••• Sunday, November 30, 2003

Thanksgiving: A Retrospective, and Stuff
13 for dinner and 19 for dessert. It would've gone without a hitch, if not for the Apple Pie Mojo.

Mom and sis were bringing pumpkin pies, so I was going to make two apples. Late Wednesday night, after a loooong day of shopping for stuff and a looooonger evening of putting away stuff and making stuffing and stuff, I commenced to making pies. After preparing one pie, I decided I was approaching the legal limit for baking under the influence (of fatigue), so I canned the plan and made an executive hostess decision to offer only one apple pie.

This was a difficult decision, but I recognized that it's not my job to meet every person's pie needs. Even mom concurred. "You can't be expected to do everything," she said.

So I let go
And let pie.
Am not I.

Well, the apple pie mojo was mojofucating beyond the realm. Everybody wanted some. There was fighting and sniveling and expressed disbelief that I only made one.

Mom succinctly wrapped up my pain in this wet towel: "You should've made two."

Tabled Discussion, and Stuff
Hosting the Thanksgiving feast this year was a momentous occasion for me. It's kind of a long story, but when has that ever stopped me?

Five years ago, I made preparation to marry an adorable, doting man. The plan included moving into his adorable, much smaller (than mine) house. To lighten my life's load, I held a moving sale. Just before the sale, Eric talked me into selling my dining room table (which seats 14 with leaves..Or is it leafs?). His main argument was that we didn't have room for it, and he had a point.

A secondary argument was that he already had a table. A lovely black marble piece, with black leather chairs, from The Art Van Commitaphobic Bachelor Collection.

And how I hated that marble table. It was cold, ugly and sooo...marble-y. Although it looked good in his contemporary, urban, commitaphobic bachelor pad, it did not fit the rustic charm of the circa 1940s 1-1/2 story bungalow that was soon to be our new home.

Not only did I hate the way it looked, marble tables make me think of the fudgemakers on Mackinac Island. All we needed were a few hairnets and a huge paddle (for fudge turning). And fudgies, of course.

Plus, it only seated four comfortably, and I always hosted Thanksgiving dinner for my big family.

But the most compelling argument against selling the table was that I was very much attached to it. The table had both sentimental and symbolic value to me. I didn't want to sell it. I wanted to have all my things about me, as I started my new life. (Apologies for the bastardization of a favorite line from "The Quiet Man").

Eric listened to my side and seemed sensitive to my concerns. Then he went in for the kill. After reminding me that he would soon be opening his own business, he announced that he planned to take the marble chunk to his office to be used as a conference/work table.

After that, he'd buy me a new table, for my Thanksgiving pleasure. A table that will represent our new life together. A table unsullied by the ghosts of past meals and past relationships and past Smucker Smudges. It would be our table. Our first significant purchase as man and wife. ::sigh::

So I sold my table, for a song. I know it went to a good home. It was purchased by a robust, young looking grandmother who hosted Sunday dinner every week for her extended family on the grow. And in the hours between her handing me the cash and picking it up, I cried, a lot.

After the table was gone, I could only think about the petrified jelly smudge on one edge, where my son always sat. I just couldn't get it to wash off. Neither did I want it to wash off. But I tried.

I'm sure industrial strength grandma got it off minutes after she got the table home.

Even now I feel teary thinking about those little fingers smudging jelly on my prized table. Those same fingers, but not so little, now smudge up the interior of my car and pinch bills from my wallet. That little smudger now has very hairy, long legs. And just yesterday that smudger shot nine points in a scrimmage against the alumni basketball team (including guys currently playing college ball).

But I digress. So back to the story...whew.

But things didn't go as we planned. Just after my husband quit his job and opened shop, the car industry bottomed out. There was no work for a private contractor.

Then there was 9-11. Then there really was no work for a private contractor.

Then there was a baby on the way. We needed a bigger house. There was no money for a dining room table.

Just this year, finally, we were able to buy a new table. It seats 10 easily and 12 squeezily and did the Thanksgiving job just fine. It felt good to be back.

Long after dinner, I sat at my new table with my husband and mom and siblings and in-laws. We laughed, recollected, argued and gossiped for a couple of hours. I'm happy to think of my new table picking up some "good times" essence that evening. I know it was being seasoned good and proper.

The only thing missing is the petrified jelly. I'm sure The Cakers will be willing to do her part.

••• Friday, November 28, 2003

Post-Poultry Paltry Post
I was initially going to title this post Holiday Afterglow, but there's nuthin' glowin' about me today. I'm wiped and whipped and smellin' funky.

