pets today, won't you? *sniff*


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Which sounds like a WWF bout or one of those monster truck rallies.

‡FOOTNOTE (double crossed): Out Of Town. I pronounce it as a single word... just so you can sing along at home.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Well, mostly his wife had the baby, but you know what I mean.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Curse you, Drunken Jackass!

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Like Christmas, or the two pairs of socks I want to finish before I go to NYC in October.

Miscellany

I can't tell you how sorry I am the camera wasn't handy when Cat for Scale got his head stuck in the empty† kitty treat bag last night. Cruel entertainment. You would have loved it.

[SUMMARY: Slapstick is never more funny than when it happens in your own livknitting room.]

Drunken Knitting was a roaring success last night, with the Sis-in-Law and Liza-Spelled-Lisa joining us in an unprecedented expansion of the ranks. A good time was had by all, even though there was a really, really funny bit (brought to you by Red) that inspired Bag Lady Kathryn and I to clink glasses and laugh out loud for minutes on end, but neither one of us could remember a half-hour later.

Oh, yeah, and sitting next to excitable Genius Sarah... well, it'd help to wear body armour. You've been warned.

Cute Christopher, bar manager extraordinaire, noted the group seems to be growing. I'd like to think it's always been his fondest dream to manage a knitter bar. And I helped!#

[SUMMARY: Drinking and knitting: two great tastes that taste great together!]

Speaking of drunken knitting (and I wasn't even drunk at the time), I cast on for the Girl Colours Big Baby* last night. I knit through two pattern repeats and was feeling all smug and self-satisfied and then I realised I was supposed to knit 16 rows of garter stitch to start and I spent a fair amount of time squinting at what I'd done hoping it'd be OK to leave the garter stitch out, but feather-and-fan when not corralled properly goes wild, goes haywire and so I have to frog and go back and do it right.

I also realised I have to correct my FO stuff from the other day to show I used size 13 needles for the Big Baby blanket. And to tell you I only used slightly less than four skeins on the Green Gables (pattern calls for five) and slightly less than eight balls of Big Baby on the blanket (pattern calls for nine).

Keep in mind, I knit pretty tight.@ Your results may vary. But I do like to know how the actual yardage called for in a pattern, so the least I could do is provide you with the information I'd like to have.

When I remember to, I mean.

[SUMMARY: See! Knitblog!]

I have eight tix for the Colorado Rockies's Stitch 'n' Pitch July 28, but I may only have three or four people actually going. If you're interested, or know someone who is, you know where to find me.

[SUMMARY: Nobody ever goes hungry at AntiM's. I tend to overprovide.]

Speaking of where to find me, I'm actually going to the Lake tomorrow. Yippee! My biggest chore left? Figuring what knitting to take. Y'all know.

[SUMMARY: Knitting: adding a new dimension to my travels since 1977.]

Brother left a comment on a recent post that reminded me of a story y'all might like.

About three years ago, I went on a mission to knit a scarf for just about all the major holidays‡ for eBeth, the sis-in-law. I was knitting a horizontal§ scarf for Halloween out of black and orange and green wool and a fun fur novelty yarn with green and orange laddering stuff in it. Tallest, Hairiest Nephew sat on Grandma's couch and watched me for, oh, about 15 minutes. Then he spoke up.

"AntiM, if I had a scarf like that, I would wear it every day."

"Do you think I should knit you a scarf?"

"Yes!"

"I know your favourite colour is red. Would you like a red scarf?"

"How 'bout rainbow? Just like Mom's. With the furry part and the stripes."

So I invested in six skeins of Plymouth Encore in a crayon-box rainbow palette¶ and coordinating Lion fun fur and knit the Gay Pride Weasel. Which had to be repaired within its first month of life for having been used as a whip. A Gay Pride Weasel Whip.

Outstanding.

So the orange-fuschia-purple pom-pon scarf is really a big step up, macho-wise, for Tallest, Hairiest Nephew's taste in scarves.

