••• Thursday, December 29, 2005

When It's Over 

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. Christmas ain't for Mothers. Least not for the most part.

Now that I'm a few days out of the festive frenzy, I have a better attitude about the whole thing. But what really set me to proper perspective was something that happened on Christmas night, while we were en route to my sister's house, for the third and final family celebration of the day.

It was an accident. On the beltway. And it looked bad. Like, clutch your heart and say a prayer bad. As we were stopped at the light at the intersection where it happened, a mini-van and SUV pulled up on the shoulder of the road, directly to the right of me. Out of these vehicles sprang two middle-aged, paunchy guys, in baseball caps.

As I watched the two men sprint past the flares and toward the flashing lights and wreckage, I knew, in my mother's heart, these guys were fathers. Of teenagers. And for the remainder of the 10 minute ride to my sisters, I cried a bit. And prayed. For them. And then for my family. And finally, for me. For a cure for my whiney, soured, holiday heart.

Throughout the pandemonium that is typically my family's Christmas party (book worthy material, really) the image of those running dads was never far from my heart. Later, we learned that the accident happened when a 30 year old woman ran a red-light, and was broad-sided by a van, driven by a 16 year-old boy. The woman was hospitalized and is going to be okay. The teens sustained no injuries. At least not physically.

So, no post-holiday whiny, complainy post for me.

But there's no harm in making a couple observations. Right?

Holiday BM
Yeah, I'm talking about BM as in Movement. Big Movement of gifts. ::Ew! What did you think I was talking about?:: I've decided that Christmas is really all about moving stuff, as follows:

1. You go to mall and buy bags of stuff. And stuff.
2. From the mall, the stuff is moved to your car, then moved home.
3. From the car, the stuff is moved to several hiding spots in the house, where it remains until...
4. Yes, you guessed it, it's moved again. To the wrapping center.
5. Then, to under the tree.
6. Christmas morning, you move the stuff from under the tree, to the respective recipients, who then leave the stuff in wild piles all over the living room.
7. Until someone (who? I wonder?) moves it all back under the tree.

Meanwhile, across town, extended family members are having their own BM, as they move things from under their tree, to their car, and then across town. Toward you.

From their car, their stuff is moved into your house. And the ritual of the Christmas morning BM is repeated.

After the guests leave with their stuff, you prepare to move more stuff to a party at a different location, later in the day. This is like the ultimate BM. Lots of stuff, plus food, moved into the car, where it will be moved across town, and from the car, into a sister's house. Once inside, the stuff is moved toward the respective recipients.

While you move that stuff away from you, more stuff is moving towards you and your immediate family members. At the end of the party, all that new stuff will then be moved to the car, and across town, and from the car to the house, to be placed in wild piles, all about.

The following morning, upon finding more piles of moved stuff, needing to be moved, again, a person might be moved to tears, or drink, or Judaism. Or all of the above. (Judaism allows drinking, right?).

Call Me Natasha, Darlingk
So, Miss Darlingk, where did you get that hat?

...Oh, just a little something I threw together, while trying to keep my religion, after the Big Movement. I think, Norma, this might be the cure for the pea brained blues. At least, as far as the external issues are concerned.

The pattern is Feeling Fuzzy from the yarn girls guide to simple knits. The fuzzy yarn is Gedrifa's Micro Chic (discontinued, I believe.) and the top is Kool Wool, from Lion Brand, picked up for a song and a tooter from a local close-out bin. I added two inches to the foldup brim, to give a fuller look around the pea brain's face.

I came up with this idea after recalling the most flattering hat I ever owned, which was back in the 80's, when those Russion, fake fur/knit capped things were all the rage.

At this time, I have nothing on the needles and am contemplating my life ahead (another stint at the cottage, and mental preparation to return to work.)

Well, this post is much longer than I planned on making it. Already. So I'm cutting you off.

Coming attractions: A closer look at the BM pile. (i.e. Sometimes Christmas is for mothers.)

::A special shout-out to whomever (whoever?) nominated me for a Knit Blog award. I was, am, stunned and honored and stunned some more. Totally. Just that someone even considered this place worthy of being placed on that list of pretty big hitters is, well, really, really cool. Thank you.::

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••• Tuesday, December 27, 2005

I'm Sorry.... 

