Saturday, April 30, 2005
Dying to Try It
Or trying to dye it. Or something.
Today's little exercise in wretched excess (eggcess? Oh, I slay me):
Billyuns and billyuns of very cheap egg coloring kits (35 cents CDN/28 cents USD ... yay for overstocking!) bought for the purpose of dyeing this:
Or dying in the attempt.
I seem to have some bizarre idea that once I'm not working four hundred full-time jobs, that although I'm going to be taking care of my kid every day, somehow I will have time to do this.
As I said, I drink a lot.
Friday, April 29, 2005
Seemingly, I Am A Dolt
Or very, very high.
I said in yesterday's meme that the object was to pick FIVE sentences and complete them, and then in a drug-induced haze, promptly answered three.
Fortunately, my back is far better and I'm not on painkillers tonight, just the usual excess of liquor, so I can now again count, and will answer two more.
If I could be a farmer, I'd raise pygmy goats, because they're cute as hell.
If I could be a llama-rider I'd be about half the weight I am now.
OK, on to tag some victims ... err, volunteers. Mindy, La, Dragon Knitter, and Trixie have all either kindly or foolishly stepped up to the plate. Tag, you're it!
If you'd like to join in too, Lumeah, it doesn't matter if you don't have anyone to pass it on to. C'mon, you know you want to!
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Taking Advantage of a Wounded Woman
So Susan has decided to take advantage of my weakened condition and tag me for another meme.
Being heavily medicated (and also a damned fine sport) I have decided to rise to the occasion.
The idea is to pick 5 and complete the sentences, then pass this little meme on to 3 more of your blog pals! But no tag backs!
If I could be a scientist…
If I could be a farmer…
If I could be a musician…
If I could be a doctor…
If I could be a painter…
If I could be a gardener…
If I could be a missionary…
If I could be a chef…
If I could be an architect…
If I could be a linguist…
If I could be a psychologist…
If I could be a librarian…
If I could be an athlete…
If I could be a lawyer…
If I could be an inn-keeper…
If I could be a professor…
If I could be a writer…
If I could be a llama-rider…
If I could be a bonnie pirate…
If I could be an astronaut…
If I could be a world famous blogger…
If I could be a justice on any one court in the world…
If I could be married to any current famous political figure…
If I could be an architect, I would design that damned house that I've had in my head for years and that I can't draw to save my soul.
If I could be a world famous blogger, I would be me, just more famous, and stuff. And I'd still say "ass" a lot.
If I could be a linguist I would be a cunning one.
And who will I tag? Hmm, I don't want to get smacked in the head, so maybe a couple of folks will step up to the plate and save me the embarrassment ...
I've destroyed my back again (I suspect The Whacking of the Weeds had something to do with this) and spent the entire day lying in a hot bath, popping ibuprofen and praying to walk again. The folks at work of course got pissed about this, so I repaid them by a) producing a doctor's note (I have a seventeen YEAR history of this fucking injury, people!) and b) asking for a year's leave of absence starting June 1.
I got the job at the hospital (whee!) and have no intention of returning to the job in a year or ever, I just asked for the leave as a safety net. So if they turn it down, no biggie, I'll give them two weeks notice and walk. A week if they're exceptionally pissy -- my collective agreement doesn't actually require me to give any notice at all.
No knitting whatsoever has happened; I'm unable to sit long enough to do much of anything, but hey, maybe I'll manage to get a week off in between jobs!
I really, really hope they turn down my request ...
Could You Make Them Look A Little More, Like, Fake?
So shortly before The Mediocre Sushi Incident (or possibly shortly after, I don't know, I'm still traumatized) I was driving along in the car, listening to the news, when they read an item about someone who is manufacturing bras that make women look like they have implants.
Allegedly, according to the spokesman for this company, "women more and more are seeking out this look". So it's now trendy to LOOK fake without being so?
I don't get it.
I mean I can (sort of) understand if a woman isn't particularly well-endowed that she would want bigger boobs, and I believe that everyone has the right to modify their body however they want to (apart from maybe that creepy Lizard Man who is actually modifying his entire body to look like a lizard's -- I was going to put a link here but dude, it's too gross even for me and I don't even want to think about the sites I ended up going to while doing a search and oh dog hold me or at least hold my hair back while I barf oh thank you WHY did I click on those links??) but really.
I thought that the whole idea behind getting implants was to try to make your boobs look bigger but NATURAL, and although they haven't succeeded so far, I wasn't aware that the FAKE look was now getting to be all the rage.
What's next? Is there going to be a wave of women running in to their doctors, weeping, "Oh doctor, my partner thinks that my vagina feels too natural! (S)he hates that it feels all like skin and mucous membrane and stuff ... could you possibly make it feel more fake?"
Yes. I can see it now. Vaginal vulcanization. Get in on the ground floor (so to speak) now! We could start a franchise operation, call the company "Twatomatic" or "Silisnatch" or something. Or hey! "The Rubber Womb"! I may just have a winner here.
I also think I've just thought of a new use for all of that fun fur yarn that everyone's whining about.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
If Everyone's Still Doing It ...
... is it really over?
My family and I went out tonight for a truly mediocre sushi experience.
The sushi was average. Edible but nothing to write home about. The teriyaki chicken was good. The service was ABYSMAL, they didn't have any juice for my kid (and so she's now whipping around the house on a sugar high at close to midnight -- fortunately I've started drinking) and despite the fact that this place is usually pretty cheap, I ended up spending $33.