That being said, I hereby give Thanks for the following:
1) Pop-up timers.
2) Chemically enhanced turkeys.
3) Mother's little helper, now in 12-hour sustained release form.
4) Husbands with speedcleaning capability (latent or manifested).
5) Apple pie mojo.
6) Target Stores.
7) Toddlers who sleep until 9:00 a.m., the day after Thanksgiving.
8) Husbands with speedcleaning capability who also like to snuggle, quip and giggle while waiting for toddlers to wake up at 9:00 a.m., the day after Thanksgiving.
9) Teenagers with legal license to drive themselves to basketball practice at 9:00 a.m., the day after Thanksgiving.
10) Feeling blessed, every day.

This post was originally part of a longer holiday retrospective. I hope post the rest later today or tomorrow. In the meantime, I'm gonna do some braggin' on my bad self.

Marcy's Centrepiece de Resistance (yes, those are fresh cranberries):

••• Tuesday, November 25, 2003

In the cellar,
Dark and murky,
She finds a pan
To fit a turkey.

A partitioned tray
Of porcelain lace,
Help olive greens
Stay in their place.

A broken bowl
Of mama's China,
Puts tear in eye
And sand in 'gina.

She used to love
This hostess chit.
Now all she wants:
Drink and knit.

Too late now.
Invites extended.
She prays for strength,
Until it's ended.

Anxiety bubbles
From darker places.
She sniffs a whiff
Of unknown basis.

Then stops the snivel.
She has a plan!
She calls her boy.
She calls her man.

Three fine heads
All tightly huddled.
(Two heads worry
That third is muddled).

Diagrams drawn.
Assignments made.
An offense play,
To make the grade.

The Empress wept.
The Warriors cheered.
With stealth-like ease
Their prey they neared.

In the parking lot,
No rules were followed.
The fear, it rose.
The fear, they swallowed.

The Hue and Cry
Gave all a start.
"Let's Grocery Shop,
Without a Cart!"

••• Saturday, November 22, 2003

The insanity is never that far away. It's as close as saying "Yes" to the wrong impulse. The people who stay sane are the people who can make those quick decisions. "hmmm. Should I stick my fingers into the fan, or leave the room right now?"-Jim Carrey

I heard that bite on the radio the other day, and it spoke volumes, to me. It's sooo my brain.

There has been another topic debacle on klist which resulted in some listers getting pissy, while others had hurt feelings. I'm not even going to touch the topic in question, but it seems that some of the old timers are getting impatient with the newbies. I do know what it's like to be a message-board-babe-in-the-woods. It can be scary and painful.

In fact, there was a time, not so long ago, when I was actually frightened of a message board. I now realize how silly that is. Of course, it's no longer true. Really.

And if ever I were to start a list of "173 Things About Me," it would include the following:
46. I once belonged to a Breastfeed vs. Formula message board.
47. I once got tipsy and flamed a Breastfeed vs. Formula message board.
48. I'm permanently banned from a Breastfeed vs. Formula message board.

It's actually an interesting story, but I'm not comfortable sharing it here on account of the Lactatious Trolls may still be after me. (Hey, I said I wasn't afraid of any message boards. I'm very afraid of Trolls).

It could get messy. I'd have to disappear for a few years, again.

And I'd miss you all so terribly.

••• Thursday, November 20, 2003

Weekly Grief, I'll be Brief
No time for bloggin.'
No time for froggin.'
3 hours at dentist
Left a pain in my noggin.

I'll not bore with dental details (and honies, they be a plenty), but I do need to share this one thing. At the height of my oral hexation, I opened my eyes briefly and caught an eyeful of the dentist and his assistant, alternately bobbing their heads over my great wide open. I about busted out laughing, as it brought to mind this image:

In "comments", Rachael asked about my mother's response to her birthday gift, the Indulgence Wave and Shell Shawl.

First of all, I need to say that my mother (I love her, I do) is a "the-glass-is-half-full-but-what-am-I-supposed-to-do-with-a-half-full-glass-of-anything?-and-I-hope-someone-doesn't-knock-the-half-full-glass-off-the-table-so-I-end-up-with-a-sliver-in-my-foot-and-have-to-go-to-the-med-center-for-anti-biotics-because-they-give-me-the-screaming-shits" kind of person.

That being said, I'm happy to say that my mom loved the shawl. After she first opened the gift, I held my breath, awaiting a comment about shawls being for old ladies. But she didn't say it.

