Monday, February 27, 2006

 

Coming Out of the Closet


Or at least the kitchen cupboard.


is all the lace-knitting and cussing over yet?

You will note that there are very few clean cups left, and no glasses except for wine glasses. This is what sixteen days of illness, work, and olympic knitting can do to a usually well-stocked cupboard.

I won't be showing you what the counter and sink look like. Apparently my family have been living on microwave popcorn and fast food for weeks now, and have lost the ability to throw out their own garbage. I don't even know if the garbage can has made it to the curb the last two weeks ...

There are potato chips in my carpet. Clearly when the only responsible adult in the house goes on "vacation" she needs to hire someone else to take her place rather than assume that the person who is over six feet tall and who also lives in the house will pick up the slack.

*sigh*

I'm sort of hoping there's room in the cupboard there with Tracey ...

Sunday, February 26, 2006

 

2010, Anyone?


Well, I got my first note of commiseration for failing at 3pm. This came as a shock, as I had understood that we had until the end of the closing ceremonies, and the person in question was about nine hours ahead of the game, but perhaps I should have taken it as an omen.

No way I'm finishing this year, babies.

I suppose I could pretend I was in Hawaii, thus buying myself two more hours (and an almost certain finish) however that's just not going to happen.

You see, a) I'm not in Hawaii and b) I have realized that although this pattern is simple, attractive and well-written, when it came to the edging, the pattern designer obviously stopped writing it herself, and let an Orangutan on crack take over.

I don't know what the charts are like, seeing I can't read lace charts, but the written instructions for the edging are completely wacked. I mean ... in the first repeat you're supposed to do this, that and the other thing until 12 stitches from the centre stitch ... and then repeat it all, including the "until 12 stitches from the centre stitch" part. Dude, I don't know about you, but I actually only have ONE centre point on a line.

I know some folks think we're completely wacked for bothering to do this and some are even quite disparaging of our attempts, but it was pretty important to me, and I'm disappointed.

Anyhow, that being said, it takes more than a failed shawl to keep a Rabbitch down. I'm going to tink the five or six rows of the edging that I got done, add two or three pattern repeats so it's a nice big shawl like I had been hoping for in the first place, and then hire someone who speaks Orangutan to figure out what the hell is wrong with the instructions for the edging.

And for now? Well, all of that beer I didn't drink while trying to make lace is calling my name ...

Anyone up for another attempt in 2010? (The 2010 Olympics are in Vancouver. I'd sort of have to finish for those ones.)

 

Little Light, Shining ...


There is still a tiny glimmer of hope that I shall finish this shawl in time, but it's flickering, babies. I've been knitting all night and my hands are frozen. Going to bed for a few, and of course I'm hanging with my kid tomorrow, so there may be some helpful interference there.

I told her I had to have this finished for Sunday at midnight. She asked why. I said "Well, there's this thing called the Olympics ..."

She stopped me right there and looked at me aghast. (Her only exposure to the Olympics has been watching all of the swimming and diving events in the summer Olympics.) She said, "you have to swim with shawls on?

I do believe that the IOC will be receiving an outraged letter. In crayon.

I'm just flattered that she thinks I'm still Olympic competition material.

Saturday, February 25, 2006

 

Oh Yes, There Will Be Blog


Here we are. 28.5 hours left to go. (I'm pretty sure we had to be done by the END of the closing ceremonies, didn't we? Please someone, tell me that it's not the beginning. That buys me another four desperately-needed hours.)

The lace is going well, however ...




Here we are at Row 100. I'm a row or two ahead of that right now, but this is, essentially, what the shawl looks like at this point.

Pretty, you say? Nicely done with only one visible mistake that only the obsessive would post and circle when the shawl is finally blocked, you say?

Sure.

Just about big enough for a kerchief, I say.

There are supposed to be 142 rows before I start the edging, according to the pattern as written. The shawl she had was over six feet, so I'm going to knock two of the repeats off; however, this still leaves me with about 20 rows to do before I even face the edging.

It's very tempting to cast off right now, block the sucker, call it The Kiri Babushka With No Edging Whatsoever and then commence with the heavy drinking (none of which has been done while knitting this, which may explain why there haven't been a lot of mistakes).

