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••• Friday, December 31, 2004

Thunky Thursday
Or...Some things I thunk on Thursday, as follows:

What I Thunk Thing #1: It is still Thursday, right?

What I Thunk Thing #2: It's Friday? Already? WTF?

What I Thunk Thing #3: What a great idea, that my husband thunk we should go to the cottage for New Year's.

What I Thunk Things #5 & 6: We need a Cottage Bitch.

Today's view of the lake, through the front window:



Health Me, Rhonda.
Physically, I'm feeling much better. Thanks for the good thoughts.

Emotionally, however, I've had a lowgrade heartache all week. And The Cakers is tired of my nearly constant, needy clutch. And I'm exhausted from the impact of apocalyptic nightmares, three nights running.

On a much (MUCH) lighter note, I hope to have a knitting update real soon. Not this year. But maybe the next.

In the Meantime
It's meandertime...



  1. holiday:: Blues
  2. fault:: Not Mine
  3. beep:: Barry Pyne (hi beep)
  4. bubble:: Shy of Plumb
  5. needle::...in, damage done
  6. fare:: Scarborough
  7. treat:: Rice Krispie
  8. express:: Myself
  9. webcam:: Ski Resort
  10. capital:: Idea


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# posted by Marcia @ 1:03 AM


••• Monday, December 27, 2004

Post Holidaze Gaze
I’m here. I survived.

I haven’t posted for a couple of reasons. First, I’ve had a hard time finding an interesting topic, without sounding like a holi-hatin’, whiney hiney.

Second, I’ve been sick with the boogers in the head. This malaise seems to have gummed up my creative flow, which you'll see for yourself by the end of this post.

The worst sick day left me confined to the couch all day, December 23. The very day my sister called to assign me a culinary role for the family party.

Hi Marc! How ya doing?

Not so good.

What’s wrong?

Sick. Boogers. Big ones.

Oh, I just got over that one. Seven weeks I had it.

Great.

I’m calling to see what you want to bring to the Christmas party.

What are you thinking?

Well, Jay’s bringing jello, mom’s bringing beans…can you make a couple of pies? Apple and Pumpkin?

Ahh, I kind of blew my pie wad with the six at Thanksgiving. Did I mention I was sick? ::sniffle:: Boogers. Big ones.

Party starts at six. Hope you feel better.

Booger shit.

Pardon me?

uh...A bigger hit. My pies...will be. At six. On Christmas. Buh-bye then.

Being sick took up one precious prep day, which left only one day for baking. A day I had already assigned for cookie baking with the Cakers. But, per family tradition, there must be pie for Christmas.

Or someone would die.

And it's all on me.

After about 10 minutes of obsessing and rationalizing (ex: Cakers is too young to make cookies anyway)and on the verge of a tearful boogburst, I received a divine insight.

Let Go and Let God Costco.

The Costco caramel apple and pecan pies were a hit. As was the pre-packaged quiche for our Christmas brunch.

And nobody died.

And The Cakers and I had a blast loving up these meeses to peeses.



Despite the pre-celebration stress, Christmas Eve was filled with the magic of tradition. Such as leaving a snack for the big guy.



And, of course, there's the eating of the yuletide banana.



That Post-Holiday Sinking Feeling
Caker's favorite present was the Calico Critters ensemble.



It came with this family, and a couple rooms of furniture.

With no detail overlooked:


She also received some dolls, a sit-n-spin, puzzles....fun stuff.

So the day after Christmas, what was the most popular play item?
A sink full of bubbles, a soup ladle and a tupperware bowl.



Yo, Santa.

P.S. I'm Still feelin' under the weather, so I'll be posting light for the rest of the week.
# posted by Marcia @ 9:37 AM


••• Wednesday, December 22, 2004



The Most Wonderful Time of The Year
Begins December 26.

One year ago today I posted the following:
My husband is a sweet, supportive guy. But he's a guy. He's outcome oriented and focuses primarily on the happy factor. He just wants everybody to be happy. To look happy. To express happy. He wants everybody to believe in happiness. Always.

Says He:
It's gonna be fine.
It's going great.
Every year Christmas turns out great.
What are you stressing about?
You're almost there.
You're fine.
We're fine.

Fine Schmine
I'm a process person. While I'm pretty sure that it's going to turn out fine, I am fully aware of what it entails to make fine happen. And I'm most painfully aware that it's all on me.

