Saturday, July 31, 2004


Housework is Wrong and Evil

I am the third worst housekeeper on the face of the planet. I know the other two and they are VILE, so don't start telling me you're in the running for this contest.

So, my mother in law is arriving tomorrow. The third time I met her, in 1996, I arrived around midnight and found her scrubbing the grout in the bathroom with a toothbrush. She stopped when I arrived and apologized for being such a bad housekeeper.

The thing that bothered me the most was that she was using MY toothbrush.

And so now tomorrow, she is going to arrive to find that a) my furniture is stained beyond all redemption, b) my fridge is growing science experiments and c) I have about 800 loads of laundry that are clean but that need to be put away.

I am hoping that my daughter's excessive cuteness is going to save the day ...

Pray for me, darlings.

Thursday, July 29, 2004


Dear Rabbitch ...

Q. Dear Rabbitch: My friend used to live with a man who was violent. I don't know if he ever broke any bones (I think a couple of cracked ribs maybe), but he tried to choke her at least twice and threw glassware and -- get this -- furniture at her when they had fights. In front of their kids. She left him, got herself some education, a job, and bought her own home.

Good for her, you say? Yes, indeedie; however, they've been battling over visitation and custody and child support payments, as these things go. To put it mildly, he's been blocking and aggravating her at every turn; he's been doing anything he can to hurt her through her kids. Typical bullshit. She's running out of money for legal fees and he's wearing her down.

Tonight, two years after leaving to save her life, she tells me out of the blue that she still loves him and is going to try to work things out with him so that they can live together again and that it would be 'better for the kids'. In one breath she tells me that he has to 'work on his stuff' because the violence is no longer an option, and then in the next that she is scared to let her kids go there alone for visits, as ordered by the court, in case he's beating his new girlfriend in front of them. If she gets him to break up with the girlfriend and take her back, the kids will be safer because she'll be 'there to protect them'.

My question is, how can I stand by and watch someone who I thought was a tough, ballsy lady, ~beg~ a man who threw a heavy wooden nightstand at her during an argument and choked her in front of her infant to take her back and more than likely beat her some more in front of her kids who are now old enough to both understand what's going on and remember it for the rest of their lives?

Please answer fast, okbye.

A. Dear Guish: If that's what she chooses to do, you have to stand by and let her do it, although expressing doubts might be a friendly sort of thingie to do. That being said, if she actually succeeds in her insane plan to revictimize herself (no, I don't know if that's a word but it works for me so shut up), you can't just stand by.

You. May. Not. You have a moral and, in Canada, a LEGAL obligation to report this to the Ministry of Children and Family Development. It's one thing if she decides to return to her abuser, it's another to have small children reintroduced to a volatile and violent environment. It's called emotional abuse. It's illegal. You have to report it.

Q. But she's my friend and ...

A. No. You can't. Even if it loses you a friend, you can't. You gotta report it and let the Ministry take it from there.

Q. What if I hired someone to rub him out?

A. That would be acceptable, yes. More than likely advisable.

Gah! You can see the sort of day I've had. You may also have seen through my thin disguise. I admit it, I'm "Guish". No, I'm not the person who had heavy furniture thrown at her because she'd burned the meatloaf or whatever the transgression was that time. Fucker'd be buried in eighteen different locations if he'd tried that on me. I've never had a boyfriend or husband hit me yet and I don't think Ben's planning on it any time soon. I may be small, but he's smart enough not to try it.
(And also far too decent a human being, I hasten to add, just in case he's reading this *g*.)

She's a fairly recent friend, maybe a year or so. A pretty good friend, though. I couldn't believe it when she told me that tonight. I mean, what do you say? I told her flat out that I thought it was the worst possible decision that she could make for herself or for her children. I didn't threaten her with being reported to the Ministry. I'm just hoping that if she approaches him he refuses her suggestion.

Otherwise I guess I lose me a friend and maybe save a couple of kids from being all fucked up by their parents, so that they can go and be all fucked up in the foster care system ...

