Rabbitch

Dear Gravy-Sucking Pigs

2008-07-22T00:02:00.000-07:00

Now, as you all know, there are many gravy-sucking pigs out there and if you're one of them then I apologize, as I am not addressing all of you.

Rest assured I shall get to everyone in the fullness of time, however today I am addressing a particular group of gravy-sucking pigs. Namely, those who write in books taken out from the public library.

You are not book editors. No, you are not. You are nasty little people who are writing in books that do not belong to you. Were you book editors you would be paid for this rather than spending your spare time defacing public property.

These books do not belong solely to you. I have no objection to you writing in books that you have purchased and keep in your personal library, however these books belong to the public. As I am part of the public, they belong to me as well as to you and I am asking you to immediately stop with your asinine and offensive behaviour. Behavior. That thing.

Stop. Right now.

Your "corrections" are often wrong, your comments frequently puerile and your marking-up of books that I am reading takes my attention away from the story, in which I am often immersed to the point that I don't notice the world around me.

In short, you insert your unpleasant personalities and your often-illiterate commentary into my personal escape pod and I will tolerate it no longer.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Floggings will commence at dawn.

Nibbled to Death by Dykes*

2008-07-13T21:33:00.000-07:00

It's far more fun than being nibbled to death by ducks, let me tell you.

I'm back home after my weekend in Seattle. This weekend was just what I needed, and my family was so pleased and relieved that I actually returned that it seems to have set a fire under their asses. I have a new computer to set up as soon as I get the table in place -- Ben worked on it all weekend -- and there's much clearing and hauling of fibre and other things to be done.

Ryan is fine. Well, she's not fine but she's far finer than I expected, and she will be fine. Repairs are well under way.

And now to clean out an entire 10x11 room full of fibre. Apparently my daughter needs a new bedroom. I'll attempt a real post soon.

*(I told them I was going to trash all three of their reputations with one sentence -- did it work? I must clarify that most of the nibbling was done by E and L's new knitten, who repeatedly stuck his tongue up my nose. Oh yes, and their hamster hates me -- possibly because a) he's not a hamster, he's a hedgehog and b) I dumped water on his head.)

Nibbled to Death by Ducks

2008-07-11T13:54:00.000-07:00

I was reading a book once (yes, I read, shut up), I don't remember which one, and some dude had died (that really narrows it down for you, doesn't it?). I don't remember what was listed as the official cause of death -- syphillis, a broken heart, alien mind rays (the three are very easy to mix up) but someone said "I don't care if the death certificate says that he was nibbled to death by ducks, I know he died of (insert something else here)."

Anyhow, that explains the title. The phrase tickled my funnybone, and I've ever since wanted to have that listed as my official cause of death.

We shall not, however, be needing a death certificate this week. I'm busy but not deceased. Nobody in my family is ill, and my mother is on the mend. Enough so that she and dad are watching Her Surreal Highness this weekend while I tootle off to see some friends in Seattle, including Ryan, who very nearly was nibbled to death by ducks, or its equivalent, quite recently and who needs my love and support. Or at least that's what I'm using as my excuse for slacking off for three days.

I'm sorry I worried people -- I hadn't realized it had been more than two weeks since I blogged.

The writing mojo left. It was the last thing to go. The reading blogs went, the knitting went, the dyeing went and then the writing went. I've had a difficult time of late.

The knitting has re-commenced and I've been dyeing again. The blogs? Um, I think I have several thousand posts to catch up on. Please excuse if you start getting comments from April's posts.

Oh, and I'm writing again. See? Here I am.

Thank you all for caring. And now I'm off to Seattle for some serious slackage. I might have to buy yarn and roving, too while I'm there. You know, seeing I'm running out.

Shut up.

Whatwhowhere?

2008-06-23T03:54:00.000-07:00

Uh, I'm still here, I've just had an utterly insane couple of weeks.

Quick update; something more substantial (maybe with pictures!) later this week.

1. My mother is doing well, I think she'll live to be 100 (just to spite me). Thank you so much for all of the good wishes.

2. I did the fibrefest yesterday and it was good. If you measure the expenses against the sales, I lost, and badly. However, many of the expenses were for things I'll use many many more times (my very own event tent, shelving units, a table and so on) so I didn't lose at all, and I got to spend much of the day amongst my people.

x. You can get WAY more into a car than you think you can.

pi. Bacon is still my best friend. Apart from Ann, who likely has nothing to do with bacon at all. Except maybe eating it. shut up.

Life is pretty damned good right now, but I need to go now and do that thing that mortals do. I think it's called sleep.

A real update (now with pictures! Did I mention the pictures!?) is coming. Really. Maybe even pictures of my new yarnz.

Oh and PS, if you've tried to contact me via Ravelry, I haven't logged in for more than a minute or two in the last two months ... try emailing to teh dot bunnei at gmail dot com.

The dots and ats thing is to fool the spambots. The "teh.bunnei" thing isn't a typo.

Now bed. Really. No really, right now ...

If It Ever Seems ...

2008-06-12T05:29:00.000-07:00

... like a good idea to you to stand up and skein something like 5,000 yards of fingering weight yarn on a niddy noddy (in several skeins) in one evening ...

Trust me, it's not.

