Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Hurts So Good
No, wait. Not good.
The other thing.
If you are a total assweasel, and if you happen to be the sort of assweasel who has fairly extensive dental work ... and if you are the sort of assweasel who has a crown fall off ...
Do not wait to go to your dentist.
No really, don't.
Holy fuck was that nasty. I had crown fall off several days/weeks/months ago and thought oh well, I'll get it put back on soon. Soon-ish. Sooner or later.
Little did I know that when you don't have that sort of thingie in place, your teeth move.
So I got to the dentist today for my daughter, and the receptionist caught me and basically duct-taped me to a chair until the dentist could put the crown back on.
Jesus Screaming Fornication. It was worse than losing my virginity which, quite frankly, was a fairly nice thing.
But I digress.
I actually had to call in sick to work, which I hardly ever do. I think the lsat time was in like April when I decided that barfing would be a good hobby to take up. But, you know, the screaming PAIN made me think that the tooth manipulation dealie would be way more fun.
I spent an hour (or more) forcing this lump in between teeth that didn't want to move at all, and trying to do so in a manner subtle enough not to break the porcelain.
It's now almost sort of in place and I'm hoping to be able to stomach enough ibuprofen to get to sleep.
I go back in tomorrow at two to have it hauled off again and glued in permanently. Yes, all the tooth-jamming-on deal today was for naught really.
Pray for me.
And hope that I can eat something other than soup some day soon, k?
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Row Nine May Bite My Bum
The reversible cable scarf is no more -- may it rest in pieces.
Despite the claim that I can only knit washcloths, I'm a relatively-competent knitter, falling -- by my own estimation -- into the "advanced beginner" or "slightly retarded intermediate" category. I can even produce wearable lace and socks.
Seemingly I cannot, however, follow a relatively simple pattern. Either that or I just hate it so much that I'm subconsciously sabotaging myself.
Anyhow, it is ripped out and a nice, sane, healthy Irish Hiking Scarf is now well under-way.
Jim, if you're still reading this, your scarf will be done in a few days. Unless, of course, I lose the ability to count to eight.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Stumble You Might Fall
Fall? Well, you might, but I'm not going to.
Stumble, however; that's another matter entirely. There's been some stumblin' going on around here, all rightie.
For reasons too numerous (and too private) to list here, my husband's last day at work will be September 14. This was our decision; the company was disappointed to see him go. I may bitch about him here, but he's a good employee.
However, he's leaving oh, about a week or two before he was due to get benefits. My daughter needs a shitpile of dental work and only half of it is covered by my insurance.
With that looming and no certainty that he will be employed after that date (he will be, but I refuse to spend imaginary money at this point), it looks like all possibility of my attendance at Rhinebeck this year has been flushed down the crapper.
I'm glad it happened this week. I was on the verge of making last-minute panicked running-around-in-circles arrangements (this is usually how I plan trips) and had it happened even two or three weeks later I would have been going on an expensive trip with no certainty that I would be able to pay the rent on my return.
I've told him that I'm bitter, but not a lot. And that I shall exact revenge by going to some local knitter's retreat at the end of October that Mrs. Q told me about and also by going on at least two trips next year. Plus there will be visits to Seattle.
Yeah, I'm milking it for all I can get. And I bought roving from Gaile today to comfort myself.
Oh yes and we're buying a car with his last paycheque. We've got a line on an old Toyta wagon for next to nothing that's being sold by our neighbour. We should be mobile again in about three weeks.
Hey, look on the bright side -- at least I don't have to shell out extra money to get an "express" passport renewal done now, do I?
(yes i know i'm a little pollyanna and it makes me puke too, but you gotta find something good or you'll just scream all day long)
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Oh You Think So, Do You?
I was reading the newspaper today about a woman who had worked as a coroner in BC for 20 years and needed something to relieve the tension, so she took up glass etching.
Her work can be found here and it's lovely, however when reading the article I just had to gigglesnort madly.
