Thursday, March 31, 2005


Too Bagged to Blog

I seem to have come down with a slight case of death. Or maybe just a really bad cold.

Going to bed for the duration. Watch this space for either entertainment or an obituary -- right now I don't much care which one.


Wednesday, March 30, 2005


An Abomination Unto Nuggan

Although I'm pretty sure that the Viking Chicken Hat would easily be described by any of Terry Pratchett's characters as An Abomination Unto Nuggan, there apparently exist a cadre (perhaps a cabal?) of Very Sick People who are indecently enthusiastic about starting a Knit-Along for the adult version thereof.

I have therefore, after consulting with the experts (or actually just reading the comments from the earlier post), started a blog called "Raw Chicken Viking Hat Knit-Along". It can be found here.

If I've set it up incorrectly or if someone else actually knows the rules of one of these knit-along thingies and would like to enlighten me so I don't have to look it up (yes, I'm asking people yet again to do my dirty work for me) please feel free to let me know!

Gentlepersons, start your chickens!

Tuesday, March 29, 2005


More Stashbusting

In deference to our urgently impecunious state (that's "broke" for those who don't think they're some sort of smart-asses) I have indulged in some stashbusting via eBay. You may find it startling to discover that one of the items I sold was cotton. Green cotton. No, not the stuff that Lynne sent (I wouldn't dare, plus it would be tacky!), but 8 balls of Bernat Handicrafter Cotton in Hunter Green.

I think this actually brings my total ball-count (if you'll excuse the expression) to a lower number (for the first time) than it was when I started this in December.

And now, I have urgent news! For all of you who are as enamored as I am of the Viking Chicken Hat but who have despaired of their mathematical ability to convert it to an adult pattern, vooDOO has kindly alerted me (I typed that as "kindly altered me". Oh Doctor Freud?) to the fact that one can be found here. Meander down to the March 27 post and feast your eyes on all its chickeny goodness. Follow the links because really, if you do nothing else this year, you have GOT to see a dog in a chicken hat.

Seems that instead of doing endless math, all you have to do is use thicker yarn and bigger needles. Who knew?

Anyhow, although the brilliant knitter who was the first to notice if you use bigger yarn you get a bigger product seems to have offered wantonly to knit these hats for all and sundry, I think the noble path would be to have a knit-along.

Anyone know how one of those works? I'm a newbie at this so I don't have a clue, but I'd certainly be up for it. Oh man ... we could make them in all different colors ...


Monday, March 28, 2005


The Librarians are Coming!

Well, it looks like we're all going to hell in a handbasket. Isn't the blogging of the librarians one of the signs of the Apocalypso?

There's a new kid in town, and I have it on good authority that despite her allegedly sedate profession, if you ask her real nice, she'll show you her boobs.

Go ahead. Ask her. Tell her I sent you.

Then send me busfare out of town; I think she has my address

Sunday, March 27, 2005


Just For Rebecca

Thank you, Marlene for yesterday's comment, which reminded me that there is more to Lego than religion.

Therefore, I would like to direct your attention to this site.

This, of course, immediately put me in mind of Rebecca, as she is one of the most perverted (and perverse) people I have ever met.

I find it very upsetting that this is perhaps the only site like this out there, as far as I can tell. I should likely find it even more upsetting that I spent an hour looking for more.

Clearly there is a niche in the market just begging to be filled. As it were.

Saturday, March 26, 2005


Holy What?

I worked all night last night, got into bed around 7am. The phone calls started at 8.

To the people who felt the need to call me either seven or eight times between 8am and 1pm, I would just like to say: cut it right the fuck out. If you get the answering machine, leave a message. Do not call back every 45 minutes. It just makes me cranky. I will call you when I am awake, unless I owe you money, and then basically all you can hope for is to talk to the machine, so you might as well do so.

In honour of the Holy Week, I give you this, for your entertainment and edification.

Someone has way too much time on their hands.

On a knitterly front, I do believe that MarQ1 and I have negotiated a hostage exchange, and some yarn that I don't think I can use is winging its way in his direction in exchange for that yummy alpaca that he can't use. I love this internet thingie!

So that's nine in and two out.

I'm also about to send This Demented Woman three balls out of my stash that she's agreed to adopt.

So I'm now four balls up in my stashbusting efforts.

I've completed another dishcloth (this was the green one, do NOT ask for a picture!) but I'm giving them away almost as fast as I can make them, and now, having completed at least a dozen of the promised 20, I have two in store.

I'm beginning to suspect that math really, really isn't meant for people like me.

Friday, March 25, 2005


A Bumblebee Cannot Fly

I have often heard it said that bumblebees cannot fly. And yet nobody has informed the bumblebees of this fact, and they continue to do so.

"...if you apply the theory of fixed wing aircraft to insects, you do calculate that they can't fly. You have to use something different."

I stole this quote from the good folks over at How Stuff Works. I didn't read the whole site, because I'm a great big slacker, and I just wanted to get a quote that would tie in with this article. They can sue me if they feel like it.

If you apply one particular theory, you can prove something to be true. To obtain a different result, you have to use something different.

And so it goes these days over at Darn Tootin'. I don't know how many of you follow my sidebar links, however the Rummel-Hudson family has had its share of tribulations over the last few years. They have a beautiful daughter, Schuyler, who has CBPS. They have links explaining this on their site, so I won't put any here, mostly because of the previously-mentioned element of pervasive slackage.

In short, their daughter has a malformation of her brain that affects her speech centres and, at the age of five, still does not speak. It is unlikely that she will do so.

Some folks think she's retarded. Some folks think that she's no such thing, and is more likely a bumblebee.

There are a number of devices that would enable her to communicate ... one is about two or three thousand dollars. From what I understand, this is the one that is favoured by the school board and if purchased by them may possibly have to be shared with other students. It would enable her to communicate at a two-to-three year old level. She is five and would outgrow this in minutes. The other devices that would enable her to communicate with complexity are ones that the school board and their insurance will not fund. And so her parents are trying to raise funds to purchase a tool to make it possible for their child to meet her potential and develop beyond the "fall down go boom owwie" level.

