Saturday, October 30, 2004
Oh Give Me A Home
Where the buffalo roam. And I'll give you a home that is considerably tidier than mine, even if there IS buffalo poo all over the carpet in that other home.
I've finally found a new place to move my family into, which is both a good thing and a bad thing. Being one of the worst housekeepers in the world (#3, you may recall) makes my house pretty much uninhabitable at the best of times and this hasn't really been the best of times. I have now compounded the general chaos by adding about 500 empty boxes to the mishmash of toys, clothes, dirty dishes and yarn that is strewn through my abode.
Bet you can guess what this place looks like, hmm? It's bad enough that I, who have no shame, will not post a picture. Besides, I like to maintain an aura of mystery in which y'all can imagine that I am lying madly and that I really live in a nice big clean place full of cool stuff instead of the small dingy low-rent hovel that I inhabit.
I have been wallowing in depression for the last week, which is why I've been a total ass and haven't posted. Not even once.
That, and I think I'm being stalked by this guy:
So I'm keeping a pretty low profile. Hell, wouldn't you?
Anyhow, I have now bought myself the joy of having to pack and also having to make this place presentable by tomorrow night, at which time we will be descended upon by a myriad of ghosts and goblins. Oh yeah, and I have people coming over on Monday to look at some furniture I'm selling.
This would be marginally, MARGINALLY, doable if I wasn't spending the entire weekend at Michael's doing the Blankets for Canada thingie.
I'm hoping that my house will burn down before dinnertime tomorrow and solve my problem. Think there's a chance?
Off to search for my Zippo ...
Sunday, October 24, 2004
Do Do That Voodoo ...
... That You Do So Well
The Famous Voodoo Kitty Slippers are now complete:
and, it would seem, they have completely captivated their intended victim:
My work here is done.
Saturday, October 23, 2004
As some of you know, I'm an eBay Ho. I love buying and selling there and have obtained some of my best patterns that way.
This last month or so I've been selling and, as happens to all sellers, I have had a number of items that haven't sold.
I listed them twice and they didn't go, so I'm going to keep them, which is what I wanted to do all along, of course, but I needed the cash so I thought I'd just try anyhow.
One of the magazines, at least, I'm glad didn't sell. I hadn't realized just how horrible the pictures were ... for instance:
I mean, WHAT IS THAT WOMAN DOING WITH HER OTHER HAND TO MAKE THAT MAN LOOK LIKE THAT???
I would like to emphasize my point with a close-up of that poor man's face:
I mean does she or does she not have his testicles in a grip of steel?
This next photo is entitled "Silken Elegance"
I'm not quite sure what sort of feathers those are, but I'm assuming ALL of them are stuffed up her ass. I can't think of anything else that would get that particular look on her face. Or induce her, or anyone for that matter, to wear that particular outfit. I can hear them now ... "Put it on or you get the WHOLE ostrich up your ass!"
And then, just so that people don't think knitters are all total 'tards, we have the humorous cartoon, designed to make you feel better about your obsession. To wit:
Isn't knitting fun? And perky? And bound to grant you admission to the inner circles of the socially ept?
And perhaps to make you dance to the invisible mariachi band in your head?
I also got to keep a mint-condition vintage book from which I hope to make many patterns, unless the saner members of my family dissuade me.
But really ... who could forget the famous "Fling a Ring Elepnhant"? You? For shame!
This book is also full of magic spells and is guaranteed to give you the power to make your children learn to play the ukelele ... and like it!
Oh be still, my foolish, drunken heart ...
Friday, October 22, 2004
Warning On a Box of Firelogs
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
Is It Art?
Or is it Evil?
Yeah, well, I know it's neither. It's nothing more or less than a somewhat-lumpy child's slipper. The slipper is lumpy; the child is perfect. I'm tired and I've been sick -- fuck grammar. And grandpar too, if he doesn't like 'em.