[SUMMARY: Four-year-olds have very little sense of sexuality vis-a-vis colour and toy choices, as any father who has tried to talk his son out of a Barbie knows. Nature vs. Nurture?]

Seriously, how many knitting projects do I need? What would be appropriate for sitting waist-deep in lake water? How sick will I be of knitting socks by Sunday? Even sock whores have limits, you know.

[SUMMARY: Oh, yeah. I'm going to lose sleep tonight over which knitting to take on vacation. I may forget my toothbrush, but I'll have plenty of yarn!]

My preferred waxing place has grown by leaps and bounds since I started going there, and has really outgrown themselves. I can no longer get an appointment in less than two weeks and their online booking system, while fabulous in theory, has never once worked for me.

Yesterday marked the THIRD TIME my appointment was completely fucked up. The big difference is that on prior fuck-ups, they could get me in anyway. They had no appointments at all for a week, which doesn't really mesh with my need not to look like I'm smuggling tarantulas over the Nebraska border in my swimsuit.

So I knocked on the door$ of every spa and salon betwixt downtown Denver and home, finally stopping into the Hair Shaft just a few blocks from Chez Barfly. They were able to get me in right away, and the cost was fairly reasonable, but -- oh, mama! The final product!

I got a half-leg, modified Brazilian and underarm. Ladies, there's a lot of stray hair left. In some places, it looks like she somehow managed to leave every fifth hair intact.

And the blood blisters on my tenderest places.^

And the fact that the "modified" part of the modified Brazilian is an inch-wide strip of hair (the totally bald look... ick) slightly but noticably off-centre.

I suspect this is too much information on anybody's body hair (or Brazilian bits) but your own, but it's definitely girl talk. And we're mostly girls here, I suspect.

Well, Brother and possibly Doc and whomever of the guys% I've hipped to this blog.

Besides, maybe one of y'all can tell me if I'm going to kill myself (or want to) if I shave my legs to get rid of that every fifth hair.

[SUMMARY: Body hair. Not just for breakfast anymore.]

Huh. You'd think I could leave you for four days on a more... wholesome note.

Keep your feet on the ground, keep reaching for the stars. Check local listings. Follow your dreams. You can reach your goals. I'm living proof. When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. In the summertime, when the living's easy... It just don't get any better'n this. And, darn it! People like me! Like a rock. For external use only. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. This is not my cow! Be excellent to each other. If ever, if ever a wiz there was... One horsepower is the amount of force it takes to lift 500 lbs exactly one foot in exactly one second. Go toward the light!

[SUMMARY: Sugar and light, that's your dear ol' AntiM. Have I made up for the body hair segment yet?]

You're welcome. Back on Sunday afternoon.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Clearly, he didn't realise it was empty. His little kitty brain, size of an edamame, can't quite process the reasoning necessary to determine that 1) Just because it smells like kitty treats doesn't mean there is necessarily more than kitty treat scent involve, 2) Mom never leaves open bags of kitty treats lying around, and 3) particularly not in the trash can.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded. Yeah, it's out of order. We're all out of order.): And for those of you scoring at home, I'm channeling the little southern girl on the Shake 'n' Bake commercials from years back.

*FOOTNOTE (asterisked. Will wonders never cease?): Nine! Pounds! Six! Ounces!

@FOOTNOTE (atted): Somwhere, Red and Genius Sarah are laughing, but you should also keep in mind I made the sleeves on Green Galbes each twenty rounds longer than the pattern dictated, and also made the body a couple of inches longer, so I don't think your results will vary THAT much. Robin knit this -- Robin, hi, how did your yardage work out on the Green Gable?

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): I did manage to skip the 4th of July... not for possibly obvious reasons (like the stupidity of knitting a scarf -- or two *coughcough* -- in the dead of summer), but because it gives me something to look foreward to.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): You know... like the kind where you cast on 180 stitches, then only knit 20 rows. Horizontal.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Did you know that "pallette" (with two Ls) is a piece of armour? And darjeeling means "land of the thunderbolt." You're welcome.