I feel, however, that I owe it to the team:




to at least attempt to make it to the finish. And, of course, to do some drinking at some point.

I shall therefore have the messiest 28 hours possible, full of hysteria, cussing, and drinkage. Almost devoid of sleep.

Gonna document the whole damned thing. If I can't lead by example, perhaps I can serve as a dreadful warning ...

Friday, February 24, 2006

 

The End is Nigh


All righty! Less than two days to show the world what we're made of.

So, all you knitters who are sitting there looking at your bucket of boiled ass, weeping that you can't get it finished -- now's the time to make a choice:

Are we going to skate around in circles, a la the Canadian Men's Hockey team, with as much sense of direction as had the Israelites in the desert, pee our pants and go home, or are we going to buckle right the fuck down and get KNITTING?

I know which one I'm choosing.

To hell with the house, the dust buffalo will still be there on Monday. Your kids can wear the same clothes (repeatedly), and your husbands/wives/SOs can fend for themselves. That's what fast food is for!

Come on, Olympians! Mix up a jug of Carnation Instant Breakfast, put it in your beer helmet so you don't have to stop to eat, and knit like your fingers are on fire!

Well, not literally on fire. Especially if you're knitting with acrylic 'cause it'll just get all messy and melt, but you know what I mean.

See you at the finish line, babies. You can do it!

As can I. Really. Shut up.

Thursday, February 23, 2006

 

Vole Salad Sandwich


I'm not sure if I should be more concerned that someone is googling for the above-noted phrase, that they found this blog through such a search, or that the search returned 529 results.

*cackle*

At least nobody's out hunting the breast badgers yet.

Thank you, everyone, for all your good wishes. I'm sure I'll blog endlessly about the entire process, so nobody has to die wondering.

(remember, "after" photographs go only to those who eat their broccoli.)

And yes, Franklin, I would be hono(u)red to tattoo one of your sheep somewhere unmentionable, although I doubt my very gentlemanly Irish surgeon would be willing to ink me. It would take a braver woman than I to ask him. Perhaps I'll wait until after I heal and get some nice lady to do it for me.

Because after all, I'm quite sure that more needles in my body is going to be high on my list of things to do right after surgery.

Hmm, perhaps in the fall.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

 

The Breast Badger


A little clarification here -- the badger has undergone a core biopsy and is completely benign. It's just big and lumpy and intermittently painful.

There is info here and here. But be warned, there is a gory photograph.

I've always thought my breasticles were too big. There are those who disagree but they're mostly boys and I'm pretty much done with those by now anyhow. This way I get the much-wished-for reduction paid for by the Medical Services Plan instead of having to fork out $6k for cosmetic surgery.

I've had the badger since it was a tiny tadpole (yes, tadpoles grow into badgers - they're both fish. Shut up.) We've lived in relative harmony for 31 years now, it's just gotten a LOT bigger quite suddenly and it needs to be removed.

I'm more likely to get sick from the anaesthetic (and I will, I guarantee it) than from anything else to do with this silliness, and certainly more likely to become defunct from overactive lace-knitting.

So relax. Go have a beer. And then knit some lace.

 

Half Way There


And Livin' On a Prayer (with thanks to Bon Jovi).

The Bucket of Boiled Ass is now at row 74 out of 142. Therefore I'm officially half-way there, if we don't take into consideration the edging, which we are conveniently overlooking in a vain attempt to make us think we can still make it.

(And I don't know when the hell I became more than one person but that's beside the point. Shut up.)

I'm also conveniently ignoring the fact that each row is longer than the last.

Half way. Really.

No pictures today. I'm very tired and had a rough day at the doctor's yesterday. Seems I need to have surgery right freakin' now if I want to keep anything resembling boobage stuck to the front of my body. My "mouse" is big enough to be a rat. Or a badger.

Yes, it will now be referred to as The Breast Badger.

I've got some testing coming up next Thursday, then a consult with TWO surgeons because I'm so special (and need some major reconstruction) and then we'll set a surgery date as soon as possible.

Fortunately it will be happening after the end of the Olympics, so it won't interfere with my knitting time, which is a great relief. What is mere physical beauty (or even health) when compared with the urgency of bringing home the gold for Canada's Drunken Lace Knitting Team?