Now $33 (especially Canadian) might not seem like such a bad deal for three people until you consider that my daughter ate about five or six small pieces of chicken teriyaki, one piece of yam tempura and two tablespoons of rice. I ate maybe three (possibly four) small pieces of chicken (less than 1/2" wide, maybe about 2" long), two pieces of tempura, three pieces of California roll and maybe three tablespoons of rice. I was still starving after we had eaten what we first ordered, as was my daughter, so I ordered another teriyaki chicken rice bowl for us to split. They decided that although we were sitting there at the end of the restaurant, obviously not going anywhere, despondently snuffling through the wreckage of the first couple of dishes in search of stray bean sprouts, that they should make up the order as a "to go" and leave it on the counter for over half an hour. By the time we finally got it, I was too pissed off to eat and left, still hungry, and much poorer. (It's now in the fridge for Ben's lunch tomorrow).
So essentially my husband ate dinner at the "cheapest" restaurant in town for an amount on which I could feed my whole family for three days.
And I'm still hungry.
Anyhow, all whining (temporarily) aside, we were looking out the window when a couple of young ladies walked by. One was wearing jeans that were either hemmed short, cut off or rolled up about half-way up her calf, with a pair of either flat shoes or boots, and very ugly striped socks. Her belt was leather with so many studs and dangles and sets of handcuffs that her furiously wobbling haunches were casting more sparkles about than a disco ball.
I said to Ben "good god. Someone needs to tell all of these people that the '80s are over. Or hell, was it the '70s?". He cruelly pointed out that if "all of these people" are still dressing like this, then it's not over yet.
Excuse me while I go drink some more beer.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Jury is still out on the job I want at the hospiddle, however my daughter, who for several months has declared that I am "in charge of all bums", has now decided that I am in charge of "flowers, butterflies and fairies" and that Daddy was in charge of all bums. She then gave the flowers to Daddy, and I'm now just in charge of butterflies and fairies.
No matter the difference in pay, I think I'm going to like this one a lot better.
Monday, April 25, 2005
The Whacking of the Weeds
Today I experienced The Whacking of the Weeds. Good grief, can you HAVE more fun with your clothes on? (Or maybe with your clothes off. I have not yet Whacked the Weeds of the front yard -- tune in tomorrow for updates.)
(Please note that this is not some dainty euphemism for further redecoration of my snatch. I am referring to yardwork you filthy perverts.)
I must say the whole thing (except for when I learned the lesson about how to point the hose sort of at an angle when cleaning off the Whacker of Weeds in order not to soak the last pair of semi-presentable pair of pants one owns) made me feel desperately butch (but in a girly way, honest!); it was almost as much of a turn-on as when I got my first electric drill.
I do believe some girls were born to have power tools, and that I am one of them. Take that as you wish.
Take (please), also, this little creation, found in the knitting books I scooped yesterday. These are, allegedly, salamanders; I'm pretty sure they're teddies. With the clap.
And I think we just know whose parents ended up buried in the back yard, don't we?
Sleep well, if you can.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Just a quick post tonight -- I'm exhausted, having worked about eleventy-seven hours since Friday (five shifts in three days, to be exact) and I'm heading to the bath with a big bowl of popcorn and a trashy novel.
I scooped some old knitting mags today, and although there are some gorgeous patterns (many of which I will post in days to come), there are definitely some things that we just don't need to see knitted:
And some things we shouldn't have to see at all:
I bid you a tasteful adieu until tomorrow, although I'm not sure if I can sleep after having seen those pictures.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
Happy Birthday, Baby
Everyone needs someone in their life who they admire without reservation. Someone on whom they can always rely. Someone who has inspired them to believe in themselves, and to reach for their goals, and who accepts and supports them no matter how much of a fucking trainwreck they make of their life.
I am fortunate in having such a person in my life. My brother.
This is a little late. His birthday was actually on the 20th but I was going on about making a porn movie that day, and didn't even mention him. Which is sort of appropriate for our relationship, really, and at least I remembered to call him, which is better than I've done some years. I'm a twat.
I'm quite a bit older than he is, a fact of which he delights in reminding me. For three months of the year I'm six years older. He always points this out. He is a bitch. It is now five years for the next nine months. Deal, baby.
My mother lost two children before me and when she got pregnant with me, she assumed it would be more of the same. Apparently I had different plans.
The women in my family don't tend to be terribly fecund, so my parents expected that I would be an only and treated me as such. Imagine my horror when, after being The Princess and Heir to Both Dollars, she had the poor taste to produce another child. To wit: The Son.
I was determined to hate him, and managed to do so until the day he came home from hospital. My mother plopped him in my arms, said "this is your baby, you have to help take care of him". From that moment on I was utterly captivated. A real live doll that I could feed and dress.
I apologize now for the princess costume.
I still remember saying "Honestly, Mother, someone has to Teach That Child to Read". He was four and not reading yet! I was offended. And so I made up flash cards and books and who the fuck knows what a demented nine year old can come up with? Anyhow, it took, and he hasn't stopped since.
I remember when he had fish, and they all died. It was too cold for the goldfish, so we had a small ceremony. And then another. Then he got a tank with a heater, but the pump and filter assembly had holes that were too large. We had several small ceremonies. We fixed the holes and then the power went out and again with the several small porcelain-side funerals. I don't know when he finally realized that our family just isn't meant to have fish.