I'm getting ready for the fest. There are kits coming and they'll rock. But man, do I ever love whoever invented ibuprofen.

And no, it's not actually a lot easier on a swift. A little faster but it still breaks your back. The minute Mr. Assmuppet's tax return arrives I'm buying me one of them electric skein winding thingies.

I think I need that even more than I need new shoes.

Ow.

ps mum is home and doing well, thank you all for the good wishes. and the best thing about it is that she's in her home, not mine.

My Mummy

2008-06-10T04:45:00.000-07:00

My mum's in the hospital -- she had major surgery yesterday.

She's fine -- nothing malignant, just a few small repairs -- she's already been up on her feet for a few minutes and when I saw her last night at five she was high as a weasel on demerol, quietly spooning green jello into her left ear.

She was alert enough to refuse to drink the swill they called tea. She said "that's all very nice, but I really don't want something that's been steeping since 9am."

They're really good at patient care there, but the tea is unspeakably bad. There was also no paper in the bathroom, no washcloth and no towel. I do so love the cutbacks, don't you?

All of the things I've said about her? They're true, from my perspective. But she's still my mummy and the only one I've got, so if you could possibly spare a good thought or two I'd appreciate it. She's got about six weeks of recovery ahead of her and I suspect after about two more weeks she'll be irritating as fuck. I know I would be. And will be.

Send good thoughts and strength in our direction if you would; otherwise one of us is almost sure to strangle the other.

Going in the Car, Car

2008-06-05T03:47:00.000-07:00

I'm going in the car, car
'Cause it isn't very far, far
I'm going to the fest, fest
And it's gonna be the best, best

Everybody sing!

A friend of mine recently asked if I was going to go to the Knit-Out and Fest in Victoria on the 22nd. I said no, I hadn't even been aware of the passage of time and that it was coming up so soon. I'd seen no advertising (mostly because I'm being a hermit these days) and hadn't even thought to bookmark it.

So I wrote to the organizer and said "dude, can I get on the list for updates for next year, seeing I've missed the deadline for this one?"

She wrote back and said "oh, you can still have a table, the deadline was just for sponsors."

I wrote back and said something along the lines of "Eek! Short timing! I couldn't possibly do it and also too I'm working full-time right now."

And then of course I said I'd take a table and immediately launched into full-scale crisis-management mode. Apparently I'm good at that. I thrive on chaos. No wonder Stephanie and I think that Kali is an appropriate name for me (Janice just still isn't working).

I've lined up a shitpile of good stuff -- some kits, some soap (seriously dudes, you want this ... if I'm not allergic to it, nobody is), some other thangs. There's roving in the oven right now. Seacell in "Tequila Sunrise" and if you have quite a lot of cash (like $8 an ounce) and don't value your vision you'll love it (magenta, orange, gold, you get the idea). I believe I'll be carrying some lines from other vendors also who won't be able to make it that day.

There's a dyed purple lamb batt for felting or spinning, a whole heap of sock yarn (and maybe even too some Revenge if you're lucky) and god knows what else.

So ... you going? If so, apparently I'll see you there.

The Ride of the Valkyries

2008-06-01T03:52:00.001-07:00

The Esteemed Lala takes off in about half an hour for her epic fundraising ride. I think the ride actually starts about two and a half hours from now.

This is a difficult time for many people (WTF has gone on with everyone this month??) and I know everyone's busy but if y'all could spare a good thought or two over the next week as she rides 2,498 miles (or whatever it is -- I may be prone to a little exaggeration here) with an egg balanced on the end of her nose, I can't see that being a bad thing.

Ride, Lala, ride.

You are truly a righteous woman.

What Things Really Cost

2008-05-28T19:40:00.000-07:00

A box of green garbage bags -- $2.79
The value of my time spent cleaning up the house -- about $40
Finding an old boyfriend running the drop-scale at the local dump? Priceless.

Apparently I am a small person with a shrivelled grape for a heart. Black grape. I was pleased.

The Needle and The Damage Done

2008-05-26T23:52:00.000-07:00

I went to see my pusher today. Sure, there was plenty of "stuff" in the house, but last time I was there I scored a couple of ounces of jet black combed alpaca top and I couldn't get it out of my mind.

Nothing else would do -- not the tussah, not the bunny, not the cheviot. Not even the llama.

It was hopeless -- I had to have me some more of that. It was like a fire in my veins. Just the thought of it was an itch, a disease. I was helpless in the face of such need. It was like being in love -- if I had been capable of such an emotion since I felted the alpaca/silk/bunny roving.

I'll never get over that. Not if I live another three years.

We pulled the jalopy up outside the front door and, as always, Pearl was there waiting. I don't even know her real name -- I've just always called her Pearl*. It suits her. Small, mysterious, enticing ... she's always got the goods.

Today she disappointed me for the first time. No corriedale, no alpaca. I was stunned -- stopped in my tracks -- but she distracted me with packages of seawool. She's dealt with harder cases than me and knows just what to do.

I've been told to watch out for women like her, but I'm a fool for a broad with a package of cleaner-than-clean pencil roving. It's my only weakness**.

I fondled the seawool, a package of "young mohair", some combed Colonial top, and maybe a little tussah. I sniffed a batt of lambswool. For the first time that day I let my guard down. My attention slipped, and now I've paid the price.