Fuck the school board. She deserves the best help she can possibly get. The only problem with that is that her parents can't find $7k in their budget.

So ... if you have a dollar or five sitting about doing nothing, please hop over to their site and follow the links to the fundraising page and send them a little.

Schuyler deserves a chance to fly.

Thursday, March 24, 2005


Musical Chairs

Today I have run the gamut of musical entertainment, from the sublime to the ridiculous.

Early morning found me standing in the office singing "Let's Talk Dirty to the Animals" to a couple of professional musicians, one of whom is a vocalist. I'm nothing if not tasteful. The performance was well-received.

At at noon I was sitting in a theatre listening to someone butcher a work by my favourite classical composer so badly that I had a great urge to rush the stage and set the piano alight, so that nobody could hurt it ever again.

I'm glad I didn't succumb to this completely-understandable urge, as this evening I returned to self-same theatre to listen to two very talented young musicians present their graduation recitals.

Some days being me is a good thing. Having talent would, of course, be a better thing but oh well, you can't have it all; I settled for beauty.

Shut up.

On the knitting front, while enduring "The Rape of the Bach", I managed to get within 20 rows of the end of this visually-dangerous green dishcloth, and I'll get it finished before bed tonight. I think that the knitting of those dishcloths may best be done either in the dark or very drunk (or both) from now on.

Finally, a word to the wise. When shaking up cough syrup for a small person who has a fever, a sore neck and a completely stuffed-up head, please check first if the cap is on the bottle.

I'm just sayin'.

And moppin'.


A Mixed Bag

That would describe me to a "T" tonight.

To answer the Blogger questions first, I use statcounter. It's a great program and lets you see who's visiting, how many, from where, etc, and what keywords they searched on.

Marlene, I'll email you the code for getting a target to open in a new window because, of course, if I type it here I just get a target that's going to open in a new window and not what you would actually need to type into your blog. I didn't try this ten or twelve different ways before deciding to email it, either, because that would Just Be Dumb.

Oh yes, and I just sent the info without double-checking it and it's wrong. You have to put http:// in front of the www.statcounter thingie or it fucks up bigtime.

Yes, I'm a technological whiz. Want me to fix your computer for you? (Please note: The correct answer is "no".)

I do believe I have one last interview to inflict, this one on MarQ1. I don't know him all that well -- we have just exchanged a few emails and rummaged through each other's blogs (I usually make folks buy me a drink before letting them do that but seems I'm easy this week. I mean easier) -- but I like him a lot and enjoy his blog.

He has, of course, posted "63 things about me", which makes this task far more difficult, but here goes.

1. When did you start knitting and why?

2. You seem to like wine. Red or white? Dry or not? What is your favourite wine?

3. You say on your blog that you like cats. Do you have one or have you ever been owned by a small furry emissary of Satan?

4. If someone gave you a Chia Pet, how long do you think it would take to think of a fitting revenge and what would it be?

5. Do you think you will ever try spinning and dyeing as so many people (hopefully me also, soon) seem to be doing?

I actually have knitting content today! I have my first three items completed for the Dulaan Project.

First, a child's hat, made from the same pattern I have used for a number of adult hats. I love this one, it's so easy:

Second, one of two sets of booties I have completed but have not yet seamed:

The other pair is a slightly lighter blue. None of these, alas, go on my "items completed" list, as they were made a couple of years ago, but they DO go on my "list of items I have shipped out and which I will point out to my husband when he starts complaining about the Walls of Yarn around here."

Tonight was Girls Night, Chéz Lapin, so Herself and I went off to a couple of nasty fast-food places where she played in the playroom with all of the other kids and I actually got some knitting time. My 2x2 rib sage scarf, also for Dulaan, is now at 14". It's still boring but I think I'll cast it off at about 42" so I'm 1/3 of the way there. There was no point in taking a photograph of it. It looks the same as last time, except longer. Just go look at the first picture and squint a bit.

Or a lot.

Wednesday, March 23, 2005


Google Giggle

OK, I can understand people googling for things like "allergic to lace" and "phentex dynasty blanket". "Pantieless" is one that I just brought on myself, apparently, and I'll bet none of the people who searched on that word found what they were looking for (or if they did this is very disturbing news and I'd rather not talk about it), but REALLY people ... bearfarts?


It would seem that Google returns ten results for "bearfarts" and this blog is the first of those results.

There have been at least THREE searches for "bearfarts" that have brought people here. Three.

What I want to know is who is doing this? Is it someone who remembers that I said "bearfarts" in one of my posts but who can't remember "Rabbitch" and doesn't know how to bookmark? Is there a large (well, ok, three) group of people out there with bearfart fetishes? Are the bears themselves searching for remedies to excessive flatulation?

What? For the love of dog, WHAT?

These are the sorts of questions that keep me up at night. Aren't you glad you're not me?

Tuesday, March 22, 2005



Oh thank dog, my van is finally repaired. And they showed the house tonight to a prospective buyer, so I was up cleaning until 3am last night and then worked all day on a total of four hours' sleep.

I'm afraid I have nothing coherent to post today (shut up anyone who is saying "and this is different how?), however I shall be back to interview MarQ1 tomorrow.

Be afraid.

Or asleep.

Monday, March 21, 2005


Two (Final) Interviews

I have two final interviews to write, and seeing Jen is agitating, I thought I should get to it before more fun fur or green cotton yarn shows up on my doorstep.

Never annoy someone who has your home address. I'm 20 balls up from where I was when I started my "stashbusting" project and I live in fear of mysterious packages. My husband just looks at the boxes sadly, when we arrive home from work, shakes his head and says in an Eeyore-like tone, "I'll bet that's yarn." I'm going to have to get a PO box one day soon.

And so, without further ado, Jen, here are your questions:

1. What inspired you to start knitting?

2. How do you deal with the intevitable twatzillas who think you're wacked for knitting when you're still under the age of 80?