...but the blog you are trying to reach is currently experiencing Post-Holiday-Momma-Got-Run-Over-By-Self-Imposed-Expectations-But-Delivered-Anyway-God-Bless-Her-Droopy-Wine-Besotten-Altogether-Tired-Ass technical difficulties.

Please try this number later, for a whiney tale so dull, it's guaranteed to bore the swaddling off a Holy Babe.

Pussy and Beaver and Gopher, Oh My...
I feel better-rested, just looking at them.

*sorry again about the multiple publishing, but dang if blogger isn't mincing my words. Again!

••• Saturday, December 24, 2005

Santa's Last Ho' 

Because I'm just not comfortable with Peace of Mind at Christmas, I've decided to work myself into a spittle-spewing frenzy. For no apparent reason. It's what I do.

Whatever your personal beliefs about this season, I wish you love. And light. And this Holiday Greeting.*

Tonight, We Drink.

*Saymail link courtesy of Celtic Knitter.

**Link will only be available for 14 days.

••• Wednesday, December 21, 2005

If You Give a Mouse Some Booty 

He'll want to make you scream.

We've had some issues with a mouse in our house. Last Thursday night, the issue took a turn for the squeamish, when the mouse took a turn for my toes as I sat at the dining room table. When he was about a foot from my feet, I assumed the stereotyped position of "hysterical lady on a chair, screaming at a mouse." Between my scream and a lack-a-half-assed-daisical pounce from Bella, the tiny fur thing escaped to somewhere under the kitchen cupboards. No harm done. All was nearly forgotten.

6:00 a.m. Friday: As I prepare to leave for work, I go to put on my Uggs. Sitting next to my Uggs is my Bella. While it's not totally weird that my cat is sitting next to my boots, there was something about her look which gave me pause for paws. Concern, even. So, before putting my bare foot into a black furry Ugg, I give it a shake. Nothing. I pick up the other one and shake. Nothing.

No mouse in da boot, I thinks to myself. All Systems Go.

So, I slide my foot into the boot, and feel a tiny, soft lump, way down by the toe. Okay, this bump is ree-ree tiny. Like a cotton ball. Nearly imperceptible. So I I says to myself, what can that be? Can't be a mouse, because I shook the boot.

Maybe Cakers put something in the boot. Like a cottonball. You know how four-year-old girls love to play with cottonballs, in their mommy's boot. Or maybe it's a stray toy, like an accrouement from the Maxi-Pad Barbie collection.

Certainly it's not a mouse. Because I shook it. He would've fallen. So, with this arsenal of self-assurance, I commenced to put my hand into the boot. When I was about halfway down the Ugg's chimney, a voice in my head says "What The Fuck Are You Doing?" "What?" I says back. "I shook the boot. It's not a mouse."

And to prove my point to my inner nag ::She has significant control issues. To boot.::, I shook it again. And out he fell. An itsy bitsy black mouse. Live. As I watched him run away to the corner* I lost my religion.**

*He may have suffered a closed, itsy bitsy head injury, because he only ran away to stick his nose in the corner. He stayed there, unmoving, until my husband scooped him up and set him free in the back yard.

**Screaming. No, screeching. Flapping my hands. Cussing. Waking up The Cakers and likely the rest of the neighborhood. In fact, I can't believe someone didn't call the police.

All day long, I replayed the horror of the thought of stepping on a mouse, with my bare foot, inside my trusty Ugg. What if I didn't pay attention to the itsy bit in my boot, and ended up wearing him to work?

And then, what if he crawled out of the boot and up my bare leg, under my slacks? While I was driving? What if he peed in there? Or barfed? What if he crawled up my leg?

What if I squished him while applying the brake? And I didn't know it? Until he started to smell?

Or, what if he crawled up my leg? My. Bare. Leg.

After telling my mouse tail about 15 times, to anyone with ears, I came to wonder why the mouse didn't come out during the first shake. I eventually giggled myself to tears, as I pictured the mouse clinging to the boot lining, as I shook it, thinking, "Damn! That's one bad ass cat!"

Now, put yourself in my shoes. Is it time to go boot shopping?

Knittin' Knot
Okay, maybe a little. I finished my sister's horizontal scarf. This might be one of the prettiest things I've completed in some time. It was fun to see how the colors played together. It's longer than I thought it would be, over five feet. It was hard to tell while I was knitting it, because of it being squished on the circs.