$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): Figuratively.

^FOOTNOTE (careted): Which is what I did to myself when I decided to try waxing at home. It's why I pay the professionals: to avoid blood blisters in sensitive areas.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Sorry Steve! Sorry Jeff! Sorry Brad! Sorry if I've missed you in my sorries!

I'm Weak

I joined the fucking sock club.

That took me, what? Seven minutes? Is that a record?

But Wait! There's More!

I thought we were all through this Things to Do in Denver if You're Planning to Be Dead, but I ran across one more yesterday.

My father had a colonoscopy yesterday afternoon. Because they use a general anaesthetic, the clinic requires a helper bee both to drive the victim... er, patient home and to listen to all the doctor's recommendations and admonitions, because, as Dr. Jay said, "He won't remember this later, so it's up to you."†

You may think this leads to some revelation on mortality or potentially embarrassing posthumous discoveries by straight-laced elder relatives, but the colonoscopy has nothing to do with nothing here.‡

[SUMMARY: Colonoscopy as tease. Interesting choice.]

It does sponsor today's morbid thought, if only because CNN was on the TiVi in the waiting room and I got to see the parade of death that follows the financial news on that most informative of channels: If you got shot at an Old Chicago by a random gunman or held hostage by a crazed postal employee,§ what photo would be splashed all over CNN?

In the case of the chick who apparently was shot at Old Chicago and splashed on CNN, she had this beautiful black-and-white portrait that you'd be proud to hang on your wall. Maybe you've seen it. I thought to myself, "Self, there's a girl who planned ahead."

I know, I know... the compassionate heart would be bleeding for the girl and her family (and it did a little), but I couldn't help but go to the place where I wondered what my public photo would be. As it stands right now, I vote for the one on the blog. I look friendly. Accessible. Eye-bag free with a hint of cleavage and definitely worth the hostage release effort. Just so y'all know.#

[SUMMARY: Because it is better to look good than to feel good, darling.]

Another cool thing about Dad's colonoscopy¶ is that it took place RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET FROM A BIG YARN STORE.& I kid you not. I think it was my Kharmic Cracker Jack prize for taking the afternoon off to drive Dad and look at his colon and take doctor's instructions.

Of course, when I bounced into said yarn store and giddily announced, "My dad is having a colonoscopy RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET! Can you believe my luck! I get to shop for yarn!" the lady just looked at me with an expression between fear and horror and finally her shopkeeper rote kicked in:

"Oh. [*pausepausepause*] Can we help you find something?"

When I related this to Dad,^ he just shook his head and said, "No sense of humour."

[SUMMARY: Because colonoscopies are ALWAYS funny. ]

One further cool thing was a guy who was there to chaperone his niece whose name was (I'm not making this up) Snicklefritz. This is a Lorelai Gilmore word. I love this name. I wanted to ask him if he had sons. I would marry one of them and hyphenate (because my own last name is ten kinds of weird and would be OUTSTANDING hyphenated with Snicklefritz).

I guess the trip to Lakewood Endoscopy was really worth any hassle it might have been, what with all the education and entertainment value.

[SUMMARY: Because a colonoscopy is ALWAYS worth the price of admission.]

And the two books$ I picked up. *coughbookproblemcough*

But you'd be proud... not a single skein of yarn was purchased. At the yarn store today. Maybe at Cider Moon online earlier, but not at the yarn store today.%

On beyond SABLE...


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): And then he made me look at a picture of my dad's colon. And SIGN it. He did not explain this (and by "this" I mean the signing part. He explained the picture in thorough and loving detail). Nobody explained this. I think they probably have a hidden camera and at the end of the day, they grab a beer and watch America's Funniest Facial Expressions. I did appreciate their efforts, however, to make it good clean fun for the whole family.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Except, of course, for the last footnote, brought to you by the colonoscopy. Couldn't have done it without you, colonoscopy!