Not then, anyway.

Later in the evening, after my siblings arrived, I did overhear her make a comment to the effect that wearing a white shawl in Florida might make her look like an old lady. ::sigh::

All in shawl, come January she'll be shelling out compliments to her talented daughter, while showing off her new prize to her Florida cronies. I've been living this "system" for 45 years. I'm almost over it.


••• Tuesday, November 18, 2003

Heifervescent Personality Disclaimer
After I posted the Dr. Heifer song, I had a tinge of fear that some would think I was referring to people 'round here as cows.

Of course, that's silly.

But since I'm kind of neurotic, I still feel the need to explain.

I used to work with a guy whose last name was Pfeffer. Pfeffer is German for Pepper. We used to sing him the Dr. Pfeffer jingle.

Heifer...Pfeffer. It's the cow that jumped over my brain. No insults intended.

Three Stripes and I'm Out
Progress on the Berrocan Uxbridge turtle was moving along this weekend. Quick as a bunny.

It's mindless stockinette, but the size 10 needles make it fast, and the stripes make it mildly interesting. It was so easy and mindless, I didn't even need to consult the pattern until it was time to shape the armholes. Hell, I didn't even know where the pattern book was.

Knitting without a pattern. What a feeling.
go Marcia, go Marcia....

It takes me 10 minutes to dig out the pattern book (I quit work on this project back in...hmmm...July?). I then plop down on the couch, humming to a cheerleader beat, place the pattern book in a readable position and pick up the needles to resume.

go Marcia, go Marcia...


cry Marcia, cry Marcia...

There was a decrease pattern. I forgot about the frickin' decrease pattern. Every 2 and 1/4 inches, decrease one stitch each end. The first decrease (done back in July) was even marked by a cute little pink stitch marker, 'cause that's the conscientious, caring kind of knitter I am.

frog Marcia, frog Marcia

The Name Game
My blog sistah Amy has found several knitting knamesakes amongst knitbloggers.

I haven't seen another Marcia or Marcy around here. But Amy's post did bring to mind that every yarn shop I've patronized regularly in the past five years has had a "Marcia" in residence (employee and/or owner). Most of these shops are here in town but one of them is 200 miles north, in a summer resort town.

The weird thing is, I've never actually seen each of these Marcias, but only heard them referred to by other shop employees (ex: "Marcia called in sick, " "What does Marcia want us to do with this?" etc. ).

I think it's all the same woman. Who's with me on this one? Is there a Marcia at your LYS?

Oh yeah...Be a Heifer.

••• Sunday, November 16, 2003

Sunday Sundry
It's a wrap. Wave Good-bye. She shawl not return.

I finally blocked the wrap yesterday and it's going to be presented to my mother today, at a family birthday gathering.

I tried the steam iron method of blocking, for the first time. It was a stupid choice for big piece like this, as it was a physically taxing chore. So much so, that my glutes and hamstrings are very sore today. I mean like "ouch" when I move sore. How pathetic is that? I'm too out of shape for knitting?

Speaking of being out of shape, you know you're resigned to middle agedness when the "Before" pictures in diet/exercise infomercials start looking pretty damn good.

Photo Buggery
In today's Grand Rapids Press there is an interesting article about local, art photographer David Alan Wolters. Unfortunately, the on-line press article doesn't contain the photo samples, but you can see his incredible work here. Note: It takes a minute for David's site to load up, but it's worth it. For the shots mentioned in the press article (of the human fruit and flower skirts), go to "Portfolio" then "Conceptual. " And if you don't have much time, skip the press article and go straight to David's site. Highlights of the Press article include that he is being featured in an upcoming Ladies Home Journal piece and National Geographic has been keeping a watchful lense on his website portfolio.

In the portfolio, you can also see a fascinating shot of local hero/freak of nature/glutton for punishment Jim Dreyer.

Sheepish Pandering
I'm a Heifer.
She's a Heifer.
We're a Heifer.
They're a Heifer.

Wouldn't you like to be a Heifer, too?

Be a Heifer.

••• Friday, November 14, 2003

Birthday Suits Me Fine
First of all, thanks everyone for the warm birthday wishes.

As birthdays go, it's been a fine day. As days of this week go, today has been sublime. And when all's said and done, I'm hoping to milk 3-4 days of celebration this year.