I left home when he was 13 and was gone for several years. I missed a bunch of the teenage angst and that's likely a good thing.
We've both had some terribly tough times. I took him in when he couldn't stand my parents any longer. He took me in when I was homeless.
He bought me good jewelry. I taught him how to walk in heels.
Throughout all of the *mumble*eight years, I don't think we've ever had a major fight, although it's been a little rough at times, like when I spoke German and he didn't and I would tell him he was a Kleiderschrank or a Fussboden and he would tell on me to our parents. I think he learned German in self-defense and is to this day far closer to fluent than am I.
Through all of the "interesting" times we've had, he's been a constant in my life. I don't think I have ever once thought that anything I could do would make him stop loving me.
The reverse is also true.
And so, baby, a couple of days late, happy birthday. I don't think I tell you often enough, or maybe ever, how much you mean to me.
Happy birthday, Scheisskopf. *g*
Friday, April 22, 2005
Stop Spitting In My Garden
This will be a rant. There is no knitting content, not even a dishcloth, just a steady stream of "waa waa waa, pore pitiful me". You can just skip this if you'd like, I'll be knitting again by Monday.
I've been feeling invisible for a while now.
There is no respect at work for the fact that I am very busy at all times, but at certain times of the year (like, oh, right about now) that there is so much work I cannot possibly even keep treading water, never mind get ahead, without working a fair bit of overtime. Overtime that I have been forbidden to work. Overtime without which I must leave things undone. Things which, should I leave them undone, would likely lead to some sort of disciplinary action, not excluding the possibility of my being let go.
There are many things that I love about my job, despite my ranting; however, there are many things I hate. I do not hate it enough to raise enough hell that my family loses its main source of income. I can't be bought, but reasonable rental terms have never been all that difficult to negotiate. I'm nothing if not practical.
I'm well aware of the fact that the message being sent by my employer is that my time is of no value, and that I should work the overtime secretly, get everything done and not whine about it, and then quietly take the reprimand should I start work at 8:34 one day (or hell, even nine o'fucking clock) instead of 8:30, despite having been in the office until after seven the night before (I'm paid until four), but I'm getting sort of tired of that.
I'm getting tired of having to fight to take my vacation. I have six weeks this year, due to having carried over unused time from previous years. I will be lucky if I get to take as many as three of those weeks. It has been suggested that I could take "long weekends" instead of actual blocks of vacation, so as to cause as little disruption as possible. I declined this suggestion. Almost politely. And so if I stay in this job, I will carry at least three, possibly four weeks over to next year, when I get an increase in vacation time (I believe) and will then have eight or nine weeks; the majority of which I will be unable to use.
I'm getting tired of a job eating up time I should be spending with my kid. Or doing stuff for ME -- knitting, drinking, reading blogs, masturbating -- whatever I would spend time doing if I ever had time to do it.
Dammit, I could have raised a virtuoso (or at least a child who knew my name), written a novel, knitted a yurt or gone blind from excessive exploration of the recreational area if all of the hours that I've put in over the last five years had been hours that I got to keep for myself. Because they were mine.
I do clerical/administrative support. Yes, I'm senior staff, but I have a job, not a career, and I am paid by the hour, people. Not horribly paid, but no bonuses, no raises in the last eleven years (still not bitter!). No chance to move "up" without completing another either four or five courses in which I am not particularly interested and which I would never use in any of the positions that would become open to me should I obtain this credential. (positions which, by the way, would earn me between $150 and $300 more per month, gross. Canadian. Yes, for several years of part-time school on top of full+ time work). No, thanks. Really. I appreciate the opportunity, but fuck off.
So when I mentioned today that I didn't feel like working a lot of unpaid overtime right now, and the response was that we should make the powers that be aware of the need so that we could reassess the situation and bla dee bla, I got a little ... well ... I think the only possible term here could be "uppity". I may have pointed out that I've been mentioning this for several years, have requested full time support in the office (Princess N only gets to sleep on the job part-time), and have had my concerns and suggestions repeatedly dismissed. I didn't point out that my predecessor also attempted to "address the situation" with equally stunning results for at least 14 of her 19 years on the job.
And yes, by the time she left, she was bitter indeed.
I can't see any sort of solution to this. There is lip service given to concern for employees and willingness to restructure, but all anyone really wants is for me to shut up, take on more responsibility and just get it all done. And so I continue to send out resumes, whenever I can find the energy to chew through the restraints and get to the fax machine.
Maybe someone can fix this, but it won't be me.
Which leads me to the title of this entry. You knew I'd get to it eventually, didn't you?
My family moved house in December, to a little grass shack (or the bottom half of one side of a fourplex) in order to save a substantial amount of rent.
One of the main appeals of this place was the fact that a) it has a garden and b) the garden is mine to maintain in return for a small reduction in rent. I also love the location, the setup, the relative silence and the larger bathtub, but really, the garden was a major selling point.
I'm not insanely enamored of the fact that the garden at the front is bark mulch with plastic underneath it, so that small flowery things can be grown, but farming is out of the question. I'm also not thrilled with the fact that a previous tenant decided that the back little tiny yard would be easier to maintain if it was covered in rocks instead of grass. I now spend far too much time pulling dandelions and stray left-over plants out of this rock bed, and if we stay next year I intend to get rid of every last damned stone and put in grass.