I know y'all are just dying for some boob pictures (and are my stats going to jump when the pervs all start googling for that, or what?) but I'm afraid I'm going to have to disappoint. I'm not particularly enamoured with the fact that I now need a separate postal code for The Badger and don't much feel like sharing with my nearest and dearest 400 friends.

Maybe some "after" pictures if you're all really good and eat all of your veggies. (I'll need a note from your mom.)

Yes, including the broccoli.

Monday, February 20, 2006

 

A for Effort


And F for accuracy.

It would seem that Miss Tracey is not knocked up, despite the best efforts of her disgusting little brothers. Tigger has been spotted trying to get somewhere on her back pregnant. He also tried to hump Diamond in the middle of the coffee table last night. My house is lovely.

They couldn't do a spay today due to her having a skin condition requiring antibiotics for a week, but seeing she's not yet knocked up (and based on empirical evidence likely to die a virgin) there's no rush. We'll get her done March 3 instead.

I got shampoo for the other cat's skin condition.

Yes. I'm going to go to work, knit lace all night, go to the doctor (about me this time) in the morning and then come home, give Tracey an antibiotic pill and then and wash 16 lbs of uncooperative cat.

I'll take photos right up until the paramedics arrive, I promise.

Sunday, February 19, 2006

 

Alas, Poor Yorick


I knew him, Horatio. But not as well as I knew Row Fifty-Nine after tinking and re-knitting it about eleven hundred times.

Yorick, as a matter of interest, is also dead as a doornail, just like Row Fifty Freakin' Nine.

Dead. Completely deceased.

Ripped, in fact, just as soon as I remembered that I had put a lifeline in right after completing my very good friend, the Astonishingly Perfect Row Fifty-Five, in case of just such a mishap.

I'm pretty sure stupid people shouldn't knit lace, should we? I have almost no chance of making the deadline, but I'm going to keep on going, because, you know, the drinking and all.


there's not much of it but it's perfect.

And I would like at this point to announce that tomorrow is A Very Big Day for Miss Tracey.


fixed? but i'm not even broken!

The boys get snipped middle of March. That'll teach the little bastards to rut all day and night in my laundry pile.

(I'm a spoilsport, aren't I?)


Saturday, February 18, 2006

 

German Trains Run On Time


Amtrak, not so much.

I worked last night, as usual, 10pm to 6am, staggered home, had a fast bath (because I was cold and we no longer have a hot water bottle, that prized item having been stabbed to death with a steak knife by my beloved daughter -- don't ask) and got my butt into bed around 7am. I was awoken about 9:15 by my buddy Gaile telling me that she couldn't get a train ticket to come visit me today, and again by the same culprit about 20 minutes later, telling me that somehow her dear boy had talked the ticket agent into releasing the last, "secret" train ticket into her posession.

Slept until 11:20 or so, got up, grabbed some motley collection of clothing and barrelled out of the door. I had told her I would meet her by noon at the latest however, hampered by a last-minute return to the house to get the camera (I am a blogger, you know) and some unexpectedly heavy traffic, I pulled up outside the train station at 12:15. I was all freaked. I'm always late for everything, everyone knows that, and she had brought tons of knitting with her but I still felt like a total twat for being late to pick her up from the 11:40 train.

Around about 12:30 the train finally arrived (the security guard told me that it had actually come in at 2pm one day this week) and finally it was time to get this party started.


isn't she the cutest thing ever?

First up I took her to a nasty skanky building full of tables of used crap. Fortunately we both love flea markets. She got some Canada tattoos and we perused many unuseable items. She got a great picture of a stuffed assferret, though. Watch for it on her blog!

We then went and had The. Best. Lunch. Ever. at The Naam (I highly recommend the Avocado Cashew Enchilada).

The Naam isn't known for speedy service, so that took up a couple of hours of our day, but we still had time to go to Urban Yarns. Fantastic store, organized by manufacturer rather than colour, and we spent quite a long time fondling the glorious merchandise. The staff was helpful, pleasant and welcoming. I've seldom had a nicer experience at a yarn store. Gaile spent some time discussing her desperately funky scarf (and not the bad kind of funky) with the staff, and I had a conversation about how alpaca silk will call your name and make you take it home and how, if lace won't cooperate, it is just best to leave it in the car in the cold for a few hours to reconsider its position.

