Saturday, November 29, 2008


I Am No Longer Married

I've decided, based on this post that my marriage is no longer valid. Neither is yours.

I have explained it carefully to my former husband and he agrees that as long as I keep making his lunch, that I can refer to our union as an "invalid and oppressive construct of the patriarchy".

He's sort of cool that way.

He wasn't quite as cool with it when I told him that seeing I wasn't married I was going to start dating again, but we'll work on it.

Friday, November 28, 2008


You've Got Some 'Splaining To Do

I'm confused. Befuddled and perplexed also.

As most (all?) of you know, I have an eight-year-old daughter (hereinafter -- and also hereinbefore which I know isn't a word but I like it -- referred to as Her Surreal Highness). Over the years we've had some ... um ... interesting experiences with her schools. Much of this is my fault; I'm not an easy parent to deal with and they're most comfortable with the folks who colour inside the lines and fill out the required forms and so on.

Uh, forms. Shit. I was supposed to send those back two months ago. But I digress.

Some of it has been the fault of educators who wanted to "help her conform" rather than enjoying and appreciating her differences and creativity. This year's teacher is a whole different animal. She "gets" E. Completely. She seems to "get" me, too. It's such a relief and I have no doubt that over the years as I continue to butt heads with teachers and administrators I will recall this year as an oasis of sanity amidst the bloodshed.

Anyhow, this isn't about that. This isn't even about "Professional Development" days, which have confused me a little for some time. (Especially when she was in daycare. What did they do? Attend advanced colouring workshops given by Crayola? Play-Dough as a Dietary Supplement seminars?) (She had the most amazing daycare also ... they toilet trained her. I didn't have to do it. At all. For that I shall always bless them.)

Anyhow that's not about that either and there's no disrespect meant towards primary educators who I know work hard to increase their knowledge and skills and bla bla bla weasel weasel backtrack oh god please don't come and TP my house.

No, this is about today.

Today is a "District-Wide Curriculum Implementation Day". Apparently the way to implement the curriculum is to ... uh ... not offer the curriculum and all of the kids have to stay home (or at least not come to school).

Fortunately my husband isn't working today (I am), so it doesn't inconvenience us but really ... can someone splain that to me?

I think perhaps they could use some help in naming their days. Don't you?

Saturday, November 22, 2008


Hello. My Name is Inigo Montoya.

You Killed my father. Prepare to die.

I'm sorry. So, so sorry. This post is likely to drive many of you to despondency, or at least a few moments of ennui. Or even Schadenfreude or Weltschmertz or something. There may even be angst, but it just can't be helped.

I know that there are many of you out there who hope that I shall eventually give up my sporadic and inexplicable affection for the ways of the wang, as it were, and give myself over fully to the love that dare not speak its name, however I fell in love last night.

On the advice of The Esteemed Lala, Her Surreal Highness and I took The Princess Bride out from the liberry a few days ago. We watched it last night and I'm afraid that my heart has been lost to Mandy Patinkin.

Utterly lost.

I usually fall in love with the heroine but she really didn't have enough of a rack for me so I had to bend my rather bent affections elsewhere, and I'm afraid they landed upon poor Mr. Patinkin.

I am even at this moment restraining myself, manfully, womanfully, personfully even, from penning embarrassing sweat-stained mash notes to him. I really can't see that it would do either of us any good, and besides, I can't find my pen.

Or my mash.

All histrionics aside, it's one of the loveliest movies I've seen in years, and Mr. Montoya is one of the most endearing characters. It was also delicious to see Andre the Giant, who sadly passed away in 1993 at the age of 46. Despite his massive size (7'4" or something) and his frightening appearance, he was, from what I can gather, a kind and gentle man (who spent his spare time beating people up on television but well, we all make our rent money where we can.) I remember him well from my many nights of sitting around drinking beer and watching wrestling with someone who pretended to be terribly refined. (No matter what accent one fakes, the Bog Irish always shines through in the end. Yes, that was catty but as only one person who reads this knows to whom I refer I felt I could allow myself a tiny meow in this case.)