I'm sorry honey, pulling off a fine Christmas takes more than happy thoughts.

Pulling off a fine Christmas takes Thinking. A lot of Thinking. And Planning. And Coordinating. And Doing. And Coordination of the Doing. And Coordination of the Logistics of the outcome of the Doing (aka The Done). Then there's More Thinking. And a smidge of Worry about whether there needs to be more Thinking. :: 'Cause if you don't worry just a smidge, somethins' really gonna getcha. ::

So, yes, it's gonna be fine. But fine ain't being pulled out of a hat. It ain't magic, mister.

The Holiday Confessional
At my momma's knee, I learned about self-imposed holiday stress, pressure and incriminations. I learned about worrying and fussing and feeling responsible for the holiday joy and rapture of thousands.

Okay, hundreds.

Okay, 15 to 20.

And I learned that at some point, within 72 hours of a fine Christmas, there must be a meltdown of the mama variety.

At Christmas, my mother's unpleasant reality was foisted and blamed upon the most vulnerable and accessible; her children. This particular dynamic worsened after my father died. While I know she mourned him the most at this time, I also think that when alive, my father provided a ballast of sensibility for my mother.

Not that losing emotional control is ever a good thing (unless it's a fit of giggles, I guess), but I am happy to report that I have improved on my mother's holiday beast.

My beast is fair. She has no unwitting targets. My beast is an emotional bulimic instead of bully. She just blows affective chunks, then stomps around in the mess (and sometimes wonders about the chewing gum she swallowed 7 years ago). My beast mostly vents, without unfair implication.

My beast also gives plenty of notice. When she's about to hurl, folks mostly know to get out of the way and/or remember to empty the dishwasher without another reminder.

I know I could beat the beast down if I really tried. But I haven't tried and I'm not sure why. It's just the way it is, for now. It's a legacy. And it's mine.

And even though it was wrong (wrong and more wrong) for my mom to project her issues onto the innocent, I very much understand how she felt.

And even though I make a different choice; a better choice (not a perfect choice), I admit that I have faltered at that fork in the dendrite. I have peered down that darker synaptic alley. I saw that it's a dead end. I will not go there.

To Mom: I've seen that place. I understand. And in my heart of hearts, I know you'd do it all different, if given the chance.
This year is about the same, with the addition of a head full of snotberries and a special guest appearance by Perri Pausal and The Pre Minstral Screamers.

Oh yeah, and more bad knitting.



I made this scarf for my sister (her birthday is the 25th) out of the fat and juicy alpaca I bought from Elann. The yarn was purchased for another go round with the Knitty heart scarf from the October surprise but I didn’t like how that looked either.

For my sister’s scarf I went up a needle size from what was recommended on the yarn label, which apparently was not a good move. The resulting fabric appears to be what we called "nappy," back in my high school days. Or in this case, knappy. Or in another case, Crimson Dingleberries on a Yak’s Ass.

One knitting thing appears to be going right this week month year. This Knitty heart scarf out of Gedifra Micro Chic.



I bought the yarn from Yarn Express , in an impulsive gesture, before I realized the hoodie was not a goodie. I'd thought to use the Micro Chic as the fur. This stuff is really soft.

I’m hoping to get the scarf done in time for Christmas. A few days ago I decided I wasn’t going to get my holiday knitting done in time and was setting my knitting sights on New Year’s gifts. Unfortunately (or not, I guess) The Cakers spilled the beans to Nana that she’s getting a scarf. This pattern does knit up fast, so it’s doable. Then I’m done.

Big Balls
My son is a really good basketball player, with the bad/good luck of being on a team with two basketball phenoms (sophomores). He gets more playing time than he did last year, but not as much as we'd all like to see, of course. But I'm his momma.

Last night I went to the away game alone. And sat amidst strangers. Next to me was a couple who chatted constantly about the quality of plays and players and the coach's decisions.

After my boy was put back in the game for the third time, he made a couple of really good plays. The guy next to me says to his female "Who's that number 12? He's a great little player. They should play him more."

Before I could stop myself I said "That's my boy."

Suddenly, I felt like my mom. A woman who's told her life story to many the unwitting waitress, who made the critical error of sustained eye contact while taking her order.