The yarn is Mission Falls. If you're interested in the color combos, let me know and I'll look it up.

Since finishing the scarf on Sunday, I've had nothing on the needles, except a few swatches. Which makes me feel kind of lost. Monday, I started my Christmas shopping, and as of today, I'm about done.

Right now I feel like I have too much time on my hands, with nothing pressing. It is stressing me out in a paradoxical, neurotic kind of way. I'm not sure what to do. Would a drink be appropriate?

What I'm saying is, at this time, I am feeling overwhelmed, for no apparent reason. And it seems like all clever thoughts are passing one another, like farts in the night. Is there such thing as mid-life onset schizophrenia? What will I do? Would a drink be appropriate, in this situation?

Anyway, I'm not sure that there'll be much posting between now and the Big Day. Just sayin'.

If it weren't for Christmas, we'd all be Jewish.-Jack Handey

P.S. I'm sorry for the multiple publishing. I was having graphics issues, then chunks of text disappeared between Preview and Publish. Anyway. Have Merry.

••• Saturday, December 17, 2005

From The Asses of Cats. Or No. 

It was truly my intent to pull the contest winner's name out of a cat. Unfortunately, detailed planning is not my bailiwick, unless it's regarding an escape. From reality. But I digress.

Here's the deal: I'm at the cottage. The cat is home, with her college boy (and hopefully a few dead mice. That's a story for another day.) I thought to pull something out of either the ass of a dog, or the brain of a husband, but both ideas were truly, too frightening.

So,I assigned all contest finalists a playing card, thusly and so:

Then I went down to the local tavern for a cupla brewskys (in Small Town Northern Michigan, there are no bars. Only taverns) and found this guy, who I easily lured home with the promise of indoor plumbing, cable TV and a tubal ligation, still under warranty.

Initially, I was impressed that he was drinking single malt scotch. From a bottle. In a bag. Secondly, I was impressed with his beefy mitts. Oh, how me loves a beefy mitt. Thirdly, well, okay, you got me. That's really my husband. And I didn't pick him up at a tavern. Well, at least not today.

Let's get on with it. Shall we?

From the beefy mitt...

...I pulled a card.

For Juno. Yay!

Thanks to the rest of you, for showing up and showing interest. Juno, I'll contact you offline to get your mailing particulars.

From the Mouths of Babes. No, Really.
On the ride to the cottage, last night, The Cakers threw up, into her hand, a neat pile of macaroni and cheese. ::Nice catch, honey!::

While I frantically (in vain)searched for a napkin, or something, (Anything!), Cakers closely examined the near-perfectly formed pasta, resting in her palm*, then announced, with utter amazement "Look Mommy! It looks just like what I had for dinner! Even the apples!" Once I got over the dry heaves, my heart filled with pride at her acuity. I see the directorship of a CSI agency, in her future.

*It's a well kept secret, amidst the working motherhood class, that children raised in daycare don't chew their food. It's evidently a psychosomatic response to the trauma of separation and being raised by heartless strangers. The sociologists and born-again-through-a-real-tiny-ass-hole moral judgmentalists don't know about this yet, so let's just keep it under the shit in our hats. k?

Get Your Knothin' for Somethin'. Chips For Free.
I have spent considerable hours on this horizontal scarf. It's been fun. Really. But then again, not so much. Even though it's not requiring more stitches to knit than if I had knit it the regular way, it seems like it's taking for-fucking-ever. ::According to Jean Piaget this frustration might be indicative of delayed cognitive development.::

But, here it is, so far. For what it's worth. It has been fun to see how the colors play out. I haven't been totally random in selecting colors, but somewhat. Even more fascinating, to me anyway, is how the addition or substraction of just one row of a specific color, can make a significant difference in the look.

Coming Soon...A Story
If You Give a Mouse an Ugg...He's going to want the bare foot of a soon-to-be-foreverly-traumatized-woman to snuggle. ::What's that? Did ya feel a little shiver? Well, you should.::

See Biscuit
Have you seen the works of this Knittin' Biscuit? Just scroll down. No explanation necessary. Some people are just too cool. ::Be sure to read the posts for November 7 and 18.::

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••• Thursday, December 15, 2005


I've been busier than a one-legged junkie at a habit kicking contest. And there will be no end to this life-sucking extravaganza, until late Friday evening, when we arrive at the cottage for a relaxing, pre-holiday escape and vacation celebration (Two weeks. Thank You, Baby Jesus.)

