Tuesday, August 31, 2004

 

SquirrelMan Sighting!


I think he's stalking me.

*twitch*

He was waiting outside the store where I buy my newspapers again tonight. Hold me, I'm scared.

Nevermind that there's a bus stop where he was waiting and that it's actually just around the corner from the store, not in front of it. It sounded better the other way.

Today was completely uneventful. I'm still sick, work was boring, and I have realized that I hate my day job so much I am going to have to commit hara-kiri if I don't get something new and quick.

I'll try to be more amusing tomorrow, I promise.

In the meantime, just so that I can continue to call this a knitting blog ...



Voila. My first completed sweater. It's a baby sweater and I finished it a couple of years ago. Yes, I know this is cheating but that's how it goes today, alas.

Sweet dreams ...

Monday, August 30, 2004

 

Something In The Air


And from the number of babies happening around here, I think it must be knees.

There are three new babies in the sixteen or so houses closest to me. I can't decide if it's making me feel all broody and such or if I'm just getting annoyed by their little purple-faced wails. Probably a little of both -- I'm not the most maternal person on the face of the planet, but I am creeping slowly towards menopause and that seemingly throws your hormones a little out of whack.

I have one wonderful daughter, about whom I talk incessantly. We had hoped to have more kids but I lost our second a few days before my 40th birthday (miscarriage, I didn't just put it down and forget where I left it) and I had sort of decided that one kid was just fine. My daughter has been agitating for a sibling, though. In fact I can't remember how it all came about but it would seem that she and my husband were babbling on about kids one day and he said that he was going to dress a bag of garbage up in a dress and tell her that it was her sister.

Yes, I know that sounds horrible taken out of context, but you have to understand that we have completely manic conversations around here. Tonight Her Surreal Highness was "The Chicken Machine" and every time I pushed on the top of her head she spat out another chicken. Then The Chicken Machine broke and wouldn't stop and we ended up with about 50 chickens on the dining room table.

Anyhow, she keeps joking about going to visit her garbage sister and I'm thinking that if I don't want the Ministry to be hauling her away, a) I'd better produce a real sister so she shuts up about it and b) we have to do something about the chickens.

I have no idea how I would survive if I lived in a normal household. I also have no idea how I'm going to find time to have another child, but that's another story.

Anyhow, tonight's post wasn't supposed to be about babies or chickens, I was going to take some pictures of UFOs and post them and then babble on about how wonderful my new Addi Turbo Straights are but, ya know, there's only so much one chick(en) can do. I'm sick (bad cold) and tired (two weeks of double shifts, one more week to come) and it just seems like more than I can find the energy to do.

Ah well, it can't be all Lustige Schweizer every night, can it?

Sunday, August 29, 2004

 

Criminal Record


No, really. Someone should be doing hard time for this one.



Here we have, for your listening pleasure, Anny, Nelly und Willy, all ready to yodel their little hearts out. I wonder if they're available for table dances.

Willy plays accordion, too!

Oh god, I almost wish I had scanned the back of the album as well. The first song on Side 1 is "Alphorn -- Echo mit Kuhreigen (Alpine Horn Echo and Cattle Parade)"

And yes, this did come from my personal record collection. Nobody's going to believe me if I say I've never listened to it, so I won't even try to make that claim.

Even more disturbing:



I'm not sure I know how I feel about my husband not having enough time to load the dishwasher once in a six-day period, but having enough time to put my face on the middle Schweizer. Should I be flattered? Frightened? Is this his way of telling me that he thinks women in Dirndl dresses are hot?

Should I start packing or buy a gun?

The answers to these and other questions, tomorrow, on As The Rabbitch Yodels

Saturday, August 28, 2004

 

Obviously Not a Real Knitter


I found a flaw in the Binkie of the Bosphorous. A mistake. Two in fact; six stitches apart. Small enough that nobody will notice. Large enough that I will notice.

Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? If I notice, everyone will. I'm half blind.

I anguished over this for some time. If I were a real knitter, I would have without hesistation plunged into the 'tink and reknit' portion of the program. But ... it's eight rows. And I'm tired. And I'm sic (I've managed to pick up a summer cold). And eight rows is over 1300 stitches and I didn't know if I could bring myself to undo them.

Why yes, I ~would~ like some cheese with that whine, very kind of you to ask.

Before anyone starts taking a fit, of course I tinked, but I thought long and hard about it, first. Obviously I am a pretender and should return my brand new Magpie and Addis immediately.

Ha! You can pry 'em out of my cold, dead hands, babycakes.

While I'm in confession mode, I think I'll take this opportunity to mention that I don't like ponchos. I am not a small woman, and I keep thinking that if I go out in a poncho I'm going to hear a small voice piping up from the crowd, with perfect diction, "Look mummy, that big lady's dressed just like our sofa!"

I live in fear of this because that is just the sort of scenario my mother had to live down, many times, when I was a child. She has repeatedly told me of her humiliation when I said "Oh look mummy, penguins!" in clear piping tones on the bus when a bunch of nuns got on. No, we're not Catholic, can you tell?

The most romantic thing my husband has ever said to me is "Of course I have to take care of you; you're only little. And you're a clumsy bitch." (And before anyone gets up in arms, yes, for us that IS romantic, I giggled for days.) I'm not that little, 5'6", but yeah, I AM clumsy. If by some stroke of luck I managed to make a poncho that didn't make me look like a Weeble, or, even worse, like Weebl, you just know that somehow I would manage to get the end of it caught in the door of a train (nevermind that I haven't been on a train since I moved back from Banff something like sixteen years ago) and would get dragged along the tracks for six miles before anyone realized there was anything wrong. Either that or I'd end up somehow dipping the fringes into a public toilet and would catch a horrible disease. Neither scenario is appealing.

I think I may skip that particular experience if it's all the same to you.

Friday, August 27, 2004

 

A Post Without The Word Ass In It


My life is starting to feel like one of those bizarre horror stories that are just too gross to even watch. Sort of like Silence of the Lambs but not quite so silent. And a little less gnawing of flesh. And not as many sheep either.

Yeah, I know. Shut up.

I've got to say this sixteen-hour-work-day thing is a concept that I really didn't think through sufficiently before I took it on. Although it's cutting badly into my drinking time, I'm happy to be able to report that I'm still managing to maintain my usual rate of physical deterioration.

My left achilles tendon (the sexay, bandaged one -- I'm sure you remember it well)



was well on the way to recovery, in fact I even went for a fairly brisk 12-block walk on it yesterday, pausing only to buy a new dress (observe the bulging bicep on my right arm as I hold the camera. That's the weaker arm, be scared.



This shot is down the back of the dress. Yes, I'm weird.



I was feeling just fine, thinking that I could walk on it for the next couple of nights and then maybe add some distance and pick up a little speed, but alas this was not to be. Today's battle against the incompetecies perpetrated by others ('cause you just know I'm perfect, right?) involved an unfortunate amount of actual running, which ended up with my ankle swollen and lumpy and all bandaged up again.

Fortunately, although I'm not heavily into pain, I have no objection to a little light bondage, so this isn't really so bad.

Further on the good news front, it would seem I'm still as hot as ever, despite being so tired that I'm pretty sure there's a constant stream of drool running down my chin.

Today while lurching to the store on my dinner break, I was seriously cruised by a very kind gentleman who seemed to be either wearing a felted but still hairy grey mohair sweater or a completely compressed grey/white squirrel tucked down the back of his collar. I refuse to contemplate the thought that I might have been scoped out by a man with a matt of tangled hair at least an inch thick sticking out the back of his collar and creeping up his neck. And creeping out the rabbit, come to that.

Oh yes, and I seem to either be growing another head or I have a large zit high up on my left cheekbone. Great, I finally get thin enough to see my cheekbones again and there's a zit on one of 'em. I'm thinking that colouring it with eyeliner and adopting the Marie Antoinette thing might work for me. Ya think?