The "lump" at the side is a badly-joined heel, which just goes to show that it helps if one is aware of which is the right side and which is the wrong side when you're doing things like this. It was my first; gimme a break. Hopfully the second one (which Her Surreal Highness is expecting by morning) will be a little closer to perfect. If not, I decline to post it.
I'm feeling far better -- even got my wobbly ass in to work today, which was A Good Thing as people were getting stupid in my absence. You've got to nip that sort of thing right in the ... um ... bud, as it were.
Monday, October 18, 2004
No, it's Rabbitch Season. Overworked, stressed out of my mind, exhausted ... and now with the floo! Fever of over 101, may be out for the count for a couple of days ...
Don't nobody kiss me, no matter how badly you want to.
Sunday, October 17, 2004
Fleas Release Me, Let Me Go
Well, I've been having an exciting few days. Miss Tuna Butt (aka Sasha the Cat) seems to have been hanging out with low companions and came home with considerably more vermin than she had when we let her out, so I've been vacuuming, squishing and scratching for a bit. I think we caught it early enough that the infestation was over pretty quickly but still ... GAH! I had forgotten how much I hate fleas. It's been almost five years since we had our last cats. How quickly one forgets.
Damn cat's gonna be cloistered from now on, or shellacked or something.
I'm working the graveyard shift right now; so tired I could barf. Being this tired is good, because it means I might actually SLEEP when I get home, despite the pain in my left ankle. You remember that ankle: the one with the sexy little tensor support deelie on it. Yeah. I know that little white bandage got everyone hot and bothered. You may insert that particular image back into your fantasies, as the ankle is all bandaged up again.
I can hear you panting from here. Perverts.
Not only has the Achilles Tendon injury not ever really healed properly, it somehow seems to have become 900% worse all of a sudden, and on top of that I sincerely suspect that the Plantar Fasciitis that I had about 9 years ago has come back.
For anyone who hasn't had the delight of this particular disorder, imagine five small people, maybe dwarves, annoyed at having been tossed, seeking revenge for their indignities by standing about and chopping at your foot with rusty scythes. It feels almost that good. I'm going to ice it, swallow a bunch of painkillers of some sort (no, I'm not about to overdose, I need to live long enough to give those dwarves a taste of their own medicine) and crash for 8 hours as soon as I get home from work. Hopefully that will get a handle on it 'cause I'm too busy to be wounded.
Enough whining. It'll get better sooner or later. This is why they invented ice and ibuprofen.
On to the exciting portion of the evening: Knitting. I did another repeat of the pattern for The Orange Scarf, which will eventually go with the hat that was too small for my husband. I also managed to knit the bodies of two kitty slippers and hopefully I'll make and attach the heads tonight, so that my daughter can have at least one of her insane demands met. I know they're nothing fancy but they're cute, so I'll post them as soon as they're finished. I'm figuring it'll shut her up for about 24 hours. She's already demanded bunnie slippers to go with them. I'm flattered that she wants something I made.
Pictures, maybe some exciting links to come tomorrow, I promise. Right now I'm just going to try not to fall asleep at work, and make plans for my revenge on the scythe-wielding dwarves. Asstrumpets, all of them.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Dream A Little Dream ...
Well, it would seem I've fallen hard. THIS:
Seems to require that I make it with my black, light grey and dark grey Rowan Magpie. And really, who am I to argue?
I have at least 8 or 9 FOs, might as well start abusing and abandoning the good stuff, too. Yeah, I'm a high-class procrastinatin' ho now, you betcha.
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
FO ... Feh.
And here we have, as proof that I actually do knit sometimes, a hat that I made for my husband.
A perfectly nice hat. An orange hat. A hat that is several sizes too small for him.
Feh, I say.
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
The Second Sign ...
... of the Apocalypso. The rhythmic, musical, coming of the end of all things.
I've found someone who also seems to have an almost terminal letch for vintage patterns AND who is funnier than I am.
If I ever stop laughing I think I'm going to hunt her down and do something terrible to her ... like make her wear THIS:
Which, in and of itself, really isn't that bad; it just seems to have the effect of making the wearer lose bladder control.