The article reads, in part, "The etchings are handmade in a space over her Langley garage which she has usurped from her guitar-playing husband ... 'My husband probably wishes I'd taken up knitting,' she said, looking at large compressing and sand-blasting equipment."
And I thought about the hundreds and hundreds of balls of yarn in my stash, and the billyun or so pairs of needles and the needle sizer and the sitch markers and the scissors and measuring tapes and pattern books and knitting magazines and so forth.
This is quite apart from the huge sack of fleece sitting in my garage, and the bags and bins of fleece on the stairs outside my studio, and the several fleeces in my studio and the one in my dining room (a total of about 15, if you include the llama and the goat -- which you really must. You know llamas and goats hate being left out of anything). And then I thought about the 36" table loom (it's on legs, is it really a "table" loom now?) and the Nilus LeClerc floor loom and the two spinning wheels and the large knitting machine and the swift and the pots and pans for dyes and the worktable and the crockpots and the laundry tub and the batts and the roving and the couple hundred balls and skeins of stock I have for dyeing, and I thought, "Um ... would he really?"
And then I cackled a little, and went back to knitting my daughter's soul-sucking mitred square blanket (420-stitch cast on, in acrylic, what was I thinking?) and perhaps muttered a little about one being careful what one wishes for ...
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
It's Not Fair!
I went to the fair with Missy Moo today.
And then had to rush in to work, so no pictures for you.
Tomorrow is a marginally-sane day, Chez Lapin, and there should be pictures of llamas, possibly of bunnies (I don't know if I took any of those), pictures of a little girl laughing a lot, and quite probably some wool.
For now, back to work.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
I am Also A Writer
Helen wrote something very kind in the comments of the last post. It meant more to me than I can possibly say.
I have had, since I was very young, a "way with words". I have always said that if I have nothing else, I can write.
When I moved back to Vancouver about 24 years ago there was an incident with my bank. I was transferring money from one province to another and there were a number of fuck-ups that annoyed me. And so ... I Wrote A Letter.
Let's just say that the result of the letter was that all of the bank charges were reversed and I never had a moment of trouble with that bank from that day forth.
My father also banked at the same place, and he went to talk to his banker a week or two after I came back here. The man said "is Janice XXX your daughter?" Dad said yes. The manager said "Oh, she certainly has a way with words." And dad said "Oh god, you didn't piss her off, did you?" The manager said, "apparently so." My father said "I'm so sorry, and I hope they'll grow back."
So since I started blogging about three years ago, I've considered this to be "writing". There's another blogger who I used to read avidly and for whose baby I knat some things. She wrote in the comments of another blog that I read something along the lines of "but we're writers, not bloggers" and it stung like salt in an open wound.
I immediately removed her from my sidebar, deleted her from my bloglines, and I haven't read a word she's written since that day.
I wrote to another friend, a many-times published author, and said to her, "do you consider blogging to be writing?" She said "dude, you're writing, so of course it's writing" or something of that sort, and that it was an accepted genre.
So yeah, I'm also a writer.
The point of this post, I think, is that you shouldn't let others define your art. If you write, you're a writer, if you paint you're a painter. If you believe what you do is art ... it is.
And fuck anyone who says it isn't.
I Am An Artist
Lately, I've been having that angst thingie. You know the one, the one where you start looking at other blogs and seeing what other people are doing and you go "oh fuck, why did I even think I could do this, I'm a total hack."
I know it's not about "better" or "worse" it's about "different" and there's room for all of us, and judging by the way the things I make get drooled on by those who see them (I had two women today get quite warm when fondling the cashmere I dyed lately, and a young man of great discernment chose to wear it as a beard and I almost had to tackle him to get it back) when I'm living in the real world, I'm fairly confident about the fact that yes, I am indeed an artist.
But dude, you get squirrelly sometimes. Or at least I do.
