••• Wednesday, March 30, 2005

Pedal to the Muddle 

Does anyone remember seeing Star Wars at the movie theatre, for the first time? (1977 for me) What I remember the most about that adventure, is walking out of the theatre and being struck by the suddenly slo-mo-dullness of our insipid, earthly reality.

That’s kind of how I’m feeling about knitting, these days. In a knit galaxy, far, far, away, my thrill-starved brain zips through knit blogs and yarn catalogs and musty bins of ancient stash.

But just like the movie, my little knit fantasies inevitably come to an end, leaving me with nothing but my own Earthbound Knitterality.

What's that, you ask?

That. Over there. On the couch. That damn Blaze sleeve. Progressing (not), at a pace of, um, one row per day.

One row. 74 stitches. One Day. I fuck you not.

Pedal to the muddle. Baby.

A Covenant
I absolutely will finish Blaze before beginning or finishing anything else. I will.

No, I will.

But just because I’m committed for life to one project, doesn’t mean I can’t look around, right? I mean, my eyes ain't fallen outta my head,or anything. Yet.

First on my Post-Blaze agenda, is a little something for my sister’s April birthday. I’m thinking of this scarf, in this yarn (booty from a Knotty Girl contest):

(For closeup views on the scarf, click the picts at Amy’s blog.)
For whatever reason, the Clapotis has never quite spoken to me, but I have been eyeing that not-so-little number of Amy’s, since before Christmas. The yarn I’m using is much heavier than what is recommended for the pattern, so I suppose a swatch is in order. (I’ll use much larger needles, of course.) And if I go with fringe, I’m thinking of adding beads, a la Gibknits. After the tutorial.

Blah Blah Blah..
At the risk of sounding redundantly repetitive, again, I’m still pretty overwhelmed with work and home issues. The work pressures will slow down considerably after Thursday, since I’ll be on Spring Break! ::boing!:: (that’s a spring sound)

However, my husband is still working day and night, which leaves me little time for righteous blogging. Or unrighteous blogging for that matter.

In other words, the juices in my bloggin’ noggin’ are runnin' kind of dry. I've simply run out of clever things to say.

And Jesus wept.

••• Monday, March 28, 2005

Go, Green!

Go, Sleeves!

Go, Children Against Muthas Who Feed Their Kids Peeps!

Go, Easter!

Marcy...Go, To Work!

I hate being unable to access blogger at work, to fix stuff.

I hereby vow to never publish and leave home without at least checking the view.

This post was edited at 5:06 p.m., to correct image issues.

Image is important.

Go, Image!

••• Friday, March 25, 2005

Mutha Got Some Splainin' 

Regarding the picture in yesterday's post: On my tiny laptop monitor, the character in the photo appears to me, to be preparing to pull down her blouse, as though to provide a chihuahua some hooha.

I found that particular image funny (remember, I'm a bubble shy of plumb, from fatigue) considering the mutha-ly rumors, etc. of the subject(s) in question. When I saw the photo on a larger monitor, it is obvious that she's not about to perform lactation services upon the pup and is merely holding her hair.
Sorry for the what-the-fuckinola. It seemed like a funny idea at the time.

I did shrink the picture a bit to provide a better impression of what I saw the first time. k.

Have a Good Friday, everyone.

••• Thursday, March 24, 2005

A Busy Mutha's Tale 

First of all, I want to apologize to all the celebrities who have ever been hospitalized on account of fatigue. I’m sorry for disbelieving that a person can be so tired. I now believe.

Over the past two weeks, I’ve run myself down to a physical and emotional nub and have barely the energy to finish a

That being almost said, I’m afraid the posts will be few and far between, over the next few weeks. Or perhaps through June.

Kno Knit Mutha
I’ve only had one hour to devote to knitting, this entire week. I spent one half of that hour casting on and knitting a couple rounds of Blaze sleeve number 2 (or 3), 15 minutes trying to untangle a little yarn clusterfuck, of the circular knitting variety. (I still can’t figure out how yarn can become unsolvably tangled, so quickly), and the remaining 15 minutes alternating frogging, and crying.