By the time I overcame the dizziness of the wool fumes and turned around the woman had hooked my daughter as well and had taught her how to needle felt.

I blame myself; I shoulda been paying attention.

Poor kid, she didn't stand a chance. She'd already felted a fried egg and was looking around for more fibre to abuse.

She was a goner.

I bought two felting needles (plus all of the fibre I'd been sniffing -- there was no point in trying to resist.)

We got back home and I got the kid fed, washed and settled into bed, but I had to know for myself. What was it that had hooked her so hard?

I got out one of the needles, some roving and a block of foam and poked a few holes -- just a little taste, that's all it was. Just a taste. Then I poked a few more, turned it over, continued poking.

I was a poking machine. I couldn't stop myself.

Eventually I managed to pull away. The tiny red blob that I'd created just lay there, taunting me. It was like it was trying to tell me something, but my radio wasn't receiving that channel.

I turned my back and went into my studio where no such madness had ever occurred. Oh, sure, I'd enjoyed it, but I could leave it behind. It had no hold on me. I was strong.

I crept back to the dining room and reached out a trembling hand to pick up the needle once more.

Just a taste.

I can quit any time.

*yes, it's her real name.
**apart from the likker, and such.

I Can Has An Oops

2008-05-21T22:56:00.000-07:00

Today the "good" hospiddle was all out of love (and so lost without me) and also all out of staff. So, out of the goodness of my heart and the love of filthy lucre, I went in to work the 10-6 shift.

Part-way through the day, the conversation went something like this:

L: Do you have a blog?

Me: (frantially trying to lie): Yes! (apparently I failed)

L: What's it called?

Me: (attempting to dissemble) Rabbitch (failing again)

L: Aha! I knew it was you!

I was well and truly ...

more cat pictures

My first thought?

more cat pictures

Seems my co-worker was talking to a friend and the friend mentioned "this blog she'd found" written by a woman who knits and spins and who works at a couple of hospiddles and had just quit her job. Sound familiar?

Well, it sounded familiar to L and she said "I'll bet I know who that is." Her friend said "Pshaw!" or something along those lines. "Out of all the people who blog and all of the people who knit, what are the odds that you could know her?"

And L said "I'll bet you five dollars right now that I know her."

After the initial "Oh noes" moment I warned her that I hadn't mentioned it because I'm a pottymouth and I figured I didn't really want my co-workers knowing all about me also too. She seemed unperturbed and started reading. So, um, Hi L! *waving frantically*

And L's friend? I do believe you owe her five bucks.

and now to wait for the people at the bad job to find it and try to fire me for it like what happened to that stupid woman who made a career out of being fired and then talking about her child's potty-training problems for several years

ps. if that happens, we'll have a party. beer's on me. more than likely, anyhow, after about the fourth one ...

i'm clumsy

It's A Beautiful Day

2008-05-20T23:27:00.000-07:00

We went to the woods again today. I realize that the last post was also "today" but it was Monday when we went up to Lynn Valley Headwaters.

Today we just went down by the river near Bridgeman Park and walked about and skritched dogs and got licked and jumped on and we were all muddy and spitty by the time we left. No pictures this time, alas.

It was just E and me and I can't think of more fun that two girls could have on a semi-sunny afternoon. Well, I suppose I could but it involves unrelated girls and liquor and we're just not going there today, mmkay?

Buncha perverts, you are.

One of the good things was that we met another local artist who was pretty much smothered in Frenchies (two) and Pugs (three) and one slightly bewildered but good-natured lab. We talked for quite a while -- she makes nice stuff. I'm coveting some of her earrings even though I'm not so girly any more. I still wear earrings, though. Maybe next week ...

Bad, bad rabbit.

Bad.

Don't buy the blue ones, I want them.

Suddenly, It's Spring

2008-05-20T04:29:00.001-07:00

lv16
Originally uploaded by Rabbitch

We spent quite a bit of time noodling about in the woods this weekend. This is the best shot, but there are many others ... trees, rocks, water and so on.

I thought it might make you smile.

Ride, Lala, Ride!

2008-05-18T04:02:00.000-07:00

As many of you know, The Esteemed Lala, wife of the much-loved (and equally esteemed) Rachael is preparing for a massive bike ride to raise funds for AIDS research and to improve the lives of those currently living with AIDS or HIV.

I mean dudes, 545 miles, San Francisco to Los Angeles. On a bike. I'd rather spend a month with a damp and cranky weasel inhabiting my trousers. While I'm wearing them. Maybe even a damp and cranky weasel with fleas.

Apparently she is a woman of far greater moral fibre than am I. This is hardly startling; many are. But she's taking it to the extreme.

Today is a special day. Last weekend she rode 89 miles in one day. She referred to those miles in unflattering terms, implying that they had had some sort of illicit congress with someone's maternal unit. But she did it. And then I think she ate an entire pig.

Today she's riding a century. 100 miles. On a fucking bike. Dude, I drive to the corner store and it's on the corner. She's mental.

But I have complete confidence that she can do it. I have complete confidence she can do the "big ride", too. If I had the loot, I'd be standing there at the finish line on the actual ride day, throwing rubber chickens at her and shouting "I told you so" or something equally supportive.