I'm happy to say that I was able to beat down my inherent inclinations and refrained from sharing with these strangers, the glorious details of said progeny's remarkable birth and developmental achievements and how he once put a marble in his butt crack at day care, just for yucks.

My boy's name also got a mention on the 11:00 news, along with a video clip of a couple of his good plays. I suspect we'll be seeing a little more from this "great little player."

I gotta go. I have mouths to feed and gifts to wrap and hearts to knit.


# posted by Marcia @ 8:56 AM


••• Sunday, December 19, 2004

Thanks
For all the kind words and healing thoughts and best wishes in response to my last post.

And now back to our regularly scheduled idiotic irreverance...

The Beafur Chronicles: One Last Poke at the Whiskers
I finished the Teddy Beafur Hoodie and I am not real excited with the final product.



That view is not so bad, but I'm not crazy about the look of the fur. For this I blame only myself. I suck at creative vision. I should have taken up taxidermy as a hobby. There's very little room for error in taxidermy. For example, a raccoon has only two expressions. The cute-as-a-bugs-ass-washing-hands-in-stream look and the middle-of-road-tippy-toed-classic-I-dare-ya-to-hit-me-asshole look.

In fact, I'm pretty sure the taxidermy field safely blew its collective, creative wad on the Jackalope. And for the record, I didn't know there was no such thing until I was in high school.

But I really digress.

So, from here on in, I follow the pattern. Period. Dot. Com.

This hood thangy has other issues aside from making me the droolin' spittin' image of my handsomely bewhiskered Aunt Ruth.

After I wore the hood for a few minutes around the house, it morphed into what seems to be its preferred identity. A bed pan from Ted Nugent's Fallen Hunter's Home Care Collection called Endanger This, Fuckhead .



I'm also not crazy about the side view. In fact, it scared the Dickens right out of me.



The tubular quality of the hood reminds me of a vacuum cleaner attachment known as The Behoover.



Of course, this post wouldn't be complete without the obligatory "not your mother's beafur" shot. I didn't ask my husband to take this picture, for obvious reasons.



Finally, there's...



Kenny!
# posted by Marcia @ 10:07 AM


••• Thursday, December 16, 2004

Monday From Hell, All Week Long
It’s been quite a week ‘round here. A week that actually started the previous Friday with the death of a teenager in the district where I work. Over the weekend another teen died in a car accident, and late yesterday we learned that a former student (would-be senior, with many friends here) had passed away earlier in the day.

I know.

As cold as this may sound, I’m finding that a person can acclimate to a battery of tragedies, with the right supports. In fact, I’m at my best under this type of duress. In crisis mode, my instinct is sharp and insight keen. Words of comfort and wisdom come readily, as though fed to me by an outside source. At these most horrific times, I feel strong. Vital.

This week at home, I’ve been doing okay as well. Tired. Worn. But okay. So far this week, I've been to a basketball game, decorated a Christmas tree and survived a one-on-one, several hour visit with my chatty, recently wed mother (which was going to be the original topic of today's post). And I hugged my babies. A lot.

At dinner one night, I cried when my 18 year-old son said “Mom, this is my all-time favorite meal. How come you never cook it anymore?" Then I tried not to think of him leaving me next year, for college. Then I tried not to think of the three mothers whose sons have recently left them, forever.

Back at work, I fight the intrusive images of three Christmas trees in three living rooms of three homes in mourning. Living rooms where three little boys once played around their respective trees, on Christmas Day.

To escape these images, I've been transferring my sorrow onto something else. Like feeling guilty over causing a physical and emotional void in my son's life through the unwitting omission of honey-glazed chicken (with pistachios) from my daily recipe rotation.

Sounds stupid, I know. But this strange coping tool is actually keeping me sane. On point, even. It works because it keeps me away from the realstuff. As in the realguiltstuff. The guilt born out of awareness that, while reaching out to those in mourning, I greedily covet the thought that my children are alive. Healthy. Right now. One of them likely dancing at day care and the other enjoying a favorite day dream as the regions's next high school basketball hero.

I’m not really sure where I wanted to go with all this, or if it even makes any kind of sense, outside my head. Regardless, I apologize for the rambly nature of the post, and for making up words, like rambly. I hadn't even planned on writing about this today. Although in retrospect, it's kind of silly that I even considered that I could write about anything else.