I love knitting.
Sometimes I wish she loved me back.

Tac-Ho Bell Mutha
Have you heard about the newest celebrity rage? Breast feeding tiny, helpless, non-English speaking mammals, in public.

I hope your weekend doesn’t suck. That much.

My workplace has installed filters so I am unable to access some blogs, blogger and some commenting programs. So, besides being very busy, I’m woefully behind in my blog reading.

••• Tuesday, March 22, 2005

A March Post Reprisal 

Following is a cut-n-paste of my post from one year ago, today. I suppose that replaying a blog post is cheesy, or lazy, or even self-aggrandizing. But the miracle of this piece still amazes me. And what a fine piece it is...
Love Under a Hale-Bopp Sky (or Getting Some Birthday Tail)
Seven years ago today, Comet Hale-Bopp made its closest approach to Earth.

And seven years ago today, I went to a stranger's birthday party, alone, on a whim.

First of all, I'm not much of a "social crowd" person. In fact, I typically avoid/dread parties or other social gatherings, even when I know and love the people in attendance. But there I was, voluntarily attending a party where I knew only two people, a lesbian couple I'll call Tee & Dee. Tee worked the snack bar at the health club and was my "barkeep confidante." It was Tee who had passed me an invitation to the bash, then made me promise to attend.

Tee and Dee were best friends with the guest of honor, a handsome, strapping guy, with a really nice butt. I had seen him around the health club and consistently sized him up as Trouble. Fine-ass Trouble, but Trouble. In fact, I remembered once watching him squeal his 1993 Cobra Mustang, out of the club parking lot. Grow up, I thought to myself.

Also, at this time, I had a boyfriend. A sweet, steady, reliable boyfriend, 13 years my senior. Okay, maybe he was a tad boring. Okay, maybe he was a lot boring. But he was sweet and steady and reliable and....out of town for the weekend.

While I was pretty wild in high school and college, seven years ago today I considered myself unremarkably staid. Just a few years out of grad school, I was enjoying a new profession. I ate healthy, worked out and drank pink wine out of a box, weekends only.

I don't know if it was the safety of anonymity or the Tequila Shooters or the Hot Damn! slammin', or simply comet kismet, but 7 years ago today, under the Hale-Bopp Trail, this unremarkably staid, middle-aged, social-working woman, had a highly remarkable evening.

Fast Forward Seven Years to the Moment:
I have 35 pounds of precocious Trouble sleeping upstairs, a sweet and steady and reliable, middle-aged man in my living room, and in my garage, a 1993 Cobra Mustang.

Happy Birthday, Honey.
I love you.
Zoom. Zoom.

Oh yeah, in appreciation of your giving me the best Trouble I've ever had, this Hella Bopp's for you:

It's a comet's tale,
Of trajected fate.
And tequila shots,
At Heaven's Gate.

With a fine-assed boy
In a badass car,
Her leashed reserve,
Unleashed too far.

While Counting Crows
Called out the dawn,
Fallen soldiers
Graced the lawn.

Where dark of heart
Did once prevail,
Floats the golden shim
From a Comet's Tale.
Fast Forward March 22, 2005:
Happy 43.
Olive Oil.
Zoom, Baby.

P.S. And thanks, back then, for slowing down just enough, to make it a fair chase. And then cancelling the restraining order. Zoom. Zoom.


••• Monday, March 21, 2005

Classy Lassy 

The Sweater Design class with Melissa Leapman was great. I seldom use this word to describe a grown woman, but Melissa is just adorable. She’s New- York- Fashion- Designer- Chic, with a Girl-Next-Door, down-home personality. And she’s smart and funny and confident. Most important, she has the courage to implore that all women measure their boobs, with integrity.