I'm supportive, but I'm also about as annoying as sand in your bathing suit, apparently. But I mean well. Most of the time.

The point of this post (and I do have one) is that I think we should all spend the day singing, "Ride, Lala, Ride" whenever it seems appropriate. In fact I think we should sing it even when it seems terribly inappropriate, too. Unless you're in church. There is a dispensation for those in church (unless you can get the entire congregation to sing it with you and then I'm gonna so send you some yarn).

I'd also like to ask anyone with a spare $1 or $5 or even $100 on their BastardCard to go and cough it up on her sponsorship page. The initial goal she set was $3k and she's raised $4011 at this moment. So yes, she's met that goal ... but that doesn't mean that there aren't folks out there who could use a little more. Go, give.

This cause is special to me as my best friend Martin died on January 19, 1995, of AIDS. He fought for so long ... for housing assistance, for meal supplements, for anything and everything that would just give him the opportunity to live what time he had with a little dignity. And in between the fighting I must say that he and I had the best seven years of my life. I've never until this year called someone my "best friend" since he decided to die two days before my birthday (bitch would do anything to get out of buying me a present). He was and is irreplaceable. I don't want to see anyone mourn for 13 years like I have.

I'd really like AIDS to go away one day. I'd like it to happen in my lifetime, FSM willing. But until that happens, I'd really like those who can no longer fend for themselves be taken care of in comfort and dignity.

Um, so yes, I'm going to get off my soapbox now before I get even more maudlin than I've been. If you have some loot, please send it to Lala's sponsorship page. If you don't ...

Let's sing!

Some People Just Need Stabbin'

2008-05-13T03:42:00.000-07:00

My dear friend Rachael is usually a calm and competent person. She has to be, for the work that she does (911 dispatcher -- she's got ova of steel; I could never do that).

Today she got pissed off (after, apparently, having been pissed on)

Someone had written to her, saying that they were outraged at her using her time at work to knit and steek and so forth, as she was "wasting the taxpayers' money".

I almost hijacked her comments with a rant but I figured I'd do it over here in my own space (and also too I haven't blogged for a week so likely half of you think I'm dead after my last dramatic outpouring).

You see, I have worked for almost eight years in a related field, although nothing as intense as she does. I work for a centralized call centre for six healthcare facilities. I call the codes for all six (ie, someone goes into cardiac arrest, I call the team to get there -- something goes on fire, I liaise with emergency services, etc.), plus answering regular calls, paging, doing patient info, helping out the oftimes bemused and chemically-enhanced public and helping avert disasters as best I can. It's a big job, but it's still nothing like Rachael does. (The other job is the same but for only two facilities, thank the FSM.)

And there's a lot of downtime on the off-peak hours.

When I work the night shift I work anywhere from 8-16 hours alone (usually only 8 but there have been times when there's been no relief for the morning shift). Nothing but the sound of my own breathing (I find music a distraction). No breaks. I have to pee with the door open in case the alarm goes off. (Fortunately there's a double-locked steel door set in concrete between me and the rest of the world. I don't love anyone enough to pee in public.)

When the phone rings, my response is often less than one second. If I'm across the room hastily heating something up or grabbing a glass of water, it could be five. If the code alarm goes, it's NEVER five. It's two, even if I have to drop my salad on the floor (no, I don't heat salad, shut up). I slipped on water on the floor one night and fell and thought I'd broken my kneecap and I still got the phone on the second ring (and am disappointed I didn't blog the bruise).

And when I don't get a call for an hour, or three? (yes, in my position it happens) I knit. I read. I do Sudoku. Sure, the taxpayers might think they're paying for me to knit (please also note that most of the knitting I do on that shift goes to charity). What they're paying me for is to make sure that the people who can save their lives or the lives of their loved ones get there in time. As she said, they're paying us to know what to do and to do it right quick.

And while I'm busy helping save their loved ones, I'm also paying their child's college tuition with my taxes even though my husband can't afford to finish his degree (and he works and is also paying for their tuition). I'm paying for their public transit with my taxes even though transit doesn't run at a time that would take me or my husband to work so he has to walk a couple of miles a day, while I have to drive a car I can't really afford.

I'm paying for them to send their three kids to public school while I'm scrabbling to find the funds to pay for the non-standard education that the one child I managed to carry to term urgently needs. And when I find it (and I will) I'll still be paying for their kids' schooling and not begrudging a penny of it. Kids deserve education.

But some people? I think they just need to lick me. Or maybe to get all stabbitied with dpns. I know it would make me feel much better.

The Battle Begins

2008-05-06T03:47:00.000-07:00

Oh Shit.

I believe my child is gifted.

I've had two educators ask me to consider the possibility; one who knows her in person and one who's read about her on my blog.

(There is a woman woman whose name I've forgotten -- sorry -- who talked to me when I talked to the West Coast Knitters Guild a while back. If you're still reading, would you send me those links that we talked about? I've done some research but I could use more and I'd really appreciate it. I'm thinking you're right.)

She's been having trouble in school, and more and more she reminds me of a little girl I once knew. A little girl I once was.