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Not that I have any crazed postal employees in particular in mind. *ahem*

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Brother? Sis-in-Law? Favourite Cousin? Taking notes, please?

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I realise there should have been a first cool thing for there to be another cool thing, but I'm hoping you'll fill in the blank with your own version of "cool" and I won't have to explain myself.

&FOOTNOTE (ampersanded): And you can't imagine the pride I feel in being able to turn a colonoscopy into proper knitblog fodder. Still a knitblog!

^FOOTNOTE (careted): Who didn't seem to mind I'd told complete strangers about his colon, though it's not the first time, as my brief stint in Catholic kindergarten resulted in my whole class praying for his diarrhea. Maybe he's used to it or maybe it was just the IV drugs providing the necessary buffer.

$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): Thus:



%FOOTNOTE (percented): And I TOTALLY resisted the urge to join the Fearless Fibers Seven Deadly Sins Sock Club. *coughredcough*

So far.

Dictionary Definition of Marin

Found it on Knit-and-Run. Had to share.

Marin -- [adjective]: Benevolent to a fault 'How will you be defined in the dictionary?' at QuizGalaxy.com

How did they know?

Morbid Much?

Last in the series (we hope).

UPDATE: Yes, you can put specifics in a codicil (an adjunct letter of wishes for your estate) and keep the stash out of the valuation process. Now we're back to "Why was there no codicil to Mom's will giving me the cookie cutters?" I mean, I got them and all -- nobody was going to argue with 30 years of family lore -- but I would have framed that sucker and hung it in the kitchen.

Turns out I'm not the only one worried about the disposition of things muggles don't understand. While I was pondering the ramifications of single cat ownership vs. dying in a freak stair-climbing accident and the distribution of stash thereafter, Carol over at Knit-and-Run was contemplating the disposition of her blog and all her imaginary friends.†

I'm seriously considering having my brother's friend Jason work me up a website. You know, a real, pretty, antim.com sort of place.‡ When I do, he'll probably have the enviable task of giving my brother access to the inner sanctum of my blogworks should the need ever arise.

You will not be left unattended.

[SUMMARY: Death: the hardest job you'll never love.]

Meanwhile, there is one more estate-planning issue on which I think we need to touch.

Red knows that the second she hears of my untimely demise, her first responsibility is to race to my house and clean out the TOP DRAWER IN THE BEDSIDE STAND CLOSEST TO THE WINDOW. There is stuff my dad or aunts don't need to clean up. They don't even need to see that stuff. They'll be much happier not even knowing that stuff exists.

I urge you: get a porn buddy*/sex toy buddy/beanie baby§ buddy to Disneyfy¶ your environs before your stuffier relatives get their hands on your effects. I think you get bonus points in heaven for your thoughtfulness. Or, you know, you'll be setting up a friend to join you in hell, if you believe in that sort of thing.

[SUMMARY: How on earth do people commit suicide? There's a LOT of stuff to do before you die.]

Oh... and Red? You might check the little upper-left drawer in the dresser. If I have any sassy lingerie,# that's where it will be.

For your services, you not only get all the alpaca, you can have my vast needle collection too.$


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Really, I wasn't just thinking of myself and cat-eating-face implications and where-will-my-fibre go implications. I *was too* thinking of y'all. I just hadn't arrived at that part in the series yet. *ahem*

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Not that I need one. Oh, no. Mostly I covet.

*FOOTNOTE (asterisked -- don't hate me because I'm conventional): See: Coupling

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): 'Cause, y'know, if you have beanie babies, you may not want that to get out.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Like they did to Times Square. And Vegas. Sugar, sugar... white, clean and neat.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): No, I don't have any right now. Just the matching bra-and-panties thing, on which the jury is still out as to its efficacy with the stubblier sex.

$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): It'd be nice if you'd share with eca.