I really am okay. It’s just been one big, fat, nastyass Monday, all week long. If you believe in prayer and/or the power of love, send a little somethin' over this way. We shorely in need.

Good news: My wireless is once again wireless-ful. Evidently, portable phones and wireless internet don't get along. Who knew?

Better news: Tomorrow is my last day of work until after the holidays. The last two years we've worked almost to Christmas Eve, so this is gonna feel like a genuine hiatus.

And Now Some Well-Deserved Meanderings



  1. Plot:: Thickens
  2. Farce:: Farts
  3. Unexpected:: Pleasures
  4. Siren:: Sy-reen
  5. Ben:: Willard
  6. Freshman:: Babe
  7. Quicksand:: Tarzan
  8. 24 hours:: Without sleep
  9. Spunky:: Sass-say
  10. Vicious:: Sid

Give love with wild abandon.
# posted by Marcia @ 6:49 AM


••• Monday, December 13, 2004

Look Under There

An Ode to Bernard
So long ago,
My Momma say,
"Wear clean undies,
Every day."

A priceless gem
Of sage advice,
Worth well beyond
A princely price.

This classic pearl
Seems lost on those,
Whose butts won't clean
With a fireman's hose.

So don't forget
Clean undewear.
For you never know
Who's sniffin' down there.

I wonder if the same intell*igence team that brought us WMD is now working in the White House Human Resource Department.

MeMe!
I saw this over at Mode Knits.

I AM 34% WHITE TRASH!
34% WHITE TRASH
The white trash in my blood will not keep me from becoming a doctor or a lawyer, but it will keep me from a good haircut and any sort of fashion sense.


I'd like to see a quiz for sifting out second or third generation trashers. I'd likely come out in the 90% range.

Post Dearth Warning
I love that word, dearth. Anyway. For the remainder of this week I may be absquatulating from my regular blogging duties.

I'm currently wirelessless at home (don't get me started on inCOMpetentCAST.COM) and the basketball season in full press upon us. (I don't know much about sports language, except for swearing, so I apologize for any perceived misuse or abuse of the sacred vernacular. Speaking of sports language, at the last basketball game, I leaned over to my husband and said "We've got a deep bench." He was impressed. Evidently he thought I was making an intelligent observation about the quality of the team. I was actually making a comment on the ass-enhanced couple who had just squeezed into the limited bleacher space immediately in front of us, and taking up all our leg room.)

I gotta go. My nickel done run out.

Be safe.


# posted by Marcia @ 7:30 AM


••• Sunday, December 12, 2004

Hanging Out My Dainties
For the record, my Best Buy undie-bacle was not my maidenhead public drawer drop. The slip shimmy happened once before, while I was walking down the hallway of an elementary school where I worked. That time I was immediately down with the slipshod and before you could say “under where?” the errant silk was successfully kicked to safety under the cloak hooks.

It appears that I come by this type of indelicacy quite honestly.

I need to preface the following tale with the following info: My mom has always been kind of mealy mouthed when it comes to being assertive with anyone outside the family. This is especially true with people she perceives to be in a role of authority and double that if this person happens to be a man as was typically the case in the mid 1970's.

When I was in high school, my younger sister underwent a course of orthdontic treatment which did not go well. Every couple of days, for a two week period, her mouth would get stuck in the open position.

Sidebar: What with it being the holiday season and Peace on Earth and incense and Murray and stuff like that, it would not be appropriate to discuss or even highlight any vicarious pleasure I may have enjoyed at this most uncomfortable and frightening travesty perpetuated against my at the time, mortal enemy beloved sister, which not only prevented her from speaking but, well, she drooled. End Sidebar

My mother had shared her concerns with the orthodontist, who seemingly cared not. An underlying issue was my mother being a widow and earning just above minimum wage. She was making payments to this bastard, by the skin of her teeth, er, dentures. ::My mom and the other 9 members of her high school graduating class had dentures by age 16.::

Anyway, when my sister woke up one morning with her mouth stuck in a perpetual state of stupefication (I’m absolutely not smirking right now. This was a serious matter.) My mom decided she’d had enough. So she threw on some clothes, grabbed Sister Agape and set off to storm the dentist office.

I was not present for this confrontation but according to my sister, who stood by in drop-jawed amazement, it was my mother's finest moment.

