Thursday, September 30, 2004


As One Door Closes ...

... another one shuts. Or at least that's what my parents' old cleaning lady used to say.

A door shut in our household yesterday morning.

And so we gather, dear friends, to bid farewell to Coochie. He was a family member, a friend, a fish. And as of yesterday morning he was also, alas, tits up.

May he fare well as he begins his journey into the next life. Or, perhaps, just into the sewer, depending on both one's view of the afterlife and also one's view of whether or not fish go there.

I never knew you well, dear Coochie. You were just a daycare fish that we got talked into bringing home "for ten days" about ten months ago. I changed your water maybe twice, fed you once a week or so. Daddy loved you far more than I did. In fact I couldn't even be arsed to take a picture of you. I'm pretty sure you were blue.

I suck.

And swallow.

But I digress, and I ~am~ the only one in the family mental enough to write a eulogy for a dead daycare fish, so you'll just have to take what you get.

And so, Coochie, as you bob along on your journey down the toilet pipes and into the sewers, on your way to the River Styx, please heed my parting words: Don't pay the ferryman. Don't even fix a price. Don't pay the ferryman until he gets you to the other side.

And if in fact he DOES get you to the other side, expect all of the other dead fish to kick your ass for being lame and taking a FERRY across a RIVER. You're a FISH fer fuck's sake.


Wednesday, September 29, 2004


Oh. My. God.

I have never EVER laughed so hard as I did when I read this site. I mean not even during A Fish Called Wanda when John Cleese was standing in the living room with his underpants on his head speaking in Russian to the chick in the loft who he was trying to zoom when the family that owned the house came home.

And I had to put my sweater over my head and punch myself in the middle of the movie theatre when he did that. Just so I could breathe.

So go and look at this, k?


And We Have A Weiner!

Oops, a winner.

Jill is now officially the owner of The Sticky Knitting Book.

Wear it in good health :)


Pause for Commercial Break

I had a good day at the thrift store today and got a whole bunch of knitting and crocheting patterns that I'm going to put up on eBay in the next day or so. Mum says she has a lot of patterns she's never used that she's going to give me also, so I would think that there will be 20 or 30 items up for a buck or two apiece in the next day or so if anyone is interested. My seller name on eBay is Jelliebun. Don't ask.

One of the items I got, though, isn't in great shape and I'm not going to list it. Some of the pages were stuck together and although it is still completely usable, I pride myself on not selling substandard items.

The book in question is entitled "Fashion Knits" and it is a 63-page collection of patterns from 1971. Included are patterns for a very nasty vest and a dress that would make anyone look like leftovers, however there are also patterns for some nice sweaters, tunic tops, a poncho or two, a "bridal bonnet" which is sort of sweet, a skirt and an utterly unspeakable hat referred to as "gay". Which it is, truly. And not in the good way. Some of these "knits" are also "crochets" which makes me question the sanity of the publishers.

Anyhow, now I've got all of you all hot and bothered and panting for a look at this book, seeing I'm not going to sell it if anyone would like it, the first email to gets it for free. I'll even pay for the postage.

I think I've also found a solution for that alpaca yarn that I posted about a while back. I'm going to sell all three cones. There are about 600+ yards, I would think, of the red and cream, seeing all I made was a small shawl, and the 1100 yards of hunter green is intact. It's too fine for me to use as hand-knit because I don't have the patience for lacework and the knitting machine is going to go in a box for a while as I've had it set up for a year and a half and have made 3" of ribbing so far.

That's going to be listed tomorrow or the next day but if anyone is interested in that also, please sing out. Or type out. Or whatever, you know.

Tuesday, September 28, 2004


I Hace a Button!

The Beauteous Jen from over yonder at JenLa has made me a button so y'all can swipe it and such.

I'm a complete yutz and so far have only managed to put the picture in my sidebar. I'm gonna figure out adding buttons later today; Blogger isn't the most helpful when it comes to this topic.

Feel free to go grab it at if that works.

THANK YOU JEN, you rock.

But you knew that.


Are You Going To Scarborough Fair?

Hell no. I'd rather Do the Puyallup.

This weekend was a resounding success. We started off by FINALLY buying a new memory card for my digital camera, so now I can take more than 10 shots before I have to upload them to the computer.

This shot was taken at the beginning of the trip, by my daughter. She's turning into a decent photographer, even at the age of four (and no I'm not prejudiced at all, shut up.)

OK, it's a little dark but you can still see my pointy nose and that's all that really matters, isn't it?

