For Those of You Scoring at Home:

Raiders

vs.

Division Rivals

(Last four seasons and yesterday):

2-23

It wasn't pretty, but it's a win.

BTDub...

Raiders

vs.

Division Rivals

(Last four seasons):

2-22

Just sayin'.

"Hate" is a Strong Word...

...but I really really really...

...um...

Oh, forget it. I hate 'em.

For a moment, I thought to myself, "Self, should I be torn? Should I love the Raiders logo but hate the team with the fiery passion of a thousand poisonous ants?"

Then I realised... it's not even a skull.




There isn't a single skeletal element† in this picture.

[SUMMARY: Fucking Raiders.]

Guess where I'll be Sunday? Look for me on TiVi -- I'll be the fuzzy redhead in the Ed McCaffrey jersey sitting about 18 rows up on the 50 yard line, embarassing her sister-in-law, screaming herself horse.‡



†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I coulda said "bone," but then I couldn't've used this footnote to be twelve. Bone... *gigglesnarf* I said, "bone"...

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Hoarse... horse... Broncos... get it? Remember: I think I'm funny.

A FOOTNOTE WITH NO BASECAMP:

I'm twelve and enamoured of my own lame humour.

But at least I'm not a Raider fan.



Have a lovely weekend, ev'ry-bahdy!

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

Going home now.

K, bye.

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

Knitanalogy

There is a knitting analogy to be drawn in this story.

And because I know news stories on the Innernets don't last forever, the gist is that various spider species -- hundreds or thousands of spiders, I'm guessing† -- built on each other's webs to make one giant web covering 200 yards over a pond outside of Dallas.

ETA: Photos

Most spider species are solitary and cannibalistic,‡ but because of excellent feeding conditions, these are living in harmony. They no longer have individual webs, but are sharing their stash§ foundations with their fellow spiders so that they all may partake of the bounty of mosquitos and other insects this summer has brought them.

Of course, I get the feeling if the pickings get slim, it's every spider for herself.

You may draw your own conclusions.

Now I have to go work.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): *brrrrrrrrrrrshudder*

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): "I'm moving in to your web until the contractors finish mine."

"Eat me, Marge."

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Did anybody notice I finally figured out how to cross stuff out?

Hell Day... oh! Pretty Flowers!

Don't think of me here in the office at 5:30.

Just think of the pretty flowers.

2001 Was a Tuesday Too

Monday, September 10, 2001, was the grand opening of the new Broncos stadium.

I was there in the South Stands with Annie for Monday Night Football, a new Bronco season and the new stadium. My favourite player of all time, Ed McCaffrey, was injured. We at the stadium didn't know what the injury was, but we knew it was bad because... well, because Easy Ed *always* bounced back, but this time he was down for a long time and they carted him off the field in one of those miniature farm trucks.

I figured I'd find out what happened the next morning on the news.

Y'all know the rest of the story.†

Think a gentle thought today.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): For those of you scoring at home, this is post is not about football.

Illuminati

Friday, I came to my little parking lot to see this.



While I'm fully dork enough to take pictures of a Mini Cooper just 'cause it's a Mini Cooper, this one is special. Can you see in the windshield? Let me get closer.



Yep. That's a skull-n-crossbones air freshener EXACTLY like the one Glinda-formerly-known-as-Secret-Pal sent me. The same car was parked right behind me today.



It's an exclusive club.

We have a handshake.

Hey, Mo!

Darling Mo, sweet Mo, my main Mo...

Thanks for coming to visit me and just me a couple of weeks ago. It blew my mind so hard I almost passed out from the excitement. When the fog cleared, I was afraid to approach the wonder that is you (for fear of relapse), so I kept it on the QT.

I feel I can handle it now.

Here's your shout-out.

XOXO
M

p.s. -- you're at least as big a dork as I am. It may be why I love you so. Also? I didn't blog about Aunt Chris either, so you shouldn't feel too bad. And the part where I said Garrett was Vanessa's husband (instead of her brother, for those of you scoring at home)? That would have been prime blogfodder had I blogged at all.

Compare-a-Sin

First, I'd like to address Ally's request that I discuss the current leader in the Onion Shattered Expectations Football League. I can only assume that at the time she wrote that, her team† was in the dubious‡ lead.

Not so much now.

Our leader is the ominously-named That Foot is Me. He/She has *six times* the points our Ally does.%

I, on the other hand have -245 points. Yes, that's a negative. Apparently, even when I try to pick losers, I manage to pick losers at losing.

This explains so much about my love life.

Lust life.

Whatever.

My regular fantasy league isn't doing any better, but I am choosing like a champ^ in the two Pick 'Em leagues I'm in. Somehow, I can identify winners in groups.

Huh.

[SUMMARY: Maybe I need to rethink my views on polyamory.§]

In fibre news, I purchased some Mountain Colors sock yarn¶ Thursday night during my little drop-in to Stitch Therapy at Sylvia's New House of Fuzzy Crack. As it is gift yarn, I chose the colours strictly for the recipients and ended up with brown and red.

It wasn't until I got home that I realised I had, in my hot little hands, the correct versions of the Not-So-Deadly Sins received in my Seven Deadly Sins Sock Club inaugural shipment.

Just look:


The New Sins



Side-by-side comparison: Wrath



Side-by-side comparison: Gluttony



See the difference?


