Monday, October 31, 2005


The Missing Link(s)

Firstly, to the people who found my blog by searching for "getting pink colour pepto bismol off budgie", please stop putting pepto bismol on your budgie. That is all.

I had a big long rant ready to post about sausages and the lack thereof and the stupid STUPID restaurant which couldn't give me a side order of two sausages and therefore made and threw out six (thus wasting food and also depriving me of the required swineflesh) but then I realized that even I found it boring. Seeing I likely find myself far more interesting than most of the folks who come here, I think I'll just skip the story, however I'll keep the title, seeing I am still, a full day later, deeply ensconced in sausage-related resentment.

Man, that was a weird sentence, even for me.

I shall, instead, share with you a very blurry picture of Her Surreal Highness, about to fly off on her broom for Hallowe'en celebrations, and two small cats who, although fearful and horrified, are determined to save my home from this creature.

We had a very successful evening and she is now weaving about in front of me, crazed with sugar, singing "Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat."

I figure I won't get her into bed this side of midnight, so I'm going to spend the next three hours drinking beer (if I have any) and listing everything I own on eBay.

Who says you don't have any fun after 40?

Sunday, October 30, 2005


Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?

Does anybody really care?


Man, I hate this fucking daylight savings time thingie. My clock in the bedroom is fast, the one in the bathroom is slow ... I think the one in the kitchen is right.

Who the hell thought up this thingie? I have some sort of idea that it was Benjamin Franklin.

Dudes, he's dead. We can all stop humouring him and just keep the same time all year. Really. We won't get all smote and stuff for it.

I just know I'm either going to be an hour early or an hour late for work tomorrow.

Saturday, October 29, 2005


Clealy, Sir, Am a Slut

My buddy directed me to this little time-waster. I have nothing knitterly for you today apart from half a bobbin of spun clownbarf and a couple of dishcloths intended for the November craft sale.

Hardly worth writing about. Thanks, D! You saved me some angst. (No matter how much I love the word -- say it like Aahnie and you'll love it too -- I hate feeling it.)

The Sudden Departure
Random Brutal Love Master (RBLMf)

Sweet. Dear. Loving. At Gate 18. Final call.

You are The Sudden Departure.

You've been in a lot of serious relationships. More than a few have ended ugly. Uglily. Whatever. Our guess is that you're a really fantastic girl who doesn't really know what she wants, and you've broken a few hearts as a result. You fall for people easily, and you enjoy the feeling of falling in love, but once you're there, either boredom or the old "grass is greener" syndrome sets in. The mind wanders, and with it goes the flesh. And then the toiletries.

Your exact opposite:
The Intern

Deliberate Gentle Sex Dreamer
We know you're not the classic "love 'em and leave 'em" type, at least not in a purely sexual sense. You have too many serious bonding tendencies for that. But even though you're theoretically looking to settle down, you don't settle long on one person. "Serial monogamist" is probably something you hear a lot. "Emotionally loose" is another way to put it. To the poor girls eating your dust and sniffing your panties, it doesn't really make much difference. Of course, it's not really your fault that people get hurt. You have every right to move on when you choose.

ALWAYS AVOID: The Intern, The Maid of Honor

CONSIDER: The Sudden Departure, someone just like you

Link: The 32-Type Dating Test by OkCupid - Free Online Dating.
My profile name: Rabbitch

Friday, October 28, 2005


Oh Sure, I Have Lots of Time

So I've been threatening to get all musicated and shit for years now. I have a kick-ass piano that I got for $200 (yes, that's right TWO HUNDRED dollars. Canadian!) I used to play a little and got up to like Grade 4 Conservatory back in the dark ages. You know, when pianos were coal-fired and only had five keys.

Anyhow, what I really want to play is guitar. There are a thousand reasons I can't/shouldn't play guitar, not the least of which are the facts that my father tried to teach me for nine years (I learned seven chords and have forgotten them all) and my obscenely friable skin. I have vicious eczema and come up with these really nice skin splits that resemble very very deep paper cuts. It's lovely, honestly, and one of the best things a guitarist could have on his or her hands.

That being said, I am going to haul my husband's guitar out of the closet and tool around with it a bit. All I want to do is learn to accompany myself.

When I told him this he was encouraging but said that all of the books he had were classical instruction manuals, and that what I was likely looking for was "One of those Michael Row the Boat Ashore/Kumbaya/Highway to Hell sort of books".

So, anyone out there have any good suggestions for a starter book?

Thursday, October 27, 2005


Opera = Porn

My husband decided he wanted to go to the opera for his birthday. He announced he was going to go to the QE Theatre on Tuesday and line up for rush tickets, seeing they're way cheap.