The Blanket of Bora-Bora has been receiving all of my tender ministrations and such of late, as I would like to get it done before I die. It's already too late to get it done before I'm bored with it, alas. It's over half done and although there's no way to finish it by the end of August, as had been my latest deadline, there's also no way to finish it for the previous three deadlines either.

At least I'm consistent.


Thursday, August 26, 2004

 

Life Improveth Exponentially


I stayed up late talking to my friend and then slept until 10:40 or so. Woke to smiles and a hot cup of coffee in bed. Well no, in the coffee cup, beside the bed, which is better, really. Trust me on this one.

Spent the day just basically engaging in activities that are amusing to a four year old. Before you start yawning, please remember that this is the most bizarre four year old I've ever met, and most of the stuff she wants to do is fun. Well, apart from watching Rocket Robin Hood, but we won't talk about that.

It was great to have a day 'off', even though most of that off time consisted of having bug stickers stuck all over me and doing laundry and dishes. Her Highness was very upset when I declined to wear the bug stickers to work and left them all over the upstairs hall mirror instead. Might just do it tomorrow night.

Got an email confirming my participation in the Meathead project being run by the nice lady over here. I ran across this link on Juno's page. Fun stuff. (Be careful what links you put up on your blogs, people. Some folks actually follow all of them and I'm delicate, ya know).

I worked 4-midnight, allegedly, however it's now after midnight and my relief isn't here. Seemingly she is standing beside the highway in the pouring rain, waiting for BCAA to come and tow her.

I have a feeling it might be best to just post this now seeing "jazzing up the post with cute pictures" is going to be really low on my priorities when I finally get my tired bunniebum home ...

Wednesday, August 25, 2004

 

I Can Only Please One Person A Day


Today is not your day. Tomorrow isn't looking so good either.

Yes, I stole that line, but it's still one of my favourites. I wish I'd remembered it earlier in the day, though.

I would very much like to thank the wonderful seller on eBay who got my Rowan Magpie "Raven" yarn to me today and also the funky folks over at Elann. Had I not come home at lunch to find this:



waiting for me, there likely would have been a considerably larger number of deaths at work this afternoon. As it stands the total is 0, which is, I believe, the total recommended in the Manual of People Who Work for 'Tards Who Think That They Can Come To You With Huge Problems Half An Hour Before The End of the Day Right Before A Scheduled Vacation Day.

I don't even want to think about what the acronym is for that, much less pronounce it.

I've had to deal with an assload (somewhere between 750 and 1000) of people this summer. We're supposed to have THREE staff members; one of whom is full time (waving hand madly in air) one of whom is part time (24 hours a week) and one of whom has been pretty much fucking invisible since the day I started there, close on five years ago, but who makes the same money that I do. I still don't know what he does. Mostly goes off on disability from what I can see, or to mysterious 'appointments' from which he seldom returns. For instance when is the last time YOU had to leave the office for four freakin' hours just to get your teeth cleaned? Yeah, I thought so.

Our receptionist is also wounded and has been missing in action more often than not of late. Valid wound, reasonable absence.

No matter how valid or reasonable ANY of this is, it in no way mitigates the fact that my job has been greatly complicated by a number of administrative asswobbles making some major decisions affecting my job (increasing the volume markedly) without communicating ANY of these decisions directly to me. I guess osmosis is a better communication tool than oh ... say ... a MEMO?

They have every right to make these decisions, however I'd like to have the tools necessary to do my job right the first time. I'm just sayin'.

And while struggling with putting out the many fires initiated by the assbugles (slightly smaller than asstrumpets, I believe), I have also had to be doing what essentially amounts to three jobs for most of the summer.

This, on top of having to work at ANOTHER job because we haven't had a raise in ELEVEN FREAKIN' YEARS. Not, like I said before, that that's any sort of issue for me.

Anyhow, suffice it to say that I need my vacation, and am somewhat resentful of the fact that I'm being forced to take a good portion of it in single days rather than in one big (ooh, like a whole week?) lump, therefore when said crisis was presented to me, mere minutes before my departure, I pointed out that a) the beginning of July would have been a good time to do this, b) I wasn't going to be in to fix it tomorrow, even though tomorrow was the deadline for getting it done and c) I really had to leave, okbye.

I wonder if he knows how close he came to death this afternoon?

Gah. I didn't mean for this to be a rant, and not even a very funny one at that. I promise to do better tomorrow, and to come up with some more asswords for y'all.

Tuesday, August 24, 2004

 

Yummy Yummy Yummy


I got yarn in my tummy.

I got THIS:



in the mail today. The four dark skeins are Rowan Magpie, the two light ones are Rowan Donegal Lambswool. The coral isn't quite as bright or as clear as I'd hoped, but that's ok, I'll eat those first.

This yarn is FAR too nice to knit with.

I managed to scoop some vintage patterns, also. I'm a sucker for old patterns. Thus the following was purchased from the same vendor:



Look! It's from Beehive! It's stylish! And it's from PARIS!

"Dude, it looks like some kind of cover for your spare rolls of toilet paper," I hear you say now. But didn't you READ?? It's STYLISH and from PARIS. If there was enough of the lambswool I'd think about it for this. You people have no taste at all.

Fucking philistines.

Monday, August 23, 2004

 

Shock and Horror


Marcia made such a racy comment in response to my last post that I was forced to delete it. ME, a woman who can say the "t" word four times in a five sentence post.

I leave it to your imagination to figure out just how torrid it was.

 

Embarrassment


Marcia, I owe you a big apology. I am a complete and utter twat. SJ made a comment and then Blogger obviously had some sort of fart, so she made it again. In an attempt to be tidy, I went to delete her first one, only to discover that, in fact, I had deleted yours instead.

Twat, twat, twat. Especially seeing it's the comment you made to replace the one you thought you made the night before and which got eaten.

You can start hitting me now, if you'd like.

 

Dollar Sto' Ho'


Her Surreal Highness and I paid a visit to the Dollar Store today. MAN, I love that place, as does she. It's a good place to satisfy her four-year-old rabid consumerism and, of course, my perverse desire to buy cheap plastic women in tacky clothing.

Today, we were fortunate in our purchases and managed to come home with Bendy Betty



And Crack Ho' Jo



This happy family was made complete by the addition of Tiny Tammy Tasteless



who was so tightly secured to her odd baby-bottle-shaped sarcophagus that it took my husband five full minutes to free her. There was some sort of wire garrotte around her neck -- it was just all too ugly.

Bendy Betty, for those who are far more kink than I, has the added attraction of losing her right leg on a regular basis. Her Highness has designated this doll to be "mommy" and sends her off "camping on her own" at the beginning of every scenario. I guess she's not really impressed with 3/4 of a doll. Hey, what can you expect for a buck? At least her head stays on.

Life is good.

Speaking of creatures with fewer than the average number of legs, my kitty friend Chavo has lost his leg as well as his tail, but he's doing well and being peculiar, hopping about, eating cheese and sleeping in the bathtub. Thanks to everyone who sent their good thoughts in his direction. He's gonna be just fine, albeit no longer a candidate for the Olympics.

With reference to the Olympics, I have recently started on a walking/jogging/running campaign in an effort to make my generous ass a little less super-sized. I seem to have overdone it a little (half a mile to a mile and a half every night is overdoing? Shesh!) and I've injured the Achilles' Tendon on my left foot. I've got it in a nifty little tensor brace.



I think this makes me look sort of like those spiffy little gymnasts in the Olympics, all hopping about and stuff. My husband thinks it makes me look like I've taken playing Doctor a little too far.

If anyone finds this hot, please email me right away. Really, I need to hear from you.