There's a bunch of pretty stuff, flowering bushes and trees and the like, out front, and I was going to post pictures but I'm not quite drunk enough yet to go out and take photographs in the dark, so I'll just leave it to your imagination.
I'm fairly proud of the fact that I manage to keep it all looking nice, despite time constraints. It's amazing what a little mowing and raking and weed-whacking will do; it doesn't really take me more than four or five hours in a week to keep the chaos down to a dull roar, and for something I love I can find that much time. My kid helps me with it and we have a hoot.
This place was originally a duplex and has been split into two suites on each side, upper and lower. Upstairs on the other side there are some boys. Snowboarding boys, party boys, boys who are usually quiet and respectful and who are seldom home, although I must say that I've noticed upon the occasions when they HAVE been home that they have abominable taste in women. The latest case in point was the shrieking drunken Australian woman who was tapdancing on the front balcony at 2am last week, trying to pick a fight with one of the other women who she claimed had "made fun of her accent". But I digress.
My only really big complaint about these boys is that they smoke. I don't care who smokes and when and where. Hell, they can burst into flames for all I care. No, my complaint is that they don't seem to be familiar with the concept of an ashtray, and so they toss their cigarette butts into MY GARDEN. The one I tidy up. Yes, that one.
And they spit. One of the men was explaining to the drunken tapdancer that when he smokes, he spits. It's what he does. Seemingly every 20 seconds or so. And so I was outside, listening to the happy little *splat* *splat* *splat* noises that his spit made as it hit the garden and the walk, for several minutes. I mean really, the amount that that boy spits, he should be a shrivelled-up dehydrated husk by now.
I may be powerless at work, but by gum, I have some power around here and that boy is going to start using an ashtray, and stop right the fuck now with the spitting action. I have no urge to spend my weekends wallowing with my child up to our armpits in a spit-soaked ashtray, startling as that may be to some.
Thank dog I have someone upon whom to take out my frustrations. My family will be spared the beatings again this weekend.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
I have nothing much to say tonight (and so of course will go on for hours about it). Work is utterly insane at the moment. Princess N is proving to be more helpful than I had thought she would be at work, but she still spends a lot of time in a less-than-manic state, so to speak, and seems to have trouble with the phone system. It is a simple system. There is one button to push to put the calls on forward to voicemail. You push it again to make the line active again so people can call the office. Simple, you may say. Fairly important for a receptionist to master, you may also say.
I have had to explain several times that if you pick up the phone and it beeps, it means that the calls are still on forward, and the button needs to be pushed AGAIN.
She doesn't work on Fridays, and I'm almost relieved. Tomorrow I have about 160-180 phone calls to make as well as 50-60 appointments to schedule, close to 100 letters to send out (thank dog for mail merge), four sets of minutes to complete, an annual timeline to draft, several pages of publicity material to copy-edit, 146 emails to either answer or file in the correct cabinet, maybe 20 phone messages to return with great grovelings and apologies and a couple of meetings to arrange.
I think there's a bunch of stuff that has fallen through the cracks, also, that I need to do some damage repair on. At this point I have no idea.
Despite all of this, I'm glad that I won't be listening to the endless litany of real or imagined illnesses (they are, apparently, legion) while praying that the phone RINGS so I don't have to go over and ask again if the calls are coming through without sounding insulting or beating her skull in with the three-hole punch.
I am using this frightening "to do" list as an excuse for the fact that little in the way of knitting has occurred Casa del Conejo. That, and the imminence of the Dreaded Dishcloth Deadline, with fewer than half of the required items being complete.
I know doing nothing but dishcloths is lame, but hey, one does what one must, and I have to say I'm fairly pleased about the uniformity of the finished items. They're not perfect but they're pretty good if I do say so myself:
I am, however, wrestling with a bit of a moral dilemma. You see, my mother, one of the women who taught me how to knit, offered me a completed dishcloth to add to my stack, so that I have fewer to make.
I think maybe her knitting is deteriorating a bit.
So what do I do? I can hardly give it to my customer; it's so obviously done by someone else, and not quite what I had in mind.
Do I grit my teeth and give it to my customer anyhow, or thank her and keep it for myself?
I think we all know what's going to be appearing in a sink near me in the very near future.
The horror of judging my mother's knitting and finding it wanting! I'm quite sure I'll be picking at her housekeeping next (her bathroom smelled of pee last time I was there). Am I sadly observing the deterioration of a loved one, or am I judgemental bitch?
I'm voting for the latter.
On the "things I want to do when I grow up" front, I have purchased some beads
and am hoping, some time before the end of the world (it's nigh!) to use it with the lambswool sent to me by Michael and do believe I may well take a run at this. In my copious free time.
Think I've gone on enough about having nothing to post?
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Rejoice! I have finally settled upon the perfect solution for those of us with fiscal tribulations -- we don't have to open a strip joint and work night after night, shaking our booties when we could be making dishcloths. No, all we need to do is make a MOVIE!
Yes. That sort of movie.
I've even come up with the perfect title for it.
I was discussing work with a friend (who shall remain nameless due to possible issues of liability) earlier today and she was complaining about one of the members of her agency who was terminally dissatisfied with the service she received.