A lot of this has to do with the input that I got when growing up. The "good, but not good enough" shit. The "oh, nice horse" when I'd drawn a cow, thing (please note, I am aware that I draw like a six-year-old, and these days when I draw a cow I also put a word bubble coming from its mouth saying "moo" just so you know what it is.) and the whole art being beyond my grasp thing. I thought it was something I could never have, never experience, never live in.
Maybe a year ago, after we'd moved into this house and I had a real "studio" (which doesn't make you an artist) I looked on Craigslist and someone was giving away a cabinet which sounded like it would be perfect for E's room. I wrote, I got it, I drove over and picked it up. It's great but it wasn't what I thought it was and wouldn't work for her clothes, so I told them I'd likely use it in my studio. They said "Oh! A studio! You're an artist? What do you do, what kind of art?" And I looked at them and turned bright red, and said, for the first time, to total strangers "well, it sounds pretentious as hell, but I'm a fibre artist."
And they said that it didn't sound pretentious at all and they had a friend who was a fibre artist and bla bla bla and I felt validated. I'd said it, and they didn't laugh. In fact they respected what I was doing.
Respect? For a girl who has to put a "moo" balloon on her drawing of a cow?
Dude. I felt good. And I also felt like a great big fake. Because really, I just dye sheep string, you know? And knit the occasional washcloth.
Anyhow, on Friday I met up with my stalker (the one who can kick your ass, remember?) and we went to my favourite fibre pusher to peruse their products. And while I was there, the owner, who is a lovely lady with whom I have spoken several times, said to me "Oh, I'll have to get some of your yarns in here. Let's talk in September."
I showed her a skein I'd taken for Loraine, and she was impressed, and said that it was lovely -- both the fibre and the dyeing -- and she'd like to carry some in the store.
So. Um. Apparently as well as the online store that shall remain unnamed until I actually deliver some product to them, I'm also quite possibly going to be having some yarn in a bricks-and-mortar store as well.
Apparently I am indeed an artist.
And it makes me feel all smooshy inside.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
My Stalker Can Kick Your Stalker's Ass
Oh Lordy, it's all been fun and games Chez Lapin for the last couple of days.
One of my
We met up at Birkeland Brothers, and I immediately noticed that she was buff. I mean I've been working out, doing curls daily and those thingies you do with weights to build up your triceps and so on, but this lady could kick me across the room. Fortunately she didn't feel like doing so. (And it was a small room, full of wool, so if she had then likely I wouldn't have been harmed. Ooh, maybe I would have landed in the Misti Alpaca or that huge pile of merino ... but I digress.)
She's all Taekwan Do (I've likely spelled that incorrectly) and really, her biceps are impressive. So yes, I have a far tougher stalker than you do and if you get all pissy on me I'm just gonna make her come back and kick your butt. So there.
She's also all fun and games and the two of us managed to buy an impressive amount of fibre while standing there chatting like lunatics (I felt like I'd known her and her husband for years) and pretending not to buy a thing. I've been true to my non-buying deal and bought mostly stuff I was going to dye and resell, and for myself got only one bag of merino/tencel roving in purples and one small bag of merino/cultivated silk/bunnie undyed. That actually marks the second purchase I've made for myself since December. And yet ... no yarn stores seem to be going out of business. In fact the folks at Birkeland laughed when I asked if my fibre diet was causing them angst.
Apparently I'm endearing. And insane. And keep bringing people in to their store to spend hundreds of dollars.
Oh yes, back to the
This lady is serious fun, and she spins and dyes and has managed to keep her wits about her while raising three boys. BOYS. Good god. These boys are like pugs on crack 24/7, I do NOT know how she manages to keep from drinking at breakfast. And one of them spins (at the age of seven) and kept begging his daddy and mommy to buy him a third drop spindle because he had the brown roving on one and the rainbow pencil roving on another and he just HAD to have a third one.
She done good.
And me? I got bunnie to spin.