Sunday, August 22, 2004

 

Rabbitch Kitsch


I'm all burned out, nothing funny to report, apart from the fact that I found out today that I really can't be trusted to buy my own makeup. I don't usually wear makeup, maybe twice a year, but we went out for dinner tonight and I thought I needed just a little more oomph.

I recently purchased some new foundation called "Vertical Lift". I guess I was thinking that if it worked on my face, I might spread it all over my boobs as well.

I don't know whether or not it made me look younger, seeing I was too horrified by the fact that I don't seem to know what colour I am, and the stuff I purchased made me look all Kabuki and shit, which is REALLY not my best look. I think I'll return it for a somewhat more realistic shade later this week.

I also got some new books at Michael's today, where I visited in the pretense of getting something for my mother's birthday. I got her some embroidery silks and a knitting book that she liked, but really, I went for me. I'm too stupid-assed tired to scan them tonight, but trust me, I did quite well out of this trip.

Anyhow, being unable to be witty, I thought I might as well just be weird (I know that startles you) and post a picture of my favourite coffee cup.



And as if having a cow-patterened coffee cup isn't kitschy enough ...



Hee! I've given more than one person a heart attack with that cup.

Bad Rabbitch!

Saturday, August 21, 2004

 

The Lady With Her Finger on the Button


Never, ever annoy the lady with her finger on the button.

Not the big red button that, once pushed, will turn a small country (France,
I'm hoping) into a gently-glowing crater of radioactive delight. No, we're
talking about the even more important button. The "hold" button on the
switchboard.

When one does something something assful, there are two options. One is to admit to said assfulness and ask for assistance. The second option is to try and rip a new orifice for the nice lady on the phone, giving her the opportunity to post about it while seeing how many inappropriate words she can join to the word "ass" for her twisted amusement. You see, sometimes that nice lady on the phone isn't a nice lady, she is a Rabbitch.

We had a call tonight from an asstrumpet (can you tell which option this particular person chose?) who claims to have left cash in one of the offices, in payment of an invoice. The cash has never been seen and now assbubble is being called for payment of the invoice. Makes sense; we've never seen it and she has no way of proving it was left. And no, I didn't take it. Shut up.

She called asking for Security, because of course somehow they would know what happened to this money. Cash. Left in an envelope, slipped under a door of an office in a large public facility, more than likely under the watchful eye of 23 junkies and a whore. By an assweasel.

She went up one side of me and down the other and then did the same to the security supervisor, trying to find out who could be responsible for such a monumental fuck-up.

Free gift from the from the cluebasket, ma'am: The call is coming from inside the house.

So please, please, should you commit such an act of complete assery, try to avoid calling about it on my shift, because then I will not a) have to deal with you on my freakin' phone wondering why the office isn't open at 8:40 on a Friday night and b) have to restrain myself from telling you that it can hardly be my fault that you are an assflap.

If she calls again on Monday, I'm going to put her on hold, and leave her there until change of shift.

Friday, August 20, 2004

 

Adventures in Knitting and Puke


Slowly the brave rabbit crept towards the evil dpns ... and managed to figure out fairly quickly the ins and outs of making i-cord. Hell, I didn't even sustain any life-threatening injuries, and it looks not bad, if I do say so my own rather prejudiced self.



One thing I must say, though, is that these little motherfuckers have GOT to go. Now. They are skanky. Quite apart from the fact that they clash horribly with my beloved orange yarn (the yellow needles are better, but I couldn't find the right size), they're plastic and far too flexible for my taste. I'm used to knitting with steel needles or Addis, and I like the slick surface and lack of flexibility. Uncompromising needles work for me. These things flap about more vigorously than Janet Jackson's far-too-public tit.

Besides, the steel ones are handier for killing yourself if you happen to make the same stupid error on the same stupid piece of knitting more than six times in a row.

My LYS has a regrettably limited needle selection, which has, of course, necessitated a surreptitious shopping trip to Elann. There was a glitch with my order, because I'm clearly too stupid to order online, however the needle situation should be improving very soon.

*cackle*

Today has been an inconsistent food day, however the bad has sadly outweighed the good. Breakfast was mediocre, due to it being served by people enjoying their last day of employment at the place where I work. Their company was underbid for the food services contract and about 30 of them are still out of work. Many of them were vulgar, unhygienic asshats but I still hate the thought of them going to live in dumpsters. I hate even more the thought of them living in dumpsters while working in other places from where I may be ordering food. I wonder if anyone has ever asked to meet the chef at a fast food outlet before?

Lunch was good, just a sandwich but I made it with all sorts of wonderful stuff delivered today by Organics at Home. Dinner was mediocre, brought to me on my second job by hubby and daughter, from a Chinese restaurant that doesn't seem to understand that if a customer has an allergy, just waving the spoon that had the allergen on it in the air and then using it to serve food does not avert the allergic reaction, and that they should use a CLEAN spoon to serve the other food to which their customer is not allergic. Did that sentence go on forever? Stick around, I can do better.

Anyhow, I ate about 10% of dinner, and seeing breakfast was a chef's salad and lunch was a cheese and veggie sandwich, I was feeling a little peckish. No problem, thought I, I will just pop a bag of this here microwave popcorn into that there microwave and all of my troubles will be solved.

I doubt I have ever had anything more disgusting in my life. What screaming crack-addled pinhead ever decided that "sweet corn on the cob" was a flavour that anyone would want on microwaved popcorn? Truly, I could puke. Yes, I ate about a quarter of it, shut up.

The office now reeks of Satan's Snackfood and my stomach has taken on a life of its own, attempting to escape the confines of my body so that it can crawl across the floor, lift up the fax machine and beat me to death with it. And I ask you, what jury would convict?

To hell with nuking the folks overseas, Dubya should just load a plane up with this stuff and drop it on any country he wants to 'rescue' from itself. I guarantee within six hours, anyone in the country with functioning tastebuds would have killed themselves.

Oh well, at least I'm not hungry any more.

Thursday, August 19, 2004

 

Yarn Snobs Ate My Baby


Today I had this succinct and witty post all mapped out. I was going to point out that I was just getting sick and tired of reading things written by yarn snobs who seem to think that if you knit something that isn't made out of lavender laceweight spun from the pubic hair of the Dalai Lama himself, that you're beneath notice.

I was going to mention that despite fears to the contrary, that the writers in question would not, in fact, feel their testicles (or breasts, depending on gender and/or weight) shrivel to the size of raisins and fall off if they happened to glance at acrylic yarn. I was also going to mention that it has never yet been proved that cashmere is an effective preventative against cancer.

And then ... well fuck. It all got blown away. I went and bought a knitting magazine for the first time in my life and after I stopped trying to eat all of the pictures I received divine guidance that, you know, that's what the Dalai Lama ~wants~ me to do.

And who am I to say no?

Wednesday, August 18, 2004

 

They Say It's Your Birthday ...


So happy birthday mom, you old bat!

She doesn't read blogs, I'm safe. She doesn't know I have one, and anyhow she thinks "the internet is full of pornography". Well yeah, but you have to go looking for it. It's sometimes taken me HOURS to find the really good stuff!

*koff*

Um, I mean my husband told me ... that he once knew a bad guy who, um worked with someone else who said that he had heard of someone who said that. Yeah. That's it.

So today's been sort of wacky. Gee, I wonder why? Could it beeee ... the lack of SLEEP? Yeah, might could be. Although I don't know how MY lack of sleep is affecting everyone else.

I went home at lunch today for a little downtime after a very annoying person with whom I work did her damndest to make something into a crisis (unfortunately for her, I hadn't fucked anything up, but I'm sure something will be discovered tomorrow, just to keep her happy). I get home and find that Her Surreal Highness again seems to have managed to avoid a day at daycare. This is fine by me, as Daddy Time is a lot more important than most things and seeing Mommy Time is pretty thin on the ground these days, she should grab as much as she can get.