I know the new red looks pink in the sun, but it's much closer to true in the shadowy pictures.#

[SUMMARY: It isn't very entertaining, but it is pictures of yarn. And that makes it all better.]

Oh, look! KNITBLOG!

OK, now I need to get to work. Happy Monday.

†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Canadian Bacon

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): For those of you scoring at home, the Onion league allows you to pick eight scoring units from a list every week and whomever fucks up most royally wins. You get *negative* points for touchdowns and BIG points for completely failing to get in the end zone at all.

%FOOTNOTE (percented -- 600 percented, to be exact): 30

^FOOTNOTE (careted): I have 12 right in one league and 11 in the other. And on top of both.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Just kidding. I think it's like being gay or straight: you're either cut out for it from the very beginning or you're just plain not. And holy cats, am I not.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): As GIFTS. NOT to add to the overwhelming sock stash. Don't look at me that way.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Shadowy Yarn on a Shadowy Planet. Anybody get the reference? Ally? Lyda?

Reality Check

The bottom line about this weekend:

• Friday: Devised workable method of shortcutting workload by taking a box of folders home, a couple of snakebites† at Patrick Carroll's, a tarot reading, a little art, a sudden realisation that while I had devised a workable method of getting ahead on the Everest of workpiles, I left the box of folders at the office,% went downtown at 7:00 to pick up box,returned home for a little TiVi catch-up while knitting, a lot of quality sleep

[SUMMARY: Pretty pictures don't erase dorkdom, but they help.]

• Saturday: Up at 7:30, notary skills applied in Littleton and check picked up, followed by trip to bank (where they had doughnuts and coffee),‡ ESPN-XM on the way home, a productive two work hours, lunch, five more hours of work (slogging along, but making progress), TiVi and knitting -- all laundry done during work and folded during TiVi breaks, a little more art, a little wine, a surprise appearance by various relatives and an outstanding massage.§ No sex.
  

[SUMMARY: At least I caught on to that laundry issue before it was too late.]

Sunday: Woke up crying at 6:00 (sad dreams), said, "fuck this," went back to sleep, woke up at 10:30, ran down to DVR the Broncos, two hours of work, half a Bronco game, one hour of work, blog, second half of the Broncos.# I am 12 rows of garter stitch from finishing the Girl Colours Big Baby and will pop it into the laundry shortly, along with the Boy Colours Big Baby¶. I already called Kelley and will pick her up at 5:15, at which time we'll have a lovely dinner at Vesta, laugh our asses off at Lavell Crawford and try not to let the fact that I still have 30 hours worth of work left to do in three days bother me too much.

[SUMMARY: A win is a win, no matter how ugly.††]

Now I should go perform ritual hair removal and shower so as to be presentable in public.

Thank you for your continued support.



%FOOTNOTE (percented): Dork, dork, dork...

†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Half Strongbow Hard Cider, half Harp's. All yummy and refreshing.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Nobody at the bank even asked why I was taking pictures of their doughnut table.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Not Fling. A massage therapist at the art show.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): which I had to use as a decoy for Cat for Scale so I could get anything at all done on the Girl Colours Big Baby, and it (Boy Colours Big Baby) is now covered in kitty snot and wild hairs. Don't tell Christa. It'll be clean before her little darling sees it.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Which, frankly, if Mom wasn't already dead, this game would have killed her. I *screamed* at the end. I made girl noises. At football. That's just wrong.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Y'all get that I'm not just talking about the Broncos, right? That it's a metaphor for my weekend and I think I'm clever and this is probably one of those style-over-substance things I corner myself with so often?

Awwwww!

I am told I should display this award here along with a link to who bestowed it. That would be Kim (whose blog I am making my way through right now -- y'know, 'cause the OC thing says I have to read the whole thing) over at Handeye Crafts.

This award originated at Skittles’ Place (another blog I'm sure I'm going to have to read) and I'm supposed to be sure to mention that so Barb, the creator of the award, can follow its journey. Barb has devised the award for bloggers who shine their light throughout the Blogosphere, with humor, creativity, or with their kind and thoughtful nature.

Kim apparently hasn't read of my plans to bury the Male Lady in the drainage pond by Starbuck's... or maybe it's more the "humor" part than the "kind and thoughtful nature" part. In any case, anyone who sees some good in me wins a little piece of my heart, so I thank you, Kim.

I'm going to pass it on to Lyda and Anna-Liza at Pollyanna Rainbow Sunshine and the Needles of Doom (so you guys be sure to mention Skittles' Place and Barb and link back to me) because of their constancy and sweet liberalism and free thought that makes me want to be a better Marin.

This has nothing to do with Lyda's delectable brother or the suck-upping thereto.

Now I really have to go work.

Three Things

TTHFCIF

1) Here is the layout of my life for the next week-and-a-half:

• I have a huge, looming deadline that was Friday (the 14th) but I think I can push it to Monday, which is scant comfort because...



• I have the Rocky Mountain Mineral Law Foundation Mineral Title Examination all day Thursday and Friday so I can't really work on said deadline either day, and...



• I would come in to work all this weekend, but The Client is playing musical offices, having just remodeled an entire new floor to accommodate the growinggrowinggrowing company and I'm moving from my cozy little cubicle on 13 to my very own office on 5, which sounds nice but means I can't work between 4:00 today and 2:00 Sunday afternoon which is killing me because two weeks ago I said, "Yeah, no problem, I'll have this done by Friday the 14th," with utter arrogance and hubris despite the fact that...