The entire film was charming. It was supposed to go back to the liberry last night, but seeing I'm paying a day's late charges anyhow, I may just allow myself one more viewing before it goes back.

And Mandy, if you read this -- call me. You know you want to.

Thursday, November 20, 2008


It's 2am, Do You Know Where Your Penis Is?

Mine seems to be missing.

I was talking to my friend Marilyn a couple of weeks back and during our conversation I said that I hardly ever checked my mail at bunniegirl at shaw dot ca. I mean once every few months.

The reason for this is that Shaw Cable is perhaps the worst ISP in the entire universe. They certainly provide internet access, more or less, most of the time (and there's nobody else around here from whom I can buy cable access and you know with all of the downloading of the porn and such I really need the speed) but as for their reliability in terms of email, they are vile. Completely incompetent and possibly verging on criminally negligent. There is absolutely no argument that they could present in their defense to explain the years of utterly appalling service I have received from them. (Dear Shaw Cable, if you happen to stumble across this post and feel like emailing me about this, I suggest that you send it to my gmail account, as if you send it through your own server the likelihood of my getting it is less than 80%. Please note that if you do email me about it at any of my email addresses, I won't respond. Because you suck. Donkeydicks.)

Anyhow, as I was talking to Marilyn I thought I'd just check my Shaw mail account and suddenly I was downloading either 2796 or 2976 emails. A lot. Close to three thousand; apparently I hadn't checked in about six months.

After several hours of work I was left with about 70, only ten or so of which I've dealt with ... if you've written to me there, on the small chance that I actually got it, I'm getting to you; you should hear from me this week.

Anyhow, most of the emails seemed to concern my penis.

Now, I would have written it all off as spam but there were so many many people who seemed genuinely concerned. Not all the same people, either. Robert987 told me how I could add 3" to it, Brenda45 told me how I could add 4" even! And then there were the people with the Viagra (or the Vi*gra) and the Cialis (or, again the C*alis) who wanted to talk to me about the erectile dysfunction I was experiencing with my elusive penis.

I'm getting really concerned; I mean not ALL of these people could be spammers, could they? I think I'm going to have to go look for it again.

Perhaps I left it in my other pants.

Saturday, November 15, 2008


Do It Now!

more the engrish!

I'm at work (at the "good" place). Working four to midnight today and tomorrow. I'm hoping that at some point before Monday I'll figure out how to follow these instructions.

Oh yes, and I'm knitting. As we speak. No really I am.

Friday, November 14, 2008


I Have No Knitting

But I have a heart. And a tear in my eye. Many of them, perhaps.

Do you?

with thanks to Frank for the link.

ps this really is a knitting blog. no, really. shut up.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008


I Do Believe I Am Owed A New Keyboard, Thank You

Next post may be about knitting. I just remembered this is supposed to be a knitting blog.

Or not.

Sunday, November 09, 2008


Why Can't People Speel?

It drives me mental. It really does.

I know, I've posted stuff with typos and so on and tend to write a whole lot of those sentence fragment thingies that drive purists to drink, but I really don't understand why about 80% of the populace seems to be unable to spell.

(Come to think of it, if we're in a democracy and 80% of the people think that "their" is the same as "there" or even "they're" then maybe those of us who think we can spell are wrong. But I digress. And also too if they could agree on WHICH version of they're/there/their was correct then maybe they could have some sort of argument but until they're (NOTE THE CORRECT USE) all in agreement, then they're just fucking wrong and that's all their is to it.)

I've been hanging out on Facebook a bit for a few months and I've seen a couple of groups that I felt like joining, but when I go and read the description of the group and it says "... we will need the help of everyone out their" then I just can't.

Spelling has always been easy for me. I don't understand those who can't. When someone I think highly of, intellectually, writes "they're" instead of "their", it jars me. (No, I'm not enough of an asshole to correct them. Even I have limits.)