We spent quite a lot of time eating, drinking and generally cavorting, as witnessed by the picture below.

Wonder Woman and a Glass of Iced Tea

I still think the photographs I take are better than hers, but that's only because I have more appealing subject matter to shoot.

I have thousands of pictures of the fair but I think this one sums it all up pretty well.

That's Her Surreal Highness on her first carousel ride. Gramma Pat is holding her there, but I don't have her permission to publish her photo so I'm restraining myself. For once.

I managed to finish my Meathead hat and that should be on its way to Portland as we speak. Type. Thingie.

I have a kazillion more photos and endless tales of the fair and there will be more pictures of the gorgeous wool I bought and don't know what to do with, however I must be off and see if I can figure out how to raise another $1600 this month. Yes, I know it's almost the end of the month. No, it's not vital, however it would be nice and so I'm thinking of selling one of my husband's kidneys.

It SAYS on his driver's licence that he's an organ donor. It does NOT say that he has to be finished with them before they get donated ...

Monday, September 27, 2004



Here are two of the yummythings I got at the fair. First, 525 yards of peacock blue Lopi. They're calling it turquoise, but really ...

Next is about 5 ounces of unbelievably soft kid mohair in some sort of incredible shade of purple. No matter how good your monitor is, it doesn't do this justice.

You may start your droolage now. More pix to follow later.


Butter Butter Butter

I have absolutely vile skin. I am allergic to everything. I'm allergic to the freakin' AIR and I go out of my way day and night to find anything that gives me relief from the itching and pain.

Today I found something better than sex. It's called Shea Body Butter.

Just the name itself, of course, is enough to drive a woman mad. Buttered bodies. Yummmmmmmmm. Anyhow, this is the thingie you want to buy if you have any kind of skin ickiness. I spread it on my neck and hands, which are my most sensitive areas, and had no reaction whatsoever.

It's not cheap, but it's worth every single expensive drop.

Going off now to slather myself with it.


The Fair

We spent the entire weekend at the fair. I stayed in a hotel, I did no housework, I left towels on the floor. I hung with my best girl ...

I went on RIDES (and almost puked) I did karaoke with the bikers, and I bought a shitpile (and also an assload) of wool that I have no idea what to do with. With what to do. And such.

Further display of the S.E.X. when I sober up. Seems there is Lopi and also mohair in there. Like I know what I'm doing?

Heh. Life is good.

Friday, September 24, 2004


Another Audio Post, Full of Vulgar Language

this is an audio post - click to play

Enjoy! See y'all on Sunday.

Wednesday, September 22, 2004


Hysterical With Laughter

I didn't think I was going to post tonight. I'm frantically going through boxes, trying to find my marriage certificate and my daughter's birth certificate and maybe a photocopy of my certificate of divorce seeing all of my ID is in my former married name and we also don't have any paper to show that Her Surreal Highness is ours, and we're going over the border this weekend but I just ~had~ to share this.

Your Boobies' Names Are: The Blind Melons

Get your own Boobie Names

Go on. You know you're dying to do it yourself.

Tuesday, September 21, 2004


Lord Won't You Buy Me a Mercedes Benz?

I was most delighted to discover today that my dentist will not be needing the lyrics for this song.

No, my dears, no longer will this poor man be forced to importune an uncaring and capricious deity to increase his automotive studliness. He has, instead, hit the motherlode. Or should I say the Rabbitchlode?

To wit, mah mouf.

I spent close to three hours in the chair today while he inserted both his hands, one foot, a stream-driven backhoe and a small coin-operated jukebox into my gaping maw. I'm hoping to make enough money off the jukebox to cover the cost of definitely one, possibly two and maybe even THREE root canals, a rebuild of a twice-repaired injury, replacement of an elderly laminate, possibly a crown, two or three more new laminates and whatever else we can dream up in our novocain-induced frenzy. I'm pretty sure I was the only one drugged today but who can really be sure any more?

Thank my own deity that I have a dental plan that will cover the majority of any work that is not considered purely cosmetic, and damn my lousy heritage -- my mother also has a lovely collection of extremely small teeth with extremely thin enamel.

I would also like to take this opportunity to mention to whoever discovered ibuprofen that you are truly a genius, and my very best friend for the foreseeable future.

That is all.

Sunday, September 19, 2004


Hooked On You

Scary thing happened today. My neighbour, who is also my best friend, and I went down to the river to wind down and talk about boys while tossing stones into the water. We took our six kids with us (one of mine, two of hers, three she takes care of, but they're all "ours") and let them go mad in the water for a while until their lips started turning blue (It's September here in the Great White North, after all) and then took them home to toss them in the bath, feed them and then put them in bed. One of the big kids (8 years old) had a bit of fishing line around her foot at one point and I pulled it off. This is what was attached.