• I now have approximately 50 hours worth of work to do to finish this.

This is a lot of words to gain your compassion and let you know that blogging may take a back seat next week.

[SUMMARY: Shameless shilling for sympathy.]

2) The Onion† has a Shattered Expectations fantasy football league. You don't have to draft teams or anything.

In short, you pick two QB, two RB, two WR, one kicker and one defense from a set list every week and whomever screws up the most wins. There are legitimate prizes from The Onion, but mostly there's the fun of playing. If any of you is interested, sign up before Sunday at The Onion Fantasy Football Shattered Expectations.

Our league is Shattered Elks, our password, Elway.‡

3) My fantasy about this weekend:

• Friday: Devise brilliant method of shortcutting workload by taking two folders tonight to work on at home, a little art, a little wine, a lot of quality sleep



• Saturday: Up early (not too), notary skills applied in Littleton and check picked up, followed by trip to bank (where they have doughnuts and coffee), my favourite song is on the radio on the way home, then I experience unbelievably productive (but surprisingly short) work hours, a little more art, a little more wine, a surprise call from the Fling wanting to rub my feet tonight and cook me breakfast in the morning. Sex.



• Sunday: A happy morning snuggle, a cheery drive home in soft sunlight, two hours of insanely productive work time (while the laundry runs), a couple of hours of knitting and TiVi catch-up ETA: Broncos! (while laundry finishes), call Kelley and tell her I'll pick her up at 5:15 for dinner reservations at Vesta and Lavell Crawford, eat a lovely dinner, laugh our asses off, nightcap at the Coral, home to bed at a reasonable hour, happy in the knowledge that I only have about ten hours of work left on the deadline.

[SUMMARY: Monkeys soaring out of my butt.]

The probably reality of my weekend:

• Friday: No brilliance, no art, a lotta whine, an ill-conceived late night at the Coral,% lack of quality sleep.



• Saturday: Up at the crack of 11:30, notary skills applied in Littleton and check picked up too late to deposit, the National Weather Service issues a tornado warning on the I-25 corridor for the next six hours on the radio on the way home, get a ticket for expired plates three blocks from home, no phone calls - check dial tone, experience unbelievably frustrating work hours, check for dial tone, forced death march to cousin's studio for a little more art, cheap wine, call Brother on pretense of checking... something§..., collapse at home, check for dial tone, bed at 1:00. C-batteries dead, damnit.



• Sunday: Cat nose in my ear at 5:15, realise because of undisciplined dumbassedness on Saturday I can't just roll over and go back to sleep, hours of insanely disorganised but frantic work time, ETA: Broncos!, call from Kelley saying she's picking me up in 45 minuts for dinner at Vesta and Lavell Crawford, realise never did laundry, haven't done laundry for three weeks, put together weird retro outfit from items in back of closet, eat a lovely dinner, laugh our asses off, nightcap at the Coral, home to bed at midnight, tossing and turning with worry over the massive amounts of work left to be done by next Monday.

[SUMMARY: Well, I'll laugh my ass off. At least I have that going for me.]

4¶) Look what I found!



Guess what I want for Christmas?


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Which ranks right up there with The Daily Show as my main source of news.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Don't hate me 'cause I homer.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Pronounced "Corral" by those in the know. snobsnobsnob

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): The cell phone equivalent of checking for dial tone.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): You didn't really think I was going to stick to three things, did you?

I Have a Fantasy

Oh, fantasy draft, how I love you.

How I loathe your aftermath.%

Boys can become real pussies over fantasy football, let me tell you.

Our league is usually pretty easy-going, but there are little flair-ups† once or twice a season that make me want to scramble all their teams and leave the commissioner duties in the not-so-capable paws of Quill, the Cat for Scale.

[SUMMARY: Really? We're whining about fantasy football now?]

Old Chicago had a fine draft party special ($6 all-you-can-eat pizza) and, well, they have beer.

In fantasy commissioning,‡ as in many things in life, I like to maintain a policy of calm-before-the-storm me-time.

When I was Meg's maid of honour, I hosted her shower at the Fourth Story, a lovely restaurant that used to be on top of what used to be the Tattered Cover in Cherry Creek. I showed up an hour early so I could set up, then have a glass of wine by myself.

I like to get to work early and get a glass of water or a cup of coffee and settle in a little before the rest of the work world is buzzing around.

I'm usually the first to a party, and I'm always happy to help the host because mostly I'm just happy to be there and have a few minutes to breathe and grab a cocktail before it gets too social.

You may note a "drinking alone" theme. Don't be alarmed.

Pretty much how I handle fantasy draft. An empty table and a full Sam Adams and I feel I've reached a goal.

Look. No men. Can you believe this falls under the heading "fantasy"?


Then the boys show up and, since I'm keeping track of everybody drafted and available, and since I'm drafting for myself and Eric (who didn't attend... again), it gets a little hectic.

To be fair -- because I'm ALWAYS fair$ -- since only six out of ten of our league made it to the draft party, most people were drafting for two. Most of the guys that don't show are lucky if their rosters don't include Michael Vick, Roger Goodell and Gisele Bundchen.