I was adopted by some Fleece Artist Merino sock yarn:




Isn't it pretty?




It's going to be something for someone who reads this blog, so I won't mention it again until it's done and gifted.

Of course, buying more sock yarn made me think upon the sins of so many other bloggers who are driven to excess by the yarn of the sock.

Cari, for instance, clearly has a problem, being in possession of enough yarn to make thirteen pairs of socks.

I, fortunately, am free of this obsession.


the pink is for my daughter and the blue is for a friend whose birthday is in March. it will soon be gone from my home. if a yarn is earmarked for a project, it is not stash yarn.


this was sent to me for xmass by Rachel H, who also sent the Regia for the pair that is on the needles right now. it will be socks (for me) before the end of the year. gift yarn that is earmarked for a project is not stash yarn.


this is some Lorna's Laces in the Black Watch colourway which was sent to me by Rebecca. Beside it is some amazingly beautiful superwash merino to spin that she got for me at some giant wooly slutfest last year. the LL will be socks for me before the year is out. gift yarn that will be knit up this year isn't stash yarn.

And, of course, there's the incredibly lovely handpainted sock yarn that I got from Patti. (She does lovely work. If you want some run over to her blog and order it, she has a few colours left).


prize yarn is never stash yarn.

Clearly, I have no sock yarn at all and anyone who thinks I do is a little mental.

You will note there is no picture of the Olympic knitting. We are having an "issue" at the moment. I will work all day tomorrow at a job where I really have nothing whatsoever to do and I'll tink and reknit Row Fucking Fifty Nine for the fourth time.

There will either be a picture of success or an official acceptance of defeat in this spot tomorrow night.

For those who actually know how to knit, carry on sisters and brothers. Carry on.

Friday, February 17, 2006

 

I Have Learned

This has been a Learning Week, Ch├ęz Lapin.

I have learned:

That I can knit lace, indeed
That 60 rows of lace is still only 15% of 160
That 50% of my time to complete 100% of the lace is gone
That Blogger is a total bitch and won't let me post pictures
That if I am short of lace-knitting time and also need to spin and make a chemo cap, that I will spin something entirely different, which I would be showing you if Blogger wasn't a bitch.

If and when a picture of an almost-full bobbin of red merino shows up, that's what I spun this week.

Oh, here it is:




My husband has learned:

That if a little boy in kindergarten punches you in the nuts, it hurts

The Kindergartener has learned:

That it would have been better to punch another kid rather than a great big man, because the other kid would have just punched you back instead of speaking to your daycare worker, your teacher and the principal, and you more than likely would have just had sore nuts instead of having to write a letter of apology when you can't even spell your own fucking four-letter name yet (yes, his name IS a four-letter word)

I have also learned that I have the attention span of a housefl...

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

 

Yum


Mommies aren't allowed to have favourites.




But I think spinners are.

The colour is closer under natural light. Yum.

And now, to work, to tink three rows and take another run at it. Up to row 43 (or back to row 43, if the truth be told).

Updates tomorrow.

Monday, February 13, 2006

 

Oh Sure, No Problem!


My bucket of Boiled Asslace is a couple of rows further on but doesn't look much different, so I'll spare you the photo until it's a little more ... um ... buckety or something. (My camera is like 100 years old, or maybe five which is the same thing in digital technology, and I have to be at work in five hours so I might not actually have time to take a photo and upload it anyhow.)

I was feeling quite smug. I mean, there's still miles to go and the chances of me finishing it on time are slim, but finish it I shall, and I'll at least try to make the deadline. Smug, I was, all relaxed and lacy, when I suddenly remembered that my Weaving and Spinning Guild is doing a Hats for Hope or Caps that Care or something for chemo patients and we're trying to collect 100 hats, one from each Guild member. No biggie, you think? Just a brief detour from the Olympic festivities, you say? Even a Rabbitch can knit a simple cap in four hours?

Well, yes, but we're a SPINNING guild, which means that I'm actually supposed to make this from handspun. The only stuff I have right now that's spun up is cheviot, which is way too rough to put against a bald noggin, and some of that merino in Mojave that really, I'm not giving up for anyone no matter how sick they are. There are limits to my human kindness.