I said something along the lines of "that's pathetic, my family likely has to make do with far lesser quality than that which is being complained about by your whining member."
And so, I present to you, the working title of our first production: "Your Whining Member".
Casting will commence shortly.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
I discovered today that there are four people ahead of me for the job that would save my large wobbly bum and also make it possible for me to spend a lot of time with my kid during her kindergarten year.
One has already failed the testing.
One would get it for sure, but has withdrawn her application from every other job she's applied for over the last four years, owing to the fact that we work locked away from the world and there would be nobody to stare at her breasts while she was working (which would, of course, mean that she didn't exist).
So, if everyone out there would please keep their fingers crossed for two random acts of intense stupidity, and one violent surge of hormones, I would greatly appreciate it.
Barring that, please run them over.
Thanks In Advance.
Monday, April 18, 2005
I, the self-crowned Dishcloth Queen, discovered last night that I had dropped a stitch.
Me. The slowest, most careful knitter in the universe.
Fourteen rows back. On a fucking dishcloth, made of fucking cotton, which is almost impossible to fucking pull up again.
So I frogged.
I am using this as my excuse for having gone out and eaten way too much and consumed the best part of a really good bottle of wine (click on "our wines", Canada, Bin 45 Cabernet Sauvignon.) If you like a dry red, order three or four bottles of this next time you go out. You won't regret it. Well, not until the next morning.
The cause of the dinner was actually the departure of our beloved receptionist (replaced by Princess N of slumberly fame). Man, I like calamari!
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Why is this sort of thing being allowed? I found the link on someone else's website, honest. I wasn't googling for it.
I hate the fact that "to google" is a verb, btw, almost as much as I hate the fact that "to blog" is a verb.
"to knit" is a verb I would like to spend a lot more time exploring but this weekend didn't work out quite how I wanted. I'm almost-rested, though, (for the first time in like three months). That's gotta count for something.
I hope the same can be said for our new receptionist, nicknamed "Princess Narcolepsis". I've never actually seen someone fall asleep at their desk while working before.
Give me strength ...
Funniest Ever Again
OK, so say you were a slightly-ripened-on-the-vine kinda tomato. A tomato that was maybe oh, say 43 years old and a little tired and wore out.
And say you had the kind of day (It's been almost two days but there's been only enough sleep for one day, so it's still "a day") where you slept oh maybe four hours, if that, and then worked all day on stuff that was utterly vital to be completed for Monday, and then went hysterically rank on a faculty member who expected you to do his last minute shit (which he knew about days before) instead of doing your vital stuff (his is finished, mine remains undone and I shall be served The Sandwich of Shame on Monday because I'm fucked if I'm going in to the office to work even MORE unpaid overtime this weekend). Let's say that you were that same tomato who then came home, slept three hours and then worked all night at your second job making the world safe for sick people. During that shift let's say you switched on the wrong switchboard console, the one without the buzz tone, and left calls hanging for several minutes, pretty much guaranteeing that there will be the Potato Chips of Shame to accompany that sandwich on Monday.
Am I stretching a metaphor? One that should never have been used in the first place?
OK, so after coming home from that second job, almost vomiting with tiredness, let's say you slept another three hours or so and then went out to a big ceremony of some sort that went off very well and at which you received lots of praise and stuff despite the great big grease spot on your boob, the ratty sweater and the ketchup on your pants, and came home happy to do 94 loads of dishes, kill a bunch of ants, make dinner, entertain a child, watch a bunch of princess movies, finally get that child into bed around oh, like midnight and a half or so and then settle down to drink a beer and do some serious blogging (and maybe knit a dishcloth).
If, after doing all of that, you can first receive an email entitled "Become the best guy for her this night! tan gnaw" (wtf?) and THEN sit down to read this woman's writing without peeing yourself laughing (please note I just opened my second beer) then you, my dear, have a Urethra of Steel and should be very proud of yourself.
Seriously. She's the funniest ever. As well.
Saturday, April 16, 2005
It Was The Walking on Water ...
... that was my first clue
You May Be a Bit Schizotypal ...
A bit odd and socially isolated.
You couldn't care less what others think.
And some of your beliefs are a little weird.
Like that time you thought you were Jesus.
Hee! I'm such a quiz whore.
Hubby is working, albeit temporarily, so anyone who was getting a-skeered we were going to move in with them has at least two or three more weeks to move without leaving a forwarding address. It's not great, but it's more money than he was making before, and it'll give us a little room to breathe.
I haven't heard about the job I want, and have now been told that "many" people have applied for it and they all have to go in for testing before we can figure out a way to give it to me anyhow.
Not so bad; I've had enough change for a little bit. I think I'll just sit over here and knit another dishcloth, mmkay? (just completing #6)
Friday, April 15, 2005
Alas, I have chosen the lure of filthy lucre over entertaining all y'all.
Heading off to bed for three hours before working the 10-6 shift. Regular madness will resume tomorrow.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Found on the Front Counter
The following love note was left on the counter at work some time between 4:30pm yesterday and 8:30am this morning.
Why, yes. Yes I cou d.
*wandering off, shaking head in puzzlement*
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Poppin' a Wheelie
I seem to be going to visit an Ashford spinning wheel this weekend.
This wheel lives about 14 blocks from here. It is for sale. I cannot spin and have no money and my husband is not yet working.