Anyhow, I get home and my neighbour is doing laundry in my house. She tells me that she went to get my towels out of the dryer and found that the demented cat:



had decided to take a nap in there. No, the cat isn't hurt, the door was open and she just thought it would make a nice spot in which to snooze. Dark, quiet, well-padded. I can see that.

And then my neighbour flashed her boob at me (yes, there was silliness going on, she didn't just do this at random). This is fine -- she has a nice rack, in fact on reflection, yeah, I'd do her.

Look for future tales of hot lesbian lust right here on this blog.

Heh.

Well, no. Ok, shut up. The boob part was true, the impending lesbian porn isn't. All of you who hastily clicked "add to favourites" can just wipe the sweat off the mouse and delete the bookmark. You know who you are, and you should be ashamed of yourselves.

Hmm, looks like my mother was right. This internet thingie ~is~ full of porn.

Tuesday, August 17, 2004

 

Cross-Eyed ...


... but still upright; physically if not morally.

Tonight's dinner was a ham sandwich and a bag of Skittles. I could find no valid reason to photograph these, and as my camera was at home, I had at least one valid reason not to do so.

One of the good things about working the night shift is that once things die down (perhaps not the best term to use in a hospital with a high geriatric population ...) there's time to catch up on things like knitting and writing blog posts. If only I had the energy to do either thoroughly. The blue bunnie wasn't quite as complete as I had thought and I had to add a few more rows before casting it off. An hour of finishing and an hour or so to knit the ears and she's done. Perhaps tomorrow.

My parents had some fun tonight. Dad went out to look at the garden and heard some sort of rummaging out back of the garage. Seems there was a large black bear eating the garbage out back. Mum called me at 10pm to tell me all about the bear. The switchboard got busy and I had to put her on hold several times. She was rambling and I wasn't really paying attention and at some point she started talking about the car horn going off. She kept babbling about hearing "it" tooting and tooting and then there was a pause and then it tooting again. Not really paying attention I lost the thread of the story and had to stop her to find out what exactly was tooting.

See, in our household, in an attempt to stop Her Surreal Highness from shouting "hey, I farted!" in the middle of daycare, we refer to explosions from the caboose as "toots".

I just had some vision of my mother running around terrified of bearfarts. Don't ask why. Maybe I'll get a better night's sleep tonight and this won't seem quite so funny tomorrow.

Toot!

Monday, August 16, 2004

 

Doesn't it just stink when ...


... a skunk sprays you right *whap* in the face and you're just a little dog that only weighs maybe 5 or 6 lbs?

Yeah, yeah it does. Just ask the little guy who lives next door to me.

I was playing Trivia online (told you I was a junkie) and suddenly heard this screaming from the dog. Next thing I knew, there was a knock on the door and my neighbour was standing there, holding her noze, asking if I had any tomato juice. I didn't, but I had tomato sauce which, although perhaps a little less conventional, worked. He now smells less like skunk and more like a small hairy lasagna. Made from dog.

I don't think I needed THAT image in my mind. Bet you didn't either.

Speaking of food, tonight was "use up all of those vegetables, you demented rabbit" night here at Ch├ęz Lapin.

Thusly, this:



Got turned into this:



in fairly short order. Best damned teriyaki chicken stirfry I've had in months!

On the knitting front (seeing this was originally intended to be a knitting blog and not a food blog) I did nothing at all today, didn't even pick up my needles, however I did manage to score some more yummy yarn on eBay and now will have enough for a sweater when combined with the Rowan Magpie in Raven. I got a couple of skeins of grey, a couple of a greyish tweedy mix called Dolphin and a couple of another brand in coral. The coral will need to be used in double strands to match the weight but I think there's the real possibility of some fun there. I'm thinking of making this, but with long sleeves. I'm gonna be the talk of the town. Or something.

I'm heading into three weeks of double shifts, starting tomorrow. Gonna be working from 8:30am to midnight, Monday to Friday, so I have a feeling that, although there will be posts, a) there will be some missed days and b) the posts that DO show up may well be somewhat content-light. They may well be almost completely lacking in linkage.

Forgive me.

Sunday, August 15, 2004

 

If You Are Stupid ...


Please, throw out your phone and have your internet connection cancelled immediately. Either that or leave me alone.

No, I mean really.

The stupidness started last night when I was on IRC. A man, let's call him "Chuck" seeing that was the name he was going by, showed up in the channel where I was hanging out. The minute he arrived, instead of saying hello and getting the feel of the room, he immediately asked me in channel if I wanted to trade pix. I said, in my usual kind and understanding manner "send me a photo of your wallet and I will send you a photo of my mother in law". He didn't seem to find this amusing.

Not being able to take the hint, he send me a private message with his email address. "someass@webtv.com" or whatever. I didn't respond. He waited about five minutes and then complained that the picture hadn't arrived yet and asked whether I had sent it or not. I responded to neither of these messages. He then sent me another one five minutes later telling me that the picture had not yet arrived.

Um, hello? I was rude to him in channel and didn't answer a single message, and he still thinks he's getting a picture?

For starters, I don't send pictures to rude people who are obviously just out to hit on chicks (quite possibly for self-protection purposes, I'm not that hot and I don't think I could handle being rejected by a knuckle-dragging mouthbreather), and secondly ... I mean ... WEBTV? I admit to being an OS snob. I would do a Linux Geek in a minute (and often do, he's upstairs sleeping at the moment) and most of the Mac bois have a fighting chance. Even Windows NT (professional, not the home version) users have a hope. The Webbies are right out. No, I have never been that lonely. Get a PC and learn to type and then send me another message, ok? (lol/asl/etc.).

So I effectively blew Chuck off (please note the OFF there) and talked to my friends for a while and then hit the hay, as I had to be up to work the 8-4 shift today. I got to work and discovered that it wasn't just Chuck -- I seem to be a moron-magnet.

I wished so hard today that I didn't have to be nice to everyone who calls. When I answer the phone, I say "good morning (or afternoon if time-appropriate) Beebenhopper Krankenhaus". I can't tell you how many times today I had people say "uh ... um ... good afternoon (no, it was morning, those are the hours when Mickey's little hand points to a number smaller than 12, that's why I said morning, numbnuts, but do proceed) um ... is this the Beepenhopper Krankenhaus?" I, of course, have to say "Yes, sir, how may I help you?" when what I really want to say is "No, actually it isn't. That's what I said, but this is a private residence, and I'm sitting here alone in my underwear eating Cheez Doodles and dowloading porn. I'm part of an unholy alliance with the telephone company who, when someone calls up in distress wanting to speak to someone at the hospital, reroutes all of your calls to me. For which I make $10,000 a month. Can I help you?"

This, of course, would be what is known as a Career Limiting Move and they pay me well enough and often enough that I'm not really interested in buying that sort of grief.

And then they proceed to tell me of their problems. I'm a switchboard operator, not a doctor, and I do not want to hear about unusual vaginal discharge, anal polyps or vomit. I really don't. Mucous of any sort is completely prohibited. It's nasty, just stop telling me about it. I chose being an operator over being a doctor because I do not want to hear about your malfunctioning 'bits' and the things that grow thereon. Any sort of discharge, from urine right on up to actual arterial bleeding is NOT something I want to hear about. It's Right Out Of The Question, people.

I have sympathy for those who call in distress and I try to direct them to the appropriate resource but really folks, a little perspective? I can transfer your call ... I cannot deal with a prolapsed uterus, especially over the phone. And you really wouldn't want me to try. Just call an ambliance, people!