I certainly would like to have the chance to meet her in person one day. We could put on our nifty vintage clothing and stand around like a couple of bicthes, gossiping about girls who don't know that leaving your sweater unbuttoned just makes you look like a tramp ...
Word to the Wise
If there are any gentlemen reading this, you more than likely find women to be a complete mystery.
That's all right; that's how we planned it. All is well.
But there may well come a time when you need this vital information that I am about to impart. IF, one day, your wife or significant other comes out of the kitchen, looking distressed, and admits that she just let a pan burn dry ... that in fact she BURNT WATER, here are the steps you must take.
She will come out yelling, "Oh my god, I burnt WATER. You have to be a complete fucking moron to burn water, don't you?" The obvious answer is "yes", however this is a trick question. The future of your relationship hangs on your actions and words in the next few minutes.
Bear in mind that this is a woman who prides herself on being able to prepare a banquet for seventeen with nothing more than three hot dogs, a box of snack crackers, a package of liquorice and a bunsen burner.
The only correct answer, and one which you likely haven't thought of yourself (which is why I am providing this information as a public service) is to yell "That FUCKING stove!" If you rent, the next line is, "Why doesn't that cheap sonofabitch get that FIXED?" If you own your home, the next line is, "I'm going to call those bastards tomorrow and tell them that if they can't sell us a stove that works, I'm going to SUE THEIR ASSES! Where do they think they get off, giving us a malfunctioning piece of crap like that?"
Then you must put your arms around her, inform her that you really would like pizza anyhow and then -- this is the important part -- you must either carry her or lure her, depending on both the weight of your wife and the nature of your relationship, into the bedroom, where there must be much oral sex.
YOU will be the one performing this. Not her, don't even think of asking. We know you're always wanting it anyhow, but at this point your needs are immaterial. During this oral sex, you must be aware that she may well be ranting about the burnt water. Pay no mind and keep your focus on your task.
After she has calmed down, you must buy her pizza (with YOUR money, not hers, even if you share a bank account). This pizza must have the toppings that she likes, even if you like pepperoni, mushroom and double cheese and she wants arrugula, feta and raspberries. Then maybe you should go and kick the stove a couple of times. And bury the burnt pan out in the back yard. (No, putting it in the dumpster won't do.)
You're welcome. I've just saved you six months of marriage counselling.
(And yes, I did burn water tonight but I didn't tell my husband, because I am a Rabbitch of Steel).
Monday, October 11, 2004
Bowing to popular demand, and because I don't want to clean the bathroom, I have decided to post a selection of my vintage patterns. I have a billion, but here are a few.
First, P.K. Family Fahsions in Knitwear:
I can't even begin to tell you how urgently I wish these damned publishers had put DATES on their books. It's old, anyhow, and very entertaining. My personal favourite from this collection is none other than ...
Yes, it's Uncle Nimrod! This is described as a "General Utility Cardigan for Hours of Relaxation". I don't think that guy with the pipe looks like he's relaxed since the day he was born. Might be the poker up his ass. Ya think? I'm also a little concerned about the term "Utility". I mean, a utility chicken usually has either only one or sometimes as many as five legs ... does this sweater have three and a half sleeves or something?
I'm pretty sure I'm in love with this woman:
I don't know if it's the sweater, the raccoon eyes or the hair but this chickie is hot. I'm pretty sure it's the hair, however with that much spray in it, you couldn't take her camping for the weekend. One careless spark from the campfire and *woomf*, everything up in flames.
Hot date indeedie.
Last (for this post), but not least, we have these two babes:
These patterns came bundled with one I really wanted on eBay. I'm never going to have either a 37" or a 38" bust again, I don't think, so if any of you skinnychicks out there would like these, or if any of you have skinnychicks for whom you knit, let me know and they'll be in the mail posthaste.
W00! Now I'll get to know everyone's bust size as WELL as their addresses. My evil plan to take over the world (starting with everyone's boobs, it would seem) is well underway!
I'm Thinking About Knitting
How about you?