I offered to go with him, but we all know how much I like opera (which is to say not so much). It's not a hatred, but I'm pretty indifferent to the best and irritated by the worst.

And yes, I do drink my beer straight from the can, why do you ask?

Anyhow, he said he'd really rather I didn't go with him; he'd have a much better time on his own. Hey, I don't make him come to my spinning guild meetings, he doesn't make me go to the opera. It all works out nicely.

(It actually worked out very nicely for him, as seeing he was the only person waiting for the rush tickets who wanted a single, he got a $135 seat for $29. Had I been with him, we would have paid the same price for something up in the nosebleed section.)

I asked him about the story of the opera, Turandot, and he started telling me. Half-way through he mentioned that Puccini didn't really have a great interest in historical facts and depth of character, but rather in the staging, the music and the spectacle, which is why the story line made little sense.

It was then that I had my great revelation. Opera is really just porn with your clothes on.

No, really, look at it this way. In opera, the story line is really just sort of thrown in there so there's an excuse for the music and the costumes. In porn, the story line is just sort of thrown in there so there's an excuse for the plumber to come calling on the lonely housewife who incidentally is wearing something revealing.

In opera there are usually fat ladies who scream a lot. In porn ... well, you see what I'm getting at here. The ladies aren't always fat but I've seldom seen porn without some sort of screaming.

In opera there are beads and sequins and feathers. I've seen quite a lot of porn with all of those elements involved, although often they are used somewhat differently.

I like porn as an occasional diversion, however I don't download it on a daily basis. Few people go to the opera every day.

When viewing porn, I find myself very very interested, and then abruptly for some reason I lose interest and go to sleep, missing the ending. At the opera, the couple in the seats next to my husband, who DID pay $135 each for those seats, lost interest and did not return to the theatre for the third act.

I rest my case.

And you should be ashamed of yourselves, you opera-ogling perverts.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005


I Fall to Pieces

And it would seem that all it takes to make me into a large blubbering mess is one of these:

A Brushstroke Batt from Indigo Moon Farm. Want to see more?

Somehow I knew you would.

Please note the Grip of Death (tm). I am completely unworthy to spin this beauty, however I do believe that they'll eventually have to pry it from my cold, dead fingers.

This lovely creature is 50% alpaca (so I think we all know who sent it, si?), 25% silk and 25% merino.

Should I ever be fortunate enough to meet the woman who dyed this, I shall more than likely propose. Or faint, or something.

I opened the box, looked at the fibre, felt the fibre and (of course) smelled the fibre. Read the note and bawled.

So yeah. Seems I can take the domestic disputing, the assmonkeys on the phone, the bill collectors, the littlegirls, the car repairs and the occasional uppity physician, but do something nice for me and I'm a mess.

Dude. And all this because I sent her a box of green Cheviot and a face cloth.

And because she rocks.

Tuesday, October 25, 2005


Happy Boopdate, Baby

Today is my husband's 42nd birthday. My daughter used to say "boopdate" instead of "birthday" which was cute as my old cat's name was Boop. Pardon me for descending into the maudlin (once again).

There's been a lot of good, there's been a lot of bad. But at least there's been a lot.

I'd rather be annoyed than ignored, and I must say that there's been lots of that in the last ten years.

But I have to say that any man who is proud to wear a paper bag on his head and be pronounced The Honey Princess can't be all bad.

A brief photographic review of the past five years:

And any guy who can make a kid who grins like this can't be completely evil:

Speaking of completely evil, Blogger seems to have now added a mandatory word verification for editing one's posts. I had to upload five pictures, go into each one, cut and copy and save them as drafts and then copy them over to the main post, saving as draft each time and having to enter the word verification each time.

I was going to post some other pictures but really, it's becoming more of a chore than it's worth.

This is a feature I don't seem to be able to turn off and it's a complete and utter bitch.

This has come very very close to making me say the dreaded c word that isn't chenille and which I use commonly in conversation but which I seem to be averse to using on this blog.


I need to migrate this blog to another service as soon as I have the money to pay for it.

Dudes, watch this space. It's gonna be soon.


Monday, October 24, 2005


A Tale of Two (or Three) Kitties

It was the breast of times, it was the wurst of times ...

Well, I'm no literary genius, but there sure have been a lot of boobs and weenies around this house tonight.

Tomorrow is Ben's birthday, and there has been much shopping and wrapping. My daughter has bought him a little statue of a bear on a scooter. Why? I don't know. She thought it was cute.

And she's five.