Celebration Day 1 (yesterday):
Eric (husband) shopped for me late last night. He's a last minute shopper because he can't keep a secret. It's really an endearing quality; a manifestion of his shiny, generous soul. He gave up the goods within an hour of his arrival home. Cha-ching.

Celebration Day 2:
Today I received cards and cheer from friends at work and phone calls from family. After work I had a bling-bling update, this time in yummy golds and auburn. Back home I had wiggles and giggles with The Cakers and am currently enjoying my new favorite Friday night TV lineup of Miss Match and The Handler. Cha-Cha-Ching.

Celebration Day 3:
Tomorrow night Eric and I are dining at this new chi-chi restaurant downtown. It's a New York style steakhouse. They offer flavored butters with their steak (Butter, on steak!) and serve the finest of reds in fishbowls on stems. Cha-cha-Bling-Bling-Souse-in-Beau Jolais-Ching.

Celebration Day 4:
Sunday we celebrate with my family. Cha.

A Confession
In yesterday's post, I implied that I'd had some rough going over the past few days. In comparison to recent catastrophic phenomena faced by blog fellow Amy, the magnitude of my recent troubles amounts to zits on a whore's ass.

That being said, I'm curious if anyone else has ever been barfed on by a jack-o-lantern.

••• Thursday, November 13, 2003

Happy Birthday
Today: Dad. He would've been 75 and likely preparing for annual trek north to lay down some bovine of the deer variety. Opening day rifle season is November 15. He was always home for my birthday, but never my mom's.

Tomorrow: Me. 45. Is that offically the middle of middle age? I have no feelings about this one way or the other. I do have a bling bling appointment on my birthday. Does this demark some deep-rooted issue? ::snort::

November 15th: Dad's baby sister, Aunt Dorothy and her daughter Ginny. Aunt Dort is the remaining sibling of a family of 8.

November 16th: Mom's sister, Aunt Marilyn.

November 17th: Mom. She'll be 74 and hopefully very happy with her Indulgence Shell Shawl. A girl can dream, can't she?

I had another post planned for today, but...geesh...I don't even have time to get into it. Let's just say I've been living the life of a hapless cartoon character the last two days. I'm sure these events could be interesting reading material, but at this point I haven't even tallied them all, let alone processed and organized.

Think Ziggy tag teamed by the Road Runner and Bugs Bunny.

Smock Rock, now De-frocked
Well, Defrocked is a strong word, but it rhymes. Let's just say that hours on the smocking are no longer clocking.

But here's the back completed.

I'm gonna miss you baby! But I have Christmas procrastinations to lament.

I'm sorry for not responding to comments lately or getting around to the blogs. Both of these favorite activities are current collateral casualties of the black humor conspiracy which is now my life.

I gotta go. No idea when I'll be back. Tings are just a wittle too cwaazy.

••• Monday, November 10, 2003

A Dip in the Past
In the mail I received a new (to me) catalog called Bits and Pieces
There didn't seem to be much to spark my interest. Lots of trinkety junkety items for the perennial collector of all things bric-a-brac.

I was about to toss until I came upon this:

It's a head bobbing thirsty bird. For those unfamiliar with this vintage gewgaw, through some miracle of science (and without batteries) the bird's head bobs up and down, in and out of the glass of water. Every once in a while he languishes for a long draw, then resumes the bob.

We had one of these. The pendulum-like motion of his little feathered head, accompanied by the gentle "tink" of his neck hitting the rim of the glass, lulled me to sleep some nights.

Moving to a Smock Free Environment
No knews on the knitting front, er...make that knitting back. We have parent/teacher conferences this week at work in the evenings. Huge time drain.

I need to get Moving on the Smocking because Christmas is coming and I have to resume some gift knitting that I started last summer.

My plan is to finish the back of the Moving Smock and pick up the Berroco Striped Turtleneck again. I have yet to figure out how to match sleeve stripes to body, which has caused a severe case of the "I'll think about it laters."

And I'm not blowing smock when I say that from here to Christmas, it's going to be knuttin' but kno-knonsense knitting 'round here.

••• Saturday, November 08, 2003

A Trip Down the Aisle
I hate grocery shopping. I haven't always felt this way. It just snuck up on me, much like the declining eyesight, increasing body weight and the seemingly uncontrollable need to highlight my hair at frequent intervals.

And like those aforementioned hallmarks of aging, I believe my increasing dislike of and impatience with grocery shopping is age-related, via a primitive, inherent genetic code. For example, way back in the day of the Troglodyte, Bertha Butt (you know, one of the Butt sisters) provided sustenance for the little Butts. It was instinct. Essence encoded.