3. What is the most bizarre or annoying thing anyone has said to you with regard to your knitting?

4. Do you believe, as I do, that dpns are the tools of the debbil?

5. What is your favourite dessert?

The last interview was requested by Alice, with whom I'm not quite as well-acquainted, so I will be kind, and will also try to refrain from using the word "ass".

1. When did you first start knitting and why?

2. Do you have a project that has thwarted you at every turn? And if so did you persevere or just send the bastage to the frog pond?

3. Have you ever made a typo that was so insanely embarrassing or funny that you've never yet been able to live it down? (Been there.)

4. Are you interested in other fiber arts, such as spinning, weaving, etc?

5. Do you like chocolate? If so, milk or dark or nutty or soft centres? You seem to be having a shitty time of late. If you're comfortable doing so, send a snailmail addie and expect a package within the month, as soon as I can get my ass over to my chocolate-pusher's store.

Oh hell. I just said "ass".

I think we all knew I couldn't make it for long.

Sunday, March 20, 2005


Ack! She Got Me!

Seems I missed the little "reciprocal questions" clause in the questionnaire dealie. Stacey apparently did NOT miss it, and has reciprocated. Thank dog I was nice!

1. What's the first thing you notice about some one you meet for the first time?

If they're wearing something knitted, I look to see if it's handmade. I'm pretty sure everyone thinks I'm scoping out their boobs.

If they're not wearing something knitted, I just scope out their boobs.

2. What made you want to start knitting?

My grandmother spent a lot of her time knitting. I tried to learn and it just didn't work. Tried repeatedly over the years and then a dear friend got pregnant and I decided I was making her a baby blanket.

Blanket never got finished and I haven't talked to her in a couple of years, but this time the knitting took.

3. What is the weirdest thing you have ever eaten?

Haggis. I had a bunch of stuff in Japan that I didn't examine too closely, also.

4. Being a mom, have you ever said “Don’t run with scissors” or “You could put an eye out” any thing cliché like that?

Um, I sadly admit to yelling "Don't make me come in there!" more than once. My daughter, alas, does not respect my fearsome authority and usually makes me come in there. And then we end up giggling like loons, because I don't seem to respect my fearsome authority either.

5. If you could have any super-power you wanted what would it be and why?

Oh, I would love to be able to fly. Then I could get places without having to sit for four fucking hours for my mechanic to show up. Not that I'm having issues today or anything. Nope.

And while we're doing interviews, Heide has foolishly placed herself in my hands.

1. How long have you been knitting?

2. If you ever caught the people who keep trashing your bathroom at work, what would you do to them?

3. What is the strangest thing you have ever knit?

4. I guess everyone's pretty much caught on to the green cotton question by now, so um, how big is your stash?

5. How did you meet your husband?

OK, kid's out of the house for an hour and a half (birthday party) and I'm going to clean, and throw out half of her toys! More later.


Spring, She has Sprung

It seems to be here, all right. We now have warm rain instead of cold rain. That's always the first clue.

In a brief non-raining moment today I took this, as evidence of the arrival of Spring:

The landlord had told me that this was just a pile of excess bark mulch left over from the front garden, and I was planning on doing "something" with it. Seems someone else had plans. We have no idea who planted these, but it's going to look pretty festive at the side of my house in a day or two. More festive, that is. I love daffodils.

Thank you, mystery gardener!

I spent most of Saturday on "kid time". We've been sorely lacking in that department of late, so we both had a fantastic time. Went on a bus and then the Seabus, visited a friend, ate candy, went swimming, played, ate dinner, played some more and ate more candy.

Her Surreal Highness was so bagged she fell asleep on the bus on the way home.

A little knitting happened, but all I worked on was Sophie and one of the ubiquitous dishcloths. Neither is interesting enough to post. Sophie should only take a few more days, but even I am not going to post a few more inches of stocking stitch. Well, not unless I'm completely desperate for blog fodder.

Lynne has asked to be interviewed, so without further ado, here are your questions.

1. How many UFOs do you have on the go right now? (And yes, you have to include the six you have absolutely no intention of finishing).

2. What is your favourite yarn to work with?

3. Would you like some green ... oh. No.

3. Trying again. Who taught you how to knit, and when?

4. Have you ever cheated on your knitting by indulging in crochet, cross-stitch or quilting?

5. Do you do charity knitting and if so, what, and for which organization?

More kid time all day tomorrow, and possibly the resurrection of my ancient, costly, overheating van.

Sometimes it doesn't suck at all to be me.

Saturday, March 19, 2005


Interview The Third

I love this. It absolves me of all necessity to knit and then display the pathetic results.

Right now on the knittage front, I'm trying desperately to meet the order of 20 dishcloths I have due shortly, but I keep giving them away. After I FINALLY get 20 done (I have the sum total of four right now, and I'm giving two of those away tomorrow) I'll settle down to knitting what I want rather than what I need to do for the cash.

Stacey has asked to be interviewed, so here are your questions:

1. When did you start blogging, and why?

2. What was the first item you ever made and kept for yourself

3. Did you keep it because you love it or because you made so many knittos that you were embarrassed to give it away?

4. Do you prefer knitting over cross-stitch or vice versa?

5. How many UFOs do you have?

I'm spending Saturday with my daughter and my friend Mar, eating and swimming and generally carrying on. More interviews afterwards.

Friday, March 18, 2005


Interview This, Bitch

So, I decided to interview this bitch, seeing she volunteered.

Amazing how a little comma can change the whole meaning of a sentence.

So, you crazy woman, here are your questions:

1. If you were a vegetable, what one would you be and why?

2. What is your favourite yarn?

3. How much porn do you really download from the internet?

4. What is the most regrettable yarn purchase you have ever made and how did you get rid of it?

5. What is the most extravagant/decadent yarn purchase you have ever made?

More interviews to come tomorrow. And maybe like even some knit content!

Or not.

Thursday, March 17, 2005



Looks like the Dire Event of yesterday more than likely will come to nothing, which is good, 'cause it would have meant me not working for anywhere from a couple of days to a couple of months -- without pay. This would have been disastrous. Worse than disastrous.