While I was excited about taking the class, I wasn't really expecting it to reveal the great mysteries of the design universe. In fact, I already own two books on simple sweater design, which I've never used. However, by the time class was over, I was believing that I could design a sweater, sans Barney Fife and his band of sniggling demons, from Mt. Pilot. Melissa just made it so sensible, so logical (so Supertramp), so,“Hell yeah, I can do that."

I did manage to snag a copy of her Hot Knits, and am now in Hot Pursuit of her A Close Knit Family. This woman gives great texture.

What God Hath Left Asunder…
My proudest moment of the day, was being the only (or maybe one of a few) to accurately measure my bosoms with a measuring tape. In the lesson of the psychology of boobage (You didn’t know there was a psychological piece to measuring the girls, did you?) she had us measure first, with the tape, then with a piece of non-stretchy yarn, cut exactly to our size. My string and initial tape measurement were exact! Woman, know thy boobs.

My least proud moment occurred during a brief algebra lesson. Math was always difficult for me, in school. After I was diagnosed with AD*HD, as an adult, I often wondered what I could have accomplished in high school and college, had I been diagnosed and treated earlier. While I did okay in school, I never set the bar high, because on some level, I believed I was stupid. Or less than. Any good grades or accolades were attributed,by me,to dumb luck.

Anyhoo. As we started down the math path, I was there, baby. I was up for it. After my initial gulp of terror, I said to myself, “You can do this. You’re not that girl anymore. You’re smart. You’re motivated. And dammit, you’re medicated.”

As I wrote down the first step of what would eventually progress to a real algebraic equation, I was replete with Concerta confidence. ::I don’t know what the first step of the math problem entailed, but I do remember an x and a y. Unfortunately, I left my notes and my course booklet, in the ladies bathroom at the MSU Student Union. Thank You Sarah, for picking it up and arranging to have it sent to my home. You didn’t happen to see a couple brain cells, asunder, maybe rolling around the lounge?::.

As we moved up the algebraic food chain, I followed along, nodding my head, even murmuring a correct answer, here and there. I was so doing algebra!

Next thing I know, it's MSU, 1979 and I'm gazing out the classroom window, at my beloved Beaumont tower, daydreaming about Boz Scaggs and Spartan Basketball and Kirk Gibson, with hair. (I’m an alum, in case any of you missed that).

Back to the Here and Now: The chalkboard is now filled with algebra stuff. It looks, to me, like something out of A Beautiful Mind. While my own sweet pretty is all a flustercuck. I'm too lost to even ask how lost I am

But I did learn something: Pharmacist Cannot Put in that Which God Left Out. I'll always suck at math. And I'm okay with that.

T Bear Tales
Of course, I had to stop in to see the Boys. And buy some stuff. But just a little.

The white/gold/blue is Lorna's Laces chunky, escorted by a mango Patons acrylic/wool blend and dedicated to a striped cardie for Me Cakers. All that's missing is the pattern. Which I left at the store.

Of course, Threadbears was amazing as ever. It's still safe to say, I've never been any place like it. And every time I leave there, I'm wishing I could stay all day. ::And a person really could, you know, stay all day. And I bet, sometimes, they do.::

This post felt like an eternity in the making, and like the monster in the classic horror flick, it just won't die! Pass the Silver Bullet.

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••• Friday, March 18, 2005

From the Whine Rack 

Just so ya know, I could fill this white abyss with word upon word of tormented phrase, all in service to the enunciation of my currently beleaguered existence. But I won’t. Sometimes, just a little peek into the thesaurus is good enough for me. Sometimes, when trying to define one's personal reality, just knowing that the perfect word exists, provides a comfort all it's own.

Knitting Knuggets
Here is what I accomplished this week in knitting:
Monday: Put some Blaze sleeve stitches on a holder.
Tuesday: Looked for another stitch holder.
Wednesday: Put some Blaze sleeve stitches on the newfound stitch holder.
Thursday:Put the rest of the Blaze sleeve stitches on stitch holder.
And this is what knitting has felt like to me, over the past month:

But you know what they say, Knitting, it ain’t for Sisy’s.