In consideration of the lifespan of the Troglodyte, if Bertha wasn't already dead by 45, she certainly wasn't feeling up to grocery shopping for the family on a regular basis. That was a chore left to the young'ins.

Even though I'm not nearly dead, I believe that the same DNA code that robs me of my eyesight, signals butt enlargement and provides me with the compulsion to adhere to a strict highlights touch-up rotation, also tells me it's time to hang up my coupon pouch.

I won't bore with all the details, but let's just say that yesterday I came home from the gathering fields feeling quite pissy.

First I want to say that when I get to heaven, I'm going to ask how it is that there can be only 20 cars in a grocery store parking lot, but 13 different shoppers per aisle, inside the store. There are 10 aisles. I'm no good at math, but even I can figure there's something faulty here.

Truthfully, I really don't mind the traffic of us "regular" shoppers, strolling with our carts, lip-synching to K.C. and the Sunshine Band playing on Musak. What I hate are the SWOCs (Shopper's With Out Carts). Swocs are Shoppers on a mission. They're in a hurry. They're bold. They're wearing two inch heels you can hear clicking toward you from an aisle away.

Click click click, stop, "excuse me" as she peers over my shoulder. Two side-step click clicks, another "Excuse me" and a "May I get in here for just a second?" is a signal for us regular shoppers to take two steps back from the shelf. There is a collective seethe as we stare at the canned tomato products, pretending to be amazed at the gazillion things they're doing these days with tomatoes.

I encountered a couple more Swocs before I was done and by the time I hit the checkout lane, I was taking no prisoners. I feel sorry for the bag boy. I know he was only doing his job inquiring "paper or plastic?"

By the time I was pulling out of my parking spot, I was praying that I wouldn't encounter another shopping peeve, the person who slowly pushes the grocery cart down the middle of the parking lot drive. I swear those people are suicidal.

Why was I praying? Because I'm truly a nice person and didn't want to spend the rest of my life in jail.

I made it home safely and saw my family through another successful dinner hour. Regarding my inner Bertha, I'm not sure how many hunting and gathering successes I have remaining.

I think I saw a flier around here somewhere for Schwan's.

Ima Regular Smock Jock
I'm almost done with the back of the Smocking on the Move. I've had a few minor bumps, but nothing significant. It appears Barney Fife has been on sabbatical. I meant to give more knitting details here but my husband is commandeering the computer for the rest of the day and I at least wanted to get this much of the post out.

So more on the knitting front at a later date. And I'm not feeding you a Crock of Smock, because Schwan's doesn't carry it.

Author's Note: I'm not going to be able to proof this post much (I like to do it after publishing once, too) and the husband is buggin' so forgive any glaring booboos, I'll get to them

••• Thursday, November 06, 2003

Scents and Scentsibility
As I posted last week, I have an overly receptive olfactory mechanism. This special blessing is not limited to the sniffing out of hygienic anomalies around the homestead. Sometimes I experience what I refer to as "Theme Smells."

Theme Smells hang around my nose for a few days at a time, sometimes up to a week. Theme Smells are typically indigenous to a specific location and are without apparent etiology.

Last summer it was the smell of bleach in my bedroom (this theme has replayed once or twice since). Another time it was the faint hint of a dead animal, but only when I sat at my computer and only in the morning. Side note:: Yes I looked for dead carcii.

Current Theme Smell: Wet toilet paper. In my car.

The first time I noticed the theme phenomenon was a few years ago, when I repeatedly smelled old lady perfume in my office. A close friend was convinced that this scent represented her recently deceased aunt trying to make contact with her, through me and my nose.

While that concept was mildly intriguing, I was somewhat disturbed at the thought of my orifices becoming unwitting portals to the nether world. Would I then feel compelled to operate a psychic hotline from my bathroom? Could I make millions channeling flatulence of the rich and famous?

And My Point Is
I've been looking around the blogpen and thinking I need to spruce up the place a bit. Add a little excitement. For awhile I considered hooking up with the Imood iconic mood face thangy that is featured on several blogs around the ring.

After further consideration, however, I decided the "mood face" feature was not for me. While I think it's a fun little doo-hicky, I know that for me to have to pick the perfect affective representation, day-to-day, would be agonizing.

Because I'm social worky, I would likely hold myself to a higher standard of affective acuity.

Because I'm neurotic as hell, I'd spend hours dwelling in self-mood-icon-introspection.