Nice. Just what I want to find wrapped around one of my kids' feet. Fishing line and a lure or a flash or whatever the hell you call it, and a hook.

I'm just glad the day didn't end in any sort of tragedy and an emergency room visit.

Saturday, September 18, 2004


Take Me To The River

Worked all day, slept three hours, worked all night, slept four and a half hours ... and this is how I chose to unwind this afternoon.

This river is a few hundred yards from my home.

Envy me.


The C Word

No, not that one, although I use it considerably more often than my mother would approve of.

No, not at all. The word I'm talking about is even worse, and one that people are even less likely to mention in polite company. That word is cancer.

Now, before anyone freaks out and starts thinking I'm writing my own obituary here, no, this post isn't about me. Well the intro is, but shut up, just read it, ok?

I had a scare earlier this year and had to go for all sorts of fun stuff -- mammograms, ultrasounds, and a core biopsy (which is sort of like taking a geological sample and caused me to swell up a full cup size for several weeks, so I'd be avoiding that one if I were you). Truly, most of it wasn't so bad and I haven't had that much boob action in years; I usually have to buy someone a couple of drinks before that sort of attention is paid. But I digress.

My testing turned out happily. It seems what I have is a "breast mouse". I was going to put a link here but really, the pictures are gross. Trust me to have something painful and ugly but with a stupid cute name so everyone thinks I've got a pet rather than a growth half the size of a golf ball in my left boob. And yes, I have to have the lump removed eventually but I'm going to wait until I can't take the pain any more, 'cause I sort of like the way they look now.

Please pause and applaud here, as despite my threats in my first or second post, I have still managed to restrain myself from posting hooter pictures.

But I digress.

As I said, this post (which contains knitting content!) isn't about me. It's about my friend. Let's call her Kathleen, seeing that's the name her mother chose.

She also had a scare earlier this year, with considerably less cheerful results. Malignant isn't a word anyone wants to hear, however they whipped her quickly into hospital, removed an unfortunately large portion (1/3 or more) of one of her breasts and sent her home with a heck of a lot of hope. The best thing, however, that she came home with is an incredible attitude. This lady isn't going to sit down and shut up and pretend this is in some way shameful. She's speaking up, shouting out, and hiding nothing.

And I love her for it.

So, being the slightly-madcap person that I am, I told her one night on IRC that I was going to knit her a falsie. She thought this was completely hilarious and demanded instantly that I do so. That's the "Crafting for Evil" project that I've been working on. I started putting this together at work tonight, having done the majority of the knitting, and part-way through the funniest thing happened. This started being a labour of love instead of something hilarious. I mean it always ~was~ a labour of love. It just stopped being so funny.

I have no idea why I find this stupid knitted boob so touching. It's not even a really good boob, although it's a lot better than the ones over at or the ones at I'm not linking 'cause I'm not being very nice about them, but go and have a look ... you know you want to. I'm quite sure that those boobs aren't going to make anyone, woman or child, clue in to the mechanics of breast feeding any more quickly. That usually requires a mom with milk and a hungry baby to work out with any degree of success.

The colours of my "Boobie Prize" are unrealistic (the pink isn't quite as in the picture but you get the idea) and the shape isn't right either. The workmanship's pretty solid, though, and I'm quite pleased with both the spiral construction and the consistency of the stitching in the I-cord. What I didn't get was why I teared up a couple of times while doing the finishing work on the graveyard shift tonight.

I'm thinking I'm going to blame lack of sleep (or the hour in the dentist chair that started out my day).

Anyhow, if any of you out there haven't done a self-exam in the last little while, please do, so I don't have to knit one of these for you also. My heart can only take so much. Go, run, hop into the shower and play with your boobs for a bit. And then post about it.

And if the knitted boob doesn't scare you into it, stay tuned for the chemo cap with the pansies all over it. That should be up in a week or two.

Thursday, September 16, 2004


Chocolate Chip Cookies!

Her Surreal Highness and I made cookies!

They are organic! They are wholesome! You can almost taste the hairy legs of the politically-correct lesbian who grew the wheat in an atmosphere of love and support and then ground the wheat into flour between the marble-hard cheeks of her butt!

Yes, in other words, they taste like ass.

Next time I'm going with the Dough Boy's advice.