We're all happy.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Okie dokie, so I'm aware that stuff (food, fibre, whatever) that is produced organically or in a way that is more beneficial to the planet tends to be more pricey because of the more complicated growing/gathering/processing stuff involved, and quite frankly, having eaten organic cherries (and garlic! Ooh, organic garlic!) I'm willing to pay the extra if and when I can.
Howevah ... I am greatly confused about coffee filters. No, they're not "organic" coffee filters -- I don't know if there is such a thing. Shut up. Anyhow, I bought these coffee filters for use at work the other day (we use a permanent filter at home) and I had a choice between bleached and unbleached. Now the unbleached ones, as well as being prettier (I like the brown better than the white) are also a "healthier" choice, apparently, so those are the ones I get.
Now -- and here's the puzzling thingie -- organic stuff, things grown in small batches, etc ... those are more expensive because there's more to producing them. But there's nothing "special" about these filters. In fact, seeing they're UNbleached, they actually go through one LESS process. No? And yet, they cost more than the bleached ones.
There's nothing special about these filters. They don't speak three languages or eliminate visible panty lines. They don't have a doctorate (in anything at all) and they can't even restore your carpet to its original lustre.
Just plain ol' bits of paper that you put coffee in and then pour boiling water through so that you can partake of the elixir that makes it possible for people like me to stay up all night, making the world safe for democracy, and likely killing fewer people as a direct result of the increased awaked-ness.
And yet, they're more expensive. Only like 30 cents more, but I get the feeling that the company's just taking advantage here.
Or is there something I'm missing?
Please discuss this amongst yourselves and come up with a reasonable theory while I go have another cup of coffee.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
The Stink of Tink
I gotta tell you, Tink stinks.
No, not the sort of tinking poor Janine had to do recently -- 723 stitches. *whimper*
No, that stinks to high heaven, however this Tink brings stink to a whole new level. Remember when Jen posted about her giant stinky goats? Remember how much hair that poor goat had all over it?
Well, somehow she worked out how to get the goat out of the middle of all of that fibre. Her? She's got a nice clean naked goat. Me? I've got a huge box of stink in the middle of my dining room.
'bout nine and a half pounds of it, I do believe.
Send help. Or, at least, a lot of soap.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
There May Still Be Time!
If there is, please go here and vote for Ryan.
Norma will love you forever.
I meant to do this earlier but I was deprived of internetness for most of the day.
Run! Go quickly, now! You can vote five times.
Friday, August 10, 2007
I'd like to thank all the little people who made this moment possible.
*scratching dirt with toe*
Heh. It's amazing what you find when you google for your name in the middle of the night, no?
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Things That Make Me Happy
1. The little green house that I go past on the bus on the way to work every day.
2. There are now only 390 people ahead of me on the Ravelry invite list (because I need more things to do).
3. I have had no further nocturnal raccoon visits.
4. I have purchased no yarn or fibre that is not being dyed and re-sold, gifted, or made into something and then gifted (apart from two birthday skeins) since December. Although this has made no appreciable difference to the size of my stash (and neither did the huge yarn and material giveaway earlier this year), I may now go and shop at Gaile's destashing without a twinge of conscience. (yes, i have one. shut up.)
5. I have so far received 18 washcloths for WISH, and I haven't even gone to check the PO box in a week.
6. I have received a wholesale order for my yarnz. Soon I shall take over the world. (no details will be forthcoming until the stock has arrived, been dyed, shipped, and is listed in its new home. yes, i know i am a tease, but i don't feel it's appropriate, just in case the recipient hates it all and wants all of her money back or, conversely, loves it all so passionately she can't bear to sell it. either could happen -- it's a crap shoot.)
Things That Make Me Very Annoyed
1. Apparently, in La Belle Province of Quebec, when a woman gets married, she is not permitted to take the same last name as her husband, even if she wishes to do so. She cannot even do it through a legal name change. A 1981 provincial law forbids it. According to some total assbeagle of a family-law professor at the University of Montreal, this was a major symbolic victory for the feminist movement. (um, isn't feminism about having the option of making your own choice when it comes to matters such as this?) I believe he's now lobbying to have leg-shaving made illegal.