I do, however, have about 2 lbs of natural fleece that needs to be carded and spun (oh yes, and I don't have carding combs), a pound of roving that needs to be dyed and spun and also 8 oz of berry mohair and 5 oz of purple kid mohair that need to be carded and spun.
Anyone want to place bets that I end up with a new wheel somehow?
I really am going to have to start up a geriatric knit and strip club with Fidgety Budgie some time soon.
As an addendum, I would like to ask the person who found this blog by entering "drumsticks in her vagina" into Google to go right the fuck away and not come back.
I mean rilly.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Alpaca Silk Toilet Paper
So tonight I'm fondling the Alpaca Silk yarn that I was babbling on about yesterday (and I'm quite proud that I haven't gotten any drool on it yet). I'm sitting there quitely minding my own business and fondling its warm soft goodness, and then finally ask my husband what he thinks I should make with it.
He says "Alpaca Silk Toilet Paper".
I responded, reasonably, with "What in the purple screaming fuck are you talking about?"
"I wonder how much that would sell for on eBay," he quietly replied.
Do you think he's got issues about me listing all of his comic books for sale?
(Before anyone thinks I'm evil, he was just being funny, and he was actually going to landfill all of his comics before I suggested auctioning them off to pay some bills).
I was going to start this paragraph with "On a slightly-less-peculiar knitterly front," but of course was then going to go on to talk about
The Raw Chicken Viking Hat Knit-Along and, well I'm not quite sure which is more normal of the two topics.
I admit to being a horrible slacker, seeing I sort of started this knit-along and haven't even cast on when one person has already finished (go look, it's hilarious!) but I finally found the purple that I wanted to use for this. It's Paton's Canadiana in Color 027 Violet. I love that colour! Hopefully my friend Kathleen will also.
Either that or she'll drive up here and slaughter me.
Oh, and Dragon Knitter? If you'd like that yarn I posted the other day, please drop me a line with an address and I'll pop it in the mail on Thursday when I send out Hockey Mom's yarn.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Incredible Yarny Goodness
To my eternal, shameful delight, this:
arrived in the mail from MarQ1 today. Isn't it wonderful? He also included a ball of Reynolds Andean Alpaca Regal in a greenish-grey. Greyish-green. Maybe brown.
I'm old and I don't do colo(u)rs quite as well as I used to.
Thank you, MarQ1!
He assures me it's enough for a hat. I personally think it's enough for lunch. MAN is all of this stuff soft!
No knitting occrred today. Not one stitch. Instead I went to see a grad recital by two very talented young men and came home at 11pm to a clean kitchen. My boy was good today, and has a lead on a couple of jobs, too.
Life is improving, but all possible good thoughts, plus large sacks of unmarked bills, are very welcome.
More on The Chicken Hat Saga tomorrow.
I do believe I'm just going to sit here and fondle my yarn for a while.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Not Necessarily Out
But definitely down.
Hubby lost his job today and we're in fairly serious debt.
Nothing amusing to report. Much dishcloth-knitting, double-shifting and e-Baying will commence.
Back tomorrow when I've bounced back a bit.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
You're Transgender Barbie! You're well, there's no
way to describe you. Pick a sex and stay with
If You Were A Barbie, Which Messed Up Version Would You Be?
brought to you by Quizilla
Well. That was a little disturbing.
I'm in a delicate condition today, having sampled a bottle of wine last night that was, I must say, the first bottle of "champagne" I've ever met that would have benefited greatly by being mixed with co-cola. I would tell you what it was so that you can avoid having the same sorry experience, but I'm afraid that even typing the name would induce vomiting. I have to work the graveyard shift tonight and need all possible energy -- the vomiting isn't the best idea.
I have little in the way of knittage to share. I haven't been able to find another ball of the Shetland Chunky and so haven't cast on the chicken hat yet. I'm thinking I may have time at work tonight, unless I'm completely drowned by paperwork like I was last time. It will, alas, be purple.
The écru dishcloth is finished. I will spare you photos. I've also done another couple of inches on the 2x2 rib green sage scarf for The Dulaan Project. Just imagine the last picture a little longer and save my lazy ass from having to take another picture, k?
I will try to redeem my apathetic self by offering further stash reduction items. To wit:
Three balls (hand included for perspective, but will not be included in the package) of something fine and slubby in a beigey-oatmealy colo(u)r. No ball bands, no indication of what the fibre content is.
Free, to the first person to sing out. Please don't make me knit a stole with it.
Friday, April 08, 2005
I'll Give You a Dishcloth a Day, Dear
Isn't that how the song goes? Whatever.
It's the 8th, and I have managed to keep the sum total of four dishcloths in my sweaty little hands (or on my sweaty little keyboard, if you like).
Actually that's three and a half dishcloths.
I figure that if I aim for one a day from now to the end of the month, I'll get that order filled. (Oh yes, and some for my brother's birthday on the 20th). My life is going to be very interesting, I can tell.
On a slightly more exciting note, The Great Raw Chicken Viking Hat Knit-Along has kicked off. I'm trying urgently to find the second ball of Paton's Shetland Chunky that I was sure I had around here somewhere.
If I don't find it by 11pm, the hat's going to be in purple. I am determined to start this on time!
Photos to follow when it's complete.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
I have decided that if I don't get one of the two jobs that I'm still waiting to hear about, right after I finish killing people I'm going to get out of office work and become a stripper.