No knitting today. Going to the dentist to cope with an exploding tooth tomorrow and then working too much. I may well finish the knitting project I keep chortling about by Saturday.

Stay tuned for more excitement Ch├ęz Lapin.

Wednesday, September 15, 2004


Just for you, babycakes ...

this is an audio post - click to play

Monday, September 13, 2004


Descent Into Madness

So I'm busy trying to get myself a Business Administration certificate, seeing that the Powers That Be (the fourth word, Assholes, is implied but not articulated here) have decided that my 24-year-old Applied Business certificate coupled with my 26 years of office experience counts for about as much as the wart on my Auntie Mabel's ass.

So, obediently, back to school I go.

I would just like to take a few moments to share with you the utter horror of the three hours I spent in class this evening.

I'm taking Business Computing Basics. Three credits for finding the "on" switch and formatting a document. Oh yes, and doing a Power Point presentation. (gag)

Simple, think I, in my innocence.

Ha! I would like to ask that if, in future, there is a course that has been designed by the denizens of the seventh level of Almond-Scented Hell, that it be advertised as such.

Thanks In Advance.

To start with, I don't think I've ever seen such glaring disrespect in any classroom in which I have been unfortunate enough to do time.

Now, this instructor is not an asshole. Far from it. He is a kind, articulate, educated and caring person. He may be a little less dynamic than some of the instructors I've studied with but dude, he actually knows what he's doing, so Shut The Fuck Up! It's not his fault that you aren't entertained by an instructor who chooses to teach without the aid of sock puppets or a clown suit and a pony.

During my three hours there I witnessed:

* three instances of people playing solitaire instead of listening;
* one instance of someone surfing the web looking for a job
* two instances of people playing minesweeper (and losing badly, may I add)
* one instance of someone reading shitty comic strips
* one instance of someone reading blogs (and not mine, the bitch!)
* one instance of a person studying for another class
* three people eating (in a computer lab)
* three people drinking (also in a computer lab)
* one young man looking at cars he will never be able to afford
* one young lady sending text messages about how boooooored she was

The evening went something like this:

6:30 pm. Everyone arrives, all bright and shiny, ready to be filled anew with the wonders of the computing world.

6:35 pm. The instructor starts to read the course outline to us, as all instructors are required to do on the first day, as that is their legal contract with the student.

6:40 pm. Everyone realizes that they're trapped here for three hours and starts to act like complete twats.

7:30 pm. The instructor finishes droning on about the course outline and the cost of the books and lets us all take a break.

7:40 pm. We're all back in our seats, hopelessly waiting for something, ANYthing, to happen. An explosion would be good. At least it would be interesting.

7:45 am. A young lady who seems to have dressed up for a date rather than a class gets up and abruptly leaves the classroom, apparently close to tears. I don't know if she just realized that the average guy in the room makes George Bush look sorta hot, or if she got a text message telling her that she was missing something exciting somewhere else. Either way, one down ...

8:00 pm. I think my ass has gone to sleep. My teeth are starting to itch with the appalling boredom of looking at a blank Microsoft Word screen while the instructor explains about how to figure out what the icons on the tool bar mean. Um, if you hold your cursor (that's the little arrow thingie) over the button, the name pops up. It's not brain surgery.

8:10 pm. My sciatica starts acting up. The only surprising thing about this is that I didn't have sciatica before I signed up for this course. This can only bode ill.

8:15 pm. Instructor is still droning. Oh look, there are two different ways to display your document five different ways. I'm thinking that might be math so I stop listening immediately. I wonder if the sciatica is in part caused by the odd little plastic midget chairs that make me fold up like Gumby. Although at my age it is always an exciting discovery to find that you CAN still fold up like Gumby, I've gotta say that I had always anticipated discovering that while sweating under the poolboy or doing Salma Hayack or something, certainly not while listening to the ... oh look! If you push that button that looks like a paragraph symbol you can display the non-printing symbols on the still non-existent document. Be still my heart.

8:18 pm. Instructor gives us a "twelve minute" break.

8:31 pm. Having stolen an illicit extra minute (if he asks me I'm gonna say I had to pee) I return to the class to discover that we've lost at least two or three more of our eager little students. Seemingly the bloom is off the rose. Shortest honeymoon phase I've ever witnessed.

8:40 pm. I continue to eat Skittles (yes, I was one of the three people eating. so sue me) and wonder what sort of diversion would be created if I started dropping them down the unfortunately public ass-crack of the great billowing woman taking up two seats just across the aisle from me.