The First Cut is the Cheapest
Okay, right now, I have about two brain cells to rub together, so I need to make this brief.

The correct answers to the contest are 1983 and/or 1984 and FingerHut. And yes, Ann, I remember towels, and that they were ree-ree small.

For the sewing patterns, I had a hard time selecting which ones to highlight for the contest. For a couple of years, back then, I was, how you say...Sew Busy?

Here are a couple more favs from that era:

I made at least two copies of the Gawdawful dress pattern, and five of the top. I haven't touched a sewing machine in years. Maybe a good thing?

Enough of this triflin'. I have not been able to determine the final winner of the contest, but I do know she will be selected from the following list: Bron, Juno, Anne, Natalia, Sejal, Ingrid, Carole,
Kelle, Kelly O., Sandy, La and Janine.

I apologize for the delay in pronouncement, but I've been busy, and there have been unforeseen complications ::Is there such thing as a foreseen complication?::

On the topic of complications,Lisa, it wasn't a problem getting the names into the cat. However, the name stuffing process seemed to be a bit much for the ol' girl, and she done run off, before I could make my draw.

As soon as Bella returns home with the slips, the final winner will be determined. In the event of a foreseen uncircumstance, I'll figure something out. It's what I do. It's a gift.

The winner will be announced no later than Saturday night. Promise.

Have I mentioned that I'm having the The Week from Satan's Ass?

New Knibs on the Blog
Queer Joe is hosting a Knit Blog Award-a-thon. Looks kind of fun. Check it out here

Knew Knits on The Blog
I've been desperately seeking closure on my holiday gift knitting. Here is a shot of my current project.

It's a scarf, knit in the vertical gartercal, using what's almost left of the Mission Falls cache. I stole the pattern idea from Kerstin. The difference in my scarf is that the yarns are from the same source. (where the hell did she go?)

I really need to get to bed. So I hereby declare this a Clever Closing Free Zone. G'nite Gracie.

P.S. I'm hitting the publish button without consideration. i.e., I'm not proofing. Or Poofing. Or Proffing.....adiew

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••• Tuesday, December 13, 2005

Contest Addendum 

.....Or, you can email me your submission. ::heh. She said Submission::: Put "Contest" in the subject line. MarcyMayy *at*AOL dot com. Now I'm late for work.

••• Monday, December 12, 2005

Snowtard's Revenge 

A Contest
First of all, please excuse the filthy appearance of my knife and related surroundings. I took the picture while in the middle of a Snow Day Soup Creation. And that's parsley on the counter. Not rat shit.

k. The contest.

I've owned this steak knife for over 20 years. I was married to another man, when I bought this knife through a catalog vendor. I had ordered a cheap-ass, flatware set, which included a free set of steak knives, as a bonus. The flatware had the same wooden handles as this knife, which caused the pieces to roll onto their sides when placed on the table. The bowls on the t-spoons were flat as a spatula, which rendered them useless for eating cereal, but quite handy for squashing ants, two at a time. The fork prongs bent if you looked at'em sideways.

Long story moderately shorter, I gave/threw away the flatware,but the steak knives became my main kitchen squeeze. Then, one-by-one,the knives warped,splintered or otherwise degraded themselves out of my life.

All but this little guy. My kitchen soul survivor, who single-bladedly serrated me through a marriage, the birthin' of baby boy, graduate school, a divorce and relocation, a new beau, a dumped beau, another new beau, another marriage, another birthin' of a baby and two more relocations. And two cats. And a dog. ::I really had intended on this presentation being a bit more on the clever side. But I'm tired. And damn, if clever don't hurt on a day like this.::

So, back to the contest:
1) In what year did I buy this knife? ::I'm not sure of the exact year, because I only remember where I was living when I bought the set. And I only lived in this particular apartment for one 12-month period, in 19-blahblah and 19-blahsieblah. So yes, what I'm telling you is that the correct answer will be one out of two possible.::

Hints for the time frame:
I was doing her.....

I was making these....

On the radio I heard....Donna Summer, Eurythmics, Police, Men at Work, Prince, Duran Duran, Violent Femmes, David Bowie.

On TV I watched....St. Elsewhere, Hillstreet Blues, Falcon Crest, M*A*S*H (for a little while, anyway.)