After the tirade, the dentist agreed to fix the problem immediately and sent what remained of my teeth feebled family to the waiting room.

In the hallway outside the office, my mom had to stop to gather her new bad self. Suddenly my sister's body is shaking (aka laughter for one whose mouth is stuck open)and she's pointing at my mother's feet. Mom looks down and sees about two feet of panty hose trailing out of her pantleg, well behind her.

In a hurry to get dressed that morning, she hadn’t realized the pants she picked off the floor (yeah, we’re slobs. I have pants on my floor as I type) had a pair of panty hose stashed in them, which were evidently loosened during the foot-stomp portion of the tirade.

That story has been worth a giggle or two over the years. Particularly special to me is the image of my mother marching victorious from the office, proudly wearing her cloak of new found bravery. Leaving in her wake, a trail of No Nonsense decimation.

Holidaze Knitting
I wasn’t able to finish the Teddy Beaver Hood for my hair appointment yesterday, so the pressure is off. I can now finish it at my leisure, between now and Christmas ("Leisure" between now and Christmas. Snort. Sometimes I crack myself right up).

Here's what I have so far:



While waiting for my color to set (I went red. I think I love it but it’s hard to tell when the coat is so fresh. I’ll know more after I shampoo. Tomorrow. Yech) at the salon, I finished the hat for charity (goes with the scarf, as previously posted).

I went with Staceyjoy's Marsan Watch cap pattern. On a fat yarn, this pattern takes on an entirely different look and it's incredibly warm. (yarn is Lion Brand Landscape. Half wool, half acrylic. Fat. I'm in Sunday Morning Lazy Linkin' mode. You'll have to look it up yourself. Said laziness is also extended to figuring out proper placement of commas. When in doubt I left it out. )



After trying on this hat for a look see and being less than enthusiastic with the results I figured out that all knit hats look like shit upon my head. I have further concluded that the issue has nothing to do with my knitting ability.

I have a really small head and really small ears and really short hair, which means there’s no room varying positions for wearing a knit hat. If it’s pulled down on my forehead, I look like the crazy lady who hangs outside the neighborhood pharmacy. If I pull it back a bit, my tiny head can’t hang on and the hat pops off.

So, that’s my little head secret. (Man, I’m sure telling tales outta school today.)

Frosting on the Cakers
While I was getting The Cakers ready for bed the other night, she pointed to the pink heart applique on her pajama top and said "Hearts are for loving, momma." Before I could say anything she added, with a stern shake of the head "Hearts are not for breaking."

How's that for a Sunday School lesson? Straight from Above, as told through the heart of a tender babe.
# posted by Marcia @ 10:54 AM


••• Friday, December 10, 2004

Tis the Season
Basketball
Is my favorite sport
I like the way they dribble
Up and down the court. -Basketball by Kurtis Blow

I like how the ball
Is big enough to see.
But the gist of the game
Is lost on me. -Basketball Verse 2 by Me

Tonight is the first game of the last season of my son’s basketball career. Where does the time go? While very excited about the start of the season, I wasn’t prepared for the accompanying sense of sadness. Three years ago, high school felt like forever. In less than a year, my baby will be going away. To get hisself all grown. (Well, okay. Maybe not all grown. Not right away, anyway. Right Sandy?)

Speaking of big balls...While googling for Sisyphus, I came across this cool site, where I found a most excellent Baller Themed gift for my son.

Go Team.



It’s a Beautifur Day in the Beaver Hood
I’ve not been making great strides on the Teddy Beaver Hoodlet thangy, which needs to be completed by Saturday morning. But with all the basketball Jonesin', I’m thinking The Beav ain’t gettin' any, tonight.

Regardless, hows'bout we wax bikini poetic a bit, while reviewing Beavfur growth.

Mondays Beav is fur of face,
Tuesdays Beav is fur of grace,
Wednesdays Beav is fur of "whoa,"
Thursdays Beav is fur "to go",
Fridays Beav is loving and giving,
Saturdays Beav works hard for her living,
And the Beav that rests on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.

Mutter Matter


  1. Delightful::Laugh
  2. Impact:: Sudden
  3. Consolation:: Prize
  4. Donation:: Salvation
  5. Blue moon:: Once inna
  6. Grinner:: Husband
  7. Smoker:: Husband
  8. Muse:: Goddess
  9. Tweet:: Tweet
  10. Guitar:: Zan

And of course, the final word.