8:55 pm. Kurt Cobain, reappears on the playlist of the Disc Jockey from Hell and starts screaming "Rape Me, My Friend" at the top of his voice in my head. Sadly, I know just how he feels.

9:05 pm. I rummage through my purse and start licking the envelopes I find in there, using the glue thus recovered to stick my upper eyelashes to my eyebrows in an attempt to hold my eyelids open enough to appear awake until the end of the class.

9:15 pm. I give serious consideration to driving my favourite pen right through my eye and into my brain, just to make all of this stop. I manage to restrain myself only because a) there are only about 15 minutes left of class and b) I REALLY like this pen.

9:20 pm. The Dark Lord releases us from our bondage. He says we can use the last ten minutes to practice. I stand aside to avoid being trampled in the rush for the door.

9:30 pm. I explain to the instructor that I really know most of this stuff and am wondering if I should be in the class. He asks me my background. I tell him, and also tell him that I tested at 86% on the first third of the class, using his testing software, two years ago. He asks me why the hell I'm taking the class and says he would be happy to give me credit for work done. We work out a deal wherein I don't attend class but I do the assignments and the exams, seeing I'm doing this for credit and don't want a freebie. He also says he'll lend me the books, so I can return the ones I have (and fortunately didn't take out of the shrink wrap) to the bookstore and reclaim a much-needed $165.

9:35 pm. I consider hauling out the kneepads and expressing my gratitude, but instead have a lively chat about the history of MS Word, reminisce about the old days of DOS and then run away to buy beer and come home and put my feet up.

I have another class tomorrow night and have done little in the way of knitting. Fibre content will have to wait for Wednesday or Thursday.

Ciao, bellas ...

Sunday, September 12, 2004


Postage Due

I've had a busy weekend so far, which is why I haven't been posting. Apologies to all who were sucked in by that 'one post a day' thingie. I'm really not interesting enough to keep that up for long.

I worked 8:30 to 4 at my 'regular' job on Friday (if that little den of post-secondary sickness can be called regular in any way), slept four hours and then worked the Friday night midnight to Saturday 8am graveyard shift at my other job. Staggered home and crashed for nine hours and then got up, ate some completely kick-ass homemade lentil soup and then drank wine and watched The Return of the King. MAN, is that a good movie!!!

If anyone wants the recipe for completely-vegetarian lentil soup let me know and I'll post it. Please note that it's a good idea to take Beano before eating it. Trust me on this one.

Got my "Meathead" kit from the post office (with $9 in customs duties -- thank you Canada Post!) and am planning on knitting that up as soon as the size 19 needles arrive from Elann.

Pictures to follow, but not tonight. I think it's time to crash again.

Thursday, September 09, 2004


Watch it!

The English language is fascinating, ever-changing, glorious, and annoying as fuck. It especially annoys me when beautiful words such as surreptitious, insouciance and concupiscence fall into disuse, while words such as interface become verbs and simple tems such as "telephone conversation" become the assful contraction "telecon".

Wasn't that the name of One of Gary Numan's albums?

Anyhow, I was having a ... well, what were we having? I suppose seeing we were talking on the computer we were having a compucon ... or we would if we were the sort of lame bitches who would have any such thing.

Let's start that again.

Anyhow, I was having a CONVERSATION with my friend mica tonight and she mentioned that she had been snuggling on the couch with Chavo, watching The Apprentice.

I parsed her words as "watching the appliance".

This, to me, had a certain degree of elegance, some panache, a touch of je ne sais quoi. In short, it rocks. For far too long have people been allowed to refer to their televisions as if they were special -- of equal value to, say, the coffee maker. Not so. They are just an appliance, whereas coffee makers, when not bursting into flames, are actively saving lives.

I figure if other people can fuck around with English and make their silly words and phrases 'real', then I shall also. (Yes, I know. The ass words. Shut up.) Please henceforth refer to your television as "the appliance".

Thank you.

Wednesday, September 08, 2004


Tainted Love

I think that if y'all voted for Bush in the last election, you're pretty much getting what you deserve. If, however, you're thinking of voting for him in the next election, a) please don't read my blog again, you suck and b) you may wish to note that he's wacked enough to confuse a perfectly legitimate profession with ... what the hell is he confusing this with? Being a gigolo? A date of some sort?

Just might want to think about that.

This is a partial rebuild of last night's post. It's a lot nicer, seeing I haven't been doing algebra for three hours today.

To include the obligatory knitting content (or at least ~some~ sort of knitting content, seeing I've been lax), observez-vous (yes, that's French) my yummy alpaca. I have about 500-600 yards of each of the red and ecru, and 1100-1200 yards of the hunter green. It's very fine, needs to be doubled for worsted weight.