This is the incredibly cheesy cover for a pattern that I'm thinking would have made me look like ass. Women with big boobs likely shouldn't wear collars like that. Anyhow, we don't have to worry about it, seeing I bought the cover and then realized that, in fact, there was no pattern inside.
I actually like the cover enough that I don't feel particularly ripped off. Especially when you consider the fact that it cost me a quarter. Canadian.
We were supposed to go to my parents' for Thanksgiving tonight but my father is sick as a dog and my husband isn't much better off. So, it's a day of knitting on the couch and making jello with my kid.
Not a bad trade, and I still get to go up and pick up a big plate of cooked ham for my family 'round about 4pm.
Life is pretty good. At least for those of us without strep throat.
Just FUs. I screwed up the hat I thought I'd finish tonight and have to tink half the day tomorrow and redo it.
I'll post it tomorrow. Or not.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
I'm Not Dead Yet!
Hats off to any Monty Python fans out there who caught the reference (oh, like anyone could have missed it?)
Alas, I am not off on any sort of funky ho-down, despite the wild imaginings of Loki's Concubine, merely undergoing an explosion of workness while battling galloping depression. And of course there's assorted bullshit to do with moving house. I've been assured that we're going to be approved for the new place that we want but in the meantime nobody's said anything official and aaaaAAAAAaaaaHHHH!
OK, I'm all better now. I just get worked up 'cause a) the new place would save us $400 a month, b) I'm the one who has to do all of the packing, cleaning, finding of money to buy into the co-op and then the actual moving and c) I'm a hysterical ass.
It would seem that my claim of needing $1600 last month wasn't far off. I gotta find $1500 to buy into this co-op. It's worth it -- we'll save that in rent in less than four months.
Anyhow, if anyone wants to buy one of Ben's kidneys, it's yours for three grand. (To any law-enforcement type people reading this, this is a JOKE, lighten the fuck up already).
I'm at work now, knitting and blogging and otherwise putting in my 8 hours while making the world safe for democracy and stuff. Should have some FOs to show off when I get home tonight.
Warning: If you don't like orange, don't look. I think that's the only yarn I brought apart from variegated cotton and really, nobody needs to see another dishcloth, do they?
Till later, kiddies.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
Red Red ... Hair?
Because I Promised
Sunday, October 03, 2004
I Get By With A Little Help ..
... from my friends.
Sometimes you need a friend to help you put things in perspective.
I was talking on ICQ tonight with my friend Michelle who is, truly, one of the grooviest chicks on the block. She is very cool about directing me to other blogs where people show off their yarn and knitting and shit, even though she's not a knitter.
Anyhow, she said that this other lady had nice yarn and I, being the most competitive little yarnho on the block pointed out that ~I~ also have beauteous yarn ~and~ kick-ass fleece.
The conversation sort of went like this (edited somewhat because really, how interesting can half an hour of deliberate misspellings be?):
Michelle: She has pretty yarn.
Rabbitch: So do I. Did you see my fleeces?
M: Yes, I like the purpel.
R: The peacock already-spun lopi is to die for as well but i think I've just been
overwhelmed with life and I can't do anything any more right now. We are moving more than likely. I get full up more than I used to. No energy. Even the vacation didn't fix it, although I'm moving forward again.
M: You need a serious break, not a vacation. I am really tired, probably should just go to bed.
R: I think you should. I am going to pack some. And clean house. And do laundry, and knit shit.
M: Shit knitter.
R: Yes, and relax and stuff like that. Maybe take pictures of my body parts and post them to the internet. If the purple kid mohair spins up nicely, we can discuss what needs to be done with it.
M: (here she starts to show her true colours) HAT HAT HAT HAT HAT
R: Purpel kid mohair handspun hat? You would be teh sexay. Hat, maybe, but it will take time. I'm busy getting my life sorted for the next year.
Her response? I believe this photo illustrates it perfectly.
"Fuck you, knit me a hat. I don't care about your midlife crisis."
I don't think I've laughed harder in the last week.