I actually don't have a word for how bad it would have been.

Anyhow, it looks like all is ok and we can retain the status quo of eating pasta and knitting up all of this yarn that's come in the mail. (And the several hundred balls in my stash.)

Shit. I didn't even think. I could have knitted a home were we evicted!

All jollity aside (briefly), thank you for the words of encouragement I received in email.

The rest of you who didn't write to me are all just bitches. All of you. Clearly you're jealous of me and my astonishingly glamorous lifestyle.

The pain of your rejection has been alleviated by the discovery that we have a new knitter where I work. She has asked me where to get needles, and although I'm not donating any of my Addis to the cause, I have quite a lot (no, I will not tell you how many) spare sets of needles.

She said she wanted larger ones, so to avoid her knitting hats and wristers on 10mm needles and being horribly disappointed in them, I have hauled out a set each of 6mm, 6.5mm, 7mm and 7.5mm. I have no idea how the set of 7.5s got three needles in it.

I'm also donating three balls of Paton's Beehive Shetland Chunky to the cause and a big ball of ACKrylic that she admired the colour of the other day.

She loves green and she said she wants to knit some dishcloths too but I don't think I have the ass to actually give her some of that green cotton.

Or do I?

Gayle has left a comment asking for an interview, so here are your questions. I'll try to be kind, especially seeing I'm hoping we can hang for a day and do some knitting or shopping or something one day after you've moved to Bellingham.

1. What is the most challenging project you have ever knit (and completed)?

2. What was the item you found most disappointing?

3. What do you want to be when you grow up?

4. What exactly is Natural Housing and how did you get interested in it?

5. Do you want some green cotton?

Erin has also been brave enough to request an interview. Here are your questions:

1. Which one of you is the dork, you or Carma?

2. How long have you been knitting?

3. How big a yarn stash do you have?

4. Would you like some green cotton?

5. How do you feel about novelty yarns? (In general, I'm not sending any out. Well maybe.)

Thanks everyone for putting up with my angst. Back to the usual madness tomorrow.

Wednesday, March 16, 2005


Days of Wine and Bozos

I've had a tough day. A complete and utter snotlob of a day. It's been so bad that I'm actually not going to post about it.

Yeah, that bad. It's either going to be nothing at all, or I'm going to be so comprehensively fucked that I may well be living in a refrigerator box by the end of the month. I think the worst part of it is that this has nothing whatsoever to do with me, and I have absolutely no control over what happens.

I'll be sure to keep you posted. That is, if I can find a box with an internet connection.

Fortunately, to save you all the boredom of reading all about my angst, my buddy La has sent me a buncha interview questions.

The rules are pretty simple. If you want to participate, here's how this puppy works:

1. Leave me a comment saying “interview me.”
2. I will respond by asking you five questions here. They will be different questions than the ones below.
3. You will update YOUR blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

And here are my answers to La:

1. What is your dream yarn, one you’ve never worked with before but would love to.

Oh. God. Um, all of them. I would have to do a whole lot more yarn fondling before I could decide that. Nothing laceweight though. That would drive me bonkers. I saw some soy silk yarn last year that looked very funky -- I think I'd like to try that next.

2. How are you doing on your stash busting?

Bitch. You just had to ask that, didn't you?

'bout 20 balls up from where I was in late December/early January when I started this. I'm hoping to either break even or come to terms with my gluttony.

Got more yesterday from Juno as a result of an unsuccessful attempt to name her new dressmaker's dummy. Yes, this stashbusting thingie is getting so bad that people are actually sending out prizes for the answers that don't win!

3. How does your blog persona compare to your real-life persona? I guess what I’d like to know is, do you cuss as much in real life as you do here? (I certainly hope so!).

I cuss less in real life. It would be difficult to cuss this much and remain as continuously employed as I have done over the last 27 years.

There are, in fact, those (who know me very little) who think that I wouldn't say "shit" if I had a mouth full of it. Why they think I would put shit in my mouth, I don't know.

Perhaps it's wishful thinking.

That being said, I did say "motherfuckers" quite loudly in the library today when I got the news about the bad thing that has nothing to do with me but which may destroy my entire family's lives. It's not all tea in hand-painted Royal Doulton with pinkies waving in the air around here.

4. Ok, Ms. Ranty Claus (don’t get me wrong, I love the fact that someone else out there goes off as much if not more than I do)….what’s your favorite subject to rant about? What is your most loathed pet-peeve?

Stupid people. Snobs. Stupid snobs. People who think I'm their servant. Adults who won't stand up to their obligations and responsibilities. My husband.

You get the idea.

5. In “Rabbitch, the Movie” who would you have play the title role? And your leading man would be…?

Ooh, well obviously Carrie Anne Moss would have to play the lead role, mostly because a) we look so alike (squint, dammit! turn down the light!) and b) I'd do her in a heartbeat. If you're talking about my leading man, believe it or not there's approximately one question that's too personal for the Rabbitch to answer, and that's it. If you're talking about in the movie, it would have to be Donald Sutherland. He's so deliciously evil I don't even care that he is close to my father's age.

That's just icky, isn't it?

Deal, babies.


Ownership of Art

My daughter is an artist.

I think she's a good artist.

Remember here that she is only four years old. I am 43 and the best thing that I have produced so far is this:

I made the picture and then she took it off the fridge, where it had been hanging for months. She then stapled a whole bunch of pages together, glued my picture on the front, put a blue border around it, glued on a big green heart and then "wrote" (in brightly coloured seagull squiggles) a book about the picture (that's her and me under an apple tree, btw).

I was immensely flattered.

Since the day she was born

she has had a vote in our family decisions. Not always a full vote, because really, dude, sometimes you have to go to the dentist instead of watching Scooby Doo and then going for ice cream at the Quay, but her voice has always been heard. Often stridently. Nearly always (I hope) with respect and consideration.