Oh yeah. Also, this week, I drew a line in the sand on the current Marthoncho Gusterfluck Debaucle, and most likely have alienated myself from my more respectable peers. But they don’t call me Gustcloak Skirmisher for nothing. ::I wish I could tell you about my adventures with Magic this week, but it’s work related, and therefore protected. But I will say that it was one of the few things to gave me a smile this week, lasting all week. ::

And I apologize for the pitiful cadence on my Gaye hack job in Wednesday's post. All I can say is that it sounded right, at the time. And in fairness to moi, Marv’s a hard rhyme to bust.

Tomorrow is the sweater design class with Melissa Leapman, at Michigan State. ::Hopefully, the town will be in a cheerful, victorious mood?:: I’m very excited about this class, but have recently developed a pronounced preoccupation with finding an appropriate place to park. ::It’s official, I’ve turned into my mother, the woman who skipped all my sporting events in high school(walking distance from our home)and my college graduation, because of her unreasonable fear of not being able to find appropriate parking at well-populated events and/or in unknown territory.::

But I'm sure I'll be fine. Worse case scenario: I'll end up hyperventilating myself right on down Grand River Ave., to Fowlerville, where I'll park at the Methodist Church (Whose Methods,I pray, don't include Saturday Service), and catch a Greyhound back to East Lansing. I just have to leave myself plenty of time. And have a backup plan, or two. Which reminds me, I wonder if the St. Lawrence psych ward is still functional? They always had the best Jello colorways.

P.S. Blogger is totally wonky today. It's publishing old posts when I try to save new posts or eating posts in their entirety.

P.P.S. Blogger is also to blame for any really bad prose contained in the above post. Seriously, it's publishing drafts and eating the stuff I'm trying to publish.

••• Wednesday, March 16, 2005

Marvin's Ode to Martha's V 

(To be sung to the tune of "What's Goin' On?")

Knitter, knitter,
There’s too many of you decryin.’
Blogger, blogger, blogger,
The anger here is mystifyin.’
You know, we’ve got to find a way,
To love some poncho here, today.


Blogger, blogger,
We don’t need to escalate.
Hate is not the answer,
In the world of knit and crochet.
You know, we’ve got to find a way,
To love some poncho here today.

Knitlist flames. And calling names.
Foist on me, that damn Clapotis.
Talk to me, about the butt ugly.
Now. What’s going on?
Can scalloped edging be so wrong?
You tell me what’s going on?

Martha, Martha, they think we’re too far gone.
But who are they to judge us?
Just because our fringe is long?
you know, you got to find a way,
To bring some acceptance here today

We're free to flame. And call bad names.
And free to knit, that that damn Clapotis,
Pink uteries or Martha's Vagin-y
But, what's going on?
A love triangle gone so wrong?
You tell me what’s going on?

Right on...
Right on....

What's Really Going On?
Okay. I confess. Last week, I signed up at the Bernat site for the sole purpose of downloading the pattern for Martha's fucking Poncho. Or The Fuckoncho.

There, I've said it. And we'll not speak of it again. And if you don't have anything nice to say, then, that's okay. Because I'm no hater. I'm flexible. Accepting. Non-judgmental.

Post was switched up a bit, at 6:03pm Blogger kept eating the meat.

••• Monday, March 14, 2005

Stuffin’ the Bunny
This was a recent subject line on the knit list. I didn’t read the thread, but for some reason I really liked the sound of it. And now, I think it needs a meaning. Something special. Idiomic. ::Not that! That's Stuffing the Cat.::

Stuffin’ the Bunny, to me, sounds like the every day busyness of being human, except turned up a notch or two. Mundane existence, at a bunny humping pace.