Have restful weekends, all.

Think happy, bouncing, ballsy thoughts for the home team.

# posted by Marcia @ 7:18 AM


••• Wednesday, December 08, 2004

Shop, Drop and Run Like Hell
Yesterday after work, I went to Best Buy in search of a Play Station for my son. As I strolled an aisle, I noticed a tangling around my ankles, then felt myself going down. Thanks to an instinctive hop forward, I somehow avoided a Double Twist Triple-XBox face plant. But when I turned to learn the cause of the trip-up, I was mortified at the view.

For this was no trip up. This was a bona fide slip down.

As in, my slip. Down. On the floor. In the X-Box aisle. At Best Buy.

The same slip I slid under my skirt that morning, predawn.

The same slip that slid around my ass all day, protecting my visual virtue, and laying waste to the mother puckers of static cling.

My slip. Right there. Lying aplomb and abandoned, in a near-perfect circle. Appearing as though its resident had most recently and promptly been plucked to heaven, by the long arm of the Lord.

Tangent Warning: I may have mentioned at some time that I have the ADHD. The manifestation of ADHD symptoms sometimes reads like a bad news/good news story. For example a bad news story about impulsivity would be reflected in your credit card bill, after a few wee-morning EBay rounds of I-Will-Have-That-Yarn-Bitch-And-You-Will-Not.

Said game is not to be confused with a slightly different, slower burning EBay sport called Because-It’s-No-Longer-About-the-Yarn.-Bitch.-Hell-I-Don’t-Even-Want-the-Yarn.-In-Fact-I’m-Going-To-Pay-Extra-For-Overnight-Delivery-Then-Burn-The-Box-Upon-Arrival-Because-It's-Not-About-The-Yarn-Anymore-It's-About-The-Game-And-Winning-Dammit. ::Admit it, you’ve played this.::

Anyway…The good news story about impulsivity is that it can be helpful in facilitating a creative and quick response in light of an embarrassing predicament.
End of Tangent.

After recognizing that the puddle of undie belonged to me, I quickly assessed the witness situation and determined that no one noticed the intimate shedding. There were, however, some customers hovering near.

So I kept on going. Down the aisle, around the bend. Play the Gameboy. Round the bend. Down the aisle. Sniff a cell phone. Put it back. Down the aisle. Round the bend.

Oh. What's this? Lingerie? On the floor? How odd.

Without looking to see who was looking to see and with the speed and deft of a mother’s slap, I snatched the errant underling, stuffed it in my coat pocket, clicked past the greeters, nodded twice to Have a great day and Thanks for stopping. And no one was the wiser.

Do you think we need bras in heaven or are we permanently uplifted?
# posted by Marcia @ 2:54 PM


••• Monday, December 06, 2004

Putting Out Fire With Gasoline
This felinious, incestuesque Bowie number took honors as my sole knitting mantra over the weekend. This was partly on account of my being a total knitiot (explanation later) but mostly on account my being married to a fine-assed bad boy who every once in awhile, likes to get his bender on, stay up half the night and listen to the Cat People soundtrack.

Because of this observable, albeit infrequent behavior pattern, "Cat People" is now code for the highest degree of single malted celebration.

For example, on the rare occasion my husband doesn't come to bed until 4:30 a.m., I'm likely to sleepily inquire "Cat People?" before becoming roused enough to get pissy about being roused enough to get pissy

"No Cat People" is a wife's reminder to a husband of his avowed duty to maintain the sanctity of his beloved's need for sleep, as she heads to bed on a worknight. Said admonishment also provides two to three hours of bitching rights the following day, in the event the "Cat People" moratorium is ignored.

How, exactly, does this tie into knitting?

Oh yeah.

Seems like every time I'm about to accomplish something knitworthy, it blows up. Like, well, trying to put out fire with gasoline.

I knit this scarf and hat set for a family our office adopted for Christmas. The yarn matches a jacket purchased for the same recipient and the deadline for gift packaging approaches.



The scarf pattern is a broken rib and the hat pattern is from the Yarn Girls. Because my yarn gauge was bigger than the pattern requirements, I made what seemed to be some simple math adjustments. Evidently my math skills came up short..er..long. The hat was too big.