She knows what belongs to her and what nobody can mess with. This philosophy of child-rearing has caused us grief in the past and likely will cause us far more grief in the future, however I believe it's the only possible way to raise a person who has a chance of being a whole, healthy, happy human being.

Last week at daycare one of the daddies said to me "There's a really good piece of art in xxx's cubbie. Eleanor made it and gave it to him." I said, "Oh cool, that's great," not knowing where this was going. He then said, "You should take a look at it." I said, "Sure, I'd love to, I adore what she makes." He then said, "I think it's her best work to date, it's really beautiful, and I want to know if it's ok for xxx to take it home."

I was impressed that he acknowledged her talent by calling it "her best work", but really, I was all W.T. Fuck? and responded with "Of course it's OK. She made it, it belongs to her and she gave it to him. It's his now and he can take it home, it was a gift."

But still this father seemed to think that I should have a look at it (and frankly it was just a bunch of flowers and glitter glued on to something in an attractive manner) and give permission for my daughter to give it away.

Is it just me? This concept was so strange to me. Art is so personal and what she makes, I do not under any circumstances own. How could I? I didn't make it.

Am I missing something here, or do I need to start saving now so I can contribute to the cost of his kid's therapy?

She left an incredible metallic rainbow in his cubbie as we left today. I expect to have to go through this routine again on Monday.

Fuck. It's hardly a concern, as she is far too pretty to be out and I'm sending her off to the Carmelites next month, but why can't my kid fall for boys whose parents are artists?

Send help.

Tuesday, March 15, 2005


Book Whoreder

I had to spend quite a while clearing up the garden, sweeping out the carport, pulling up dandelions and cleaning windows tonight. As this was hard on my good hand (observe the swellage):

and utter murder on my bad hand (observe the destruction):

No knitting occurred today, Chéz Lapin.

No pattern sorting happened, either, however I do have pictures of yet another stash. The top drawer of my filing cabinet:

And the bottom drawer of same cabinet:

Note the small bunny on the floor to the right of the cabinet. This rabbit was knit for me by my aunt about 35 years ago, and is the only one of my stuffed animals that I have never named (apart from the raccoon, who we will not mention, for reasons best known to my lawyer).

Everyone's running about being all guilty about their yarn stash, however I will admit here and now that I'm secretly proud of it and hope, once I have cleaned this place up to the point that I can FIND it all, to post it in all of its glorious excess.

This pride will not stop me from trying to use some of it up, though, 'cause really, even I have limits. No, I do. Stop laughing.

But something I will never be ashamed of is my stash of knitting books. I'm a bibliophile. No, more than that. A bibliobsessive (yes, it's a word, I just made it up, shut up).

I love books. I love the way they look, the way they smell, the way they feel; everything about them. I learned to read before I was four years old and about 15 years ago I fulfilled a lifelong dream and purchased an entire set of The Encyclopedia Britannica (plus the Great Books of Western Literature and Five Fairly Lousy Ones that they had as an optional extra. Plus 24 cookbooks.) I freely admit that I am a complete and utter whore when it comes to books, and although I have donated hundreds (probably more like a thousand) of them to various places and people over the year, I am still overrun by books.

And that's just the way I like it. The online books and the CD-ROM books and all of that just don't do it for me. I need to hold the books and fondle them and ... um ... well, you know. Read them.

I started buying patterns on eBay when I first got all nuts about knitting and now have likely somewhere over 100 various single patterns and collections. It's amazing the vintage patterns you can get for merely pennies (the majority of the ones bought online cost me a buck or two).

After I manage to shovel out the worst of the filth in my living room, my stalker (hi Suzanne! *waves*) and I are going to spend an afternoon with a couple of bottles of dry red and spread these all out all over the room and peruse them.

We may well be the luckiest girls in the world.

Monday, March 14, 2005


A Hard Act to Follow

I'm sorry to report that I have no further body modification stories to tell. At least not today.

I have decided to give myself the day off from pain. No breadboards to the foot, no hair-ripping, nothing.

I do, however, have the funniest site ever to share with you before I deal with the mundane issues of "making something pretty" for myself. Go look. It's a lot better than anything I'm going to come up with today.

You may note that another item has appeared in the sidebar. I've finished another dishcloth and have started to use up the vile green cotton that Lynne sent me. You really don't need to know what it looks like (ass, susprisingly enough) so you're spared the pictures tonight. You're welcome.

In yesterday's comments, MarQ1 wisely notes that I don't seem to love the Clapotis.

I do not. And, from what I understand, the Clapotis does not love me. It is disinclined to even buy me a drink. Making it would be foolish and I'm going to put that idea aside.

Although I do love the shawl I posted as the alternate possibility, well, no. Not right now and not in that yarn.

And so I remain projectless. This yarn is sportweight and really isn't the sort of thing I want to use to make the dreaded Shapely Tank (but thank you for the suggestion Marlene). I don't want it next to my skin all day long, I'd itch like mad and I think perchance I just may be mad enough already.

I still desperately want to make Otis, even though it may well make me look like I'm wearing a sack of dead puppies around my neck.

Therefore, tomorrow night I am going to put batteries in the camera, haul out my embarrassingly large stash of knitting books, take enough photographs to make everyone drool over the endless possibilities, and try to find the ideal project. Should such a project not present itself, I'm going to make the Otis anyhow, and make it a couple of inches longer (to conceal my regretfully gravity-challenged bosom) and to hell with fashion. And taste. And all of that unnecessary stuff.

For now, I think I'm actually going to go to bed before 1am so that I can function at work tomorrow. And maybe not drop anything on myself for once.


Intrusion of Sanity

It really annoys the hell out of me when I make a decision that's borderline sane, however since it happens so seldom I suppose there are really very few grounds for complaint. Not that that's ever stopped me yet.

I have decided against doing the Otis, despite my declaration to MarQ1 that we should start a Great Otis March, with every possible inappropriate body type making one, and then all marching arm in arm down some main thoroughfare, wearing them and chanting "Hey, hey, get out of our way, We're ballerinas and we're here to stay" or something along those lines.