For example, let's say you run into a friend who asks, "What have you guys been up to?" And you might say...
Oh, busy. You know, the usual. Basketball games, dance class, workin', cookin’, cleanin...just Stuffin’ the Bunny, like every body else.
And on that note, I need to say, I'll be Stuffin' The Bunny nearly every day, for the next two weeks. At least. But I'm not complaining. Just Sayin'.

I made up another term, today, while on my way to work. Road Wry.

Road Wry is the drier, gentler cousin of Road Rage. The birth of Road Wry took place early this morning, on my drive to work. The labor started with a Honda, darting back and forth across three lanes, cutting off cars and otherwise living dangerous.

Luckily, I noticed him a few moments before he whipped into my lane, just feet in front of me, going 80 mph. If I hadn't anticipated this unsignalled move, I would have hit him for certain.

After I gave him a little bitch nip with the horn, he glanced in the rear view, then whipped off, once again, zigging and darting like a drunk and driving Tigger. On Meth.

Once he was gone, I didn't hink of him again. Until, minutes later, I pulled up along side him at the stop light, at the end of the exit ramp. And there I sat, staring at the side of his head, until he looked. That's when I gave him my driest, wryest, smirk. And when he realized who I was, and the implications of my presence, he looked away again, real quick. Like the ziggin', zaggin', dartin' asshole he be.

Road Wry.
Wry not?

Knittin' Knuggets
I'm nearly done with the second first sleeve on Blaze. It's still kind of a gnarly mess, but I'm sure it will all come out in the wash. Snort. I am having a hard time concentrating on this project right now. I'm sure it has to do with the fact that I've been too busy to get much done on it, yet it's always naggin' on my mind. That, and the fact that I'm noticing my blog neighbors are all finishing things and starting things, then even finishing those things, while I'm sitting here, thinking about starting the 2nd/3rd Blaze sleeve, and wondering what summer month we'll be visiting when it's completed.

I was going to show a picture of the sleeve. However, I've already shown the first sleeve (now nothing but a sad memory. sigh.), I figured it would be too boring.

Hey! I almost forgot! This Saturday I'm driving to East Lansing to take a class with Melissa Leapman, on sweater design/adaptation. It's sponsored by The Boys. Despite the fact that it's one more early morning call, for me, I'm thrilled. Besides, I can't remember the last time I was on campus, or had a bowl of Hobie's clam chowder. (It's actually more like a puddin', than a chowder. But. To. Die. For. )

Speaking of seafood....anybody every heard of halibut cheeks? They were serving them at a restaurant we visited over the weekend. I initially guessed they would be the actual hali butts, butt I was wrong. Halibutts got cheek.

True story.

••• Friday, March 11, 2005

Wire We Here?
It’s been a crazy week, which will soon lead to a crazier weekend, preceding another, well, another cycle.

There hasn’t been much knitting going on around here. My husband is working 14-hour days, so after work I’m not able to sit down until almost bed time. I have been making a special effort, lately, to get to bed on time (I'm finding this an amazingly refreshing practice...Has anyone else tried it?). But when I don't start knitting until 10pm, I have a tendency to stay up later, to experience full satisknitfaction.

I’m also depressingly behind in my blog ketchups and it didn’t help that my wireless was down yesterday and most of last night. And then blogger was down for a day, so I couldn’t post.

I did eventually get the wireless up and running, but only after an unsuccessful enlistment for help, from my husband*, as follows:
Honey, the wireless is down.

Let me try it. Hmmm. No AOL. Hmmm. No Enternet Eksplorer. Hmmm. Must be a problem with Comkast.

That’s brilliant, dear. And here I was blaming it on poor Cheddar, for munching on cat turds under the back deck, and thereby disturbing the delicate, cosmic balance between getting wireless and eating shit, less.

Sorry honey, I don't know what to tell you. But I gotta get back to work...
*My husband does not know much more than I do when it comes to wireless internet. Because he made the call to set up the wireless service, I have developed a highly illogical dependency upon him, for all things internet. It’s like a syndrome. Sunnyvale Syndrome, I think it is. (kind of like Stockholm syndrome, only, well, Sunnier.)