Don't you just wish you were me right now?

unable to be
amusing tonight

Addendum: Yes, I realize this isn't about me, it's about her and her kids, so don't write and tell me I'm a selfish bitch, k?

Tuesday, July 27, 2004


summertime ...

... and the living is sneezy.

Damned allergies have been giving me hell; I'm an itching, sneezing wreck. Bet that makes me sound hot. Oh yes indeedie. Got little pink sticky eyes, too. *shimmy*

It seems worse this summer. Could that have anything to do with us getting a cat? Gee, no. Ya think? Fuggit, we're keeping her anyhow. Here she is, all covered in dirt.

Despite the dirt, she seems to be popular. My daughter asked me tonight why we had another cat. After assuring her that we did NOT have another cat, I turned around to find that Sasha apparently has a gentleman caller. He was about to use the litter box, so he seems polite, but I'm pretty sure he belongs to someone else, so I sent him on his merry way. He can't be more than 8 months or so and Sasha is nine years old. Guess my cat's a cougar!

Nothing witty to say tonight. I worked the 4-12 at my 'other' job all weekend and got another 3" or so of the Blue Blanket of Bastardy done. Nothing much else. Working all three nights this weekend (long weekend -- yay for double time!) so I'll get quite a bit more done. I'll post a photo again once I hit the half-way mark.

Mother in Law is coming to visit this weekend (yes, this is a good thing)so my husband Ben has been cleaning like a maniac. That's a picture of him with a painted paper bag on his head. Seems my daughter felt bad for him that he didn't have a tiara and put that on his head, naming him "The Honey Princess". Gotta love a man who's proud of that!

Sunday, July 25, 2004


she's got legs ...

... and she knows how to use them.

Ick. In my baking bowl.

That spider has since found out the answer to the eternal question "does god exist". Funeral on Tuesday at 3pm. In lieu of flowers, donations are requested to the "Splatter Arachnids All Over The Place" fund.

You see, I have a deal with the King of the Insects. If they stay outside, I leave them alone, even if they annoy me. If they come indoors, their little crunchy asses belong to me. This spider obviously didn't get the memo.

On a lighter note, summer is here and the fruit and veggies are abundant. Although I'm always happy to eat an apple, it distresses me when that's ALL that's available. Tonight at work I got organic strawberries and a great big chunk of watermelon.

Life is good.

Well, at least it is for me. A friend of mine had her faithful kitty companion learn a painful lesson about physics a day or two back. I don't have her permission (because it would be assful of me to ask at this point in time) to post pictures of Chavo, but he got smooshed by a car and dragged a bit, it would seem. He's still alive and has no internal injuries, but he's lost his pride and joy, his tail, and has had one leg that was dislocated and then dislocated itself again right after he got home. They don't know yet if there is enough skin left on it for him to heal himself or if he's going to have to lose a leg, too. So for anyone out there reading this, if you are so inclined and have a deity with whom you converse on a regular basis, if you would be so kind as to put in a good word for Chavo it would be much appreciated. He's a good boy and doesn't deserve this.

On the knitting front, I worked tonight and forced myself to work on The Blue Binkie of Blasphemy. Got another nine rows done. It's still on-schedule for completion at the end of August and looks great. I have no idea why I have a need to call it by hundreds of unpleasant names, but I'm sort of a butt like that.

Friday, July 23, 2004


I Can See Clearly Now ...

Well no, I can't. That would seem to be the problem today.

Actually, it was the problem last night. My husband and I went out for dinner and afterwards decided to engage in some advanced domestic disputing, which is why I didn't post yesterday. Not that I could keep up the post-a-day-routine for very long anyhow, but we're awfully good at the domestic disputing. Not the "smack the Rabbitch upside her little pointy haid" kind of domestic disputing (which is good, because I look like crap in prison wear), just the "two pig-headed people both being very very right and very very angry and then not talking to each other a whole lot" kind of disputing.