I was accepted into a private school in Scotland at the age of four. One of the conditions of acceptance was an interview with the headmaster. Apparently he said to me "now Janice (seemingly he didn't know my real name, which I still suspect may be Kali), I need to ask you a few questions," and I, with all the confidence of one who had never been required to colour within the lines, pulled my chair up to the edge of his desk, put my elbows on that desk, rested my chin on the heels of my hands, looked him in the eye and said "all right, what is it you need to know?"

He managed to stifle his laughter, but I was in from that point on.

And I spent years and years being "taught" how to conform, how to colour inside the lines, how to fit into the box.

I was miserable. I hated school from about a year in until the day I kicked its fetid dust off my feet after college (I only agreed to go because my parents paid my way, while I was working 28 hours a week, and because I found a two-year course that was offered in a one-year format. Apparently I've always been a little intense; I can't help it). I've taken a few courses since; I have the equivalent of an Applied Business Technology certificate and a two-year Bus. Admin diploma as well as a bunch of Humanities credits, but really ... organized education is as much of an anathema to me as is organized religion.

So now I'm facing the same with my girl. It's late and I don't have time for an essay so I'll quote directly from an email I sent my best friend tonight.

"She's been having a "sore tummy" at school for a while now. It seems to manifest itself when she has to do something she doesn't want to do. I'm seeing the counsellor on Friday to see if we can work out some strategies. She's young. I hope she's approachable.

E's been bullied a bit by some boys at school. I got all "mommy" in her teacher's face the other day, told her what was happening. She said "well, when there's that sort of teasing that stops just this side of meanness ..." and I stopped her in her tracks. I said "It's well over the other side of meanness and into assault, and the adults in charge Will. Make. It. Stop. ... Now."

I don't get all up in anyone's Kool-Aid (as the cool kids say) very often, but my child will not be abused by the kids or by the system. She isn't the same as the others. She doesn't colour in between the lines. She doesn't fit in a box.

She doesn't have to.

So far the strategies I've been offered have been ways I can make her conform, ways that SHE can change to suit the system, but I'm not buying that. They tried to make me conform and the first scars appeared on my wrists at the age of 13. Although you can see most of them if you look at the right angle, the ones that ran the length of my arm almost to my elbow are gone now and I only have one bad set that's still clearly visible (did that over 20 years ago ... 23 maybe?) and I'm going to get it covered with a tattoo one day soon, so I don't have to explain it to her. I'll tell her later if she needs to know.

I don't want her to have a matching set, so I'm stepping up now to make this right.

I didn't have parents who were willing to go to bat for who I was, they wanted me to be "acceptable" and "right" and all of that conservative stuff. I'm not that sort of parent. E shines. I used to also. It's taken me 40 years to get some of that shine back (I think it was always hiding) and I'm going to fight for her. It feels like fighting for myself.

Sure, some of what gives her a "sore tummy" is stuff she's going to have to suck up and do -- there's no escaping math (she says she likes it actually), but I'm not letting them crush the light out of her like they did with me."

And so there you have it. That's part of the reason I've been absent for a few -- we've got shit going on here.

And E and I are going to win this one. I have no limits whatsoever when it comes to my kid.

I think the School Board is about to find out about it.

Watch out; Momma's on the warpath.

If Someone Would Please Explain ...

2008-04-28T16:23:00.000-07:00

... how I got dye on my ceiling, I would really appreciate it.

I dye stuff in the dining room. The dye is on the living room ceiling. It is black (the dye. My ceiling was white).

Oh, and if you could also explain how I managed to forget to go to work today, that would be nice too.

Thanks In Advance.

OK, Time to Stop

2008-04-28T01:31:00.000-07:00

My post a couple of days ago about the person who talked about something I was keeping confidential was out of line, in a number of ways.

When I told the person who "spilled" my news we were in a public place, we were surrounded by knitters, I didn't haul her into the bathroom and whisper it to her. In no way did I indicate that the information that I was imparting was confidential. And it really wasn't, I've told about a dozen folks.

We had met once before, we had never emailed. We don't have a close personal connection. I like her and I simply felt like sharing some good news. She was excited for me as she likes me also (although perhaps less after this tempest in a teapot, which I regret) and so she told a few folks. She had no reason to think that I was giving her advance knowledge of an event.

Well, ok, so "telling a few folks" involved posting on Ravelry, but it still wasn't like taking out an ad in the New York Times, and her information was correct. There were no rumours involved at all. Nothing she said was made up.

SO, let's stop dissing her in the comments, k? I don't want to have to start deleting stuff, but I won't tolerate it any more, even though I know it's done in support of me and to bolster me through a hurt. As I've said before, this isn't a democracy, this is my blog which is mine and belongs to me (SNL fans may recognize this reference) so if I have to get high-handed I shall.

I've learned a few lessons over the last few weeks. Reading about myself on Ravelry has been a bit of a trip. Surreal, actually. I'm here in my penguin jammies at 4am dyeing yarn and doing my best to do what's right and feed my family. It's weird to read about this "me" that doesn't seem like me to me.

Reading about herself in my comments has to be equally surreal and also hurtful. She emailed me with an apology. I emailed back with an apology for public sniping. I'm socially inept and just didn't know what to do and so I reacted. The mature thing would have been to email her and say "dude, I wish you hadn't said that, can you delete the post?". The more mature thing would have been to have told her in the first place that I wasn't going public with this information yet, but what's done is done and we can't turn back time, no matter how much Cher sings about it.