I had been meaning to spin up some of that merino/tussah I got last month:


hello, remember me? it's me, rose. why do you never call?

and make a cap from that, but I never got around to it in my copious free time, and I spin at the speed of a snail. I also knit lace at the speed of a snail, and they want the hat in eight days.

Sure, I thought. Sure! I can still do that!

And then my daughter reminded me that she really REALLY needed me to make the pink socks I promised her with the yarn I got from elann when I discovered I didn't need to order more dpns (one came home to roost, miraculously) and could I just cast them on like maybe today.

And she's only five (and desperately acquisitive) and she's my only kid and I did promise. And I'm quite frankly proud as hell that she values my handmade items so highly (I couldn't get her to give her teacher a dishcloth I'd made, because she wanted it for herself so badly).

So yeah. I'm going to see if I have enough dpns left over in the right size (my second sock is still on the needles, looking at this moment like nothing more than a fancy hand-knitted cockring for a gay rhinoceros -- the rainbow colours, you know) and cast that on at work tonight.

So yeah, repeat after me:

I. Can. Do. All. Three. At. Once. (I'm counting the spinning and knitting of the cap as "one" otherwise I'd freak out.)

All of them. Really.

I'll just stop sleeping, that's fine.

No problem.

Carry on.

ps for those who are wondering about a) the illness and b) the house ... The illness is much improved. I'm no longer contagious and I can swallow again, which is a good thingie. The antibiotics are vile and I'm having to bribe myself to keep taking them, but I shall, never fear. The house is still "on hold". I am calling the poor man at the District office every Monday to remind him that I want an answer and it needs to be "yes". He's giving me some mumbo-jumbo about possibly having to give the house to some special interest type person who needs housing, but we're special fucking interest, dammet! I didn't actually say that to him but I just might if he's still being wishy-washy next week. And hey maybe I won't get my house but did you see who did? Run over there and cheer for them or something! They deserve it.

Sunday, February 12, 2006

 

Bucket of Boiled Ass, Anyone?


Important lessons learned today:

a) It is difficult to knit lace with a knitten on your lap
b) It is not impossible
c) The lifeline is your friend
d) I can find a missed yo and pick it up on the next row instead of tinking
e) My bucket of boiled ass is starting to look like lace




f) Lace is, so far, easier than I thought it would be, and it's a lot of fun
g) My definition of "fun" and that of a normal person may differ
h) I am glad I don't know any normal people.

Up to row 30. Behind where I hoped I would be, but the first repeat is done, and already I've planned the second shawl I'm doing.

I'm still sick but there's a good chance that nobody will be inheriting my stash. This month, at least.

Stay tuned for exciting updates as they occur.

Saturday, February 11, 2006

 

Report from The Trenchmouth


Or the trenches. Or whatever.

Despite the depredations of disease taking their toll on my delicate form, I managed to rally, as I knew my teammates were counting on me, and would not be able to forge ahead without my glowing example.

I therefore gathered The Kick-Ass Scarf Pin (from Designs by Romi via Ann) as an inspiration, lined up my amazing baby alpaca/cashmere yarn (courtesy of Ann and Jen):




and proceeded to freak out completely.

Fortunately Jen was online at the time and talked me through my provisional cast-on heebiejeebies (dude, that was easy, what exactly was I upset about?) and I am proud to present:


a small tangle of wool

I'm told that all lace looks like a bucket of boiled ass until it's finished and blocked, and I'm just going to take that at face value and keep on going.

I'm actually an inch or so further on from this point right now, and am pretty happy. I mean, I learned the provisional cast-on, learned how to put in a lifeline, and also found a dropped stitch and hauled it up with a crochet hook (I'm sure there's a more technical term but that's what I did) without having to tink.

My years of refusing to take any sort of antibiotic is paying off, as the erythromycin that the doc prescribed is working like a charm. My uvula is back to a normal size and I can swallow again. I assume the drunken portion of the event will commence shortly.

Knit on, dudes.

Friday, February 10, 2006

 

Streppin' Out With My Baby


Well, my baby doesn't have strep throat (yet), thank FSM.

I, however, do.