And I can tell you for sure, no matter what's been happening in the way of the domestic disputing (which seems to be better right now), that man loves his little girl bigtime. There has never been any question about where the sunshine was coming from since the day she was born. That little statue will be taking pride of place on his desk, come morning.

Anyhow, my daughter is way into the wrapping and decorating of the presents. She takes it very seriously and objected to the enthusiastic participation of the feline units in the festive preparations.

Therefore, after dinner and before bathtime, the cats were relegated to the bathroom, which is the only room I like to shut them into as it is far easier to clean up "accidents" off the tile floor than it is off the bedroom carpet.

The bath was already run and waiting in all its bubbly goodness.

After the wrapping was complete (accompanied by much artistic angst) I opened the bathroom door to find that the floor was awash in water and that Miss Tracey was considerably damper than had been at the commencement of the festivities. Neither of the other occupants of the room are talking.

A Special Human Investigative Technician (hereinafter referred to as S.H.I.T.) has been assigned to ascertain the truth of this outrage. The question still remains; was she pushed or did she jump?

All we know is that she's alive, her tail still resembles that of a drowned rat, and that she has a new and healthy respect for the perils presented by walking the edge of the tub.

And the total S.H.I.T. finds this amusing beyond description.

Sunday, October 23, 2005


From Your Lips ...

... to dog's ears.

This weekend's horrorscope:

"This week moneybags Jupiter moves to the top of your chart. "Hi, Mom!"
It hasn't been there since 1994. You're back and this time you know how
to work the audio controls. "Now hear this. Now hear this." Your
career has never looked better! It's all about you this year. Jupiter
will make sure you impress The Grand Fromage. No doubt about it.
Opportunities abound. Good things come your way. New job
opportunities, a raise, praise, kudos, the works. And your success is
evident to others. ("Who was that masked man?") You need this break.
Relationships have been tough. It's wonderful to know you're
appreciated, admired and your peanut gallery is still waiting in the

Make it so.


Friday, October 21, 2005


Well, I Guess She Told Me!

Today was a very difficult day Chéz Lapin, a day which started out with Tigger deciding first to pee in the laundry and then to crap on the floor.

See the small cat pretending that there were no such outrages perpetrated.

There was much beating of the cat and scrubbing of the carpet and screaming at the feline in words that will hopefully not be repeated by the small child, although I have heard her call someone an assmonkey already.

I was later explaining all of this to Himself and describing my triumph over feline perfidy, whereupon I spotted Tigger lurking underneath the leg of my sheepjammies which were hanging over the edge of the laundry basket.

I pointed to him and said "See? Cowed!" At this point a quiet but emphatic little voice announced from the bathtub "It's called A Cat."

I shall make note for future reference.

As further evidence of his total cowedness, I present to you ... um ... his latest effort to stuff Tracey under the laundry room door.

I believe that, in fact, not one ounce of attitude was whacked out of him. I am apparently not much of a pussywhacker. (Do your worst, google *g*).

(And I think we all know who my secret favourite is right about now, don't we?)

On the knitting front, here is proof that I have actually really and truly finished 3" of the sock cuff (measurement verification kindly provided by a happy little Lantern Moon sheepmeasure, sent to me by our friend Trixie who is getting a baby soon -- go make wild promises to knit stuff for her)

This is Diamond, looking inscrutable. Or perhaps not caring at all.

I'm on graveyard shift this weekend. There are rumours that the teachers will be back in school on Monday, thank dog, seeing that would mean that I would get two whole hours of sleep before having to cope with the littlegirls for oh, six hours or so ...

Kill me now.

Wednesday, October 19, 2005


No Socks, Please, We're British

Being Scottish, I have never considered myself to be British (*spit*), and neither do most of the English people I know (who the hell came up with British? Let's hunt them down, resurrect them and then kill them again), it was the best title I could come up with at a moment's notice.

Forgive me.

Anyhow, I tinked back the sock cuff, found the "extra" stitches (what the hell was I thinking? I've got to cut back on the crack.) and have about 3" of cuff completed. Would have been more but I was enthusiastically assisted by Wing Po, (the Chinese Cat formerly known as Diamond), which slowed down the production somewhat.

Let's see, is there any nationality I haven't insulted yet? Oh, I'm sure there are tons, give me time. I'm not a racist, I'm an equal opportunity pig.