My stage name? Chunky Bouclé, of course.
I've always thought, ever since I first heard those two words together, that the Truth in Advertising laws would pretty much preclude me from using anything else, should I ever take up the time-honoured art of jiggling naked on stage for dollar bills.
Crap. We don't have dollar bills any more, or even twos, and I can't think at this advanced stage of decomposition that I'm going to be able to get the boys to part with fives.
I shudder to think of where one tucks coins ...
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Just Fucking Stop
Or, more precisely, just stop fucking.
I mean it.
I have something like six impending babies to knit for and we all know how much free time I have. Of course none of the moms are expecting anything (apart from the obvious. shut up) but I think it's always nice to have some little handknit thingie when there's a new baby.
So if everyone could just please hold off on the reproductive mayhem until I'm caught up a bit, I'd really appreciate it.
I've been getting more of Other People's Shit (tm) out of my house and into the storage locker, and have been unearthing many boxes labeled thusly:
This one, however, contained a nasty surprise:
Looks innocent enough, right? Just knitted "stuff".
Not so innocent. One of my first attempts at something more than just garter stitch or stockinette.
The HGTV Cuddly Blanket. Cuddly blanket, oh how I hate thee, and how little I regret your current location; to wit, the frog pond.
Fucking thing ate at least a month of my life and was holding my 48" 5mm Addi circ hostage.
Freed up that puppy. Tomorrow night the 4.5mm Addi (60") gets liberated from the Blanket for Stupid. That thing has been bad luck from the start and doesn't deserve to be resurrected.
And then I guess I need to cast on two baby blankets, hmm? (in green cotton?)
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
I do believe I have discovered (right after about ten thousand other people discovered) the funniest woman ever.
Yes, I know I've said that before and likely I'll say it again. I don't believe there is any rule that says "ever" can only happen once; no rule by which I choose to live, anyhow.
I'm reading her archives, and dude, who could resist somone who starts a post with "So, did anyone else's New Year's suck like the family pig?" I'm boggling firstly at the fact that her family has a pig and secondly that it sucks.
In this here town you gotta pay extra for that.
And so, to borrow her phrase, this last week has sucked like the family pig. Friday I had to come home sick, battling this ghastly cold. I was down all weekend and then on Monday there was no way I could get to work. So this morning I'm awakened by the cheerful sound of buckets of vomit engaging in vigorous exodus from my child. Fortunately she was in the bathroom at the time, but still, not what you want to hear. Well, spoze it's better than the time I picked the cat up while she was vomiting but we won't discuss that.
This of course meant that I had to take another day off work. A second day, during our busiest time (and I'm senior staff). This went over poorly with The Powers That Don't Be Really All That Powerful and I fear I'm going to be Spoken To Firmly at some point over the next week or so. Either that or "invited" to a discussion.
This has cemented my decision to leave my job in the very near future if at all possible. I mean, it's not their "fault" that they need someone to actually show up and meet the timelines associated with the position, however it's also not my "fault" that I have a small child and just can't be counted on to meet that sort of commitment at this point in my life.
Wrong job, wrong person, wrong time. Five+ years down this particular road I think it's time to admit that it's over and move on.
I'm waiting to hear about two other jobs that have come up recently. I have a really good chance at both of them. One, with a little juggling, would be ideal. The other, with a fair bit more juggling, would be a little less than ideal but still good, and I'd get to spend WAY more time with Her Surreal Highness.
On the knitterly front, I'm pleased to announce that Hockey Mom is the recipient of the Pingouin yarn I posted yesterday. It'll be in the mail on Thursday, baybee.
I started a grey fuzzy scarf, hated it, frogged it, started it again, and I still hate it, possibly even more than I did the first time, but I'm going to finish it and donate it somewhere. Neither that nor the current dishcloth (spit) are worthy of photography.
I'm trundling through my stash here and I strongly suspect that there may be more giveaways later in the week. Facination Classica in two shades of grey, anyone? Or something slubby in an oatmeal colo(u)r?
Stay tuned for photos.
I seem to somehow have become the proud owner of a ball of Pingouin Kirouna.
It's a gorgeous colo(u)r, dark blue with flecks of yellow and plum and green, but I have no idea what to do with it.
From what I can tell from my (admittedly brief) internet search, it's about 132 yards and is 50% acrylic, 40% wool, 9% viscose and 1% rat feces.
Wait, no, that's the food at the local fast food restaurant, isn't it? I think I can guarantee that there is no ratpoop in this whatsoever, although one hesitates to make that sort of claim when one lives in the filthy chaos that is my home of late.
Based on my search of this madhouse, there is only one ball available. If there is anyone out there who would like to give it a good home, please send me an email with an address included and it will be meandering in your general direction on Thursday.
If nobody claims it, then I'll try to think of something to make with it but I hardly think it's dishcloth material and, alas, that's all I'm going to be able to make this month, apart from the dreaded Raw Chicken Viking Hat.
I've been knitting dishcloths like a maniac but a dozen of them seem to have been set free into the wild in the last month and I find myself, four weeks before my deadline, with 2-3/4 completed dishcloths and a vague feeling of impending doom.
I'm beginning to suspect I may, indeed, be an ass, however I also need the loot from the dishcloths and am determined to finish the order of 20 within the allotted time.
Many of them will be green. Pray for me.