I find this very amusing since, as we all know, I am not sick. Not. One. Little. Bit.

If I had just used my Murpny's Law Calculator I would, of course, have been able to predict this.

I'm going back to bed. Y'all are just going to have to start the olympics without me. I'll cast on later tonight.

Send antibiotics.

 

Still Not Sick


It's amazing how sick I am, what with this great lack of sickness that's going around.

My uvula (no, that is not a dirty word, look it up) has swollen to the point where I am really having trouble swallowing. Not so good when you have the sort of gag reflex that I have. Let's just say I've discovered that even when your throat is half blocked, it is possible to be quite sick.

I am, therefore, on this Day of The Knitting Olypmics Upon Which I am Not Sick, going to commit the almost-unheard-of act of going to the doctor.

Feh.

If they kill me, Ann gets first dibs on my stash, except for the Merino/Tussah roving, which goes to Juno.

If they just lock me up for a while, I will expect you all to show up to spring me loose. I work in two hospitals. No way am I staying in one for any length of time!

Thursday, February 09, 2006

 

Very Disturbing

Go easy on that.
You will drink too much gin. Not the worst way to die, but you won't
remember too much of your life. Hey, at least you made some people
laugh!


What horrible Edward Gorey Death will you die?
brought to you by Quizilla

Thank you Maryse!

 

Change of Plans


No, no, I'm not trying to weasel out of the Olympics. I've got my yarn, I know where the pattern is, the kick-ass shawl pin is ready to pin the kick-ass shawl upon its completion and I'm even pretty sure that the needle I need is over there (waving vaguely to the left).

I'm casting on tomorrow, come hell or high water.

The change of plans is that the cold ... you know the cold I don't have? That one? Yes, well, the cold has moved into my throat. You see, I can't swallow. Hardly at all. (I find this somewhat mystifying, seeing I don't have a cold. Not one little bit. But these things happen.)

And as I sit here happily drooling at my desk, I send a plea to you, dear fellow Drunken Lack ... um, Lace Knitters, please, for the first couple of days would you be kind enough to get likkered up on my behalf?

I'll be knitting (and possibly even cheering very quietly -- I can still talk, much to the dismay of many) however I would think it will be Saturday or even Sunday before I can face so much as a sip of anything not entirely necessary to keep my body from drying up and blowing away.

Possibly even Tuesday.

(not. sick. at. all.)

(shut up)

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

 

Winter


I'm trying very hard not to have a cold because, as we all know, the Olympics are just around the corner, and exactly how can one hope to knit for the Canadian Drunken Lace Team if one is too sick to drink?

Therefore I am going to spend most of today in bed, so that the cold I am trying hard not to have will go away.

All I have to offer in the meantime is just a quick post to illustrate some of the hardships we're facing here this winter.

Yesterdays' sky, posted in honour of Sandy:




Isn't that horrible? Aren't we suffering?

Even the daffodils think so:


hello, we are stupid. we think it is spring.

Please note we have had something like 41 days of rain out of the last 45. I'm just posting our brief moment of sun to try to lure all the people I like to come and visit.

I still haven't heard about the house. I called them yesterday and there's still a good chance we'll get it. Keep all fingers and toes crossed for another couple of days, if you would (Lee Ann, you may uncross your legs) and hope for a favourable message by Friday.

Ooh, that would be a good start to the Olympics, wouldn't it? I'd likely be inspired to ... oh, I don't know ... take on a huge project the likes of which I've never attempted before and actually get it DONE in sixteen days. While packing. And finding the money to move.

Oh yes, we're nothing if not sensible around here.

Monday, February 06, 2006

 

Drunks and Fools


Some say that The Deity takes care of drunks and fools, and this is a good, good thing as, it would seem, I am both.

Behold a picture of the tiny, tiny knittens (14" Addi Turbo Straight needle included for reference).




The little black cat in the front, yeah, that one, the one that is at least twice as long as the needle -- that's Diamond the Chinese Cat. The runt of the litter. The one that I wouldn't let the shelter have because he was so tiny and he'd be all without his mom or sibs and be so sad.

I think I told the tale of when we got him, but I'm too lazy to look back, so just in case I didn't, here it is again.