Moving right along, I'm very proud of this cuff. It is even, the ribbing looks like ribbing, and there are no ladders at the needle changes. We will not discuss the cast on. We will overlook it like the ladies and gentlemen that we are, and assume that the hapless wearer (likely me) will wear them folded over or something. I was hoping to make these for He Who Almost Got His Ass Divorced This Week and Who Would Have Deserved It Bigtime, seeing it's his birthday next week and he's semi-forgiven for his most recent transgressions, but I don't think it'll fit over his foot. I'll let him try it on in a day or two when it looks more like a sock. If it doesn't fit, he gets another pair of Dorm Boots, seeing he wore a hole in the last pair. And if he isn't as rude about this next pair because it's not my FAULT that the last ones were different sizes. It was art, not a mistake. Who needs an equal number of rows on the sole of each slipper anyhow?

Damn all these anal people who are into symmetry. And things that fit. And such. (I forgot a couple of rows, so sue me. They were warm. And funny-looking.)

Um, what was that I was saying about not being able to knit? Perhaps I should redefine that. I can knit, but I can't pay attention long enough to make two slippers the same size. Or, well, finish anything but a thingie that I used to call a dishcloth but that seems to be becoming a facecloth now, as avowed by a couple of friends who have recently joined the Green Dishcloth Club.

Maybe I should just stick to what I know. Or to the kitchen floor, seeing I haven't done any housework in weeks. Ick.

Anyhow, there will be pictures of this famous sock (which WILL have a mate) in the next day or so, but I seem to have grossly overestimated my available knitting time.

Um, and the teachers? The ones that I said I didn't support and would throw eggs at? If you could just ignore all of that and go back to work so I don't have four littlegirls here from 7:30am to 6pm every day I would really appreciate it. I know you're only staying off work because of my blog and really the only thing I objected to was the wage increase and oh dog I'll even go for that despite my own 15% rollback if you will just Take These Children Out Of My House please and thankyou.

Send help. Or liquor. Or llama (duck). Or a helpful llama with liquor.

That is all.

Tuesday, October 18, 2005


Sox Rears Its Ugly Head

Firstly, I would like to proudly announce that this blog is the first listing if you search on "metal carport lits". (um, wtf?)

Secondly, that's right, I've finally succumbed to the lure of the sock. Ann's tutorial made it all look so simple.

Of course we all know, Chéz Lapin things are seldom as easy as they seem. This is likely because of the really high goof quotient going on. And the fact that I can't knit. Yeah, that might have something to do with it.

First, I cast on firmly with two needles held together, as is the favoured method of the rabbitch.

Then, I split the stitches evenly over three needles.

Then I joined them without twisting.

Then I knit for a while.

Then I counted the stitches and was one short. I randomly added one, hoping nobody would notice.

After knitting for a while more I again counted the stitches. At this point I had one MORE than the optimum number.

I frogged the whole damned thing.

I went to the Guild meeting tonight, carded and spun a bunch of clownbarf (and explained exactly what I was doing to the woman beside me, who seemed inordinately impressed) and then took another run at the sock.

At the end of the night I had over an inch knitted. And two more stitches than I should have.

I'm home again and have tinked and deleted the extra visitors.

Stay tuned for exciting updates -- there is beer in the fridge and I am determined to have a sock by morning.

If there is no picture in the morning, please pretend you never read this.

Monday, October 17, 2005


Tonight's Play List

There has been some discussion regarding the domestic disputing, and the fact that messages received by the smaller members of our household may not be the messages that the TallPeople meant to convey. And further, that those messages have to be seriously considered when making random hateful statements.

Life is marginally better.

Better to the point that I'm getting all musicky.

Therefore, seeing there is still no semblance of knittage, I shall share with you tonight's playlist.

Accidentally Like A Martyr - Warren Zevon
Call and Answer - Bare Naked Ladies
Take My Breath Away - Berlin (forgive me)
Hanky Panky Nohow - Yo La Tengo
Hurt - Johnny Cash (cover of NiN's tune)
Aqualung - Jethro Tull
Wicked Game - Chris Isaac
Thank You - Dido
Lay Lady Lay - Dylan
Sweet Home Alabama - Lynyrd Skynyrd
Always On My Mind - Willie Nelson
I Never Cry - Alice Cooper
She Cries Your Name - Beth Orton
The Way - Fastball
The Needle and The Damage Done - Neil Young
Crazy - Patsy Cline
How You Remind Me - Nickelback
It's Been a While - Staind

Good god, it goes on and on. Nobody's ever going to hire me as a DJ, are they?


Edit: Apologies to the small black cat. I have never yet in my life remained on my tuchus while "Sweet Home Alabama" was playing. You were on my knee; I assumed you wanted to dance. You never missed a beat. How was I to know that cats don't understand dancing? I shall start saving for the therapy now.