Having already experimented with washing this yarn and perceiving the shrinkage as minimal, I tossed the hat into the machine with nary a concern.

But instead of shrinking gladly, the hat turned out quite sadly. It shrunk. Way. I now have myself another ill-fitting hat. And another hat to knit.

It seems like my favorite pastime has gone from knitting to throwing good yarn after bad, to taking two steps forward and one step back, to putting out fire with gasoline. ::Whew. Finally, the tie in.::



Even though the yarn store was closed and I was unable to start a hat anew, I despaired not.

'Cause when the going gets tough, the tough get...

...A Shot of Monday Morning Beaver



Okay, it's not a beaver. It's a Teddy Hood from The Knitter's Stash. The white yarn is Lambs Pride and the Beavfur is some furlike stuff I bought somewhere. (I'm currently functioning on about 4 hours sleep and not in a linky kind of mood..)

From Beaver to My Beloved Browns
As in Men in Brown.
As in Deliverance from Elann.
As in More Shit to Knit for Christmas.

This is wool for felted clogs. My son finally agreed to let me knit him something. For Christmas. Whee. Not.



This is some big, fat, not as soft as I imagined 100% Alpaca, earmarked for another stab at the Heart Scarf from Knitty's October surprise.



Yikes, I'm tired.

Create Your Own Holiday Magic
I found this cool link to a Make-Your-Own-Snowsite over at Jewels Purls.
Be warned: It's addictive. So don't go all flaky on me...

Disclaimer:For several reasons, it's taken me two days to piece this post together. At this writing I'm operating on about 4 hours sleep, after a long work/mom/wife day. Proper editing is likely not forthcoming.
# posted by Marcia @ 9:12 PM


••• Thursday, December 02, 2004

Thunky Thursday
A few months ago The Cakers pointed to this picture in my bedroom and said "Who's that, Momma?"



"That's Momma when she was a girl."

She stares at the picture in apparent disbelief and then laughs. "That's not you, Momma. You're silly." I look at the picture and think "Girl, your momma invented silly."

A few weeks later, as she mulls over the picture again, Cakers says "Momma, are you that girl?"

"Yes. I was that girl."

She gazes at the picture for a few moments, before darting off to another Cakersesque adventure.

Last week she leans into the picture, in what has now become a familiar pose, and says "Momma, that's you with long hair."

"Yes, honey, that's me with long hair."

"You're such a pretty girl."

"Thank you, Ana."

"I love you Momma."

"I love you too, Ana."

Yeah, Sweetcakes, this aging shit takes some getting used to. I will always see that girl in your old mama. And now you will always see your old mama in that girl. It's called reconciliation. It's all good.

Go Left...! No, Other Left.....!
Remember the blind guy in Romania who stole a car and drove it into a tree, then blamed the accident on his being lost? He seemed to have found his way after all. ** In the village of the blind, the farsighted man who lets the blind guy drive is on crack. Is there an offense known as Driving Under the Influence of a Drunk Seeing Eye Guy? DUIDSEG.

Hopefully the Romanian officials have finally wised up and revoked this guys license for good. I mean, geez laweeze, what's it gonna take?

Mutter This


  1. Limited time only:: Redundant
  2. Voluptuous:: Statue
  3. Nutritionist:: Mealy-Mouthed
  4. Belt:: In the mouth
  5. Star crossed:: Eyes Crossed
  6. Snakeskin:: Lover
  7. Athlete’s foot:: Fast
  8. Boom:: Boom Boom. Out go the lights.
  9. Freezer:: Burns
  10. Store hours:: Limited Time Only

And gimme a "W"
gimme an "o"...


*I initially made the cheerleading squad because 14 girls tried out and there happened to be fourteen uniforms and I happened to have the 14th highest score. I was your classic cheertard. But damn if I wasn't cute as a bugs butt.

**Sometimes I don't see errors or necessary rewrites or better ways of sayin' somethin' in my post until it's officially up and running. And sometimes I think of something else I thought I wanted to say but not until after I said the rest of it so sometimes I publish about 14 zillion times in succession. Does that show up in bloglines? I'm sorry if it does. I haven't tried bloglines yet, but I will. I have been feeling all self-conscious about stuff like that. And stuff. Thank You.


# posted by Marcia @ 7:51 AM