She seems to be a kind and decent human being and doesn't deserve slamming, so let's stop with the slappage right quick, all right?

KJ, I apologize publicly to you. Seeing I smacked you about publicly in my prior post, it seems only fair. I was wrong and I'm sorry.

And now, seeing one can't put the toothpaste back in the tube, I'll share the news with everyone.

I hadn't posted about it before, except in a vague and oblique manner because I have self-confidence issues, as many of you know. I thought "what if it doesn't happen?" "What if the article never shows up and I look like a tit?" "What if I'm completely and utterly publicly humiliated and look like a poser?"

Well, I suppose all of those things could happen but it's unlikely.

Lee Ann, as many of you know, writes a column called Made in Canada for Vogue Knitting.

I'm going to be in that column for the Fall issue. It was submitted a couple of weeks ago so I guess it's really going to happen.

I believe there are going to be pictures of Revenge (which is why I was asking for pix last week).

I expect never to sleep again and I couldn't be happier. Sleep is for the weak. Dyeing yarn is for me.

So let's all play nice and try to assume that everyone intends well. Knitters and fibre people in general are amazing, loving and forgiving (apart from a few bitches who I intend to stab with Addis fairly soon.)

A little philosphizing here: Even before I started knitting, I believed that there are two sorts of people in the world. There are those who build up and those who tear down.

Knitters are builders. We take hair from the backs of animals (or sometimes plant fibres or extruded plastic, this is in no way meant to exclude those who don't use animal fibres) and we wash it and comb it and twist it into string, and then we dye it pretty colours and we build with it. We build socks and sweaters and blankets and hats. We build for our friends, ourselves, our communities and often even for strangers.

We build up. We don't tear down (we shall not discuss the tinking here).

And so, if you don't mind, there will be no more tearing down in the comments. She made a mistake. So did I. Mine was the greater error and if blame needs to be assigned it rests firmly on my shoulders.

As for the rest of what's happening, I'm working on getting a new supplier before the magazine comes out so that I can fill orders. I'm going to be a reseller for Ashland Bay shortly (another piece of news I've been waiting to share) as soon as I get the loot together. Probably June, the way things are going, but seeing it's almost May that's not long to wait. Very, very soon there will be yarn enough for everyone.

And now, if it's all the same to you, go and build a sock or something.

Make the Rabbitch proud of you.

My Secret Alfredo Sauce Recipe

2008-04-27T00:38:00.001-07:00

Today I slept late, woke in time to rescue the last slice and a half of bacon from the "bacon shark" who kept circling the kitchen and then headed out to the river.

Rocks were thrown, branches were floated, wood ducks were observed. Dogs were patted, many hours were walked, and everyone was tired and famished by the time we got back here.

And so I cooked.

alf1
Originally uploaded by Rabbitch

As requested, here is the recipe for my Super Secret Alfredo Sauce.

I was in fact going to be lazy enough to buy trays of frozen fettucine alfredo and just add scallops and peas, but the store we like was closed so I settled for a jar.

Now you know the truth.

The mug behind it has nothing to do with anything, apart from being my favourite mug, sent to me by Emma last year.

alf2
Originally uploaded by Rabbitch

After the sauce was put in a pot, I found I had a giant bucket of bland.

Here's the first step to saving the situation; a little olive oil and some coarsely-chopped fresh garlic.

Garlic is my friend. Fortunately the neighbours live far enough away that we didn't actually blow up their houses with our breath after dinner.

alf3
Originally uploaded by Rabbitch

The next step in the improvements; a few baby bay scallops.

My version of "a few" is about the same as my version of "a little" garlic. I'm generous with measurements, apparently. This is about a pound of the little darlings, none even as large as my thumbnail.

Rest assured they did not die in vain.

alf4
Originally uploaded by Rabbitch

The Bucket of Bland was vastly improved by the addition of a couple of large tablespoons of grated Parmesan.

The scallops, oil and garlic didn't hurt any, nor did a sprinkling of nutmeg and a few shakes of ground black pepper.

Generally I hate pepper, but you've got to have a little in an Alfredo. Just gotta.

Um, if you remember, that is.

alf5
Originally uploaded by Rabbitch

Green peas make everything better.

Well, except for ice cream. I'm pretty sure they wouldn't help ice cream one little bit and could, in fact, make it worse.

alf6
Originally uploaded by Rabbitch

Looks like wallpaper paste with green and white lumps in it.

Tastes like heaven.

It probably would have been better made from scratch but I just don't have the ~~balls~~ ova for that much effort these days.

I forgot to put in little bits of onion, too.

There's a good chance I'm going to hell for forgetting the onion.

ammo1
Originally uploaded by Rabbitch

In case dinner tasted like shit on a stick, I had bought some ammunition.

This is a cheap white wine (less than $9) from South Africa. Yes, my dinner of delight was rounded out by the sweat of an abused farmworker's labours.

Man, those farmworkers taste good.

(This is in no way meant to imply that I have first-hand knowledge -- or have even heard vague rumours -- of any sort of abuse involved in the making of this fine beverage. It just amuses me to say politically-incorrect shit on a regular basis. You may have noticed.)