Later in the evening, I decide it’s time for me to break free of my self-imposed, psychological captivity and take the ballsy move to call Comkast. That’s right. All by myself. But first, I had to give the Cakers a popsicle, with the hope that it will keep her occupied, for a minute. At least.

So, The Cakers has her ‘sicle, and I get on the horn with a sweet-voiced young lady at Comkast. After I state the problem and go through the usual name/rank/serial number/denial-of-having-an-internet-addiction dealie, here’s what ensued:
Have you tried unplugging the power source?

To my computer?

No, ma’am. The power source to the cable access router.

Momma, Momma…I wanted purple.

I’m not sure what you’re talking about.

Popsicle, momma! A purple popsicle!

The modem, ma’am.

Isn’t the modem in my computer?

Not Orange. Purple!

Just a minute honey.

Not that modem…the modulater-demodulater unit. It should be hooked up to a cable that goes into the wall.


Is it black?

No, momma. Purple.

A black box, with lights?

Yes! That’s it. (I swear she giggles…) Can you unplug it, replug it then come back to the phone?

Yes! (I swear, I giggles)

Yes? I can have a purple one?

No. You have an orange one. Now, beat it. And eat it.

::Scoot to cable-routing-power-sourcing-modulatin-demodulatin’ machine to unplug, then plug again::

I wanna do it.

Okay. I did it.

I wanna plug it.

Go eat the orange popsicle, or I’m giving it to the dog. Now.



Can you try to log on again?

Not now.

I did. Got Nothing.

Have you tried rebooting your computer?

Just now?

No, earlier.

I want the purple one, Momma!


I can, Momma?

Not you. Cheddar! Come get an orange popsicle!

Okay mommy. I'll eat the orange one. I like orange, too. ::leaves room::

Ma’am. Can you now turn off, unplug and replug the computer? Then, once it’s rebooted, I want you to pull out and replug the wireless card, then try to log on, once more.

Tried it. Nothing.

Momma! Cheddar ate my orange popsicle. It's okay, it was an assident.

Assident, my ass.


Can I have a purple one?

I’m going to try something else, last resort.

Just a minute Ana.

I just gave your system an extra shot of juice. Now try to log on, one more time.

I’ve got mail!

::lady laughs:: Good! Can I do anything else for you today?

Can I interest you in a precocious toddler, a poop eating Labrador and an orange tinted popsicle stick?
Moments later, as I’m handing The Cakers her ill-gotten purpsicle, I say to myself: “Wouldn’t it have saved us a lot of trouble if she had tried the extra juice approach in the first place?"

As my now satisfied Cakers settles in with the once-coveted-now-munched-upon purple popsicle, I think I hear her say to herself: “Wouldn’t it have saved us a lot of trouble, if she’d have given me the Purple One in the first place?”

••• Monday, March 07, 2005

New Pig Skin ...courtesy of the incredible, indelible Kim! Ain't she a doll? Ain't she a Babe? Go love her up. I'm going to bed.

••• Sunday, March 06, 2005

Senior Moments 

I've been in a bit of a funk over the past few days, ever since the pitiful conclusion of my son's very last varsity basketball season, of his life. My low-grade sorrow has nothing to do with the actual loss of the game, however. It has everything to do with the loss of another kind. Loss associated with endings and beginnings and the realization that every step my son takes toward the future, is another step away from me. And further, that there’s nothing that could (or should) be done about it.

Throughout the basketball season, I survived many fretful, mutha-of-a-playa moments, by peering at the shot-to-be, (or the clock, or the scoreboard) through clasped fingers. Today, I find myself peeking at the next phase of parental reality, through a similar screen. Only this time, the fingers are clasped over my heart. And, just as it was when I watched a game, I want neither to see the play fully, or miss it altogether.