But none of them has the commissioner drafting for them, a woman held to that higher standard.

[SUMMARY: Did I accuse the boys of whining? Bad pot! Bad, bad black pot!]

Oh, look! It's the boys from poker!


And today the boy-whining begins.

"Jack gets up early and he gets all the good players. Can you make free agency random every week so he can't take all the players while I'm sleeping?"§

"Can you run up a complete list of everybody's draft and email it to us so we can have plenty of time to lodge complaints before today's free agency deadline?"§

No.

HELL no.

But this too shall pass, my team is solid and -- if nothing else -- it means football is back and hockey and basketball aren't far behind.

[SUMMARY: Are you ready for some FOOTBALL?!]

Are you ready for some KNITBLOG?!¶

Louet's Pearl for some Cookie A patterns from Wendy at Lanas de Libélula. Note the special bonus Soak and the very nice sachet thingie she sends with everything. It has lavender, I'm pretty sure, and maybe cedar. It smells really good and makes me happy and... y'know... gift with purchase.



And I got these from The Knittery in Australia. It's sock yarn. With cashmere.#:




Daphne sent a nice note (I like nice notes with my yarn. So personal) and this:

I come from a land down under



Gummy koala!

Which Cat for Scale licked shortly after this picture was snapped. He then proceeded to make biscuits†† all over the Girl Colours Big Baby, so I had to shoot him.

[SUMMARY: Still a knitblog.]

No, no... he's still alive, but I'm getting my revenge by posting a less-than-glamourous photo of him that makes him look like a Moonie after a chronic break (note the ravaged Girl Colours Big Baby in the background).

Oh, and I'm making him take over the fantasy league.


All your fantasy teams are belong to us




%FOOTNOTE (percented): Almost poetical, don't you think? The way "draft" and "aftermath" flow?

†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Preparation H. I need Preparation H for my fantasy flair-ups. Wow. Imagine the potential for Google abuse with that sentence.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): commissioneering? commissionetting?

$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): Somewhere, Brother is laughing.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): I am not making these up.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I think I'm clever. I'm confident Hank Williams, Jr. would agree with me.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Once again, with nylon. 20% cashmere and 20% nylon and the nylon wins again. Nylon! Reigning champion! Spoiler of the luxury feel of luxury fibres! I now have silk/nylon and cashmere/nylon and they both feel kind of dry and fuzzy (tennis ball fuzzy, not bunny fuzzy) rather than silky or soft. Don't get me wrong, it's pretty. And I can still tell... whomever... that I knit them cashmere socks or mittens or... whatever. But it doesn't feel like cashmere.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): It's a problem -- he has claws.

One Goat

Paul gets me.

So does Ally (who hooked me up with YouTube here), though she'd never admit it.

Time is Running Short

There are still deadlines. Deadlines everywhere. Does this faze me? No.

My fantasy football draft is tonight. I have done, let's see... I've pulled the list of bye weeks. Now, if it were just me, playing little fantasy games,† I'd just pull a cheat sheet from somewhere and plan on lots of beer and little actual sporting success this season. As I am the commissioner of our little league,‡ I really should make up some draft sheets and do up some numbers to pick for draft order and all that. Am I buckling down to do that? No.

I really must get to the post office at lunch because, despite her ongoing abuse, Ally really should get her final Secret Pal package. It's only been two months. Am I carefully plotting my schedule to include this additional stop in my day? No.§

[SUMMARY: Work avoidance as fine art.]

Because I have pictures of an FO and that trumps all responsibility and sense of shame.

[SUMMARY: Pictures of yarn make it all better.]

But first...

Kisses and loves to Knit Picks for replacing, without question, the leprosy-ridden circ and the deformed Options cable I received. I contacted them about these items well out of the 30-day prescribed return period and they didn't fuss or fret. They just sent replacement items and apologised profusely for subjecting me to inferiour goods. We all know this is probably how it should be. We also all know it's a rare and wonderful thing when customer service runs so beautifully.

And how painful it is when your knitting is bollocksed up for days -- OK, any period of time -- because of a wrong, missing or wonky product? Y'all know.

[SUMMARY: Knit Picks is my new best friend.¶]

In entertainment news, I went to see a group called Face in Lafayette last night.

A quick tangent about Lafayette: driving up Highway 287, we came upon a majestic city sign on a corner. You know what I mean -- the miniature wall surrounded by flowering plants, proudly announcing the name of the town and perhaps its motto or primary tourist feature ("Home of the World's Largest Artichoke!"). This sign said, simply, "City of Lafayette." For miles around, fields. Big sky. Little brown birds. Audible crickets. Giving lie to the concept of "city."

I said to my brother, "And me without my camera."#

[SUMMARY: It's all about the blog.]

Now a little backstory to the evening's festivities: our father, a man not given to excess of anything but fishing equipment and, for some reason, shoes, sent a very cryptic email to Brother, eBeth and me about six weeks ago, under the subject line, "A Date."

He asked us to pick one of two dates and keep it open. He said he was getting us tickets to something that he wasn't going to explain, but he guaranteed we'd enjoy. Something we *had* to see.

Once he got the tickets, he announced that he wouldn't be going, as he would be in Alaska, but have fun. He then explained it was an a cappella rock band. He assured us that this was certainly not his sort of music (i.e. -- rock), but they were so amazing he was a fan.