Fucker's still wrong today, dammet, even though I can't remember what we were pissed about.

Anyhow, I guess I first started noticing a couple of years ago that everybody's started printing instructions, ingredients, even newspapers a couple of points smaller than they used to. I have no idea why this disturbing trend started, but it's been getting worse. I wonder why they chose my 40th birthday to start doing this? Seems a sort of arbitrary decision on the part of the entire world.

I've been known to misread things on and off, however last night it really hit home that I'm going to have to start wearing my glasses a little more often. (btw, do those make my ass look fat?) We were sitting in this fairly nice restaurant (franchise, but one in which you can spend $50) and I was happily reading all about their appetizers when I came across the description for their "fully loaded potato skins". It would seem they were filled with mashed-up potato, and cheese, and some onion and secret spices too, and -- this was the part where I started to get concerned -- baked golden crap.

This of course made me wonder, while gigglesnorting hysterically, if perhaps they were taking the Truth in Advertising laws a little too seriously and figured that nothing could be "fully loaded" unless it included a modicum of baked golden crap, or conversely if the person writing the menu descriptions really wasn't that interested in his or her job, and instead of finding out the actual ingredients, just typed whatever they thought it looked like.

Was this a portent of things to come? Were we going to find "mushrooms stuffed with some green shit and maybe fish" a little further down on the next page?

Anyhow, after calming down a little and putting on the glasses, I discovered that in fact the last words were "baked golden crisp". Not as amusing but considerably less disturbing words to find on a menu.

The good thing is, that even though my eyes are going, I will still be able to participate fully in the day-to-day management of my financial affairs! Today I visited a good-sized financial institution which shall remain unnamed for fear of some sort of unfriendly reaction. They have done a wonderful thing in that they have installed a drive-through teller. For those of you in the US who are used to this sort of thing, you may laugh at my country-bumpkin-like delight but I'm thrilled that I don't have to spend $15 on gas and $5 on parking so I can go and take $20 out of the ATM.

This is a lovely ATM. An unremarkable ATM. But, what is not visible to the naked eye (or to the digital camera even though it cost $800, it would seem) is that this ATM has not only a jack for headphones -- I'm assuming for the hearing impaired -- but it also has braille on it. Politically correct, you may say! Delightfully inclusive, you may say! "What the hell do they need braille for on a DRIVE-THROUGH ATM?" I say. I've seen a lot of really bad driving in this neck of the woods, such as left turns from the far right curb lane across four lanes of moving traffic. This clears up a lot of the mystery for me. I'm gonna keep an eye out for cars in which there is either a dog at the wheel or the radio antenna is painted white ...

It's about 95 degrees up here today, and although that might seem like nothing for those of you from warmer climes, I've always considered Portland to pretty much be the start of The Deep South, so I'm not coping as well as I might. Makes me long for the winter.

Please note that this picture was taken two years ago, not far from here. I believe I started whining about the cold about six minutes after I took it.

On the knitting front, I did maybe three rows of my dishcloth sitting outside on the deckchair, trying not to hurt passers-by (I ~really~ don't do heat well). I'm beginning to wonder if I can call this a knitting blog at all ...

That's it for me for tonight. Off to enjoy three hours of sweaty solitude, waiting for it to cool off enough for me to sleep.

Sweaty dreams are made of this ...

Wednesday, July 21, 2004


a special kind of stupid

This is going to be a very long rant. It may bore you but hell, it's my blog, k?

My day has been a complete and utter train wreck. The kind where you don't let your children look in case there are body parts or old ladies' underwear hanging from the trees alongside the tracks, and such.

Yes, I used to read a lot of horror. Why do you ask?

Got up ...

Wait, I lie. That was the beginning of the problem. Let me start again.

MEANT to get up, got involved with some cat-smooshing, fell back asleep. Woke up at 8:10 or so (I start work at 8:30) shouting some words I'd rather not have my daughter repeat. Showered, got into 'polite' clothes, ran out the door only to discover that there was less than no gas in the car.