(Also too the wine doesn't taste like sweat, at all. It tastes like fruit and wine and stuff.)

ammo2
Originally uploaded by Rabbitch

There were further fortifications purchased, in the form of a half-dozen "Blackheart Oatmeal Stout" organic beers, brewed by the fine folks in Nelson, BC.

I don't like stout, it's way too chewy for me; I prefer pale ale.

Ben, however, is partial to a good stout and oatmeal stout (which is, I believe, the thickest of this particular sort of beer) tends to be hard to come by.

He was well pleased with it and had a bottle before dinner.

bread
Originally uploaded by Rabbitch

The addition of some fresh crusty French bread and some butter was also deemed to be a plus.

You'll notice that one of the pieces (about one o'clock on the plate, I believe) looks sort of chewed.

The bread had been greeted with great cries of "Nom!" and bits had been ripped off and dipped in olive oil and organic balsamic vinegar almost before I got it into the house.

We're all about the bread around here.

And the dipping.

breadsalad
Originally uploaded by Rabbitch

I then added a Caesar salad.

This was from a bag; I admit it freely. If I can't make an Alfredo sauce right now, there's no way in hell I can make a Caesar salad.

Served in little glass bowls and topped with squeezes of fresh lemon, it was deemed acceptable.

Acceptable enough that I hardly had to wash the bowl afterwards, it was so cleaned out.

Um, come to think of it, I haven't washed the bowl yet. Oops.

dinner
Originally uploaded by Rabbitch

Well, that's certainly far from the ugliest dinner I've ever produced.

It feels good to be in the kitchen again, even if I'm taking shortcuts.

Oh hell, let's face it, I've always taken lots of shortcuts. We liked this so well I'll quite probably take the exact same shortcuts next time.

This was my first time cooking scallops (apart from the bacon-wrapped thingies that you grill) so I was nervous, but they were tiny and tender and delicious.

There will be a post of more substance shortly; I just wanted to let you know I'm not withering away in a garret gnawing on dry crusts as I languish and all.

Ten Weeks Later

2008-04-26T03:05:00.001-07:00

The title of this post is a play on the title of a training film I watched recently, "28 Days Later". This film was one recommended by Annie, so that I would be adequately prepared for the Zombie Apocalypse that is sure to come any day now.

(Note: If anyone has an objection to gratuitous gore, you should likely skip clicking on any of the videos linked here)

I now know how to avoid being raped by insane soldiers and eaten by zombies. It was very informative, and I thank her. The next film I'm going to watch is this one:

(Bloglines or other feed readers, there's a YouTube video embedded there, if you can't see it.)

It can't hurt to be completely prepared. I'm thinking of watching Night of the Lepus next:

Anyhow, it's ten weeks since Stephanie blew up my quiet little business, and it's been quite the ride. I quit my job, dealt with being sicker than a sack of diseased hamsters for three weeks, my kid was out of school for two weeks on "Easter Break" (um, hello? Two weeks for Easter break? I'm pretty sure the rabbit rolled the rock away from the cave and Jesus came out and gave everyone brightly-wrapped chocolate eggs all in one afternoon), a supplier who wouldn't answer my emails or ship my order, another supplier who both answered emails and shipped orders but who ran out of fibre, a couple of people who let me down quite horribly, and a lot of very interesting (and sometimes painful) lessons learned.

The people who let me down did to me things that I have done myself to others in the past. It's a fair turn of the wheel that I should now be on the receiving end, although the scale of the down-letting in this situation was far greater than what I did. I smiled, shrugged it off (after a few well-chosen epithets) and I wish them well on their journeys. I have resolved in future that I personally shall suck less; and that their journeys shall continue without the benefit of my company. I just don't have time for bullshit any more.

I also had a couple of weeks of fairly serious mental illness. The Depression got its claws into me bigtime for the first time in years and I coped with it poorly. I refuse to be medicated and usually just ride it out, knowing it'll be over soon, but this was vicious. I'd rather not do that again if you don't mind.

Like I said, quite the ride.

Over the last couple of weeks I've had a number of concerned emails and even some phone calls asking if I'm OK. I haven't been blogging, I haven't been emailing and my phone rings mostly unanswered.

I've heard a couple of rumours that I'm maybe not all right -- and my answer to those rumours and the emails and calls is "No. No, I'm not all right, but I will be. I'm way better than I was."

But at least I didn't go shave my hair off, show my coochie in public or drive down the street with my daughter in my lap, so I'm still a notch or two saner than Britney.

As I said, I've had to learn a few things. I have had to learn not to read about myself (I love Ravelry but I just can't go there right now, so if you've sent me a message there's a good chance you won't get an answer any time soon.) I've had to learn not to tell people I thought were ok anything at all in case I find it spread across the universe (something that's coming up in my business and that was mine and mine alone to tell was mentioned in a public forum in a very uncool manner after I whispered it to someone who should have known better.)

I've had to learn to give myself some credit for doing my best. If my best isn't good enough, that in no way negates the fact that it is my best.