Brother and I agreed the question of "What does Dad think I have to see?" was almost more interesting than anything that could possibly go on stage.

[SUMMARY: Anticipaaaashun... it's making me wait...]

A brief review: They are excellent at what they do, though there is a sort of Up With People veneer that I suspect they have to maintain for their demographic and in the scope of a cappella contests in which they compete.

The song selection was mostly soft rock pop stuff, which is not so much my thing. There were a couple of soulful, gospellish songs that really worked well in that style (and the big guy has a hell of a lot of soul for a white dude). I have to admit "Calling All Angels" is far more interesting as a harmonic vocal thing than it ever was on the radio. OK, the Pink Panther theme was awesome and Safety Dance was brilliant.

I still say if they can do O Fortuna, they can do YYZ.

Which brings us to my next career: I want to be the Malcolm McLaren of a cappella music. I came up with a list of several songs that would be really cool and sound nothing like Train.††

[SUMMARY: Nothing should sound too much like Train if it can help it.]

My questionable taste moment for the night: The owner of the venue (who talked a lot, said the little black kettle) said, "The first time these guys came on my stage, my jaw just dropped." I started giggling helplessly, 'cause -- y'know -- if six guys came all over my stage, I'd probably be a little stunned too.

[SUMMARY: I'm twelve.]

OK, you're not here for the music reviews. You're here for the fibre.

[SUMMARY: Still a knitblog.]

The first Tulip sweater, she is finished. And washed. Thus:



I promise you the left sleeve isn't missing or deformed or anything. The picture's just artsier this way.

[SUMMARY: Is too.]

And, because I can, a crane. For me. 'Cause sometimes you got to do for yourself instead of waiting on others to do for you.‡‡

[SUMMARY: Yes, that's dirty. Still twelve.]




†FOOTNOTE (crossed): The kind that don't involve C-batteries.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Which sounds impressive and glamourous until you realise it's all about being the secretary.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): But you fuck one goat... (some of you got that, right?)

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Despite any implications from the last post, this does not entitle them to a share of my big dick. Of the big dick I'm... oh, you know what I mean.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): You know, a picture paints a thousand words, so since I don't have a picture, I have to keep yammering about it until I'm convinced you have a clear mental image. You're welcome.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): When Doves Cry, Ghostriders in the Sky, Love Cats, and a version of Ain't No Sunshine that would allow for some really dramatic staging (to name a few).

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Yeah, I didn't get any this weekend. I'm not bitter. I have my crane. And my dog. And this lamp.

Two Things

Dear loyal readers, friends, family and those who stumbled on this blog Googling "huge dick knits my new best friend" --

1) I forgot to put Douglas Adams on my author list. I have a sneaking suspicion I will wake up in the middle of the night in a cold, cold sweat more than once in the coming weeks, panting, eyes wide and heart pounding as I recall a favourite that I left off the list.

I am that kind of dork.

2) OK, OK... Sylvia isn't shutting down entirely. She just moved. I have many pictures of that process. I also helped polish the new floor. And I put all the Noro in the new store (how jealous are you? I got to fondle ALL the Noro.) She may even let me guest-blog on the store blog since I have all the pictures.

I also had fantasies of a spectacular The Moving of a Fuzzy Crack Den: a Before-and-After Photo Essay. That's what I thought I was setting myself up for with the "goodbye, little shop" schtick.

For now, I apologise to those of you who expressed sympathy or panic.

*ahem*

3) As it turns out, the chances of me being able to post tomorrow are slim to none. A client we've been ignoring all month will no longer be ignored and between the looming deadline for the current big client and the immediate crisis that is the poor, redheaded stepchild of a client, I doubt I'll have time.

My photo essay fantasies will have to wait at least another day.

Um... yes, that's three things.

I'm so buggy from reading tiny little numbers and extrapolating them into a usable spreadsheet that I lost four long ago and now can no longer even count to three.

See you Wednesday. Miss you already.

XOXO
M

p.s. -- While stocking today, we were listening to the soft rock station and guess what came on? "whoa whoa... you get the best of my duh..."

I shit you not.

La La La *heartsandflowers* La La La

TTHFCIF

Bits and pieces to clear some of the blogclutter out of my brain:

Father left for the Great White North yesterday, oldest sister (my Aunt Judi) in tow. Sunday, we took his Winnebago† to said aunt's house so she could pack some of her stuff and stock the fridge and such and we had breakfast with my aunt and uncle.

I made sure -- in Aunt Judi's presence -- to tell Dad to keep an eye out for qiviut. I'd like you to imagine this conversation I (willing to pay $40 a skein for cashmere%... hell, willing to pay $25 a skein for plain ol' superwash sock yarn if the colours are pretty enough^) had with my father (balks at $25 for a pair of jeans):

"Qiviut. Q-I-V-I-U-T. Musk Ox yarn."

"Oh, yeah. I've heard of that."

"It's kinda expensive..."

"What does 'expensive' mean?"

"More expensive than cashmere."

"What does 'more expensive than cashmere' mean?"

"Um... I think about $50 or $60 an ounce?"

"Yarn comes in ounces?"

"Oh, yeah. The stuff you're using‡ is about 50 grams, so yours is a little under two ounces."

(Dad does a little math...)

"Good grief."

*sigh* I'm not holding out a lot of hope for qiviut.