We were going to get one kitten because Eleanor wanted one so bad. Sasha isn't really a "kid" cat -- she's sweet as hell with kids but she's a big old tattered alley cat. She's a scrapper, not a "kitty" and she really prefers adults. She's at least 15 lbs, it's hard for a little kid to carry that much cat.

Ben agreed to one kitten so Eleanor chose Tigger, but Tracey the tabby was so heartbreakingly beautiful I had to have her too. The mommycat went to my friend Caroline and the other two greys, a boy and a girl, went to the brother of the woman (my stupid and evil babysitter) who had the cats originally.

Diamond was supposed to go to another girl, but when we phoned her to tell her we were bringing him over, she was "busy watching a mooooovie" and couldn't take him. Even though she was at home and we were taking him to her door. And then she was going out, and then she was too drunk, and then she was too hung over and blablabla. I finally said no way was he going to her, and it was a good decision, as last I heard she had taken up with some truck driver 20 years older than her and was travelling across Canada with him in his truck, presumably blowing him all the way. If you hear of a horrible truck crash somewhere on the prairies, you now know what caused it.

So this tiny little forlorn runt stayed with us. He is now 30" from nose tip to tail end and he just turned seven months old.

Some runt.

I think he's gonna make it. You?

I will never forget the day when I picked him up and realized he weighed more than a pound and looked at my husband and said "Oh fuck. All of these are going to turn into cats, aren't they?"

I have had cats all my life. I got my first kitten, Tinsy, when I was four years old. I know what happens to kittens, and yet I chose to disregard it.

He's never going to let me live that one down.

Sunday, February 05, 2006

 

Oh Flour of Scotland


I have learned an important lesson. That lesson being, never leave a bright and bored child to her own devices, even if you're very, very tired.

On Friday, just before I worked The Double Shift of Doom, I needed a nap. So, like, people wouldn't die and all while I was at work.

It's really not recommended that you fall asleep if you're monitoring alarms and such, and I was pretty bagged. I decided to be a Bad, Bad Mother, and let Eleanor watch TV and play on barbie.com while I napped for a while.

When I got up, after nineteen interruptions for the phone, the assferrets upstairs who had blown a fuse (fusebox is in my bedroom), and Eleanor wanting to show me something on the aforementioned barbie.com because it was just so neat, I noticed a certain disarray in my living room.

Now, I'm the world's third worst housekeeper, so the array has to be pretty fucking dis before I'll notice it, but this was noticeable. You see, there was flour everywhere. All over the floor and the table, etc.

I asked Eleanor about it and she said she had been "looking at the macaroni" when the cats got into the cabinet, and they spread flour all over the place.

I took this at face value as, well, they're knittens and she wouldn't lie to me, right? Right?

*sigh*

Later on after she had gone to the babysitter's for the night I noticed that there was flour all over the top of the TV, the TV cabinet, the ledge by the front door, and on my wheel (and the wool I had been spinning). There was no way that the cats could have done it. Well, I suppose they could have gotten flour in all of those locales, but certainly not in the configuration in which I found it.

I confronted her the next day and said that I wasn't angry about the flour, that I understood that she had been bored and that she maybe thought it would look pretty, like snow, if she spread it about, but that I was very disappointed both that she would hurt my wheel and my wool and, most of all, that she would lie to me about it.

We had a good long talk and she agreed that this wasn't reasonable behaviour, and I promised that I would arrange a playdate or get a babysitter if I needed to nap in the future. We agreed that if that wasn't possible, that she still wouldn't cover the house in flour.

I didn't discover this until today:




This is my ceiling. I guess she stood there and threw it up at the ceiling and then watched it come down.

I'm clearly a lousy disciplinarian, because all I could do once I saw it was gigglesnort madly.

I wonder how the hell she thought I would believe that the cats could do that ...

Saturday, February 04, 2006

 

Oh.



now


i understand


everything

Worked a 10-6 graveyard last night, did groceries, came home, made my lunch and Ben's, went to an 8-4 day shift, came home, did two loads of laundry, did the dishes, cleaned the litterbox, fed three children and put them into bed.

I've now been up for over 24 hours and I don't think I'm up for much in the wit and wisdom department tonight, however I just HAD to show off The Sock. The yarn is Regia something-or-other in some colour. Bright. Rachel H sent it to me for xmASS, along with the cute little non-beer-soaked mouse you can see to the right there, with all of the little animal prints all over it.