Sunday, October 16, 2005


Ten Things

There's a fun thingie hopping about blogland (no, not me, sillies) and I thought I'd jump on the bandwagon, to distract you from the fact that a) there is no knitting and b) I have nothing I feel comfortable talking about in depth right now.

(There has been severe domestic disputing Chéz Lapin. Far, far worse than usual, necessitating some serious decisions.

Nobody is packing right now, however a number of fairly major things have changed for me. I would be startled if we made our tenth anniversary, and I think that would be A Very Good Thing for both of us. Send cheese.)

Anyhow, for the fun thingie, you type your name + needs into Google and then post the first ten results. I chose "Janice needs" because there was only one result for "Rabbitch needs". Please forgive me. (Send coffee.)

1. Janice needs help. (duh)
2. Janice needs to move on mentally and figure out a reasonable course of action. (another no-brainer)
3. Janice needs to let him know she cares about him. (does she?)
4. Janice needs to let Christopher know what is acceptable and what is not. (who the hell is Christopher and does my husband know about him?)
5. Janice needs Jesus. (Think again.)
6. What I think Janice needs to do is change her PERSPECTIVE not only about her job but especially about herself, which will change her INTENTION
7. Janice Needs Your Help.
8. Janice needs to know what to tell her grandsons when she picks them up from school instead of their mother picking them up. (my whats?)
9. I think that Janice needs psychiatric help.
10. Janice needs to be resuscitated or stitched back together at some point.

Mheh. I like the last one.

Carry on.

Friday, October 14, 2005


Rocking Your Liver

Right now, as we speak the teachers in Vancouver are on strike. The Labour Relations Board has ruled it to be an illegal strike and I'm of two minds about it. While I support the teachers' demands to have some sort of control over class sizes (it can't be pedagogically sound to have a class of 40 students with one teacher, it just can't), they also have, from what I understand, some fairly major wage increase demands.

Yes, these people do valuable work. The education of our children is everyone's responsibility and the society that does not support this is, in my opinion, morally bankrupt and doomed to failure.

That being said, I am also a civil servant. I may be "only" a switchboard operator, however we call the emergency codes for six different facilities; therefore if we fuck up, people die. That seems like relatively important work to me, and as far as I know there is no sort of wage increase looming in my immediate future.

I make way less than most teachers, and The Servant of the Devil who walks on two legs decided last year that it would be really nifty to give hospital workers a 15% wage rollback. Yes, that was smart. People who were making a living wage have had to take a huge cutback and many now have to work a second job to keep their families fed. That's a good way to increase efficiency and productivity. I know that after working a full day at my regular job, I'm all excited about working a second shift elsewhere so I can buy groceries. It makes me a far more effective and alert employee.

However that's sometimes the only way I can afford porridge, kitty kibble and toilet paper. So I do it.

So truly? I really think that all of the teachers, who make more than I do, just need to suck it up, take the fact that they're getting no increase this year, and get back to fucking work and stop using my daughter's education as leverage.

Sorry, dudes, but if I see you on the picket line I'm just going to be tempted to throw eggs at you, and I'm fucking GLAD that the courts have now prohibited the union from disbursing strike pay.

At the other place where I worked up until May of this year, we had not had a wage increase in 11 years. We got a small (2.5%) increase this year by rolling the staff training fund into the salary package. So yes, everyone gets another 2.5% and nobody gets access to education.

Another smooth move.

Anyhow, I've been helping take care of the three little daughters of my friend who just got a job. It was OK when I just had to feed them breakfast, take them to school and then come home for a couple of hours of coffee or maybe, oh, sleep, or something before picking them up for lunch.

Seeing the teachers have gotten all strikey and shit, I now have FOUR little girls in the house from 7:30am to 5pm every day. Although I am, of course, a paragon of patience and virtue, it's taken its toll.

To wit, I am a screaming twat by about 11am most days, and the knittens are getting pretty fucking tattered from being dragged all over the house for nine hours a day. I'm thinking they're going to start peeing in people's shoes fairly soon. I, for one, would not blame them. In fact, I may join them, as long as the shoes aren't mine.

This is why (you knew I'd get to the liver and the rocking at some point, didn't you?) I was delighted to read Lala's post. It's a ray of hope for me, in the midst of my angst, to know that livers are being rocked out there, and perhaps one day soon one of them will be mine.

Send help.

Or Cheetos and beer. That would be fine, too.

Thursday, October 13, 2005


Please, Hang Up the Phone

As many of you know, I am a switchboard operator at a local hospiddle. Well, I guess I'm not any more, I work in the call centre for Client Information and Registration Systems or something.

But really. I'm a switchboard operator.

And I would like to make a heartfelt plea, on behalf of myself and other operators: If you are stupid, please, just hang up the phone.