I was unable to blame this on my husband, seeing I had been the one driving the car last night. Tried to blame it on him but even I couldn't make that one stick, alas.

Got gas, got part-way to work, realized that seeing I'm the only one in the office in the summer, I would need KEYS to get into the office. Yes, those keys that were lying in my desk drawer behind the locked door. Those ones. Called the maintenance people at work, got them to open the door before my arrival. I've worked there for seven years and I only lock myself out maybe once a year, so I managed to get this accomplished with a minimum of teasing and sweaty-armpit-type grunting.

*They* were grunting. Just wanted to clarify that.

OK, so after all of these tribulations, I make it to work only 17 minutes late. There's nobody there to be aware of this, however I used to have an absolutely vicious problem with punctuality -- still do, in fact -- and I work incredibly hard to find ways around it, so I'm truly pissed when I don't manage to get in on time. I mean, they pay me for the time so I should likely work it, no? Never mind that they owe me 10+ hours of overtime at the moment.

Anyhow, the morning was relatively uneventful (apart from the four to six tons of paperwork that seems to be inhabiting every flat surface in the office at the moment) and I got lots done. Solved some medium problems, created some small ones (for others, of course) and opened dialogue that will at some point help me work towards fixing a problem that is so large it's damned near crippling the department.

I'm an action kinda rabbit, can you tell?

Talked to the web master, offered my completely unsolicited advice on how he could improve something that at least 8 other people are working on, and for which my opinion hasn't been asked and, more than likely, my skills and experience are not suited.

He took it well. He's a saint.

Then came lunch. I usually like lunch, seeing it involves food. I live about 3km (just under 2 miles) from work and often take one or both of my coffee breaks in combination with my lunch so that I can go home and have a sandwich rather than go somewhere and pay $7 for a Bowl-O-Lard (tm).

Are you bored yet? Tough. I'm not done whining.

There are two roads I can take to gain access to Chateau Lapin, and it would seem that they are working on the road I chose. This was hardly a surprise, as they've been doing it for weeks and they've been advertising it with four foot neon glowing orange signs for months. Nonetheless, I managed to forget, and had to take a detour to get home. No biggie, added five minutes to my journey, got to kiss all of my beloveds, chat to the neighbour, make lunch and leave. Everybody else around here had gone home for lunch also, it would seem, and were taking the one road I could take OUT of my home back to work. Took me about 25 minutes to get there. Yet again I was late and there were people waiting for me this time. Fortunately they were people with no power and for whom I do things to make their lives easier, so there will be no hassle springing from this excessive tardiniess but really ... twice in one day ...

Oh, if only I had the power to fire me!

But it gets worse. I got an email from my neighbour saying that she had gone over to check her laundry (I let her use my machine) and that my daughter was sitting alone downstairs watching TV, the door was unlocked, and that my husband was asleep upstairs. They were concerned about this and had taken her home to watch her until I got there.

I was concerned too, and as soon as 4pm rolled around I shot out of there like a bat out of hell. I'll take the 1/2 hour off my overtime, to hell with it, my four year old kid is more important.

I arrived home prepared to break a bottle of "what the fuck?" over my mofo lazy-assed husband's head and then to ask him to pack and leave, seeing that was child endangerment and I wasn't going to have the Ministry come take my child away when I'd waited 38 years to have her in the first place.

It would seem that Little Miss TruthfulPants decided she would rather hang with the girls next door, so when my neighbour asked her where Daddy was, she said he was sleeping. When the neighbour asked if she wanted to come over, she went upstairs, asked Daddy (who had gone up for a minute to answer an email but who was fully alert) and then when he said yes, she could go, blithely came back downstairs with no concept whatsoever of the turmoil she had caused.