Poor man. I think I've scarred him for life with that vision and expect that I'll never hear from him again. And just when we were having such a good time.

I am either going to make the Clapotis, despite my protests that I'm not all that fond of it, or maybe this:

Or felt all of the lambswool into slippers.

Note: For anyone who doesn't want to read about my twat, this would be a good time to move on to another blog. Stuart and Ann, this means you. *g*

Tonight, being deprived of my usual chat time with my friend with whom I have been babbling on a close-to-daily basis for many years now, I decided to let my brain cells make the decision as to the evening's activities.

My brain cells are evil and wish me ill, apparently.

I thought "oh what a thrill, I have girl time, I have personal maintenance time, let's do a bikini wax!"

I've had waxes done by professionals before and have also used those "slap on, rip off" strips, however this time I had purchased the sort of wax that you heat up and then splat on with a tongue depressor and then rip off.

I heated the wax, I slapped it on and then realized exactly WHAT I had slapped it onto. Once that shit is on you, you've passed the point of no return; the ripping is a given.

Had I been doing an ordinary bikini wax, this would have been horrible but bearable ... but ... well ... the brain cells decided that I should expand the extent of my efforts and trim the upper edges of my recreational area.

I realized that I needed a straight edge, so that I didn't look like I had been trimming the environs with a weed whacker, and grabbed the nearest available piece of card-like material. I held it appropriately, slapped on the wax and then realized that I was standing there, pantsless, with a child's birthday party invitation glued to my cooze with blue wax.

I have no idea what Freud would do with that one.

The rippage was vile. I have truly never had a more painful experience. The good news is that the pain disappeared within minutes, and I now have the cutest coochie in town. Pictures are available, but only after $50 appears in my PayPal account. I know you people and credit is out of the question.

The birthday invitation is in the garbage, waiting for the nice sanitation engineers to pick up the bin in the morning.

I hope to dog my daugher doesn't ask where it went.

Sunday, March 13, 2005


Stupid Bathtub

Clearly, I am the worst mother in the world, short of Joan Crawford.

I seem to have somehow exposed my daughter to cussin'. I'm sure none of you find that startling.

Today I overheard her happily singing "take that, you stupid bathtub".

So that will be my swearword for the week. "stupid bathtub"

All I can say is I'm glad she wasn't in the kitchen about ten minutes ago when I dropped one of those large solid plastic chopping boards on my foot.

I would really hate to hear her singing "oh shitfuckpiss you motherfucker".

MAN those things hurt when they land on their edge on the joint of your big toe.

Make a note, and try to avoid doing this.

Saturday, March 12, 2005


Decisions, Decisions

I have a confession to make.

I am sick and tired of making dishcloths. Dishcloths, in fact, suck ass.

Now all y'all know this, and I've actually known it all along too, however I've been trying to fool myself because someone has ordered 20 of them and that's a shitpile of grocery money.

(For many of you, $60 does not qualify as a "shitpile", but give me $60 and I can feed us for a week. Lotta pasta, but we'll be fed.)

So, although I'm going to have to keep going on the dishcloths, I think the time has come to make something yummy for me.

I'm going to use the yarn I got from Michael. I think it's somewhere around a thousand yards of something lovely in black. According to him, I would get the correct gauge for Otis.

I don't usually like Knitty's stuff but this appeals. I just have to decide if it would make me look like ass. Or, in fact, like a tit. I suspect it might look better on the less-boobulous of the reading audience. And yet ...

Anyone got any other ideas? Emma had suggested Clapotis when I first got the yarn but ... truthfully? I have to admit I just don't get it. I hated the original picture, and although some of them have seemed pretty nice, I just know I would never use it and resent the time spent making it. In fact I already know to whom I would give it.

I've had a pretty tough year. Or eight. I think I deserve something nice for me, no?

All suggestions are welcome. (And yes, I am trying to get you to do my work for me.)

Friday, March 11, 2005


A Sisterhood of Loss

I was all prepared to haul out my Hill of Shame and display my horrendous collection of UFOs in all their glory and then rejoice as I ripped them back to their original state. Ashes to ashes, ass to the frogpond, and all of that.

But instead I find myself sitting here, mourning.

Warning: this is not a perky post full of amusing terms such as asstrumpet. I'm just sitting here with all of my emotions sitting on the outside and I have a need to write about it. You may not have a need to read about it and if not, that's fine, carry on and I'll be back in the saddle again tomorrow, raging against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and showing off my obscene stash.

But for tonight ...

My friend, previously referred to on this blog as "Stupid", decided that she could not keep this baby. And so on Tuesday, International Women's day, she went to the hospital and had her pregnancy terminated.

That's "abortion" for those of you who are into calling a spade a spade and not just another pretty shovel.

She's not stupid and I regret having referred to her as such, but, well, sometimes my writing has an edge to it and I say what I feel. I truly felt that her decision to have a baby at this time and with that partner was monumentally stupid, and yet now I'm overcome by sadness.

I believe strongly in a woman's right to choose, and I support her decision to end what was causing her so much mental and physical anguish. She was very, very sick. I don't know if there was a problem with the baby but she has indicated that there was, and really, even I'm not crass enough to ask for details or any sort of proof at a time like this.

And yet ... to see someone throw away what I and many other women have so desperately longed for ...

Ya know?

I have never written in public the full details of my miscarriage. It was a much-wanted pregnancy, but I had what is called a "blighted ovum". From what I understand, that means that the egg was fertilized but did not implant. The cells that were intended to become a child fell apart and never coalesced into a fetus. All I got was a placenta.

And so I carried on for eleven weeks, believing that there was a little person inside of me, and acting accordingly.

When I went to have the ultrasound because I was spotting, I could tell immediately that there was a problem by the way the technician asked me a lot of peculiar questions. She kept asking me repeatedly and in a very concerned manner if I was sure I was pregnant. Which of course I was.