Do not call us.

If, however, your need to call us is overwhelming, please, just for me, remember a few things.

1. The switchboard is not the terminus of your call. You are calling, we are answering, and eventually you will get to speak to the person to whom you need to speak, if indeed that person or department exists within our facility. However, It Is Not Me. Therefore I do not need to know your name, the name of the city in which you live, the name of your cat, what the weather is like and the 800 things you did before calling me. It may be fascinating to you, but to me? Not so much. Just tell me who you need to talk to. I have calls backing up, dude.

2. I am not stupid. Neither are most of my COWorkers, although there are a couple who I would like to see holding those signs they hold up when you're driving through roadwork. You know, the ones that say "slow". (To the two of my COWorkers who read this blog, you know who I'm talking about and you also know full well that it's not you, so relax.)

3. Therefore, if you are asking about your auntie Peggy Smith, please rest assured that if we say she's not at our institution, we really are sure. We have checked for Smith, Smithe, Smythe, and likely also Smits. We also know that Peggy is short for Margaret and we have searched for Peggy, Maggie, Margaret and likely also for Meg. If we're having a really hysterical evening we may even have typed "Moo" into the system just in case. If we say she's not there, she isn't. Asking us to check again will just get us annoyed and will not make your auntie magically appear at our hospital. She is somewhere else. Deal with it.

4. Do NOT call back three minutes later to check again. Especially do not get someone else to call us from your phone to ask the same questions. We have call display and are not afraid to use it.

5. Do not swear at us. If your family is disorganized enough that you are misplacing family members right, left and centre, it is not our fault. Dealing with your call is not our primary function. If you swear at us we are allowed to hang up on you. If you think that you can call again after the swearing thingie, please refer to the note above about the call display feature.

And finally:

6. If it is national "Let The Assmonkeys Use the Telecommunication Devices", I would really appreciate some sort of advance warning. A memo, an email, a call; whatever. Just so I can call in sick or something.


Wednesday, October 12, 2005


Sometimes I Am An Ass

And I'd like to think that I'm big enough to apologize.

Someone posted a link in my comments to a novel he had written. I followed the link, I didn't like it, I assumed it was comment spam, deleted it and wrote him a rude message.

He had read my profile, saw that I loved Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere, and had assumed that it would be appropriate to post his comment on this blog.

It was rude of me to assume that it was spam and it was vulgar of me to have deleted it. I therefore apologize.

I think his novel is nothing like Gaiman's work (which I slavishly idolize) but I'm no fucking literary critic and it's not my job to censor.

I'm sorry Graham. It was wrong of me and I'm sure it felt like a slap in the face. Feel free to slag me at will.

And to my readers, please, no novelbashing in the comments. If you don't like it, just don't read it, mmkay?

Thus endeth today's exercise in public flagellation.



Word recognition seems to be turned on for my comments, and yet I never turned it on, as I was having very little trouble with spam. (And, in fact, I was mean to someone last week who posted a comment that I thought was spam, for which I'll have to apologize at some point.)

Clearly Blogger has taken the upper hand here, or something.

I'll leave it on, as I was starting to get a small amount of spam, but this troubles me. I really hate people doing things "for my own good" and stuff.

Shades of 1984.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005


More Feats of Endurance

For some reason I seem to have a collection of pictures of my feet. I think this is all ItGirl's fault for some reason -- they seem to have been taken when I was guest blogging, although as far as I can tell only one was ever posted.

This certainly looks like an abused foot. Maybe I dropped something on it in a drunken frenzy:

I have no explanation or excuse for this one. Really. I actually wore these slippers walking through the airport in Seattle. They were accompanied by a flannel nightshirt decorated with cows in party hats.

Some things it's really just better not to ask about.

These are sort of boring, but warm.

Proof that I have two feet (although you will seldom see them both at the same time, for reasons of National Security and such).

And there we go. My feeble attempt to avoid posting any actual knitting content.


Monday, October 10, 2005


Amazing Feats

It's Mim's bloggiversary, and she's having a competition!

Clearly, she is a freak. And I say that most respectfully.

Here's my entry, baby.

Please note the incrediby hot bunnypajamapants. Try to control yourself.

Saturday, October 08, 2005


In Which I Say The C Word

No, not that one.

Firstly, for all who were worried about the rent (myself included), it is now time to relax. Asstwinkies over at the head office cut a cheque, manager over at the job site made them deliver it, husband brought it home, rent is paid. I may well owe the man a hat.