2) From what mail order catalog did I purchase the flatware and steak knives?
Hints: The mail order catalog is still around today. Of course, they have a website. On a given Sunday, you might see them in a Parade. Back in 19-Blahblah or 19-blahsieblah, this company sold everything on "time," or credit. I paid about $4.99 a month for this stack of shit (not talking 'bout the steak knives, of course), over the course of a year. Interest was about 20%. Gave me a good credit rating, though. And a really pissed off anal-retentive-control-fuck hubby ::Is steak knife supposed to be a compound word? It seems like it should be, but all those K's together, in the middle, kind of scare me.::
The Prize: Two skeins of Wool-Pak, 8-Ply in Periwinkle. 250 grams and 525 yards a piece. ::Yes, there is only one skein featured. I have another. No, really.::

A review: To win, you must correctly identify, in comments, one out of the two possible years in which I bought the knife set, and the mail order catalog/company I purchased it from. In the event of a tie, I will draw names from a cat.

Again, submit your answer in comments. Contest deadline is Wednesday, December 14, 11:59 p.m. EST

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••• Friday, December 09, 2005

Snow Day Ho'. Hey. 

This morning I received a magical, benignly anticipated, 6:00 a.m. phone call, which brought me tidings of great joy: A three-day weekend, baybee, courtesy of Grand Dame Mutha Naytcha.

It was the first Snow Day of the year, a blessed event, Weatherdicks notwithstanding. ::My thoughts on the frothing, hyperbolic, local fraternity of doppler douchebags will have to wait another day. Snow Days are happy thoughts. Only.::

For those of you who are Snow Day Challenged (Formerly known as Snowtards.), and have never known the joy of a spontaneous,guilt-free day-off from school* or work, I'm going to walk you through the intricacies of Snow Day regulation, starting with immediately after the 6am phone call.
1. Dance.

2. Toyota jump/air punch.

3. Turn on the TV and view the list of school closings. ::It's not that you don't trust the veracity of the information provided via the phone chain. It's that the viewing of your school's name on the school closing list is the ultimate, universal Snow Day blessing. Not only is it the supreme validation, it brings good Snow Day luck.::

4. Go back to bed.

5. Get out of bed. You're too geeked to sleep. ::It's hard to get back to sleep after taking a shower. It's really hard to get back to sleep after the snowplow dude shows up and commences to make the sound of a giant, rusty cheese grater being dragged up and down the front of a brick house. Your brick house.::

6. Get up and do whatever the hell you want. NO CHORES ALLOWED. The gift of the Snow Day must Never, Ever be used for the pursuit of mundane achievement. This makes for very bad Snow Day karma. Bad. Very. ::My husband still struggles with the impulsive thought that a Snow Day for me is a House Ho'Day for him. Earlier this week, when we were mistakenly promised a Snow Day Tomorrow by the local weathertards, my husband made the mistake of suggesting that I spend the anticipated day off, cleaning closets. He was quickly corrected. Well, we were all slowly corrected when the 6-10 projected inches turned out to be a snow burp.

7. Wear pajamas all day. Dental hygiene optional.
So, what did I do all day?

More Twisted Wrister:

Suppa Zuppa.
This is the start of a great soup recipe I tried for the first time. It's called Chicken Vegetable Stracciatella:

I love to cook when I have the time to do it right. Cooking a hearty meal on a Snow Day, brings me great joy. Today I made a double batch, and assigned one half to the freezer, which makes me very happy. Therefore, this activity does not constitute the verboten, mundane task for a Snow Day. My husband said it was the best chicken soup he had ever tasted. And that it was definitely better than having a clean closet. I made him say that last part twice. Bitch don't do Snow Days.

Playing With MySqrlyGrly

The Cakers is currently into role reversal fantasy play. She plays the momma and I'm her daughter. Except she calls me "granddaughter." But I don't trifle. Her favorite activity with the role play, is to help me pick out an outfit to wear to my birthday party.

You see all those outfits on the floor, in the picture? Each one is comprised of a separate piece of skirt, top, headdress and something to carry. Her very most favorite thing is to ask me to pick an outfit, piece by piece. After I'm done with my selection, she then picks it apart, piece by piece.