Fine. Dandy. Of course I had made an appointment to go across town and pick up a donation of blankets and stuff for that charity thingie and was late. I raced out of the door, only to get stuck in ~another~ traffic jam. At this point I'm starting to suspect that maybe I was someone bad in a past life. I mean, not Hitler or anything, but maybe the guy who invented panty hose ('cause I all think we know the gender of the person who thought up THAT little joke).

I get to the place I'm going, only an hour or so after I had intended. We sit and chat for a while and then I get ready to leave. I pull out my Great Whack of Keys (tm) , and proudly point out the big-assed black clip that I use to attach them to my purse, so that I don't lose them. I then promptly drop the keys in the kid's carseat, move stuff around so that I can bring home the blankets and a Radio Flyer Wagon that my friend gave to my daughter, take the carseat OUT of the front seat of the car, put it in the trunk and slam the lid. With the keys still in it.

After much trying to locate some alleged trunk release lever (seems they don't have that in the model I drive, although it's in the FREAKIN MANUAL, a little consistency here, people!) and trying equally fruitlessly to find some way to access the trunk from the inside of the car, I give in and call a locksmith.

An hour and a half later and $103 lighter, I make my wiser but somehow not any more joyful way home. Arrive at 9:30pm. Dinnerless and smelling like a goat's ass after having spent well over three hours in the car today in 80+ temperatures.

I'm now home, the family is in bed, the door is locked and I think I can claim I'm relatively safe for the 31 minutes left to me of this day.


On a good note, I've decided to have another mid-life crisis, and it's going along swimmingly. I'm pretty good at it, having had one already, however I think this one may take a slightly different tack than the last one. Last time (in 1996)I bought $300 worth of fancy underwear, got my navel pierced and then asked for a divorce.

I decided to start with a new 'do and have gone from this:

to this:

I've also given myself a bikini wax (don't try this at home kids, you'll just end up with your crotch stuck to the cat and a lot of 'splaining to do.)

Thinking of a tattoo and have lost 12 lbs. Who knows what other madness may come about?

We just won't discuss knitting today except to say that I got about 8 rows of my daughter's blanket done before the cat started eating the yarn last night. Ah well, after all, tomorrow's another day ...

Tuesday, July 20, 2004


buns of navarone

Firstly, a big shout out to my blog buddy Marcia. You give good font, baybee. You knit nice, too.

All right everyone, sing along with me ... "Mommas, don't let your babies grow up to be crackhos ..." (According to the lovely ladies at Tomato Nation, that is the correct plural. Check out their "Vine" advice column!)

I understand that my idea of fashionable begins and ends with the phrase "not wearing too much vomit" and I am therefore perchance not the arbiter of all things trendy. I also understand that Western society places too much negative emphasis on body image and that we should celebrate our differences.

That being said, who in the purple screaming fuck thought it might be a good idea for thousands, perhaps millions, of overweight young women to start wearing pants so low that I could see right up the cracks of their asses? That's not celebrating your differences, ladies! There is very little difference between one asscrack and the next, except now I know who waxes.

Girls, if you must, you may show me your tits (you know you want to) but this is a little much. I know that there is not a great chance that this is some sort of nation-wide conspiracy directed specifically at me, but I'm starting to take it personally. Unless immediate and comprehensive crack-coverage commences, I'm going to start carrying a bucket of ice cubes with me.

Consider yourselves warned.

Now I have that little bit of nastiness out of my system (relax, there will be plenty more) I'd just like to take a moment to ask that if there are any knitters or crocheters or quilters out there with a little spare time and energy on their hands, this, for the Canadians and that, for the Americans amongst us are a couple of agencies who are doing work I strongly admire and who could use whatever help you can offer.

Some of the blankets are gorgeous, and every single one makes a difference.

On the personal knitting front, I managed to achieve completion of one whole row on the Binkie of Beelzebub today. Think I'm gonna crack me a beer, put on the DVD of the second season of Six Feet Under and see if I can get a couple more rows done. That is if She Who Must Be Eternally Placated will let me.