I am also mourning the loss of those little moments of the season. Bitty visual bits, taken for granted at the time and now gone forever. I'm talking about stuff like the image of my boy jogging into the gymnasium with his team, for the pre-game warmups. He's wearing his school colors, smiling, joking and living jock-strappingly large. And the last time this event occurred, I hardly paid attention.

For me, however, the most precious piece of the basketball season, was being a regularly invited participant in my son’s world. I mean, aside from the weekly cash harvest, there are not many teen activities where parental involvement is not only desired, but expected by the offspring in question.

Attending my son's games gave me an automatic “in” to his day. Every Friday night, I knew what he was doing and who he was doing it with. Because I was there. And together, on Saturday, we talked about/reveled in/mourned the events of the night before. I'd share snippets from the stands, while he provided inside scoops from the bench.

Although it felt like a pain in the butt at the time, I will miss fixing his late night suppers, after an evening practice, or game. With the Cakers in bed, we'd have a chance to talk about nothing in particular. Momma's special fried egg sandwich seemed a favorite (The secret ingredients being seasoned pepper, no salt and perfect timing on the over-easy.).

With basketball season over, my status will now return to that of chief cook, logistics sniggler, and vehicle key provider. And in just a few month’s time, I’ll be helping him prepare for the move of his lifetime, off to college. While this is the way it's supposed to be, and I really am excited for him (and for us, and for the vacancy of a walk-in closet, with shelving...what to do?), there's a part of me that will forever pine for the spirit of a Friday night home game, and the opportunity, just one more time, to witness my baby-turned-man's proud, carefree gait around the gym.

In his colors.

To the beat of the cheering crowd.

Monkey Shines
Some progress is noted on my Blaze sleeve. This sleeve might be one of the worst pieces I've ever knit, and still be perfectly satisfied wearing. For some reason, the looping of the cables is really bad on this one. But, if I look at it through my fingers, I can hardly tell.

And now that it's March, and the days are getting noticably longer (driving my cat and my Cakers stir-crazy!), my fancy turns to knits of spring. Which means it's time to finish up the winter assignments and pull out last spring's UFOs. grr.

Crazy Daze
I'm afraid I'll be short on words around here, for a couple more weeks. In the world of Speshul Educashun, spring is a very busy time. In fact, over the next few days, I have exactly five, lengthy reports to write, in addition to managing my already spring-feverish, adolescent caseload. Which means, for me, homework. All this is in addition to my husband picking up a couple substantial contracts with new clients, meaning lots of single parenting in evenings.

So, I'm not whining. Just wharning.

The winner of the guess the body part contest is......Reader Kelle! (Belly roll, please!). Kelle, I will email you.

And on the topic of my body parts, off site I have received a comment that my blog has turned to the Howard Stern of knit blogs, what with me baring my tongue and bra and blood red moles.

It wasn't my intention to turn this place into smut world. And hope that nobody really believes I would take myself so serious. That being said, I'm removing the offending shot from my blog.

Blessings to all, for a safe and satisfying week.

P.S. Keep an eye out for some cool changes around here...this week.

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••• Thursday, March 03, 2005

Basketball Moans
Okay. My son's team lost, which, in itself is not a big surprise or even a huge disappointment. What is a big surprise, and sickening disappointment, is that the coach made my son’s last game of his high school career, a painful experience, on a personal level. I think Cam sat out more this game than any other (except when he was benched for tardiness to practice), and when he was in the game, he was not coached to his potential. It was a heart break, all around.

And then there's another issue, sniggling about. Passages.

A “last basketball game” precedes a “last prom,” leading to a “last final exam,” which heralds the first and last Walk to shake the principal’s hand. I have more to say on this. ::Don't I always? On anything?:: But not today.

Holy Guaca Mole, Batman!
Okay. My boy lost and the contest is officially over. And I must say, some of you have quite an eye for anomalies of the exodermic variety.