2. We have many casuals at work. Some of them are whining about not getting any hours. I would like tomorrow night off. Not one of them is available -- apparently the hours they want to get are not the hours that I do not wish to come in to work. Therefore I shall continue to work double shifts. And, apparently, whine.
3. There may well be further disruptions at work shortly. If these come to pass there will quite possibly be a problem with my scheduled vacations. If management tries to cancel said vacation times, I intend to resign. By phone. From the airport. An hour before my shift starts. (this last is likely nothing more than bravado, but resign I shall indeed)
4. It is cold and damp here and I have not had my furnace fixed yet.
5. Apparently it is illegal to kill editors, which is a dreadful pity, as the phrase "... and tried not to hear the receptionist pick up the phone as soon as she was out of earshot" inserted into a book I am reading, almost gave me an aneurysm. Um, if you're out of earshot, how can you be trying not to hear something you can't hear? arrrrggghhh. (this may, in fact, cause me to talk like a pirate for the rest of the day)
6. We got mixed up as to when garrrrrbage day was this week and missed it. The garbage people were on strike for the two or three weeks before that. Guess how much garbage I have?
OK, I'm going to quit while I'm ahead, otherwise I'll be answering the phone like that all night. This would, of course, render the whole resignation thingie moot, but I'd rather choose my own timing on that one.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
About The Raccoon
I should say here, that the boy who was trying to get the raccoon on the bus wasn't trying at all to hide the fact that it was a raccoon.
He clearly knew that cats were ok on the bus and he was being all jocular, trying to get the bus driver to play along.
Sort of like when we go "oh look, I'm not buying yarn. Nono, this isn't yarn, it's part of a research project" as we casually swipe our credit cards through the machine, just hoping everyone will agree we're not really buying yarn.
He wasn't trying to really lie about the raccoon, he was just hoping everyone would think it was fine for it to be there, and play along.
And frankly, it was a damned fine raccoon. And it was clear that it knew it shouldn't be on the bus either, but was just hoping it would get a break this time.
Seriously, I either have to start sleeping more or sleeping less. That was a totally fucked-up dream. I'm still pissed at the bus driver.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Let The Raccoon On The Bus!
Well. I think I needed that.
I went to bed at oh, 6pm yesterday, and was awoken 10-ish by someone telling me something or asking for something or other. I paid little attention to them at that point -- I was pretty much all into me, me, me.
I'm so selfish.
And then I went back to sleep again, only to wake at 5:20 this morning. "Oh hai! It's morning and I should get up and get perky!" thought I, in chipper tones that made me want to slap myself right upside the head. I blinked, briefly, and all of a sudden it was like 8:40. Clearly I was sucked into the time warp.
I feel like a whole new woman (but where would I find one at this time of night?) and vow to try to sleep at least four hours a week from now on. No, really.
During that sleep I had a ~ton~ of dreams. I don't usually remember dreams for long after I wake up, but I remember, very clearly, at one point in my slumbers being on the bus, and a young man was trying to get on the bus. He had a small raccoon in his jacket, and the driver wouldn't let him on the bus. Apparently it was OK to have cats on this particular bus, but no matter how the young man insisted that the raccoon was a cat, the driver wouldn't believe him and wouldn't let him on.
And I woke up so insanely pissed off at the raccoon-hating driver.
If anyone has any idea what this means, I would appreciate your insight.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
I Am Death
You know how Terry Pratchett has that character in all of his Discworld stories -- Death? And there is the other little character, Death of Rats?
I am Death of Techmology.
Death of anything even vaguely mechanical, that is. I'm surprised I'm still allowed to have a phone, such as it is (you'd laugh if you saw it).
Two days ago I was trying to sleep ... I came home from work so tired that I could hardly walk the 2 blocks to get here (on top of the 10 blocks in between the other two buses). I fell on my head and was out cold, but there was this noise of a horrible engine. I assumed the guy next door was working on his car and kept waking and passing out and waking, and thinking I should ask him to stop for a bit and then passing out again.