I now leave you with these words of wisdom gleaned from today's best spam: eggplant ballerinas defined by 3.

Monday, July 19, 2004


Stigmata of Poo

I've discovered that I'm not really the nicest person in the universe. This might come as a surprise to anyone who knows me, as I know you all think of me as "Saint Rabbitch" but sometimes it's just all I can do to not trip old ladies in the street.

We have a woman who lives here. She's very nice and has always been sociable, and truly the only thing I have against her is that she's older than me, weighs at least 40 lbs less and looks younger. Oh yeah, and her boyfriend is sort of hot, too.

Anyhow, she has this car that she adores. It cost about half of what I earn in a year, gross (and what I earn in a year is gross indeed) and she worries about the little kids in the neighbourhood harming it. There are many little kids next door and she doesn't like that they're always out drawing with sidewalk chalk.

Obviously, something like this can only lead to mass vehicular destruction, so we traded parking spots so that her car would be further away from such perils.

I got home last night and discovered that the universe had pinged her on the head, by delivering this little treat onto her vehicle. I have a feeling that bird poop is more acidic than sidewalk chalk.

Anyhow, while I was standing out there tonight, chortling at her misfortune in a rabbitly but unkind manner, all of a sudden a large blob of birdpoo appeared on the back window of my car. There were no birds about, it was well after midnight. I have no idea how it got there. I'm assuming it was some sort of vehicular stigmata.

Guess I got told off.

On a more cheerful note, I took time off this weekend from perusing the websites of all of the hot Russian teens who keep sending me emails that they're waiting eagerly for my visit to their sites to engage in kidly birthday celebrations on Saturday. My daughter and her friends got to ride a pony for quite some time and there was an abundance of celebration and presents of a pink and Barbie nature. I then filled all of the children with sugar and sent them home to their parents. I'm kind that way.

On the knitting front, I worked the four to midnight shift at my 'other' job both nights this weekend, and in between saving old ladies who had fallen and couldn't get up and answering important medical questions such as "my finger hurts, should I come in to emergency?" I managed to get 22 rows of The Blanket That Ate New York done. I should have it finished by the end of August. I also got a few rows of a dishcloth completed and worked a little on the "Tell Me I'm A Tard Tank".

Hope your week finds you a little less manic than I'm feeling at the moment.

Saturday, July 17, 2004


Now That I Am Nostalgia Caldera

I keep getting spam. Weird spam. That is this week's best title, although "Now That I am Wince Wool" came a close second. At least there was fibre content.

I had a date tonight. With my husband. We went out and drank too much (at least I did) and listened to Miss Kate Hammett-Vaughan sing her heart out. It was a good night.

Kate, for anyone who is not up on Vancouver's jazz scene, is one of our most magnificent divas (although she'd likely poke me in the noze if she heard I'd called her a diva). She is a very talented and generous lady. Anyone who has the chance to hear her should do so, posthaste.

And now for some knitting stuff, seeing I promised it. I have been working on and off on this blanket.

I used the waffle stitch from the baby ensmble and it would have been good on maybe a 5mm needle. In my wisdom I decided that a 6mm would be better.

It wasn't, but now I'm 1/3 through the blanket I think I should finish it. It'll be pretty, just lighter than I had hoped.

I also hope I haven't used up too much of the yarn (Phentex Dynasty, fairly nasty ACKryklic) on other projects so that I can't finish this one.

Sometimes hope is all we have.

Thursday, July 15, 2004


Crafting as Revenge

I thought i'd make myself feel like a marginally-competent knitter by posting a couple of things that I actually HAVE finished before moving on to the pain of the UFOs, many of which will be posted in days to come, as I seem to have a passion for public humiliation.

So ... we all know Fibre Artists (formerly known as crafters) are dear sweet little old ladies, sitting about doing good works day and night, knitting socks for the bereaved in Boloshnia. And none of us would ever use our power for evil, right?