Then again there are those who can run, and I just can't. At all. If I have to run anything more than about a quarter of a mile I start salivating and feeling sick and my heart goes all stupid (I have a very slow heartbeat to start with -- been clocked as slow as 42, although I'm usually 55-to-60-ish -- and I often skip a beat and then have a stupid double-thump thingie that may well lead to a pacemaker one day but we won't talk about that now, ok?). Give me a hike and I can go for days (I walked 25 miles for charity in one day when I was something like 11 or 12 years old) but the speed thing, I can't do.

So maybe it's an ability; like I can sing effortlessly; my husband can't. He understands a lot of science and computer thingies and I believe that many things are done by elves when we're asleep.

I can pick up accents, I'm good with languages. String theory terrifies me and we won't talk about gravity at all because if I have to think about how we're all actually just STANDING ON THE OUTSIDE OF A BALL OF DIRT and there's really NOTHING in between us and space then I'll go spare. (I don't do well on the prairies. We just won't discuss the first time I left Winnipeg on a bus and saw the horizon ... way way way way out there ...)

So maybe it's just a thingie, and like 20% of the population can spell and 5% of us are pedantic enough to be pissed about it when people can't and I should just suck it up and maybe worry about starving babies in third world countries (or even here) instead.

But dude, I'll tell you that after reading through about six Facebook groups last night, it's a really good thing that a) I'm not in charge of anything and b) I don't have a gun.

So they're.

Saturday, November 08, 2008


They Shoot Horses, Don't They?*

Apparently they also shoot my neighbours.

This is just a quick note to reassure any readers living in the area and who know approximately (or in some cases exactly) where I live that the shooting reported in the news last night (and likely also today) was yes, awfully close to my house, but not actually at my house and had nothing to do with me or, as far as I know, with anyone I know.

It was sort of freaky though. I was out at the grocery store and as I was leaving I noticed a police car going by. And then another. And then many, many more -- more than I even knew we had up in this neck of the woods.

They were all heading in the general direction of my home so I was slightly concerned, but as I drove home (wondering if my street would be blocked off) I saw that all of the cop cars were concentrated about two blocks away (on a street where I used to live, actually).

I don't know what happened, apart from the very brief post on the News 1130 site saying that the police were treating it as a targeted attack and that a young man had been shot several times. I actually don't want to know because then I'll have to deal with the fact that people are getting shot on a street I walk down on a regular basis (and, if I didn't have the car, down which I would have been walking with my groceries right when it happened.)

Ugh. I think I'll go eat more spanikopita and have another glass of wine (I cooked this weekend) and then knit on something for a bit.

Keep your heads down, willya?

*I may have used this title before. Apparently when I lost my mind I also lost all of my originality.

Monday, November 03, 2008


No on 8!

No. No. No.

No fucking way.

Sometimes people make me puke.

I'm almost speechless (yes, I know, whenever I say that it's probably wise to go get a beverage and cancel your appointments for the next hour or so because you're going to be reading a long time).

So I was over reading the blog of the delightful Mrs Quimby (no, she doesn't make me puke; I'm quite fond of her, in fact) and in one of her posts she had a link to a blog written by a knitter named Frank (he doesn't make me puke either). He's had written an article about the fucknuts who think that people shouldn't be allowed to get married unless the genitalia of those wishing to wed consist of one innie and one outie. (No, when I got married we weren't required to drop our pants, and in fact I think the guests were quite relieved when we chose not to do so, but you know what I mean.)

It both saddens and angers me that an organization would stoop to what is nothing short of extortion in an attempt to raise funds to support a proposition that would deprive many people -- many of my friends -- of the basic right to marry the person that they love.

It boggles my mind, and my mind was already boggled enough so I really didn't want to read this. I originally typed "really didn't need to read this" but I was wrong. I NEEDED to read this, and so do you.

I'm not sure that we're in a financial position to be able to donate anything at all right now, but I'm going to have a rummage through the bottoms of purses and pockets and see if I can come up with even $5 to send along. If you are able to donate, please do, and then send me an email at teh(dot)bunnei(at)gmail(dot)com saying you've done so. I don't need the amount, just the fact that you've sent something. I'm behind on sending out orders but I should be caught up by Friday (seeing my store's been down for a couple of weeks, that helps!). I'll put everyone's name into a hat and do a random draw for something nice. (Maybe some "Star of the County Down" that I invented to go with Sivia Harding's Diamond Fantasy shawl. Only one person's been able to get any out of me without buying a kit -- it would make you one of the coolest people on the block, it would. Maybe some Revenge. Maybe even something in a worsted weight. The possibilities are nearly endless.)