Monday, April 04, 2005
You're Watership Down!
by Richard Adams
Though many think of you as a bit young, even childish, you're
actually incredibly deep and complex. You show people the need to rethink their
assumptions, and confront them on everything from how they think to where they
build their houses. You might be one of the greatest people of all time. You'd
be recognized as such if you weren't always talking about talking rabbits.
Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.
Well. Guess they told me.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
That's All, Folks
Today we bring you the very last interview I'm going to answer (I think). If I owe anyone answers, please drop me a line; I'm elderly and my mind is going, you see.
Today's questions are graciously posed by Cari over at Dogs Steal Yarn. She has beautiful dogs, however she asks a mean question.
1. If Elvis isn’t dead, what’s he been up to lately?
He's in my storage room. Knitting dishcloths. You don't think I do all of those myself, do you?
2. What was your biggest knitting disaster?
I have had a few things that have turned out not quite the way I expected, such as the microcephalic rabbit. There was also a vintage sweater pattern that I decided to make in a far smaller yarn that what was called for by the pattern, but knit the largest size, hoping that this would somehow make a size 18 sweater be a size 14 or 16 when all was said and done.
I got part-way through and realized that it'll MAYBE be a size ten, which I haven't been since I WAS ten, and I'm making it in such cheap yarn that I don't think I can bear to finish it. Learned now to make a nice set-in pocket thingie, but I'm pretty sure that bad boy is going to the frog pond.
I think the only thing that can be termed a complete disaster (apart from the alpaca shawl that my mother stuffed in a drawer and which I'm pretty sure she uses to clean toilets every now and again) was the first hat I made for my husband. I had no clue, I just adapted four different patterns and plunged in. I made a beautiful acrylic pancake. He wore it, lovingly, for months until my daughter wisely pitched it over the side of the crib on a walk one day.
That's his story, anyhow. I think he wisely put it in the bin.
3. What, exactly, is a rabbitch? Do they make good pets?
I'm an internet junkie (you don't say!) and I've been around in many rabbitly incarnations for oh, nine years or so now. Usenet, IRC, all of those fun things. I was being particularly vile one day for some reason and my man in Japan wisely observed that I was more of a Rabbitch than a Bunnie.
The name stuck.
And we make pretty good pets, but we're nearly impossible to housetrain. And we bite.
4. I love the chicken hat. I really do. I plan to knit one for my nephew-to-be... But it does bear asking... What kind of sick mind came up with it in the first place? Imagine the scenario that led to the birth of that idea and describe it.
Well, I think the best way to explain it would be to note that Sarah, the brilliant inventor of this hat, seems to spend quite a lot of time contemplating her vagina. Based on empirical evidence, I can only think that one day she decided to give herself a home-made Brazilian wax job and then somehow was possessed (quite possibly by Elvis) and just HAD to make a knitting pattern to truly represent the results.
The drumsticks were an afterthought, so her mom wouldn't guess what it was supposed to be.
5. Drunken knitting, you say? Hmmm... Ever wake up in the morning to find out that you’ve engaged in some questionable intarsia while blacked out?
No, although I wouldn't be surprised. I did have a dream either last night or the night before that I was doing Fair Isle. I don't LIKE how Fair Isle looks and have no intention of learning it (and yes, I'm well aware of the fact that more than likely next year this time I'm going to have to eat those words) so I was horrified. I was also completely sober ... maybe that was the problem ...
Thanks Cari for providing blog fodder for the day. I'm still sick and my husband is REALLY REALLY REALLY sick (and has a final paper plus a final exam happening right after work tomorrow night) so the amusement has been pretty thin on the ground this weekend.
Back to our regularly-scheduled almost-complete-lack-of-content tomorrow.
Saturday, April 02, 2005
A Different Type of Stash
Today I realized that there was no way I could determine what I had in my stash, even AFTER knitting 100 items (and even if half of those items were NOT dishcloths).
We used to live in a much larger home and I somehow thought that getting rid of 50 books and one chair would cut the amount of crap in here in half. Ha! Putting the contents of one fairly large two-level three-bedroom townhouse with ample storage into a one-level two-bedroom apartment with not a lot of storage seemingly requires more effort than that.
In my favour, I would like to note that much of this "stuff" isn't mine.
Four boxes containing 452 knitted squares, waiting for the kind ladies (and gents, we're non-exclusionary!) of my community to sew them into blankets.
This represents only a small amount of the "stuff" I have for this project in my house. There is no way I can even find half of my stash until I get this out of here.
I spent part of the day coming to grips with the fact that I need a storage locker, and the rest of the day explaining to my husband that we really have to spend $40 a month so that we can walk across the floor in here.
Five completed blankets went to the shelter today. One box of 146 squares plus two tubs of yarn totaling about 23 lbs. is now residing in that locker, with these boxes set to follow tomorrow. I figure it'll take at least a week of determined packing and hauling to move it all there, but then I'll be able to breathe again. And find the bedroom closet. And the storage room. And so on.
And then I have to find about 100 completely demented people to sew the squares together and knit up all of the rest of the yarn into blankets.
And pay for the storage locker.
One day I'll be able to play with my own stash again. Honest.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Chicken Hat Update
Seems I can't add posting members to the knit-along unless I have email addresses, so if anyone wants to join, please drop me a line at firstname.lastname@example.org and I'll add you forthwith.
Right after I can breathe again.