Any suggestions for a project?



Wrote a post. Blogger ate it. Am seriously reconsidering this service, it seems to have a lot of downtime.

And of course I didn't keep a copy of the post, as opposed to my usual practice.

It was funny. You liked it. Trust me.

Tuesday, September 07, 2004



OK, so today I go to turn my coffee maker off. Coffee maker, my love, my darling. Machine without whom many people would die. (None of these people would be me, but still ...)

I rock the switch over from "on" to "off" and *boomf*, sparks fly out of the switch, and something rockets right OUT of the coffee maker, on FIRE, flying through the air and lands in a bowl on the counter and sputters to its eventual demise.

I scream, Ben unplugs the coffee maker and I say "well shit, I guess we have to replace that puppy." He looks at me seriously and says "Hon, it's just fine. We can still use it. Things go on fire all the time, it's not like you have any control over that sort of thing."

Um, is this just a guy thing or am I married to a maniac? (hint: it can be both)

I use French Roast coffee, and this little event made me start thinking ... a few years ago (like four) there was a Concorde that actually took off while on fire. I guess the pilots didn't notice. They're French, you know. While 114 people being killed isn't particularly funny, I couldn't figure out how anyone could think that it might be ok to take off WHILE THE FUCKING PLANE WAS ON FIRE.

Was the pilot perhaps the French version of my husband, sitting there saying "noh noh, eet ees all raht. Thees plane, eet ees what she does. We are een zee aire, zee aire weel bloh zee flehms auht."

This disaster has led to new security measures being installed in the Concorde, doubtless saving many lives.

Yes, I'm going to hell now for sure.

Monday, September 06, 2004


Take This Job And Shove It

One down, three to go.

Against my better judgement I accepted four shifts at one of the hospitals where I work. I had been contemplating quitting, seeing since my training I have only worked ONE shift and that was back in March.

Anyhow, as I was pondering taking care of this detail, the supervisor called and ~begged~ me to take the shifts, as they were completely out of staff and everyone was burning out.

I did. I went in today and discovered that if you've only worked one shift in total for a particular employer and you haven't been in in six months, you're not really trained any more.

I called and gave my resignation and then came home. I'm not much into letting people die because I can't do my job and if they're too cheap to retrain people, they're just going to have to manage without me.


It won't affect my income much, seeing they don't really have much in the way of work for me anyhow, but it sure feels good to be rid of one job.

Now to work on the other three (I've already told my 'main' job I'm putting in for a year's leave at the end of June next year ... and no, that's not my way of announcing I'm pregnant 'cause I'm not *g*).

No knitting content tonight. I have another Crafting for Evil project in the works and hope to be able to post the results in a week or so.



More Thoughts on the Ho Down

Well, seeing I've quit job #4 and now have an extra 15 minutes a week, I was wondering if people would be interested in being part of a "HoDown" web ring?

Simple rules: You have to be a ho of some sort, either personally or in your love of fabric, yarn, fibre of some sort, and you have to have a blog that you update at least once a week. There has to be some sort of fibre content; knitting, sewing, crocheting, quilting, spinning, etc.

And not every post has to have fibre content, but ya know, once a week or so it might be nice to mention the socks you're making for Auntie Mabel.

And it's ok to use acrylic. Honest.

Anyone game? Either comment or send me an email. If I get enough interest I'll look into setting it up.

Seeing I have those free 15 minutes and such. *g*

Sunday, September 05, 2004


Bored of the Rings

So as many of you know, I'm an obsessive cow. Well, I guess seeing I just said it, now you all know!


Anyhow, I like following links, reading blogs and all that happy shit. I would just like to ask people if you're part of a fucking blogring, would you PLEASE put the ring button on your freakin' page??? I followed several ring links tonight only to be stopped dead at the page of some slacker who hadn't added the button.


And the places I ended up getting stopped weren't all that interesting in the first place. Which, of course, makes sense, however it doesn't alleviate my irritation in any way, shape or form.

A pox on all of your houses. And your knitting.

I've been thinking of starting a blogring called "The HoDown" but I'm too lazy. Maybe in a couple of months when I'm not working 143 hours a day and so forth. A lot of the blogrings are so specific ... ie, there's a knitring I can't join, because I don't REALLY have a knitting blog, I'm just a blogger who knits, etc. etc, bla dee bla boring.