And then there was the woman who wanted to tear me a new one because I told her that her daughter was not in our particular Krankenhaus. She was calling from Toronto (ooh, I'm impressed, it's hardly the Kingdom of Bhutan, get over yourself lady) and was most insistent that her daughter was HERE and not somewhere ELSE and I had to FIND her even though she didn't know what last name this young lady was using. Yes, ma'am, I will leave the switchboard, let people die if a code call comes through (in most Krankenhauses the switchboard operator calls the emergency codes; it's our primary function) just so I can walk half a city block down to Emergency and yell "hey is anyone here named Veronica?" When I said to her, after five minutes of arguing, "Are you sure she's in here? This is the Beepenhopper Krankenhaus." she responded with, "Oh, didn't I call St. Olaf's? That's where she is. Do you happen to have their number?"

Feh.

All I can say, people, is that I have call display and starting on Monday I'm going to be writing down your phone numbers and then, at the end of my shift am going to be doing a reverse lookup to get your addresses and then I am coming over to break your phones.

Into little bits. And if you've called more than three times in one shift I might just make you eat those little bits.

And don't even get me started on the people who call up to see if their friends or family have gone into labour yet. "Hello, is Cathy Smith there?" "Yes, ma'am, she's in labour and delivery." "Oh, can you connect me?" "No, I can't, they are able to call out from the delivery suite but there are no ringers on the phones, they cannot receive incoming calls." "But I just want to find out how she's doing, are you sure you can't connect me?" "Yes, I'm sure. That's why I said I couldn't connect you. Have you ever had a baby? And if so, can you recall just how many incoming calls you would welcome at that time? She hit 10cm dilation 12 minutes ago and right now she is performing the equivalent of shitting a watermelon while standing right UP in the stirrups and screaming at her husband 'you sonofabitch, you did this to me, when I get out of this I'm going to cut your balls off with a rusty butter knife and EAT them so you can never do this to anyone else you motherfucker aaaAAAAaaaaAAAAHHHHhhh!' This really isn't a good time for calls. No, really. I can't connect you."

Ok, rant over. But next time you call a hospital, really, dude, if the operator says something to you, it might behoove you to actually listen. Asshat.

On the knitting front, I finished the body of the bunnie I'm making for my friend in chemo and can now start on the second Bootie of Bling. I should be able to send them to her by Wednesday. I'll take pictures before I do so. I did nothing on the Blanket of Belonephobia (fear of pins and needles) and will leave it aside until I finish the stuff for her. She deserves it.

I spend most of my knitting time making things for those who vomit on themselves a lot -- babies, crackhos and the homeless -- so I seldom buy 'quality' yarn, and stick to acrylic, however today, while trying to keep myself from going right fucking mad at work I got onto eBay and scored myself about 600 yards of Rowan Magpie in Raven. I've got bids on for a couple of small lots so that I can make the body of a sweater (for me me me) in black and the sleeves maybe in coral or cobalt and the pockets in grey. Or something. It'll be fun.

And there's a good chance it will stop me from killing people.

Saturday, August 14, 2004

 

Spanking My Face With Mud


So I got home from work tonight, and Her Surreal Highness had somehow conned Daddy into letting her stay home from daycare today. It would seem that they had had a very good day, and her face was smeared with a whole lot of 'whatthefuck'. I think most of it was food. Anyhow, I asked her what it was and how she got to be quite so filthy and she calmly informed me that she had been "spanking her face with mud".

The evening continued on, as it often does, Chez Lapin, with some kick-assed pasta primavera. A big pan of peppers for my husband (I'm allergic) ...



And then of course all the yummy stuff in another pan, like yellow zucchini, carrots, broccoli, tomatoes and sunburst squash and, of course, a shitpile of garlic:



And a baked acorn squashythingie on the side:



Anyhow the pasta was very prima and vera good (forgive me):



Yes, I have a Christmas tablecloth. It's vinyl and easy to clean. Shut up.

Half-way through this delightful repast (all organic apart from the pasta, I hasten to add) there's this clickynoise at the mail slot. I go over to see what's arrived, assuming that Ed McMahon has finally decided that I AM a wiener after all and that all I have to do is answer a skill-testing question to claim my millions, and what do I find but a notice of rent increase.

What the fuck?

OK, we get a rent increase every year. No matter that I haven't had a raise in 11 years, that's my issue, not the issue of the company from whom I rent my admittedly good-sized (1250 square feet) and well-insulated abode. And it's a small rent increase of only $30 per month.

But really. Dude.

We moved in here two years ago. When we moved in I noted that there was no cover on the outside light at either the front or the back of the townhouse. I was assured that this would be rectified immediately. As of this writing there is no cover on either light. When we moved in there was also no doorbell, the previous tenant having had some sort of fancyassed doorbell that she liked and that she had taken with her. Fairynuff, said I, just gimme a plain old pushbutton bell for $4.99 from Ukranian Tire and I'll be happy. Two years later there is no bell. Every now and again someone gets cunning and realizes that they can make the house go dingdong by touching the bare wires together but really, that's hardly a doorbell. My doorknob doesn't fit



(and for the dirtyminded out there, you can Just. Stop. Thinking. That. Right. Now.) and I can actually see daylight around the fitting ... which means of course that my heat can also see that gap and escapes on a regular basis. Heat for which I pay from my unincreased-for-eleven-years salary. Not that this is an issue for me or anything.

ELEVEN FUCKING YEARS.

*koff*

But I digress.

My bathtub was new when I moved in, however if it gets too full it lets water out of that little drainything that the plug is usually (but not in this house) attached to, as do all bathtubs, and then because of some malfunction in the run-off pipe it drips through the kitchen ceiling down on top of the fridge and pools on the floor of the kitchen. This was also brought to the attention of the manager some time ago, like maybe oh, almost two years? We lived with the panel off and a bowl on top of the fridge for about a year or so until I said fuckit and put it back on.

It continues to drip upon the top of the fridge, the freezer compartment of which has a thoroughly inadequate seal. (Cans of frozen juice stay unfrozen for a day or more. I don't keep meat in there any more.)

We had a wasps' nest in the back yard (if I can laughingly refer to a 12' x 22' overgrown wasteland of weeds as a yard) a couple of weeks ago. Instead of calling an exterminator, the manager came and poured a 'bucket of poison' down the hole. This, only after two of us had called him about it. I have screens on my window but my neighbour doesn't and didn't much like being stung three times in one night by wasps who should have known better than to have been up that late. Wasps on crack! Up all night!

I have a small child and there are a truckload of little kids next door (198 I believe I mentioned) and so it's just not safe. It's just not a good idea to have an active wasps' nest out there. Anyhow, when the 'bucket of poison' didn't kill them all, he just took a shovel and covered it up with dirt.

Excuse me? Creatures that can build a nest UNDER my concrete patio slab can likely also get through 3" of dirt and live to sting another day. I'm just sayin'.

Anyhow, as you can tell by the foregoing, I'm a little peeved at being asked to pay a rent increase. I'm looking for a new home and I'm also seriously thinking about calling the management company and asking why they think it's ok to keep Spanking My Face With Mud.

Some days it's hardly worth chewing through the restraints.

On an amusing note, having gotten all of that off my abundant chest, there are a couple of sites that a pervert ... um, friend of mine directed me to last night. I read these and honestly, I was hurting by the end. I'm surprised I didn't moisten my undergarments, and I'm hardly old enough to require Depends. If it pleases you to do so, you might want to have a look at this or even that. Go to the bathroom before you click those links. Don't say I didn't warn you.

On the knitting front, I completed several rows of my friend's rabbit. I talked to her tonight and found that she's lost her hair from chemo. She's going to let her grandchildren fingerpaint her head so that they're not scared about it, which moves her about seventeen points up in my estimation, and she was pretty close to the top to start. She's sending me some yarn to make her a chemo cap, too. You can bet it's going to have rabbit ears on it. And she'll wear it . Hell, I wore cow slippers and a nightshirt with cows in party hats on it when I went to pick her up at Seatac four years ago in a car with no brakes with a ten-week-old-daughter in tow.