In retrospect, it probably wasn't fair to make my poor father assess the price point of any qiviut he may run across.§ But if they have roadside qiviut stands where yarn is $20 a bushel, I'd hate to miss out. Besides, I made sure Aunt Judi knows the score so she can talk him off a ledge if there's a two-bushel minimum.

[SUMMARY: There is a good reason married couples should maintain separate checking accounts.]

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

Last night was the last night of Stitch Therapy at Sylvia's House of Fuzzy Crack, the lovely little LYS a mere seven blocks from the Barfly Beach & Resort.

Alas, that store is no more.

We drank wine and reminisced as we knitted. Then we carried the green chairs out of the annex for the last time and stood sniffling a little at the big, bare shelves and the pink-striped wall with its proud, gilded POSH, now standing alone and fuzzless.

Goodbye, little Posh shop. We hardly knew ye.¶

[SUMMARY: *sniff*]

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

I have another sad yarn story to tell you (gossip from Stitch Therapy):

The Recycled Lamb, a local shop, was vandalised recently. From what the knittas at Syl's said, some kids were sitting on a roof across from the shop chucking rocks at the front window. Once they broke it, they tossed firecrackers in.

Thousands of dollars of sock yarn# was thrown away because of glass shards in the skeins.

[SUMMARY: Get a drink if you have to. Make it a double.]

While I'm horrified at the travesty, I also must sheepishly (ha!) admit that my first thought was, "I wonder if that stuff is still in the dumpster."

Mary Kay and I stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the wall of shame, proclaiming what we would be willing to do to save the yarn, including dumpster diving,†† winding hanks into balls four or five times to remove glass and taking the chance on slicing our fingers to ribbons.

[SUMMARY: Where dorkdom and fibre-lust meet, there I will be...]

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

At Lyda's request (more or less),$ I am posting a list of fifteen books I truly love. Fiction. No classics,‡‡ no particular order, not saying the *best* books, only some of my favourites.

1. Mists of Avalon (Marion Zimmer Bradley)


2. The Art of Breaking Glass (Matthew Hall)


3. Child of the Morning (Pauline Gedge)


4. The Assassini (Thomas Gifford)


5. The Red Tent (Anita Diamant)


6. The Power of One (Bryce Courtenay)


7. Dream Snake (Vonda McIntyre)


8. The Vampire Lestat (Anne Rice)


9. Lonesome Dove (Larry McMurtry)


10. Sung in Shadow (Tanith Lee)


11. Legacy (Susan Kay)


12. Practical Magic (Alice Hoffman)


13. Boy's Life (Robert McCammon)


14. Weaveworld (Clive Barker)


15. Winter's Tale (Mark Helprin)

Then, because I love so many non-fiction books, I'm including a list of ten non-fiction books. But no humour or how-to.§§

1. Color: A Natural History of the Palette (Victoria Finlay)


2. Calendar: Humanity's Epic Struggle to Determine a True and Accurate Year (David Ewing Duncan)


3. The Secret Life of Dust: From the Cosmos to the Kitchen Counter, the Big Consequences of Little Things (Hannah Holmes)


4. The Professor and the Madman: A Tale of Murder, Insanity, and the Making of the Oxford English Dictionary (Simon Winchester)


5. The Barmaid's Brain: And Other Strange Tales From Science (Jay Ingram)


6. The Dragons of Eden: Speculations on the Evolution of Human Intelligence (Carl Sagan)


7. The Tender Bar: a Memoir (J.R. Moehringer)


8. Royal Babylon: The Alarming History of European Royalty (Karl Shaw)


9. The Orchid Thief: A True Story of Beauty and Obsession (Susan Orlean)


10. Freakonomics: A Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden Side of Everything (Steven D. Levitt)

Then, because I lost sleep in the dorkest nights over not just hammering home some authors, I'm including a list of ten authors. Who don't show up on the book lists, above.¶¶

1. Natalie Angier (science)


2. Bill Bryson (science, travel, language)


3. Barbara Kingsolver (novels, essay collections)


4. Terry Pratchett (SciFi/fantasy)


5. Christopher Moore (novels)


6. Gregory Maguire (novels)


7. Stephen Jay Gould (science)


8. Lawrence Block (mystery/thriller/detective)


9. Carol O'Connel (detective)


10. Spider Robinson (SciFi)

[SUMMARY: Book. Problem.]

Now go read something good.

And have a lovely holiday weekend.

Fibre in its purest form to sooth your soul and make it all better
From Cute Overload

†FOOTNOTE (crossed): A genuine, 1970s-style Winnebago brand camper thing. It looks like giant shoebox on wheels.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): And let's not forget the $100 pair of buffalo socks I willingly forked over for.

^FOOTNOTE (careted): Or if you tell me it's a limited edition. *ahem*

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Mission Falls Wool, which is about $6 a ball, or $3.41 per ounce, for those of you scoring at home. I'm sure he thinks he's comparing apples to apples when his eyes bug out like that and his eye starts twitching, but there's far less overhead in knitting than, say, fishing (his big hobby of choice).

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): It was also probably not fair to smack him in the face with the utter insanity that is his only daughter's hobby mentality. However, if he says anything, I'm going to ask him to run me a tally on fishing equipment he owns. I've rarely spent as much in a month on yarn as he might spend on a single fly rod.