So I thought maybe a ring for bloggers who are hos and who incidentally happen to also be fiber artists (no, we're no longer crafters) might be a fun thingie, and such.

Stay tuned for further musings.


Stash Flash

Well, I think it's time to start including some serious knittage in this blog again. Although really I've only been knitting a couple of years, I don't know how 'serious' any of my projects have actually been.

Don't worry, even after That Special Yarn arrives, I'll still be posting LegoPorn. I'm just like that.

I'm still in the process of cataloguing my stash. My friend Ann somehow got me to start keeping track of my yarn. Of course I haven't subtracted the ball I used to make a dishcloth this week

and I have no idea if I added or subtracted the blue that I'm using for the Blanket of Buggery and ohfuck I didn't take the orange off the list but it's still in the bag I carry everywhere, so it's sort of stash, isn't it? Isn't it? Huh? And if I put it back right now do I have to deduct the five yards or so I used to make this

I-cord that was my first attempt at using dpns and which I'm going to use on this bag from Knitter's summer issue?

Obviously I'm hopeless at record-keeping, which are disturbing words from someone with an extensive background in database management. Well no, not all that extensive but it sounds more impressive than "someone who owns six file cards and a plastic box", no?

Great. Ann's so OCD that she catalogues the tiny bits of yarn she cuts off when the ends are too long to weave in, and I'm so laissez-faire that I can't remember to deduct from my spreadsheet even when I ram like five balls of yarn in my tote bag.

I'm thinking if there was a way to combine the two of us, you'd be able to get a couple of normal people out of the mix.

Anyhow, something I have NOT added to the stash spreadsheet is this little stack of Kroy

which will be winging its merry way to Ann in the next couple of days, seeing I finally have time to go to the post office. Deal and a half from Michaels, at about 60% off. Gotta like that action. But I'm still not knitting any damned socks.

Stay tuned for more exciting glimpses into my stash!

Saturday, September 04, 2004



If any of you know me in RL (I have a real life? Since when? Do I like it ... and more importantly do I have time to get laid in it?) if ever I tell you I am working three weeks of double shifts again, please, PLEASE, drive to my house and stick your boot up my ass. No, really.

I have no idea what I was thinking. I've done this once before but I was far younger (it was last year). Anyhow, it's over and done with and now I can stop the "too much work" whining and start with the "oh god, I'm 42 and I'm taking two classes this term" whining.

Bet you're looking forward to that, alrighty.

Friday, September 03, 2004



I got home tonight after yet another day during which I felt my brain start to melt and trickle out of my ear to find that clealy, the inhabitants of my home cannot be trusted to be here without some sort of supervision.


I offer into evidence, Exhibit A:

I think it's quite obvious what happened here. There are two heads, two torsos, and six limbs. Strewn all over the bed into which I was longing to tumble, having finally lurched home.

I shudder to think what may have happened to the missing two limbs.

Even worse is the insouciance of the apparent perpetrator, who seems to have lingered at the scene of the crime.

For anyone who can't tell what this is, it appears to be a small plastic walrus. I can't decide if this scene of apparent carnage is better or worse than the peculiar LegoPorn I used to come home and find on a regular basis ...

No wonder I never get any knitting done.

Thursday, September 02, 2004


How Many Times ...

Do you think you get to swear at a switchboard operator before your calls start being disconnected?


Thank you to whoever invented call display.

And a note to anyone who thinks that just because they're upset (or are too fucking stupid to listen to voice mail and choose one of three options) that people who are paid with your tax dollars have to take your abuse: think again.

Can you tell I had a bad night? Yes, well, so did the guy who kept trying to call.

And now to bed. Two more double shifts and I'm free.

Wednesday, September 01, 2004


Hold Your Family Close

As most folks know, I work for a hospital. We have a geriatric home attached to us, which makes for some interesting calls. And some which break your heart.

I keep getting silly calls ... there is a woman who doesn't know what "Palliative Care" is. I think she knows that her friend is dying, but she keeps phoning up and asking for "Pelican Care". I find this both amusing and disturbing at the same time. We aren't in the business of caring for waterfowl.

I also get calls for the "Psychic" ward. Yeah, lady, your friend is nuts, she's in the Psychiatric ward. If she was psychic she would have known you wanted to speak to her and would have called you already. And the line is busy, please call back later.

But then ... yeah, like I said, there are some hard ones.