Behold. My first Crafting as Revenge project.

and further thusly:

Pepto-Bismol (tm) pink. About a size 11, I would think. With large pig ears on them.

They were one of the first things I completed when I picked up my needles two or three years ago. I gave 'em to my brother for Christmas, seeing he collects pigs. Fortunately he's as much of a lunatic as I am and he loved them and wears them frequently. They scare the shit out of his cat (which is hardly my problem, as the shit of his cat is in HIS apartment and not my home. My cat is a lady and goes in the neighbour's garden).

Not all of my projects are evil though!

Behold, a bunnie in all its glory:


And more!

This is one of my favourite patterns. Easy to make (the body is all one square) and even though I'm an excruciatingly-slow knitter, I can make one in an evening if I really concentrate.

Which, as you may not find startling, is something I have trouble doing for six hours in a row ...


And Now For Some Knitting Content

All right, I've had this blog for a whole three hours, have changed the URL once, and am now annoyed that I don't know how to engage in linkage (can you even do that on this thingie?) or post pictures.

Please bear with me as I experiment. I know there are help files, but I've never been one to RTFM and I'm not going to start now. I'm stupid (but endearing ... don't forget endearing) that way.

I've been working on The Shapely Tank, found at and have so far come up with this:

Due to my utter disdain of the requirement of actually READING the frigging ball bands, every ball of this cotton, although allegedly of the same shade, is distinctly different. I am thinking of naming it the "I'm too stupid to read a ball band" tank. I'm rather hoping it will look artistic, however I suspect it will look like complete ass, and that I'm going to have to frog it, make dishcloths, give them away and pretend that I meant to do that.

If I never post about it again, please pretend this never happened.

On a good note, I just received some exceptionally delicious yarn as a present, concealed in a large box of kidly goodness that my daughter received for her fourth birthday.

This yarn is trés funky (and not the kind of funky that smells bad), being 45% cotton, 45% acrylic and 10% polyester, soft as a ... um ... a really soft thing, and somehow seems to have the yarn twisted open, not cut or broken, and then 2" bits of chenille grafted into it. Don't ask me how it was done. Those Dutch folks are cunning. No wonder they own all of the tulips! I got ten balls of this:

Exceptionally good giftage and I hope to make it into some sort of slinky thing that will catch all of the boys' eyes.

My husband doesn't let me date. I just like collecting eyes.

Wednesday, July 14, 2004


And So The Rabbitch is Born ...

Hey. Nice of you to visit.

It would seem that I've got me a blog. I'm thinking it's mostly going to be about knitting.

And stuff.

I'm a little apprehensive about revealing too much personal information in such a public forum (that being said you just KNOW I'm going to be posting pictures of my hooters by month's end, don't you?). Having heard of some rather nasty consequences that have come about from other bloggers referring to their employers as "mouth-breathing fucksplats" or something equally complimentary and then getting googled, I'm thinking that it's going to be fairly heavy on the fiber content and fairly light on the amusing-but-possibly-actionable character assassination.

Besides, mine aren't mouthbreathers.

Anyhow, before y'all sit and get comfy with a beer and peer into my life through the magic glass square in front of your beady little eyes, I suppose I'd better put up some sort of warning. This is my blog. I have a tendency to be a pottymouth. If you don't want to read cusswords, go read someone else. If you want to email me and TELL me I'm a pottymouth, please note that that's what I said already, so there's a good chance I know. I'm also evil and if you send me a really nasty email you'll find it published here. With headers intact.

And if you think I'm an egotistical cow, a) I'm a rabbit, not a cow and b) I've got a blog. If that ain't ego, what is?

Oh yes, and please feel free to post anything you like in the comments section, but if you feel like being a total twat and I don't like it I'll take it out. It's my blog, after all, and contrary to popular opinion, fat people aren't always jolly.

And now, hoping that there's still one person out there who hasn't been completely put off by my attitude, I think I'll post this and then put together some knitting stuff to post about so I'm not a great big liar.

Well, about this, anyhow.

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