So yeah, fuck my midlife crisis. I'm gonna knit a hat instead.
Saturday, October 02, 2004
Stop Draggin' My Ass Around
The original lyrics were "Stop Draggin' My Heart Around" however my heart is in just fine shape today; as well as it's been for ages, if not better.
It's my ass that's the problem. It draggeth. Badly.
I had to take my kid to the dentist today and it would seem that she has a cavity. For anyone with a sugar jones like hers, this can hardly be a surprise, and increased vigilance in the brushing and flossing department will do a lot to ameliorate the fact that she seems to have not inherited her father's almost-flawless teeth, as hoped, but rather seems to have been saddled with my little, tiny, massively-reconstructed teeths.
Made me feel like shit. Like a great big pile of shit in fact. I get to take my daughter in to the dentist to get her face hurt next week, and she's only four. The good thing is that this dentist will use freezing, so it shouldn't be so bad.
The guy that helped create my massive dentophobia didn't use freezing. It was 35+ years ago. I'm still sort of hoping he's followed Coochiefish's example and toddled off into the void by now. Not that I have issues or anything.
On another happy-making note, a friend of mine has a mental health condition and engages in self-harm on a regular basis. She often has to check herself into support homes when things get too ugly to cope. She'll be going off to one next Thursday for a month. I know it isn't my responsibility, and this is the best place for her at the moment. She likes it there, they know how to take care of her and she can leave any time she likes -- it isn't any form of incarceration -- but it still makes me sad. Really sad.
I got to see what she did to herself on Wednesday, though, and I'm thinking that it might be a good time for someone to be carrying part of her burden. I'm gonna let the professionals do that one. I'm too little.
I haven't had enough sleep, I'm working two graveyards this weekend and then returning to my day job after a week's vacation on Monday, so I think this is all just adding up to make me feel like shit, but knowing ~why~ you feel bad doesn't make the bad go away.
There are good things, though, to balance out the little bucket of feces that life decided to deliver to my doorstep today.
One of my favourite people just passed his Microsoft Certified Professional test, after much studying and sweaty-pawed angst. This delights me beyond telling. Congratulations, d00d. *smep*
I finally admitted that The Orange Scarf From Hades (about which I haven't yet posted but with which I expect you already to be intimately familiar) wasn't in fact a scarf but, rather, a potholder. Sent it to the frog pond, recast it on, hated the new one, sent THAT back to the frog pond and am now on its "real" incarnation.
(please imagine that I wasn't too tired to insert a photograph here)
While to the uninitiated this might sound like far too much fucking around for one chunk of yarn that will eventually be a scarf (or not), for the OCD amongst us, you will likely be able to understand my deep sense of satisfaction at this point.
I did some further soul repair by spending a few hours with my parents today. Let them buy me lunch (did I mention I'd forgotten to eat anything but 3/4 of a tuna sandwich and one piece of toast for about two days? - oops-), went to get my eternity ring resized (no, my husband doesn't buy me diamonds. He's never bought me a single piece of jewelry in my life -- I had to buy my own wedding ring the night before the ceremony -- and yes, that IS almost as pathetic as it sounds, but not quite) but my mother has "outgrown" her eternity ring, or maybe the ring shrank, yeah, that's it -- gold and diamonds shrink all the time! Anyhow, she gave it to me for my birthday and we went to get it resized for my pinkie today. That'll be back in a week and then I can start wearing it all the time, which brings me joy. It's lovely.
After that I went and spent an hour digging and hoeing in the back 40. Well, it's nowhere near 40 of anything, it's just the parents' back yard, but it's terraced and they get a damned good crop out of it every year. I cut and slashed vigorously for a while, managed to clear enough of one of the plots so we could at least see what we had to do with it, and completely cleared one small patch about 2-3 feet square. Not much but I'll do a little more tomorrow and Sunday and maybe several nights after work next week.
I love hunkering down and getting my paws in the dirt. Dragging out the weeds and as much of their nasty root systems as possible, chatting to the earth and the worms, clearing the rocks. It's sort of Zen for me. And if anyone ever heard me chatting to the dirt I'm quite sure that they'd lock me up, but mostly it's internal chatting.