I'm working tomorrow and should be able to get an inch or two done on the Binkie of Bufonophobia (fear of toads). I shall report from the front as soon as I am able.

Friday, August 13, 2004

 

Alektrophobia


According to the nifty folks over at The Phobia List, this term refers to fear of chickens.

That's one phobia that's certainly been keeping me up nights. AAAAAAahhhhhhhhh! It's a ... small smelly feathered bird either kept for egg production or killed for food. Yeah. Scary. Probably not quite as stupid as "Phobophobia", which is fear of phobias, but pretty lame nonetheless.

Try using it in conversation and see if it makes you seem wittier and more knowledgeable, or if it just makes people think you're a twat. Report back.

Today's been a slow news day. Just about the only exciting thing that's happened is that I've found out I'm finally rich enough to be able to afford a pool on my car. Yes, on, not "in".



That's actually my husband's car and I have a feeling that the pool belongs to the woman next door who babysits about 193 little kids during the day. Ya think?

On the knitting front, seeing this is supposed to be a semi-knitting blog and I haven't mentioned it in days, I've managed to get several more rows of my friend's bunnie knitted. Right now it just looks like a blue rectangle, hardly worth posting.

Then again if I'm running out of material so quickly that I'm actually putting up pictures of the slug I found on my sidewalk tonight, who knows what tomorrow may bring?



Heading off to sleep to wake later and see what Friday the 13th brings ... Hopfully it'll be a little more exciting than today.

Thursday, August 12, 2004

 

In a Jam


Well, I'm not, really, but several pounds of plums that my mother gave me earlier tonight are now reposing peacefully in mason jars, having been made into my first batch ever of jam.

Aren't they purdy?



I think the jam even set! Of course, as happens far too often en Cuisine du Lapin, this jam-making venture was not without ... shall we say ... incident?

Whenever trying a new project, one should likely read the instructions on how to do it instead of leaping in with both paws, no? Anyhow, I didn't measure the fruit before I prepared it and had to make two batches of jam. This is all fine and dandy, as I'm sure my friends will just weep at being forced to take a jar or two off my hands.

I also only read half of the instructions and tossed the package of Certo, made by our friends over at Kraft, into the first batch of boiling fruit and sugar syrup before taking it off the heat, so I'm hoping that won't make a big difference. I did it right the second time, but was 1/2 cup of fruit short of the amount they said to use, so I'm hoping it'll turn out fine. It should -- this isn't exactly rocket science.

Of course, having planned on only making one batch of jam, I bought only one box of jars, and so had to put the rest of the jam into a bowl.



I'm thinking this won't be a big problem. I'll cover it in plastic wrap, put it in the fridge, and Her Surreal Highness and my husband, The Honey Princess, can make their sammidges with jam from a bowl. What the hell, worse things happen at sea.

I must say I sort of like the combination of the deep red jam and the cobalt blue glass bowl.



My kitchen is an utter disaster; sticky and covered in jam-encrusted thingies. I also seem to have rather a lot of jam on my right boob. Yes, you may lick it off.

All in all I'd write this up as a successful experiment. I'll just have to wait and see if anyone will eat the jam before passing final judgement on it.

Speaking of boobs, and you knew I would again eventually, I went out tonight to buy a DVD player for my parents for their anniversary and decided to get myself a new bra while I was in the department store. What the fuck is it with people who think that anyone over a 32B is allergic to lace? Is there some news article which I have never seen, entitled "Fatgirl Touches Lace, Explodes", so now they're keeping it from us, "for our own good"? I mean, dude.

I searched the entire "lingerie" department, and I use that term loosely, and managed to find exactly ONE bra in my size. Well, not really my size but close enough. I mean ... ONE. There were others, of course, off in the "Plus Sizes" area but those are all nasty and coy, as if I'm supposed to be ashamed of wearing a large size. No matter how much lace is on those creations, they look grandmotherly, or at least maternal, and even though I'm a mother and am old enough to be a grandmother had I had children back when all of my friends were doing so, I have no interest in garments made 'for the mature figure.'

Fuck it. I want a leopard-patterned bra with lots of lace that sends the message 'I have great big boobs. They're nice. If you buy me dinner I'll lend you a spelunking helmet and let you lose yourself in between them for an hour or two.'

And then my husband will come and pull off your arms and legs, but hell, it's a small price to pay.

Wednesday, August 11, 2004

 

She's the Typo Queen ...


... young and keen, only seventeen (times two and a half).

I think we've all had embarrassing moments with typos, haven't we? Huh? HUH? Please tell me I'm not the only one here.

I've had a number of incidents during my so-called career (although I don't know anyone who would call 26 years of enforced clerical work a 'career', but that's for another rant) during which my occasional tendency to let my mind wander has not stood me in good stead.

For instance there was the time, way back before computers, when I had a 'Memowriter', you know, the kind of electronic typewriter that you could program to do form letters and then stopped typing when you had programmed it to do so, so you could add the pertinent information and then hit a key and it would finish the letter for you. Anyone who is over 35 likely remembers the Memowriters. For the youngsters in the crowd, believe me, at the time this was cutting-edge technology and enabled us poor 'secretaries' to go from turning out 10 letters a day to turning out over 100. (Thus rendering 9 of our compatriots jobless, but they likely all went on to get degrees and a REAL FUCKING CAREER instead of typing for dangleberries all the livelong day. But I'm not bitter.)

I did something like 105 letters one day which all included the phrase "Enclosed is information on our bling-dee-bla division, which we're sure you will find useless." Fortunately I caught that before they went out in the mail and had a good giggle over them. The bling-dee-bla division information was, in fact, useless to most of the people to whom these letters were addressed. At the time I was involved peripherally in the music business and that particular division dealt with mechanical rights for the works of 'art' they had registered with us. I can't think that a 900 year old man who had written a song called "Trees is Green" was really concerned about whether or not someone was going to use it in a movie or release it in in Europe somewhere.

But I digress. My boss didn't find it quite as amusing as I did and was emphatic that I should change the programmed letter before I sent them out.

Bitch. I'm quite sure that the Truth in Advertising laws would support my version of the letter over hers. But that was 20 years ago and I've learned to move on. No, really.

I have had a number of stupid typodeelies happen over the years since then, however I think that tonight I topped them all. I am, as you may find startling, a netjunkie, participating in numerous aspects of this interenet thingie. Something I love and always have, is IRC, or Internet Relay Chat.

I visit several different networks, DalNet, Starchat and Magicstar being the three I hang out on with the most frequency.

I was hanging tonight with some buds, and we were chatting about a person who comes to the channel and complains about his health problems on a regular basis. It's ok to complain, but he's ALWAYS got something terrible going on and it's ALWAYS about him. For instance, our channel founder mentioned to him that she had cancer and had to have about 1/3 of one of her hooters removed, plus some lymph nodes, and then she got 6 months of chemo, bone marrow replacement and then hormone replacement therapy. Big stuff, right? His response was "sorry" and then he went on to talk about how he might need physio on his shoulder and he just had to take care of himself and didn't have time left over for her problems.

How ... caring and helpful.

Anyhow, back to the typo thing, once he had left the channel there were three or four ladies left to bitch about him. I was doing my share (how startling) and then ... well ... here's how it went ... (B) is me.

-B- Well then, I think we should just kill h.
-B- it would be doing everyone a favour.
-E- yayyyyyyy, b!
* B is very practical
* E gets the shovel
-D- if we killed him..
-D- you know what would happen.
-D- first of all we would have to clean up the mess..
-D- then we would have to listen to the ghost..
-B- I know what would happen, D. We would clean up the mess, bury him, and then drink wine and do each other
-D- all those chains making noise..
-E- uh oh
-D- very annoying
-B- s hair and makeup

Now as anyone can tell, I meant to hit the ' rather than the return, however I was slightly drunk and the keys are close together and ... well ...