The Correct Answer Is: ::Maestro? Belly Roll, please::
That shot is, indeed, a view down my shirt. Past my cleavage. Straight to the Belly Roll, upon which lies a lovely, 3-d mole. I haven’t tallied up the correct answers yet, but hope to do so tonight.

It’s been a physically and emotionally draining week ‘round here, so bear with.

Thanks for the nice compliments on my pics. For the record, most of those shots were touched up with features from my photo software. As in, I done been blurred and softened. A lot.

And that pink protrusion is my tongue. And yes, that is a roll of toilet paper, sitting on the towel rack in one shot. And we even have one of those slide on/off toilet paper hanger thangies.

Knitting Knuggets
I’ve been working on my Blaze sleeve, but it’s not going well. I’m new to row counting clickers, and have made the painful discovery that they don’t work very well if you don’t, well, click ‘em. That being said, I think we need yet another knitvention: A row counter you click with your foot.

Anyway, some of my cable sections are shorter than others. I’m not sweating it though. I guess I’m not much of a sweater sweater. I will, however, be mindful to make the same mistakes on the second sleeve.

From the Little Known Facts on Crotch File

Camel Toe was invented by a man.

...and it behooves you to remember, you heard it here first.

••• Tuesday, March 01, 2005

The Balls
We won the first round in basketball districts. My boy played very well.

He had one rebound where he jumped so high, his head was even with the basket. He's only 5'10." It was like an illusion. There's this pile of bobbing heads under the basket, and here comes shorty, just a-floatin' above the fray.

He had some great steals as well. After the game, some of the other parents came up and asked me what I'd been feeding him.

Tomorrow, we meet up again with the ass-wipes, as in, the guys who wiped our asses, Saturday night last. This team is rated number 3 or 4 in the AP state rankings, for class B. Having seen them play, I honestly believe we could beat them, if everybody shows up. Then again, we could also tank.

Either way, for now, it makes for a brain-busy, preoccupadoed, nerve-whacking week. Thank goodness for stressbusters like Vanilla Rum and Vernors healthy food and medication meditation.

What the Hell is That Thing?
Yes, I'm weak. And a ham. And caving to peer pressure (from all two or three of youse) and sharing the results of my half-bath self portrait session, taken last summer. (For those who pushed for it, yes, there's a bit o cleavage. Just above the beavage.)

If interested, click here. (At the site, click on the smaller shots to bring them to the larger frame. And you'll have to back-page to get back-here. )

There is, however, one picture missing from the collection:

What the hell is that thing?

Hint 1: It's kind of personal. Well, not that personal.

Hint 2: Click on the picture, for a clearer, albeit tiny shot.

Hint 2-1/2: There's the red thing, on a specific section of body, as viewed from a unique, post-Prince-concert-drunken-night-in-the-john- perspective.

Would You Like to Play a Game?
Correctly identify the thing, and the area of body in question, (or the perspective, i.e. view) in comments, and you will be eligible to win 10 skeins of this:

It's 100% wool. Donegal Tweed. Vintage. From England. I'm guessing late 70's, and that's only from the label citing some 1976 code, under the posted weight. There is no length specified on the label, but it's 50 g. It might be sport weight, but there's no gauge identified on the label.

It's an interesting color, kind of a mauvey gray. I gave a friend a pile of it for felting. She made a bag, and it came out bee-u-tee-ful. Very lavenderish, with a nice bit of fur. If you win the contest, and you really, really like this stuff, and you ask real perty, I'll send you 15 skeins.

How am I being so generous? I bought 100, yes, as in 10x10, skeins off ebay 2 years ago. Let's just say, the purchase was made in the summer of my knitscontent.

So, the rules are: 1) Guess the "thing" and the body part upon which it lays. 2) Submit your guess in comments. 3) All correct answers will be put in an underwear drawer and the winner be drawn and quarter poundered with cheese.

Submissions will be taken until midnight of the day my son's basketball team loses. I'll keep you posted.

This Pot Edited: 3/2, du matin, for photo size and a few other, little things.