And then a very kind doctor came and explained what had happened. And then I went to my GP's office across the street and she kindly and erroneously informed me that the placenta would just fall apart and "pass naturally". During this meeting there was no mention of the two days of intermittent back labour I would go through to "naturally" pass this placenta. I must say that if I ever see that doctor again (she went back to school shortly after this event, hopefully to find out some fucking FACTS) that I would like to think that I will explain to her, quietly and patiently, that it's really not a good idea to withhold information like this from her patients. And then I would like to think that I will punch her, firmly and lovingly, in the middle of her lying face.

Not that I have issues or anything.

I lost the nonexistent baby the week of my 40th birthday and have not conceived since. (No, this isn't meant to be a "poor pitiful me" post; I have the best kid in the world and if she's an only that's fine. I'm happy -- delighted -- and luckier than many.)

I'm not the sort to shut up, either in sharing my anger or my joy (I know you find this startling) and had told many people about my alleged pregnancy. I then had the task of telling those same people about my loss.

I was overwhelmed by the number of women who came to console and then stayed to be comforted in turn as they told me their stories. Stories of miscarriages, stillbirths, abortions. Stories of grief, guilt, regret. Stories of longing. Stories of love and of loss.

I would say that fully half of the women that I know shared their stories with me. Stories of decisions made alone in the dark (because even if they had partners who participated in the decision, it's still a very lonely decision to make). Stories I had never suspected existed.

Stories I hold close to my heart.

I believe strongly in a woman's right to choose. I will fight for that right with every resource I have available to me. I just wish we never had to.

And so, goodnight Irene. And David. And Stephen. And Colin. And Laura. And Hamish (even though you would have been beaten to shit on the playground for such a name). And Sophie.

Goodnight to all of you, and godspeed, little ones.

Thursday, March 10, 2005


From The Department of Useful Phrases

Firstly, to update on the vermin situation, I have taken La's sage advice and have been spraying them with Windex. They're dying in the thousands, but at least it's a clean death.

Yes, you may start the beatings now.

On to the important part of this message:

As those of you reading along at home may know, there have been a number of useful words and phrases bandied about the knitblog world of late, phrases such as "knittos", "W.T. Fuck", and "assbeagles" (you may note a prejudice towards my own inventions here). Today, however, I believe that my office-partner-in-crime and I may have come upon the most valuable phrase I have heard to date.

We were discussing our various professional incarnations and had gone way back to the stone age when the lot of the poor office-worker was relieved by the invention of the word processor. We both used one made by Wang. Yes, I know. Shut up.

Anyhow, the conversation got around to the invention of the glorious PC. We both found it simpler to continue to do our database management and maintenance on the above-noted machine. She said "I did everything on the Wang".

And then it hit. A glorious moment of revelation. A beam of sunlight through the clouds. Angels singing, and stuff.

Until now, as far as I know, there has been no male equivalent of the derogatory but extremely useful term "on the rag". Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, free and without charge, "On the Wang".

edit: This term would NOT be used in a sentence such as "Not tonight, honey, I'm on the Wang," but rather "My boss was totally on the Wang today at work. I almost threw him off the roof by lunchtime!"

Use it with impunity.

You're welcome.

Wednesday, March 09, 2005


The Quartermaster's Store

Please note that the above-mentioned location is the correct venue for ants. They are not welcome in my home, no matter what sort of pants (check out song #8) they are wearing.

And besides, I'm allergic to rubber.

I have had enough of the whineage. I have ordered myself to shut up, no matter what happens. Whoever it is who is answering my unasked "what the hell else can go wrong" question seems to thrive on the whining, the assbeagle ratbastard. (Thanks, Steph, for the epithet!)

I will therefore not mention that we have added yet another attack of pestilence to the list of woes, Chéz Lapin. To wit, an infestation of ants.

We are paid tomorrow. There will be a hasty purchasing of ant traps. And maybe a mallet 'cause I'm sort of enjoying splatting the little fuckers.

Just to prove that I can actually knit, behold the progress on the scarf I am making for The Dulaan Project.

About 10" of 2x2 rib in a medium sage colour.

As some of you know (well, anyone who uses the same service), Blogger has been a bitch of late, messing with posts, photos, comments, etc. In the time between when I uploaded the picture of the scarf to when Blogger actually let me save it as a draft, thereby removing it from view, someone named Kathy kindly commented that she loved the color. Thank you! I am not all that fond of the yarn, it's acrylic and a little stiff, but yes, the colo(u)r is very nice (although not quite as pictured)!

Watch this spot for another breathless update after I complete another two or three creeping inches ... like maybe in a month.

I never said I was fast.

Tuesday, March 08, 2005


Time ...

... contrary to popular belief

1964 & 1963

(and song)


is apparently NOT

mid 70s

late 70s

on my side.

early 80s

mid 80s

Or anyone else's, for that matter. Although it does seem to have given me a fairly decent rack.

late 80s

I was going through old pictures tonight and decided, in a cheap ploy to divert your attention from the complete lack of knitting content, to post a pictorial journey through my life. I think anyone with a scrap of sanity can see why the record ends abruptly in the late 80s, no?

If anyone canNOT see why we stopped here, please go immediately to my room. I'll meet you there as soon as I get the whips back from the drycleaners.

Monday, March 07, 2005


These Boots Were Made for Walkin'

Which is very fortunate, as it seems that my car is still deceased. The addition of a new water pump and a high-temperature hose thingie did little to amerliorate our problems.

It's old. Maybe the car's just having hot flashes.

Thursday we get to put in a new thermostat. If that doesn't work, these boots will in fact be walking for a long time.


On the knitting front we have good news. I finished another dishcloth and managed to look away from it ~just~ before I went blind. I'm now one item closer to my goal and No More Yarn came into the house while I was finishing this.

There's a good chance that by the end of June I'll have managed to work myself back to where I was before I started this process I laughingly refer to as "destashing".

I think it's very sad that I will count this as a victory ...

Sunday, March 06, 2005


Ten Things

OK, I admit it, I am a memeslut. Here's the latest that's making the rounds, or at least the latest that I find interesting. It's a little disturbing that so many of the things on here are bizarre accidents.