I've also started scheduling in some family time because really -- without them, what's the point? So tonight I cooked a massive dinner (ok a lot of it was frozen like the soops and the potatoes but shut up, I made that box in the kitchen get hot and produce things) and then we all watched a movie. Everyone's asleep now -- it's 4am. I'm going to bed shortly and tomorrow I'm going to the river with my kid. I'm not going to dye anything, ship anything, update anything at all. We're going to throw rocks and look for bugs and then for dinner I'm making a huge vat of Fettucine Alfredo with peas and some baby bay scallops sauteed in olive oil and garlic. I'll serve it with a salad and a baguette or two.

And maybe some wine for the grownups.

I'll be back in the world again on Sunday or Monday, but we need this interlude.

Report on the Harlot in Seattle visit will happen maybe Monday.

While you're waiting for me to get off my ass and actually write something, go hug your kids and maybe look for some bugs. I guarantee it'll do you some good.

Be very scared

2008-04-19T21:03:00.003-07:00

see more crazy cat pics

Well, it made me gigglesnort, especially seeing I'm heading over the border on Monday.

Be afraid.

A Cry For Help

2008-04-19T12:53:00.001-07:00

Does anyone have any pictures of my Revenge colourway, not shrunk? My camera seems to only take pictures in 72dpi, which is fine for blogs and such but not so good for what I need it for (yes, I'm being mysterious, but I'm not sure if I have permission to talk about it).

What I need is needs a print size of no smaller than 4 x 4 inches, 300 dpi.

Oh and seeing I'm asking for miracles, I need it by tomorrow at the latest.

If anyone can help, please drop me a line at teh.bunnei at gmail dot com. I shall think of some sort of outrageous brible to offer in return.

okthanksbai.

edited to note that i am offering a bribe, not a brible. WTF is a brible? I suppose if you want one of those instead I could find one. I have almost everything else in this house ...

Ann Needs Mittnz!

2008-04-18T14:30:00.000-07:00

I don't know if I've blogged about this before (or at least about this year's drive). Likely not, which makes me terribly remiss.

Someone should spank me, but really I don't have time for that sort of thing right now.

I'm running off to have a quick shower and see if I can do anything about this haircut (I'm not thrilled -- she was so concerned about not "making me look like a boy" that she has made me look like a dorky boy with a bad haircut), get the kid from school, clean up the mess that animals made with my garbage in the side yard, take said garbage to the dump and then come back and get all of my little packages of joy in the car to take to the post office.

However, before I go, I would like to urge you to go take a peek at Ann's blog and see if you can't talk yourself into making a Mittn or two. Or sixteen.

I'd like to, but I'm all through making promises I can't keep. It's starting to suck and I don't think I could handle one more giant truckload of fail being delivered to my door.

And now I shall go and indulge in a little ~~flagellation~~ personal hygiene and get this act on the road.

Happy knitting!

I Wonder What That Pays

2008-04-18T00:15:00.000-07:00

As you know, I seldom discuss here matters of a biological female nature, as it were. I believe that's best saved for whining on LiveJournal.

However, the other day I had to go and purchase what my local drugstore euphemistically calls "feminine paper". There's nothing feminine about this. In fact I don't know if it's paper, either.

Anyhow, that's beside the point. What startled me (apart from the cost -- my holy FSM, shouldn't these be free? It's really adding insult to injury) was the description on the package. (Heh, I almost said "box". I giggled for a while before I deleted it. As I've mentioned before I'm clearly only 12.)

Writ large on the side of this product was the designation "Pro Comfort".

Uh. Yes.

"Pro" can be used in several different ways. It can be used to indicate that one is in favour of a particular subject (the anti-choice loons, for instance, call themselves "pro life") and I would certainly put myself in the group of those who are in favour of comfort being something taken well into consideration when manufacturing things to shove things up one's jahoobie.

"Pro" has also been used at times to refer to ladies who make their living by "waiting for the bus" on the street corner but I'm pretty sure that had nothing to do with this.

The main use, however, at least in my realm of experience, has been to designate that something is "professional". Now, I don't know anyone who does this professionally but I can just imagine the conversation. I have found that usually when I meet someone in a social situation and they say "what do you do?" they mean to ask what you do for a living. Most folks don't want to hear that what you do mostly is make pancakes for your daughter while wearing penguin jammies and write odd poems to cats having surgical procedures (I'll post my Ode to Max tomorrow, to prove that this is something I do.) They want to know what you do for a living.

Them: So, what do you do?

Me: I'm a menstruator.

Them: An administrator?

Me: No, I'm a professional menstruator.

Them (looking frantically about for someone to rescue them from the conversation): Oh. Um. Well, is there a lot of call for that sort of work?

Me: No, I can only really get four or five days a month, but I'm thinking of subcontracting for a service in town. Totally drains you, though. I just couldn't do this full-time. Bloody hard work, it is.

Srsly, dudes, if they pay for this I'm owed 34 years of back pay. If anyone knows where I should send the claim, would they let me know?

Better Than Coffee

2008-04-17T23:08:00.001-07:00

much revenge
Originally uploaded by Rabbitch

With apologies to Woolgatherer for stealing his title.

This is the view on my dining room table right now. If you are still waiting for your order (there are a shameful number of people who are) ... there's a good chance that two of these are yours.

Some are light, some are dark, some have much black, some more green ... and I would marry them all, if they asked.

Instead, they are going to the Post Office in the morning (accompanied by a dozen or so of their friends).

I wish them well on their journeys.