Finally I got up to ask him to stop for just two hours so that I could sleep (if it really had been him he would have stopped immediately and apologized, my neighbours are way cool) and as I passed the utility room I realized the noise was coming from my furnace.
The gas furnace.
It shouldn't be making noise like that.
So I called Terasen (the best gas company EVAR, their customer service rocks hard) and then grabbed the kid and ran outside just in case, and they sent someone out to find out if I was about to be blown up. E and I only had to sit on the front porch for about half an hour, if that -- they were very fast.
Turns out it was a clogged filter that had broken and dropped down onto the motor and seeing there's a fan going all the time it was creating all sorts of dreadful noises.
He turned it off, and also cut off the gas to the furnace until we get it fixed.
This is not a bad thing -- it's August, it's warm here, and we rent so the District will have to fix it. It won't be a big surprise, that furnace has been failing for a while.
But dudes, I was freaked.
And then today. My day "off" (ha!). After running about and doing business and banking type stuff until about 11am (I got off work at 8) I came home and decided that maybe having clean dishes would be a good thing.
And so I started washing dishes. And when I went back to dry them, there was a puddle on the floor. I assumed I had splooshed and put a towel there and thought no more of it.
And then I washed more dishes, being careful not to sploosh, however when I went back there was a BIG puddle.
So I opened up the door under the sink and sure enough, the left sink is leaking like a sumbitch.
Again, I'm a renter so the District will have to fix it. But dudes. What's next?
I'm slightly superstitious (not bigtime) and I always make a point of never asking "What's next?" because some motherfucker always answers. But apparently this makes no difference in my life right now.
So ... Jesus Christ on a Syphilitic Weasel, WHAT THE FUCK IS NEXT???
Friends, Romans, Countrymen, Lend Me Your Beers
Or, you know, just send them. That works, too.
Anyhow, this post isn't about liquor. No, it's about something even more important (no, not cheese, you shut up). It's about something so monumental (no, not coffee either ... go AWAY) that I believe should this outrage (not) be allowed to continue, it could bring this great blogosphere of ours to its knees.
I refer, of course, to The Kidnapping of The Can Opener.
Apparently during the recent deterioration (read: total fucking meltdown) of her relationship, my friend Miss Libby inadvertently packed The Sacred Can Opener, belonging to Mr. Man, in with her belongings as she fled the conjugal nest.
He accused her, in perhaps less than friendly terms, of stealing said can opener.
This caused her angst. This caused her consternation. This caused her, also, to go a little off the rails but you know, during times of stress we all get slightly wonky so she's forgiven. (Yes, I'm still married. No, I have no explanation for my wonkiness. This isn't about me. This is about Miss Libby and The Kidnapped Can Opener. Shut up.)
Anyhow, in a fit of madness, drunkenness or perhaps inspired deviltry, the legend of The Kidnapped Can Opener was born, perhaps with a little assistance from yours truly.
Go. Read about it. Sign up.
Show a can opener a good time, won'cha?
Saturday, August 04, 2007
You Want Me To Eat WHAT??
Apparently I am so tired that I have forgotten that food only tastes good if there is extra fat in it.
I seemingly went to the grocery store and lugged back about 40 lbs worth of fruit and veggies and cheese (anyone wanna see my biceps? They're getting sort of frightening), only to discover when I got home that I had bought light cheese.
Is that even legal? Certainly shouldn't be.
I am just about done with this vile stretch of double shifts, overtime, just plain old regular shifts and so on. I have Sunday and Monday off. You can bet that tomorrow I shall be tromping back to the store, faux cheese in hand, and demanding that they give me real food.
And then I'm going to buy beer on the way home and get hosed and dye wool in the middle of the day (for shame!).
I know, I know, but I've lived too long to die young, so I'm not all that concerned.
And at least when I go I'll have a mouth full of real cheese. And possibly bacon. And a beer.