I also picture myself making a mood selection, changing my mind, changing the mood-icon, then changing my mind again. Eventually I would become imobilized by indecision. At the brink of psychosis, I would give up and make a permanent selection of the "I feel ever so ambivalent" face. Yeah, that sounds like fun.

So no mood-icons for me. And I feel ever so "okay" about that.

What I need is a Smellicon system. A software like IMood, that allows me quick and easy access to and selection of an accurate representation of my current aromatic functioning.

Unfortunately, there are no Smellicon programs. I Googled. I Jeeved. I Alta-ed all Vistas. And I've nothing to show for it, but the smell of burning mouseball.

If I were able to create the perfect Smellicon program, it would look something like this (the word "face" would be replaced by an applicable emoticon expression)

Today I smell.......(insert a selection from below)
-Tuna salad with celery salt (shows hungry face).
-Cat tooters. (shows lovingly disgusted face).
-New Barbie on Christmas Morning. (shows enraptured face)
-Ajax on a mildewy sponge (shows Ajax-on-a-mildewy-sponge-is-not-a-good-substitute-for-a BufPuf- overexolifated face).
-The inside of a rubber glove. (Shows why-are-you-sniffing-the-inside-of-a-rubber-glove face?) or did-you-take-your-medicine-today? face).

I wonder what "She's come unplugged." smells like?

••• Tuesday, November 04, 2003

Knit Some, Hurl Too
I stayed home from work again yesterday. I'm not sure if it was the same bug that bit the Cakers on Halloween or just an uglier manifestation of the versatile virus that's been morphing on me for nearly two weeks now.

I was able to get much knitting done, however, and am pleased to announce that I'm up to my armpits in Smock and Awe.

Sprinkles of Inspiration
I know that artists and designers can and do get inspiration from just about anywhere. I'm no artist, but I have become inspired by (fixated upon, obsessed with) this Chocolate Jimmy sweater from one of the Cakers' favorite picture books* and have actually perused yarn shops for possibilities.

I picture it done up in a plush wool. Turtleneck. Chocolate Jimmies** de rigueur.

For some reason this little cutie plucks at my pork strings as well.

*I added this link after mon Amis reminded me (via comments) of my incredible lapse in reference protocal. I did have a nagging thought about it last night after publish, but at 11pm, that book may as well have been on Mars.
**I added this link after realizing the term may not be universally recognized.

••• Saturday, November 01, 2003

Post Treat Tricks

The Pumpkin Cakers

She had fun, I guess, although she's still a little young to really "get it." After a four-house trick- or-treating frenzy in the 'hood, (we had to cajole her to stop stopping to pick up sticks and leaves) we headed over to trick grandma.

En route to grandma's she hurled a milky banana slime all over herself, the back seat and daddy's wool jacket. I'm not sure what caused the spectacular expulsion, as she hadn't had any candy yet. She still hasn't had any, as a matter of fact (one benefit of not "getting it" is that she has no idea she has a stash). It seemed to be a one-hurl episode as she recovered quickly, while the rest of us suffered the stench for the rest of the evening.

For Halloween I dressed up as The Knitter Who Has No Current Works in Progess and Thereby Entitled to Cast on any Project her Witchy Heart Desires Without Guilt or Feeling Defensive. This costume allowed me to cast on and for the smocked sweater from Interweave Knits, with neurotic impunity.

In retrospect, I probably should been costumed in something a bit more understated and pragmatic, such as The Mildly Competent Knitter. Under the guise of said disguise, I may have avoided the consequences of two very stupid and painful mistakes and resulting froggins (several inches, times two).

These shots were taken before the most recent rip-out. The mistake was in the number of cast-on stitches so the booboo is not apparent unless you see the tiny piece held up against me.

I like this yarn (Harrisville Soft Spun) for this particular pattern. It provides a firm texture but has a softness from the silk. The yarn also contains these tiny, white, loose flakes that I fancy as little lamb danders. Precious.

Chilling Words on a Saturday Morn
From behind the closed door of The Caker's bedroom:
"Where'd the diaper go?"

Upon early entry to bedroom, this mutha was much relieved to find 2 year old bottom properly packaged.

A Head of His Time

We really love our dog but recent shananigans have left us no choice but to have his head made into a throw pillow. This way we can still enjoy those pathetically endearing chocolate-puddin'- eyes without suffering the disadvantages inherently associated with the other end.

post edited at 11:10pm via a drive-by whine eraser. Note to self: Don't post on emotional issues until sleeping on it.