But the day didn't start off quite so well. I had been told by the new landlord that there would be a guy coming in to run the gas line from the furnace room (which is also my storage room) to the suite upstairs for a gas fireplace. This, of course, meant that I had to empty out the entire room, so my house is now top to bottom and front to back with boxes. Mostly, seemingly, boxes of yarn.

He said that they would be here "between ten and eleven" and I foolishly decided that, seeing it fit my schedule perfectly, that they would arrive at ten and leave at eleven.

No such luck; they were to arrive at some point between ten and eleven and stay a couple of hours, thus necessitating the cancellation of a couple of extra hours I had scheduled at work. (They've offered me some data entry work and although it's a slightly lower rate than I make at my regular job, it's still good money and easy work, so I accepted.)

No biggie that I had to cancel, I can do it next week, but it was still annoying.

The GOOD thing though, is that during the exodus from the storage room, I found the missing hand carders and am no longer concerned that I'll have to replace them. Being in a tizzy due to the lack of sleep, the boxes everywhere, the unbridled vacuuming that went on around here the last couple of days and a number of other items, I took Juno's wise advice about the relaxing nature of spinning.

I said to myself, "Self," I said, "let's turn that frown upside-down!"

And then I punched myself in the face for a while because really, who needs to hear that sort of shit, even from oneself? If I'd-a wanted perky I woulda married Julie Andrews or someone.

So I put the rediscovered hand carders to good use:

Made some spiffy little rolags from the clownbarf:

And did me some spinning.

I then realized that Stephanie was infinitely wise when she said, in response to my first lumpy attempts at spinning, that in six months I would no longer be able to spin that thick and thin yarn I was referring to as "art" rather than as "ass". Feh. More like six weeks. This is nearly all even and oh, about 1/4 as thick as the stuff that started out on this bobbin. I'm going to have to stop this here and start another bobbin so that I can ply it.

(Marie caught me as I was putting this post together and before I managed to incorporate this picture commented:

Morning, Rabbitch. Pretty, pretty. I trust you didn't spin the cat. I mean, really, catgut makes poor yarn albeit great string.

Wishing you a very happy, merry Canadian Thanksgiving.)

Thank you! And the same to you and yours.

Sasha still hates the knittens and refuses to come in for any length of time. It is fall in the Great White North here, and I was concerned about her wellbeing outside at night but she seems to have come up with a clever solution.

Is this a huge sack of fleece?

Or is it an insanely warm catbed?

hello i am vog, goddess of the fleece. touch my temple at your peril. and bring me gravy

Anyhow, I toddled off to work feeling far better in mind and body, knowing that a) there would be money for rent and b) I can spin, albeit a little wonkily. I was a little pissed, as I couldn't find my knitting bag in which my glasses were residing. (Diamond decided last night that he needed to chew on the hair of the mo which I am making into a stole, so I hid it from him. And also, apparently, from myself.)

All was well until I got downtown and discovered that several people had decided to start out their holiday weekend by ramming their cars face-first into various structures, including a metal lamp post that I saw actually removed from its moorings and lying on the sidewalk. Pole wasn't doing well, car was far shorter than the manufacturer had intended, and although I didn't see the driver I'm going to have to conclude that he just isn't having a good time right about now.

Emergency vehicles everywhere, for this and other accidents, and traffic was even slower than usual.

I ended up ten minutes late for work, which I hate at the best of times, however today the person I was relieving was sick as a dog and shouldn't even have been at work that day, but we're short-staffed and she had to. Nice. Yay me. I'm so pleased that she's doing my performance review on the 20th, too. (It'll be fine, I'm joking.)

(She'll fire me.)

(No, she won't. Shut up.)

Work was all sorts of insane. Codes right left and centre, way heavier call volume than usual, and then later on in the day a code brown (hazardous material) because someone had decided to fill one of the stairwells with pepper spray. A very good decision around a hospital, yes. I'm sure the people with respiratory ailments, the babies in the Special Care Nursery and the geriatrics would especially appreciate that.

I got a little bit of a skritchy throat and an unpleasant taste in my mouth and I was quite a long way away from where it happened. It just wasn't a lot of fun.

Dear person who did this: Please consider doing the car and lamp post thingie before you can breed.

Work calmed down, and then I got an email from DH informing me that he had met our new upstairs neighbours.

And they're our old landlords.

Yes, the people who used to own this place make their living buying, fixing up and selling houses. In this real estate market it's a great plan, however I guess they're in between houses at the moment and when the suite upstairs came up, they grabbed it.

The only problem is ... we hates them, my preciousss. They lied and lied and lied from the minute we moved in here. He's slimy and she's ... ok, here's the word ... as disgusting as chenille.