Yeah. We'd all drink wine and do each other.

I took about an hour's ribbing for that one, but I still think it's a good idea.


Tuesday, August 10, 2004

 

A Word to the Wise


Never ask your four year old daughter where your best underwear went. She'll tell you.

Apparently mine was stolen by bad squirrels from the village.



If you happen to be in the village and see some bad squirrels wearing cornflower blue silk underpants with a lot of lace on them, would you be kind enough to ask them to return them? They match the bra.

 

"vintage" doesn't always mean "good"


Just because something is old, doesn't mean that it has greater value than one o' them newfangled thangs made all of plastic. Honest it doesn't.

Take, for instance, vintage cooking books. I mean, I laugh just as hard as anyone does at the recipe cards at candyboots but would you really put any of that stuff in your mouth?

These cards inspired me (once I went and changed my pants, thankyouverymuch) to look out some of my own old recipe books. I had a dear friend who was an insane packrat and when he died, well, I couldn't very well throw out his precious STUFF could I? So I added many of his books to my collection. This book not only smells like it's been in storage for the last 30 years, it also sports such lovely pictures as this:



I don't know what bothers me more, the fact that they're serving the chicken in a french onion soup bowl, the fact that it's pretty clear that nothing on that table has ever had flavour or scent, or the fact that they seem to expect you to wash down the plastic chicken with a big goblet of giblets in vinegar. I suppose that's really the only fitting beverage for this sort of meal but really. Dude. There's a limit.

SOME vintage thingies are good though. I went thrift-storing (yes, it's a verb now, shut up) with my good friend Michelle when she was here last summer and we (or at least I) scored some spiffy vintage patterns, including this one.



I now have to decide which one she gets. I spoze I could just ask her but I'd rather let the public decide to make her wear something. Heh.

So which do you prefer, this ...



or these?



I'm leaning towards the bobbles, myself.

That sentence feels like it should mean something more than that but I suppose, as Freud (allegedly) said, "sometimes a cigar is just a cigar".

Yes. And sometimes it's a pseudodick.

Monday, August 09, 2004

 

Turkeys aren't that dumb


My hubby and I, after running ourselves and our small offspring ragged here:



(photo posted for the droolage of Loki's Ho) all day were spending our usual evening discussing weighty and important matters, and the subject of whether or not turkeys were really stupid enough to drown by looking up at the rain came up.

Yes, we have an interesting life.

Anyhow, it would seem that they are not.

Yet another urban myth shot down, just when it was getting interesting.

So, next time you feel like calling someone a turkey, think to yourself, is it because you think they're so stupid that they could drown looking up at the rain, or is it because they have eyes on the sides of their head?

I'm just askin'

Sunday, August 08, 2004

 

Ooh ooh that smell ...


... cantcha smell that smell?

Did you know that you can't leave a bowl of beef fat sitting on the counter for four days in 90-degree weather? Yeah, I knew that. But apparently the person who left it there didn't.

Actually, for the grammar-conscious amongst us, you CAN leave a bowl of beef fat on the counter for four days, you just really SHOULDN'T.

Gah.

On a slightly less disgusting note, I've been told to go fly a kite about a billion times, and today we did.



After that we played soccer:




I'm thinkin' that my girl may have a future playing goal.

I did very little in the way of knitting today. Like none at all. My friend Ann has kindly agreed to take the Kroy yarn off my hands, so I don't have to "officially" add it to my stash. This also means that I don't have to face my double-pointed needles any time soon.

Unfortunately, she also somehow got me interested in actually documenting how much yarn I have and of what sort. This is a worthwhile project, so that I don't go and buy stuff when I already have the yarn for a particular item (like there's anything that I don't already have the yarn for???), however there's a ton of work to do. I'm at 2.11 miles so far and that's only the cotton (and I haven't counted all of that yet).

And I repeat, gah.

Saturday, August 07, 2004

 

Confessions of a yarn ho


I would first like to say that I am NOT a yarn addict. I can stop buying it any time I like.

I'm just an enthusiast. An enthusiast with a couple of grand worth of yarn in her house, perchance, but an enthusiast nonetheless.

Voila:



And that doesn't even begin to address the quantity on hand; it's just that this is the most naked I'm willing to get in public. There's also a full laundry basket of cotton, three large cones of yummy alpaca, and ooh, maybe almost that much yarn again in nooks, crannies and boxes all over the house.

No, I'm not a well woman. Thank you for noticing.

Went to Michael's today and bought 12 balls of that orange you see to the far left, 11 balls of the deep sage that is beside it, and six balls of Kroy in some sort of green. Yes, I know Kroy is sock yarn, I'm trying to send it to Ann or someone else who doesn't know the true evil of double-pointed needles. The rest of the yarn is just Bernat So Soft. It was all on sale for $2 a ball, down from the usual $5 or so. Yes, I'm trying to justify this purchase. Hey, it's working for me. No, my husband isn't buying it either.

Bastage.

I'm going to go knit something now. Okbye.

 

Don't mean a thing ...


... if it ain't got that bling.

Or something.

Well, I survived the work marathon and even managed to finish the knitting on the first of the slippers listed in #40 in the last post. These, along with a blue lop-eared rabbit, will be going to a friend of mine who just had cancer surgery. Every girl undergoing chemo deserves some fancy slippers with funfur at the cuffs, no? I haven't sewn them together yet but I wanted to prove that I had at least done SOMETHING with my lazy ass of late.

Yes, I knit with my ass. Shut up.



I had an especially delightful day at work today. I don't know if it was the 4-1/2 hours of sleep, the constant interruptions or the fact that I'm just generally lame on Fridays, but I wasn't incredibly ... coordinated, shall we say?

Voila, the results of my attempt to re-ink a dried up perma-stamp. Guess I should have been looking at the bottle of ink when I squeezed it instead of chatting to someone.



The ink ran down between my last two fingers, staining the nails and the fingers black (no, I don't have dirty or broken nails!) and then running around inside my wedding band, leaving an indelible circle. I guess that puts paid to my plans to go out to the bar and take off my wedding ring. Pity, as we all know that chubby middle-aged women who have just worked 31 hours out of the last 40 are usually the first people who get picked up by cute boys out looking to get all sexed up. No, really. It's true. Just ask anyone.

Friday, August 06, 2004

 

I Didn't Get The Memo


And was therefore unaware that today was "let your housepets drive on crack" day. I hereby offer my heartfelt apologies to all of those who I may have dissed with regard to your driving skills on my way home after 15-1/2 hours of work. I had no idea that most of the cars being driven around here were, in fact, under the guidance of wienerdogs. Syphillitic wienerdogs, at that. On crack.

Well. I feel much better for having gotten that out of my system, although it hardly makes up for almost being sideswiped three times and then having to deal with a man in the 'convenience' store (and I use that term loosely, as no convenience was experienced whatsoever) who was so drunk that he couldn't figure out that the clerk had to know how much his sandwich actually WAS before he could pay for it ... and then was coughing and horking so much all around the microwave that I figured his next trick was going to be to vomit. I dunno about you, but microwaved barf burritos just didn't sound like something to which I wanted to spend a lot of time in close proximity, so at that point I left, to make my purchase at a more convenient and less hork-filled establishment.

And now for the dreaded knitting list requested by the Woman of Scorn. This will be edited as I go along so I'm not sure if it'll be 51 projects but it's a shitpile, that I can guarantee.