(And no I am not, in my turn, resorting to extortion. This is bribery, pure and simple.)

If this proposition succeeds, it will hurt us all, not just those who will be denied what many of us think of as a basic right.

If this evil piece of legislation succeeds, what's next? People of different colours won't be able to get married? (That would invalidate my marriage.) Women won't be able to vote any more?

At some point people have to take a stand and seemingly this is the point for me, even though these events are taking place on the other side of the 49th.

We need to be moving forwards, not backwards; we owe it to our children.

And to ourselves.

And next time I'll tell you how I really feel.

Carry on.

Saturday, November 01, 2008


I Walk Alone, I Walk Alone

And, apparently, with a bit of a limp.

So, I've been gone for a bit and all sorts of interesting fun and games has been going on, the highlight of which was that I smashed my foot so badly (twice) that I was unable to wear a shoe for almost three weeks.

I am a bit of a Luddite and I have only one phone (I also have a very long house, so if you call me and I'm not actually near the phone, I won't hear it). It's one of those big old things that weigh about 94 lbs and with the receiver of which you could easily kill a man. My supervisor from the "good" job (where I am right now in fact) called me one day and offered me a bunch of shifts that it just so happened I was able to work. As I moved towards the fridge (while holding the phone) to write the dates on the calendar, I guess the phone slid on the 800 pieces of paper upon which it was resting and slid off the counter, landing quite abruptly (corner-first, of course) on the top of my foot.

Nothing broken, but let's just say I shouted "Shit, shit, shit!" in my supervisor's ear. Fortunately she's a pottymouth herself so after ascertaining that I wasn't actually spurting arterial blood, all she was worried about was whether or not I was going to remember to write the shifts down on my calendar before I passed out from the pain.

You gotta love a woman with focus.

And then just as the foot was becoming marginally bearable (it's still vile but I managed to get a shoe on today, for the first time) I walked into our red Radio Flyer wagon (it's in the hallway, don't ask), damned near jamming my baby toe right back inside-out or something. It's black and purple. Very sexy. Be glad I don't have my camera at work with me.

(This post should likely have been entitled "Clumsy" but I happen to like Green Day more than Our Lady Peace, so there you have it.)

Please note that I come by this honestly. My mother apparently has a badly-bruised foot at the moment from dropping a bar of soap on it, FFS. Oh yeah, and once she dropped an entire sofabed right on the ball-joint of her big toe and smashed it into little bits.

You can stop cringeing, I'll stop with the horror stories now.

Anyhow, this wasn't intended to make anyone squirm (although if I managed I'll take that as a bonus) but to fill you in on some of the recent goings-on, Chez Lapin.

(Usually when I smash my foot it means I'm going to Seattle. I think the recent injuries are severe enough to indicate that I may even try for California in Feb for Stitches West, but don't hold your breasts breath. Actually, do hold your breasts. Wasn't it just breast cancer month? Go get 'em squished, ladies! Don't make me come there and do it myself. But I digress. Boobies make me do that apparently.)

Another high point is that while I've been flinging myself and my feet gaily about the (sharp and pointy) landscape, I've also managed to haul my ass over town a couple of times and if you happen to be in Vancouver and happen to be anywhere near Three Bags Full, if her horde of ravenous sock knitters hasn't picked her supply clean, there may be a skein or two of my yarn lying about.

Oops, and I've just remembered we're having a planned power-outage here in about six minutes which means I likely shouldn't be using up the generator power blogging, even though I know there are at least half a dozen of you who would have succumbed to terminal ennui had I not posted today.

Apparently they think emergency power to vital operational areas is more important.

Pfft, I say.

(bai, i also say!)

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