There! I said it. I swore I would never use that word but I just had to. I hope you sent your children out of the room before they had to see that.

I was nervous when the place sold but relieved that I would never have to see them again, and now here they are. Upstairs. Sharing my laundry room.

Her Worminess came down to see Ben and stared at him with her giant moonface while asking who owned the stuff that was in their parking spot. He said that the ottoman was ours but the rest of the empire was leftovers from the last tenants. She asked him to move it, he said no because he was leaving for work that very minute and couldn't be late (unlike some irresponsible rabbits). She stormed off, arm-wattles flapping, and promptly moved everything in the carport, including all of the garbage cans, into our parking spot.

Spiteful bitch.

Please note that I am in no way sizeist, having been anything from damned-near-anorexic to very-well-upholstered over the span of my lifetime, however this woman actually has drooping wads of fat from her upper arms that cover her elbows.

It bothers me.

Likely it wouldn't bother me as much if she wasn't so chenilly.

If this post bothers some of my larger readers, I apologize; no offense is meant. At least not to you. Unless you're putting my garbage cans in my parking space then then yes, I meant you too.

And such.

I sat there at work thinking "Oh fuck. That's getting close to the final kick in the teeth for me," and then I went all Pollyanna again with the frown upside-down thing and the face-punching and it really took up quite a lot of my time.

And then I received another email from DH. He wants to move. He does NOT want to share house space with those people.


I've been trying to talk him into moving for months, but he hates change and would rather that I live in a place that is far too small and that I hate, than change his surroundings in any way.

And now He Wants To Move, Tonight If Possible.

Dog does indeed move in mysterious ways. I can't think of anything better that could have happened to us.

Oh yes, and I owe the spiteful cow some money for utilities from when they owned this place. I had it set aside to give to them today. I spent it on beer and food instead; with that sort of behaviour she can just wait until I get paid next week.


Thursday, October 06, 2005



Sorry dudes, I'm having a personal meltdown involving a battle with my husband's company (still no cheque, therefore no rent paid) a battle with my husband (won't lift a finger around the house), increased work hours (which I want -- it's very easy work, well-paid and I can do it at my leisure but it sure eats up the hours) and now the teachers have gone on strike so I'm going to have to juggle more kidtime with getting everything else organized.

It sucks to be me right now, however it takes a lot to keep a Rabbitch down. I'm figuring by Monday I'll either be organized or I'll have an eviction notice. I'm hoping that my refrigerator carton under the bridge has internet access ... *g*

(No, my parents won't let me end up homeless, stop shrieking and wondering what's going to happen to my stash).

Please forgive me if there's less merriment than usual over the next couple of days.

Tuesday, October 04, 2005


That's Not A Cat, That's My Baby Sister!

And thus go the days and nights, Chéz Lapin.

Friend of mine got a job, which she sorely needed, only to discover that the service that she thought was going to provide before and after school care for her kids couldn't take them after all.

So here she is, needing to start work on Monday and with three children, the oldest of whom is six.

Guess who took them on?

Let's just say that my days this week have been starting unconscionably early and have been somewhat noisier than usual. And my dog can three five year olds and a six year old EAT.

And eat and eat and eat.

And their voices could cut glass at 40 paces. And never, ever stop.

This, coupled with a serious fiscal meltdown (husband's company, which I will not mention by name because I have learned my lesson -- or at least someone else learned it for me -- has committed major paycheque fuckery) has made for little knitting time and even less blog time, and an awful lot more stress than I think I can handle right now.

Unless the bastages (fargling icehole bastages, at that) come up with some cash today then I am at risk of losing it completely, up to and including exploding things, setting things alight, and perhaps even driving off cliffs.

I'll try not to take too many people with me. Ann, you can have my stuff.

(and for anyone who takes me seriously and starts to panic, get over it, I'm too tough to give up that easily)

Saturday, October 01, 2005


And Now For Something Completely Different

A cat without a head.

Sasha still hates the knittens and still won't come in for more than half an hour or so at a time. She's never been much of an indoor cat so I'm not all that concerned. I think her main problem is that if they were big cats she would fight them and then the pecking order would be established, but she doesn't know what to do with these little things that insist on hissing at her, 'cause she knows she can't hit babies.

In the meantime, don't you think it's awfully nice of me to have put this lovely bed of washed and dried Cheviot on the table outside the front door just for her?


I doubt that stuff's ever going to be usable now.

Further update on the Social Studies curriculum, for your edification.

"Mommy, the dinosaurs died a really long time ago."
"Yes they did, honey."
"Like 20 months. Or 48. I don't know."

Dude, that's a long time.

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