It brings me peace; something I'm much in need of at the moment.
Tune in tomorrow for something a little more cheerful. I promise.
Friday, October 01, 2004
We Have Good News, And We Have Bad News
The good news is that I finally talked my lazy-assed self into taking photographs of the rest of the goodies I bought at The Puyallup Fair.
I have about 1-3/4 lbs of this and it will eventually look like:
Of which I have somewhere around a pound.
Then we have this:
which they tell me is wool from a Lincoln sheep. There is 1 lb. 2 oz. of this. It's a beautiful colour, however it fades into insignificance next to:
My dog, is this stuff SOFT! I think the photo has managed to catch some of the silkiness and the utterly gorgeous colour variations. What it doesn't manage to catch is how amazing this stuff feels. I've always loved goats and now I'm thinking of marrying one. Don't tell Ben.
That's the end of the wool pictures until I manage to learn how to card and dye and spin and all that sort of artistic stuff. This all feels so good that I'm thinking maybe it shouldn't have been sold to an amateur. Oh well.
And I can't end this portion of the post without yet another picture of Her Surreal Highness.
Behold, my daughter, getting in touch with her Native American heritage at the fair. In a plastic canoe.
And now for the bad news. No, it isn't as devastating as the passing of our beloved Coochiefish, however it's still pretty bad.
Tonight, my husband and I were the beneficiaries of a windfall of free tickets a friend of mine had been given to a performance at a downtown theatre. Seems a group she belongs to had gone one night last week, however there weren't enough people there to put on a performance, so they cancelled it for that night and gave her four free tickets to make up for it.
To our great disappointment there were, in fact, sufficient people in the audience tonight (eight, to be precise) that they decided to mount the show after all.
Mount, according to dictionary.com is defined as "copulate with [syn: ride]". A finer example of this definition has seldom been seen. They rode that play into the sunset and I think it won't be walking again any time soon. It is to pray for, anyhow.
The set was acceptable, and there was a pretty nice blanket on the bed. I had few objections to the small pile of kindling next to the fake wood stove. That was, alas, the beginning and end of the "good" portion of the production.
This play is optimistically described on the theatre's website as "A powerful one-act play, [name of play excised to avoid litigation] is about ... us all, shadows of our former selves, broken pieces of mirror reflecting the jagged past."
None of this is true, apart from the "broken pieces", and I'm thinking that the Truth in Advertising Police had better not go see it any time soon or there's gonna be a lawsuit.
The script. Oh, the script. What to say about the script?
The tired, painful, amateur script, with all of its awkward twists, turns, and stilted dialogue was completely demolished by both actors, who seem to have missed the lesson in voice training class that covered the difference between projecting and yelling.
I'm not deaf, people. And I didn't want to hear what you had to say, anyhow.
The characters were simultaneously unbelievable and distasteful, the dialogue was embarrassing and the assumption that the audience would be gullible enough to buy into any of the story was, at a minimum, offensive.
The female's imitation of space aliens was pecular, leading me to believe that she had some sort of nervous twitch. The male's shoe fetish was just icky. And stupid.
The costumes were mediocre, the gratuitous furniture-throwing was ... well ... gratuitous and the lighting people were obviously on crack.
All in all, the only redeeming feature of this execrable production was the fact that it was only one act and ran about an hour and a quarter. I was able to restrain myself from screaming "TWATS" and running onto the stage to engage in acts of unspeakable carnage for that long, however had it run even a minute over, there is no guarantee that I wouldn't have gone completely vorpal.
Not to say that the whole experience was vile. There was very nice music playing in the lobby beforehand, the staff were all exceptionally pleasant, the bathrooms were clean and the roll of Certs I bought from the concession were crunchy and well-wrapped.
I think that this review has pretty much scotched any chance I may ever have had to be employed as a theatre reviewer, but sometimes, in the interest of public education, a girl just has to speak up.