Sock is happy now, second sock is cast on, I'm in lurve and oh, I think I have to sleep before my eyeballs start to bleed.

Carry on.

Thursday, February 02, 2006

 

Silent Poetry Reading


Anne has rightly brought to my attention (because you know all of her posts are written exclusively for me) that today across Blogland there is occurring a phenomenon known as The Silent Poetry Reading in honour of Brigid, whose Sacred Holy Day we are celebrating.

Brigid, as you may know (if you did a hasty Google search, as did I), is an Irish Saint. My maiden name is Northern Irish and so I feel compelled to participate.

Now, Ireland is well-known for lovely music and dance, devastatingly beautiful scenery and some seriously kick-ass fibre. However, Ireland's people are also known for their love of ... well ... likker. Which sort of explains a lot (at least about me), no?

I therefore feel it fitting to post a poem about The Demon Drink.

I was born in Glasgow, Scotland, so I have decided to celebrate this Irish Saint's Holy Day with a poem from William Topaz McGonagall, Scotland's Worst Poet. You're welcome.

I expect to find that I have lost at least ten of my Bloglines subscribers by the end of the day.

And now, for your enjoyment:

The Demon Drink

Oh, thou demon Drink, thou fell destroyer;
Thou curse of society, and its greatest annoyer.
What hast thou done to society, let me think?
I answer thou hast caused the most of ills, thou demon Drink.

Thou causeth the mother to neglect her child,
Also the father to act as he were wild,
So that he neglects his loving wife and family dear,
By spending his earnings foolishly on whisky, rum and beer.

And after spending his earnings foolishly he beats his wife-
The man that promised to protect her during life-
And so the man would if there was no drink in society,
For seldom a man beats his wife in a state of sobriety.

And if he does, perhaps he finds his wife fou',
Then that causes, no doubt, a great hullaballoo;
When he finds his wife drunk he begins to frown,
And in a fury of passion he knocks her down.

And in that knock down she fractures her head,
And perhaps the poor wife she is killed dead,
Whereas, if there was no strong drink to be got,
To be killed wouldn't have been the poor wife's lot.

Then the unfortunate husband is arrested and cast into jail,
And sadly his fate he does bewail;
And he curses the hour that ever was born,
And paces his cell up and down very forlorn.

And when the day of his trial draws near,
No doubt for the murdering of his wife he drops a tear,
And he exclaims, "Oh, thou demon Drink, through thee I must die,"
And on the scaffold he warns the people from drink to fly,

Because whenever a father or a mother takes to drink,
Step by step on in crime they do sink,
Until their children loses all affection for them,
And in justice we cannot their children condemn.

The man that gets drunk is little else than a fool,
And is in the habit, no doubt, of advocating for Home Rule;
But the best Home Rule for him, as far as I can understand,
Is the abolition of strong drink from the land.

And the men that get drunk in general wants Home Rule;
But such men, I rather think, should keep their heads cool,
And try and learn more sense, I most earnestlty do pray,
And help to get strong drink abolished without delay.

If drink was abolished how many peaceful homes would there be,
Just, for instance in the beautiful town of Dundee;
then this world would be heaven, whereas it's a hell,
An the people would have more peace in it to dwell

Alas! strong drink makes men and women fanatics,
And helps to fill our prisons and lunatics;
And if there was no strong drink such cases wouldn't be,
Which would be a very glad sight for all christians to see.

O admit, a man may be a very good man,
But in my opinion he cannot be a true Christian
As long as he partakes of strong drink,
The more that he may differently think.

But no matter what he thinks, I say nay,
For by taking it he helps to lead his brither astray,
Whereas, if he didn't drink, he would help to reform society,
And we would soon do away with all inebriety.
Then, for the sake of society and the Church of God,
Let each one try to abolish it at home and abroad;
Then poverty and crime would decrease and be at a stand,
And Christ's Kingdom would soon be established throughout the land.

Therefore, brothers and sisters, pause and think,
And try to abolish the foul fiend, Drink.
Let such doctrine be taught in church and school,
That the abolition of strong drink is the only Home Rule.

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?