And I don't have a Winnebago for my stash. Just sayin'.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): 'Specially the back room.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Take a moment, eca.

$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): Notice how neatly I blame this on poor Lyda.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Under cover of night. This involved (in our fantasy, which we acted out in the middle of the store) Black Ops uniforms and facial camouflage as well as a lot of very military-like hand gestures and a whole soundtrack just like you see in the movies when they have to free Sarge from the POW camp.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Because I would have to agonise over tossing Gone With the Wind, Jane Eyre, Little Women, Emma and the Phantom of the Opera. It was just easier this way.

§§FOOTNOTE (look at them curves!): Because I would have to agonise over tossing any number of knitting books, not to mention Dave Barry. It was just easier this way.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (I have no more paragraph crystals! I'm givin' her all I've got!): Because I would have to agonise over *which* Bryson or *which* Kingsolver and I'm just not strong enough. Besides, this way I can sneak in that many more books by pushing the entire oeuvre of each author.

Please...

...yesterday's post was big enough for two days, don't you think?

XOXO

Watch Me Wiggle

The age-in-dating issue really strikes a chord for some of you.† Lights a bulb. Sets off a nuclear device betwixt the ears.

*sigh*

OK, for the second time yesterday,‡ I was dead wrong. Dead. Wrong.

Let me take you back sixteen years to when I was 24 and was dating a 39-year-old man with two ex-wives and three ex-sons.

I was not interested in men my own age, primarily because there *were* no 24-year-old men in my radar. There were only 24-year-old boys. Gross, hedonistic, sexually irresponsible, emotionally retarded, alcohol-soaked, financially untenable boys.

If I knew then what I know now, I might have spent less time looking for a meaningful relationship and rode out my twenties on a wave of blissful sexual excess.

[SUMMARY: And my 40s and 20s would be different... how?]

Instead, I hooked up with Rich. Rich was in Vietnam when I was eating paste in pre-school. Rich was starting his first family when I was starting middle school.

We could *not* agree on a radio station. Not for long, at least. He liked the classic rock station,§ which I could go with as a novelty, but my heavy metal/goth sensibilities needed feeding too. Looking back, it feels like Rich and I spent all our time together twitting each other about our musical/movie/TiVi taste and trying to find something we could both listen to/watch.

Because of that, I'd written a rule for myself that anyone who wasn't in high school when I was in high school probably can't talk to me. That doesn't mean everybody who was in high school when I was in high school *can* talk to me, but at least it eliminates a whole area I saw as a known and avoidable problem.

[SUMMARY: Dead. Wrong.]

The Fling (your Bachelor #4) is fine. He isn't immature. He doesn't twit me about my age. He is attentive, accommodating, present, loves my body, has a big dick and we can talk. Not that we talk a lot, but we always do and I suspect if this were all about sex, we wouldn't want to.

Part of me is uneasy about admitting all this (to y'all or to myself) because I don't want to be caught in yet another web of emotional hope and disappointment and it's easier to play cool% if I can casually say, "Yeah, I'm just in it for the sex."

Besides, if we ever have a Talk or he tells me about some other girl he's falling for$ I can more easily bounce into the fun fuck-buddy role and lick my wounds in private¶ where they won't embarrass me.

[SUMMARY: I'm human. And I was wrong.]

Besides, the rug burn? Totally worth it. And a funny story: when he saw the rug burn yesterday morning, he made a big show of matching it to the couch, the recliner, the stairs... to determine exactly where it happened.

"I watch a lot of CSI," he said, "and I'd say from the angle and the trajectory that this came from the couch. Definitely the couch."




[SUMMARY: She had sex on the stairs?]

Onward to the Yarn P0rn!

[SUMMARY: Fibre photos make everything better.]

The Seven Deadly Sins Sock Club from Fearless Fibres kicked into gear late last week.

Here is the first shipment:

Nice feet


Gluttony and Wrath


The true colour (at least on my monitor) is somewhere between the wide shot and the close-ups, leaning a little toward the close-ups.

I'm ever-so-slightly disappointed in the colours. I have a gorgeous hank of purplepurplepurple sock yarn from Fearless Fibres that eca-elf sent for my birthday. The colours are rich and saturated, ranging from almost-aubergine, through royal and right into a deep reddish purple.

Lust may look very like that purple colour to me.

Shouldn't sin be rich and saturated? If your sin is kinda medium to faded, you're not getting enough out of it. Or you're Catholic, but that's another issue.

Gluttony is billed as being rich shades of caramel and chocolate, which I get in theory. I don't see much of what I would call chocolate in this. I think there should be much more dark. I think the caramel is gorgeous, but against the middling mutt browns,# it just looks yellowy.

Mostly, it looks like a Milky Way to me. Nothing wrong with Milky Way, but...

Wrath is pretty. It should be scarier. Wrath is scary. It's the only of the seven deadly sins that eats other people, not just the sinner. It should be redder. It should be angrier.

I don't dislike either yarn out of context. But deadly sin is mythic and disproportionate. These are just too nice.

[SUMMARY: I ain't selling my soul for a Milky Way.]

Huh. I'd swear I uploaded pictures of the bonus gift tags Fearless Fibres sent. They're cute. I like them. I'll use them. I wish I had a picture to show you. Besides... bonus gift? Right in the category of Goody Bag and Limited Edition in AntiM's rickety world.