10 Things I Have Done That You Probably Haven’t (because you are not a 'tard):

1. Lived in an Animal Hospital for two years. Without my own bathroom (bathed in the tub where they washed the dogs. With the dogs watching.).

2. Flew to Toronto (3,000 miles) for the weekend, because I was bored.

3. Ripped off the end of my toe on a nail while on stage, and finished the play while leaving little red dots everywhere.

4. Went to Japan to attend the wedding of someone I had only known a few weeks. Caught the bouquet, too.

5. Broke one of my front teeth in half like a peanut (front half shattered into powder and I have a laminate on it) when my best friend kicked me in the jaw when I was being a dead solider in Cyrano de Bergerac.

6. Trashed my quad while playing softball for the departmental team at a post-secondary education institution for which I worked. Finished my run before I collapsed. Had to take the rest of the season off.

7. Acted as a translator on an IRC channel when a person who spoke only German joined the chat.

8. Took two days off work to pull most of the plaster off the ceiling and one wall of my room and then replastered from the studs out to repair water damage, without a clue as to what I was doing.

9. Got 12 stitches in my ass as a result of a horrible liquor/brandy snifter/hot tub/slippy deck incident.

10. Left the home of my husband, drove over 300 km in the worst blizzard since (I believe) 1916, to meet a man I had met on the internet and who I had agreed to marry, even though I didn't know what he looked like. We've been together eight and a half years now.

Yeah. I'm a goof.

Saturday, March 05, 2005



I went out drinking with my stalker this afternoon. We drank, we chatted, we laughed like loons, we knitted (knat?). It was a grand time.

I'm not used to getting all likkered up in the middle of the afternoon, though, so my brain feels like fungus.

This has inspired me to post one of my favourite pictures, taken (by moi) in Golden Ears Provincial Park two years ago when my friend Michelle was here visiting.

Thank dog for the 2,000 pictures I have on file here ...


Friday, March 04, 2005


Dogged by Assbeagles

Yes, I know that over on Rebecca's blog I promised to stop adding "ass" to every word I can think of just to amuse myself. Seemingly I lied.

Deal, babies.

I have one small superstition in my life. Just one. I make a point of never, NEVER asking "what else can go wrong"? It's just asking for trouble.

And yet, despite my determined refusal to ask any such thing, some joker keeps answering. Dear whoever is answering: please just shut the fuck up now, I get the point.

So, the house in which I live is up for sale, as I have whined on about already, and I got a call two days ago asking me to move some stuff I had out front so that they could pressure wash the walks and the cement bit in front of the house. Fairy nuff, stuff was moved into my insanely-overpacked home. Pressure washing did not occur on the scheduled day.

I also got a call from a lady who had done a bunch of knitting for the blankets project thingie I do, asking if she could drop it off at my home. I said yes, and was expecting her to drop it off on Saturday or Sunday.

Does anyone see where this is heading? I certainly didn't.

Pressure washing happens today, one day later than scheduled. Blanket squares are dropped off today, two days earlier than scheduled.

Blanket squares are dropped off in a big plastic shopping bag, unsealed, in front of my door. Pressure washers are assbeagles who either don't see the bag or don't care to move it.

I get home to a large bag full of wet and dirty knitted squares. Thank dog Sunday is "my" laundry day.

Shoot me now. Really, it would be a kindness.

Thursday, March 03, 2005


Love For Sale

As is, apparently, my home.

I was correct in my suspicions of the realtors rummaging through my house last Saturday, and on Wednesday left the house only to find a "For Sale" sign nailed up on my front fence. Imagine my joy.

Wednesday night found the realtor (the man who was bearable, not the woman, hereinafter referred to as Beelzeboobs) telephoning me to let me know that the place was listed.

Well yes. The four foot square screaming red and blue sign with "For Sale" painted across the middle of it was a dead giveaway, but thanks for the info.

He claims he tried to tell me the night before but I "wasn't home". Apparently I'm having a lot more fun than I think I am.

I don't dispute my landlord's right to sell his own property. Hell, the market is good and if this is the right time, then so be it. I've got a lease and there are laws; I'm not going to be caught completely flat-footed no matter what happens. What I do object to is the complete lack of testicular fortitude displayed by the motherfuckers who own this house. They know I've got three jobs and a kid and that I'm in a pretty stressful situation, and yet they didn't have the courtesy to tell me personally that they were going to list it, but instead left this to their trained monkey. *koff* um, realtor.

Definitely fuckers of mothers. I'm beginning to suspect that some fathers are getting fucked there too; I'll keep you posted.

One of the few things that has helped me retain a modicum of sanity during this trying time(shut up) is Bad Cookie.

My latest one? (Not that I've played this 20 times already). "The Star of Poverty is Shining Upon You".

Gee no. Ya think?

Wednesday, March 02, 2005


Oh Thank Dog

Just as I was about to run out of yarn, who saves the day but Michael?

This little delight arrived in the mail today:

About a thousand yards of Brown Sheep's "Top of the Lamb" in single ply sportweight. Color 110, Onyx.


I may live to knit another day ...

Suggestions anyone? I don't think even I can make this into dishcloths.

Speaking of dishcloths, tune in to the ungrateful cow over there tomorrow for pictures of my insanely hot slippers.

To quote Pepe Le Pew ... "Le pant".

Tuesday, March 01, 2005


A Rabbitch's Guide to Successful Stashbusting

First, look at your yarn in horrified stupefication and try to find out how the hell it all got into your house.

Look in the closets. Find more.

Post about it, in the hope that the public embarrassment will deter you from buying more yarn and inspire you to knit more quickly.

Buy more yarn. Continue knitting at the same pace.

Make friends with a bunch of people who have yarn. win yarn, get yarn given to you, trade for yarn. win more yarn.

Win even more yarn, this time from Juno.

Realize that after three months of dedicated stashbusting, the trading of yarn, the gifting of yarn and the more gifting of yarn, you are 21 balls ahead of where you were when you started.

Drink. Repeat.

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