1. *yellow blanket for J's sister
2. *black hat for A
3. variegated hat with ears for S
4. coat for Eleanor for next winter
5. black hat for R
6. *green bunnie for auntie H
7. green "Rambling Rows" sweater for Ben
8. *green moss-stitch sweater for mom
9. rambling rows sweater for eebie
10. pink hat for me
11. pink sweater for me
12. green sweater for Q
13. S's blanket
14. alpaca scarf for S
15. *peach scarf for J
16.&17. 2 knitted bunnies for Eleanor
18. 1 'Bliss' doll for Eleanor
19. cat for RM
20. heart afghan for Eleanor
21. pink slippies with pig ears for A
22. cotton sweater for me
23. black bunnie for R
24.&25. blankies for E's dolls
26. pinque and black hat for E
27. pinque slipper for me
28. bag for me for small projects
29. *hgtv binkie
30. blue bunnie for Ax's daughter
31. cotton mat for in front of kitchen sink
32. cotton bed jacket for me
33. draft blocker
34. purple dorm boots with ears for L
35. something babyful for S
36. *blanket for M
37. *purple afghan for C
38. *blanket for E
38.&39. hats for steve
40. *"bling" slippers for ee
41. *bunnie for ee
42. *"Tell me I'm a Tard" Tank
43. Moss stitch tunic for Eleanor
44. *crochet blue and white blanket for M
46. *crochet blue blanket for twins
47. second crochet blue blanket for other twin
48. barnyard play blanket & animals for twins

OK, that's all I'm going to admit to. I edited out all of the ones I was going to make for people I'm no longer speaking to, or ones that I was going to make for a place I'm no longer going to make anything for 'cause I don't have time, and also anything I'm making as a surprise for anyone I know who reads this.

The ones with the * beside them are already cast on. I also have a commitment to a couple of dozen dishcloths to be given to one of the homeless shelters to be used as facecloths (3 of which are already done) and thirty blankets for one of the shelters for when it opens, but for those I'm mostly just a gathering place, and I sew a few squares together when I have time, so that's hardly worth adding to the list, hmm? I'm not going to anyhow, it would make me weep.

Oh shut up, I'm not obsessed at all.

If you'd like to figure out if YOU need more yarn or projects in your life, take a lookie here. You may just be surprised.

Wednesday, August 04, 2004

 

ambitious or just a wack job?


I thought I had lost my list of "planned and promised" projects when we bought me a new computer and, behind the ranting and raving at my husband for reformatting the old machine before I was finished getting all of my stuff off of it, I breathed a secret sigh of relief, as it was so long that I felt sort of squicky every time I looked at it.

I started a new list and then tonight found the old one, so I guess I have to combine them.

Fifty one isn't too many, right?

Man, I'm glad I hadn't added about 8 other things I have planned.

Fortunately I'm about to start a series of 17 double shifts (shut up, I know) and will get a lot of serious knitting time in between now and the end of August.

That is, if I can keep myself from compulsively reading other people's blogs ...

Crawling off to bed now in the hope that I don't have nightmares about being chased by half-finished slippers.


Tuesday, August 03, 2004

 

"crap" now officially on Table of Elements


I have received incontovertible proof that vehicle manufacturers are secretly laughing at us.

There's this certain company ... to avoid falling victim to the excessively-litigious, let's just call them "Wanda". They make excellent vehicles that keep going forever, retain their resale value far longer than many other vehicles and, up until now, have been relatively aesthetically pleasing.

Tonight, however, I was forced to revise my opinion, at least on the latter point.

We were driving along, heading out to grab a burger after spending a couple of hours at the wave pool with Her Surreal Highness, and I saw ... well, I'm still not quite sure what I saw. This vehicle sort of rhymes with "Elephant", and I'm thinking it may well have been the end result of a couple of designers getting really high and having a competition to see just how skanky a vehicle they could get away with.

I can't think of any other reason that a previously-reliable company would make something slightly less sexay than a milk carton on wheels and then paint it diarrhea green.

Whatever those boys were smoking, I do believe I would like some. And then I'm going to call my father and tell him that that's what mom's been longing for for her birthday.

On the knitting front, after making bold strides on The Blue Blanket For Which I Can Think Of No Other Derogatory Names Because I Am Sort Of Tired, I packed up all of my stuff to go to work on Sunday night, glanced at the ball of yarn on the dining room floor and wondered what fool had left a ball of my yarn there instead of in my 'office' area I've carved out of the living room, and blithely left the house. Upon arriving at work I discovered that in fact ~I~ was the fool and that was the ball of yarn I needed to continue work on the blanket. I spent the evening knitting a pink cotton dishcloth instead, a picture of which I'm pretty sure nobody wants to see. I've never found photos of squares of plain garter stitch all in one colour to be particularly impressive, anyhow.

And lastly, to those who have taunted me for being too chickenshit to pick up my dpns and make socks ... I say HA! I knew they were dangerous.



Not touching those puppies any time soon.


 

Say Goodnight, Gracie


No post tonight. I'm too tired. Instead, one of my favourite pictures of The Bunkie, taken about a year ago.



I'm heading upstairs to do much the same, myself. Perhaps without the half-chewed Oreo cookie.

Monday, August 02, 2004

 

Inappropriate Items I Have Made


Not a lot of content in tonight's post. In-laws returned successfully from whence they came, and the last day I had off work was July 11, so I'm a little brain-dead.

Although tonight's shift was very quiet and ended up being quite successful on the knitting front (14 rows of the Blue Binkie of Bliss completed plus a couple of squares knitted together for the Blankets project) a good general rule is to not knit when one is at ... shall we say ... less than one's optimum level of alertness?
It can get you into all sorts of trouble. For instance ... Chavo's Tampon.



This was a cat toy made from a pattern supplied to me by my friend Ann. It was very easy to make and it would seem my kitty pal enjoys it muchly, but truly, it resembles nothing more or less than a hand-knitted tampon. Not exactly the sort of item you want to be taking on the craft-show circuit, perchance.

The second item up for your ridiculing pleasure, a bunnie with microcephaly.



No idea what I was thinking on this one. The pattern upon which my rabbits are based is very clear about measuring carefully to get the right size head on your bunnie. I'm sure there's some sort of dirty joke there, but I'm too tired to find it.

Another mystery, although the item is more useless than inappropriate, is why I spent quite a lot of money on a knitting machine (thinking I'd use it to make blankets/sweaters, etc. for charity) and have thus far, a year and a half after its purchase, produced exactly one item. About 3" of ribbing.



That's all for tonight, folks. I told you it would be content-light!

I leave you with the title of today's favourite spam: "a rectum - date one today". Sheesh, like we haven't all dated a few too many rectums (rectae?) in our lives!

Sunday, August 01, 2004

 

Knitting!


At last ... you knew I'd get back to talking about knitting again, didn't you?

On Friday I got home to find a wonderful package waiting for me. Giftage!



Oh this just makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. *dance* Thank you so much, Ann!

I took them to work tonight and spent half my shift drooling and planning new projects. The drooling is pretty much par for the course, being elderly, but the planning was great fun. Before anyone thinks I'm about to be fired for spending work hours planning personal projects, I work nights on a switchboard. Sometimes we're so busy I have half a dozen calls backed up, but later in the evening I could have as much as 10 minutes in between calls, so there's lots of time to plot. The problem now is that I am going to a) have to retire later this year and b) live to be 136 in order to finish everything I have planned. Either that or learn to knit faster.

I made some progress on the Binkie of Bathos, as you can see. I'm still on track to have it completed by the end of August.



I wish the detail showed up better in this picture. It looks great on my couch. Hmm, wonder if I could knit covers for this badly-mistreated furniture? NO! BAD RABBIT.

Mother-in-law and her boyfriend are here and they very politely ignored both the filth and the strange messages and drawings left on the mirrors all over the house.

What can I say? Leaving messages with Window Writers seems to be our main form of communication these days. I may live in a madhouse, indeed, but at least it's an amusing one.

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