We have one man who keeps on trying to call home ... and tells us he can't reach the number from that phone. Although it's not 'officially' part of our function to put through local calls, we do. We're human. And he wants to call his wife, who still lives in his house. The reason he can't get through is that she has call display and won't answer when she sees it's the hospital calling. I understand that she doesn't want 15-20 calls a day ... but ... he's sitting in a box, in a hospital room, alone. And his wife won't talk to him. And maybe there are reasons I don't know about and I shouldn't be judging. So I do the best I can, and he and I just deal, and sometimes he gets to talk to his wife.

That's not the heartbreaker though.

There is one lady, and I use that term with the greatest of respect, who calls us on a regular basis at the switchboard. She is obviously confused although she doesn't portray this in speech or manner. Whatever number it is she is dialing causes only one of the two switchboards to ring. Whenever the call comes in on that one line, we know it's her.

We answer with "switchboard" and she is always startled and apologizes, and asks what number she has reached. If you ask her she will tell you what number she is calling. She's calling an exchange that hasn't existed for 30 years or more.

It used to be that exchanges had names, i.e. if you were calling "COllingwood 7" (no, that's not what she's calling) it would be 267 and then the other four digits. If you ask her who she's trying to reach she will tell you that she is calling her parents at her family home. She always says it just like that, "Why, I'm calling my family home."

And then I tell her that we can't get through to that number (seeing everyone there has been dead for years), and she says, "Oh, I'm sorry to have bothered you, thank you, love. Night night." And then she hangs up. And then I sit there and cry.

Every single time.

And then I suck it up and go about making the world safe for democracy and shit, and try to explain to people why I will NOT put them through to Labour and Delivery just so they can see how their friend is doing because really right about now she's shitting a football and if I put your call through she'd tell you what she REALLY thinks about you and you just don't need that.

So people, if you have family, hold them close. Care for them. If you have any way of avoiding putting them in a box in a geriatric home then don't, even if they're annoying as all fuck. Don't let them be the lady who makes me cry every night because I can't put her call through, k?

I'm just askin'.

And if you have no way of avoiding it, then rest assured that I will always try my best to take care of them. And always say "night night" in return.



This entire experiment in sleep deprivation is getting amusing. It feels sort of like I'm that assbucket who locked himself in the glass box over the River Thames so that either he could reach some sort of spiritual enlightenment or so everyone could watch him die or whatever. I'm being mean so I won't put in a clickable link but y'all can find the horrible details over here if you're interested ( Go on, you know you want to.

I'm not quite sure what his point was but I'm thinking this feels like the text-based equivalent of that particular brand of fuckery. Well, except that I'm not naked (although you may imagine me so if you wish) and I get to sleep in tomorrow so my ordeal is of considerably shorter duration. Oh yes, and I don't have to pee in front of 4,000 gawkers.

Not without a reasonable fee, anyhow.

One of the symptoms of this madness is that I'm even more prone than usual to the particular disorder known as 'being earwormed'. This is what happens when you get a song in your head and it just won't go away. During past episodes of this mad double-shifting bullshit, I've had Kurt Cobain inform me with increasing urgency (over a two week period, no less) that there was "Nothing at the top but a bucket and a mop, and an illustrated book about birds." Just that one line. By the time that little experience was over, I was wishing he was still alive, so I could kill him dead, revive him and then do it again.

I've had a number of interesting items being played by the DJ from Hell lately, the most notable of which has been a short but annoying portion of the Doobie Brothers "Black Water" (why no, now that you mention it, I would NOT like to hear some funky dixieland) and, of course, the ever-popular "Is he strong, listen BUD, he's got radioactive BLOOD".

Chris Isaac's been showing up a lot more than I'd like, also.

That being said, I have a day off tomorrow (working the night shift but not the day) and then two more double shifts and then I'm done.

Um, and then school starts on Tuesday (I'm taking 6 credits towards a business administration certificate) and then I work Wednesday and Thursday night at another hospiddle. But only until 11. And then I'm on the graveyard at this hospiddle on Friday.

Shut up.

This is all being done for a purpose. This three or four weeks of madness will finance my husband's entire term at college, PLUS pay for the family to go to the Puyallup Fair for their closing weekend. This means my daughter gets to meet her great-grandmother for the first time, so it's all worth it. If anyone's stalking me, we plan to be at the fair for most of Friday and if you buy me one of those big greasy onion-covered fairburgers I'll give you my phone number.

Seriously. I don't much like beef but I'd be your ho' for one of those.

Oh yes, and there will be no posts for three or four days unless I get my butt to an Internet Cafe, but I have a feeling I'm just going to spend the time eating, patting baby goats and maybe fondling some fleece.

No, that's not a euphemism. Perverts.

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?