[SUMMARY: Old. Feeble. Gullible. Check.]

I almost hate to do this to you, 'cause WIP pics are frequently dull. 'Specially fingering-weight size 12 (men's) socks.




The girl version of Big Baby is coming along swimmingly. I have less than two-and-a-half balls left to knit. For some reason, this one seems to be taking way more yarn. The boy version I knit a couple of months ago called for nine balls and took just over eight. This one looks like it might take all of ten.

Go figure.




Lizard Ridge is such fun.

Seriously, how many of those have you seen? But this is *my* Lizard Ridge. It's special.††

[SUMMARY: blahblah Lizard Ridge blah...]

No matter how many Lizard Ridges you've seen in your Innernets travels, I bet you've seen more of these:

I do love this little sweater. It took about... four hours? five? to get this far, which puts it in the realm of something I could knit easily in a weekend if I needed a last minute gift. Particularly since I don't intend to have to frog the first two colours for having forgotten the seed stitch when I do the next one. And I won't have to read the instructions next time.

It's that easy.

I have since done the seed stitch border on the left front and applied i-cord all the way down the left and around the corner to pick up the bottom to i-cord.

[SUMMARY: blahblah Tulip blah...]

Knitting pictures to make you feel better, crane picture to make me feel better.

[SUMMARY: blahblah Crane blah...]

In culinary adventure news, in eating my own weight in sushi last night, I tried sea urchin for the first time. Bleagh. OK, it tasted fantastic, but I couldn't quite get past the texture. Runny fish pudding... it just ain't right.

[SUMMARY: Some things just shouldn't go in your mouth. Shut up.]

In TiVi news, Fling and I rested with some BBC the other night and caught Top Gear. Have you seen this? If you like MythBusters, I think you'll like this. Two (maybe three) British guys race cars with celebrities, then trick out cars and perform experiments on them as dictated by... the producers? The viewing audience?

Like this:

Monday's episode featured a Chevy... um... it looked like a Cobalt. A bunch of aging musicians and soccer players dropped by the track and raced it, trying for the best time.

Meanwhile, the hosts drank tea from china cups near the track (Fling and I both agreed they were at least as death-wishy as the people taking a Chevy Cobalt to 160 mph, sitting that close to the track. Also that most of the people appeared to be hammered). The aging musicians had a keyboard jam while a soccer player took his turn.

It was slightly less surreal than it sounds.

Next, they drove what I think was a Porsche. I thought it was a 959, but it clearly wasn't once I got a good look at it. One of the celebrity guest drivers lost control and drove it to the infield, leaving a trail of tires and bits all the way.

After the break, they came back and turned a mini-van into a convertible, after which they had to perform three tasks with it:

1. Take it up to 100 mph and have nothing fall off.
2. Drive it through an animal preserve featuring African animals.
3. Take it through and automated car wash.

They weren't allowed to fix anything between challenges, so the frame of the convertible top was all wonky when they went to the animal preserve.‡‡ After monkeys rode it all the way through the preserve, poking and peeling the canvas top, they took it to the car wash. At night. And bailed when the roof collapsed.

They peeked around a wall to see smoke pouring out of the car wash.

HOST1: It's on fire.
HOST2: Fire?! It can't be on fire.
HOST1: RUN!!!

Yeah, like teenaged boys after being caught in an ill-advised egging, they took off, leaving the smoking wreck of the converted mini-van for the owner of the car wash.

Good TiVi. I highly recommend it. Besides, Ewan McGregor is going to be on next week.

[SUMMARY: Boys doing dumb things are irritating in your living room, but funny on TiVi.]

Now go have a happy Wednesday.

†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Also maybe the vicarious prurient joy y'all are getting from my current sluttastic lifestyle.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Ally very thoughtfully (as only Ally can) corrected the error of my ways in literally judging a book by its cover in the comments on her post yesterday.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Which at that time, boys and girls, did *not* play 80s music. "Classic rock" meant mostly 50s music.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Like when the cat falls clean off the dresser and just pauses right as he landed to lick the body part closest to him like it was all part of his grooming strategy.

$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): No, it's not a normal topic of conversation, but we have rolled out little bits of our love lives on occasion. I can see it happening. Suddenly I'm in some weirdly incestuous relationship where I'm playing big sister in one room and Penthouse Pet in another.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Except for, y'know, the handful of dearest friends and family to whom I whine and obsess endlessly in these cases. The more I love you, the less exempt you are.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): When Red and I were speculating on what colours we would use for which sins (before we received our yarn), I said I'd probably make sloth brown (not unlike this, but with less caramel) simply because... well, sloths are brown.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Hey, I just sold my soul for a Milky Way. Humour me.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): On their way to SafariLand (not necessarily its actual name), they were arguing about whether they were more frightened of lions or monkeys. After much hilarity involving sign language to illustrate monkey teeth vs. lion teeth, they boiled it down to "would you rather be locked in a phone booth for a half-hour with a lion or a monkey?" One guy stuck to monkey, the other two stuck to the lion.

When they got to SafariLand, the lions were too busy making little lions to even pay attention to the mini-van with the chewy centre, whereas the monkeys attacked the vehicle and eventually rode it all the way to the edge of the park.

Monkeys: 1
Lions: 0

There's a Matt Millen joke in there, I just know it.