Homey Mom plays dat, on account of being a flexible kinda gal. But Homey Cakers don't play dat, on account of, I don't know what. Bottom line: There's no right answer. Ever. Every choice I made was initially questioned, then vetoed by "my mom." When I finally caved and agreed with her idea, she tried convincing me that my first choice was the best one. Suddenly, I saw my future-life flashing before me. And I trembled in fear. But this was a Snow Day. And it was good.

Don't Be a Snow Day Hater
Just look at the knife.

Did ya get a good look?
If not, then look again.

The Snow-Day-Challenged Compassionate Giveaway
A cutting-edge contest.
Details coming soon.
Look at the knife.
And wonder.
From where it came.
And when.

*I come by my Snow Day enthusiasm honestly. I was at Michigan State during the Great Blizzard of '78. ::Gawd I loves me an unexpected rhyme:: Closed down the university for the first time in its history. At mid-fucking-term exam time.


••• Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Puttin' the Wrist Back in Chwristmas. 

I am a busy girl, with much to say and little time to say it.

The Weekend:
- Sublime.
- All girls.
- Food, great.
- Company, better.
- Inebriants, intoxicating.
- I "came out" to the group, as a blogger. ::Hi Char, Patty, Paulette, Danette, Marion, Lorrie! Although I'm pretty sure nuny'all are out there, on account of your having, umm, real lives.::

The Driving:
-My husband has a new vehicle.
-My husband’s new vehicle is huge and hateful.
-I lurve it.
-My husband’s new vehicle has retractable running boards that automatically ease out when a door opens, and retract when the door closes. I feels like such a personal, helpful gesture, I can’t help but say “thank you.”
-My husband’s new vehicle has a seat warming and cooling feature. The warming feature makes me feel like I peed my pants. I have a hard time imagining having an ass so hot that it requires a chilled seat. Although, there was a time…..

The Knitting:
I finished the second cabled wristwarmer while away on my girlie weekend. Here I am, testing them out on some single malt, over the wrocks.

For the wrecord, my wrists wremained warm throughout the exercise.

This other one is a striped version of Bonne Marie’s Voo-Doo wristwarmers from Knitty.

In creating the stripe pattern, I had to reknit the same section about three times over. On the final redo, Bella laid down on my yarn in such a way, so as to allow the strand to run across her butt hole, as I knit it up. All those things have convinced me that this piece has bad knarma, so it will not receive a mate. Last thing I need is a pair of haunted wristwarmers that smell of cat's ass.

I'm stupid tired. I go to bed.

The crows seemed to be calling his name, thought Caw.-Jack Handey

••• Saturday, December 03, 2005

Have Cookies, Will Travel 

I'm leaving town for the weekend, with nothing but a tank full of gas and a bag full of knitting. And a coupla dozen of these.

Ummm...And there might be some rum. And stuff.

So bake amongst yourselves.

*The cookies are dangerously decadent. Prepare with caution.

••• Thursday, December 01, 2005


The other night, while sitting on the couch (working on this wristwarmer), I hear the sound that strikes fear in the hearts of all cat owners: The asthmatic, convulsive wheeze of a barfing puss.

I look up, and there, at the other end of my very (very) long couch, is my sweet Bella. Much to my horror, she has assumed the contorted, alien-esque posture of a cat fixin' to blow chunks of warm, moist, foamy wads of Kit-N-Kaboodle, upon her owner's new, as yet unzippered, Scarf Collared Vogue Cardie.

"Fock!Fock!Fock!No....!!!" I scream, as I propel myself across the floor, ::Enter Bionic Woman sound effect.::

Poor Bella. Obviously the girl ain't feeling well. Imagine her further dismay, as her obscenity-driven momma,via the efficient Pounce and Scoop move, flings her retching, furry ass over the back of the couch. Mid hurl. And more than a nano second too late.

This here is a simulation of the results (no cat vomit was harmed in this re-enactment*):

*That is not real cat puke. It’s a special concoction I created, using cat food, water and microwave. If anyone is interested in manufacturing cat-puke, I’ll be happy to share the recipe. For what it’s worth, next time I might try Froot Loops, for enhanced visual impact.::

Is it just me, or is it gross in here?

"If you lose your job, your marriage, and your mind all in one week, try to lose your mind first, because then the other stuff won't matter that much."-Jack Handey

P.S. Wristwarmer pattern found here. Yarn is yet more, left over Mission Falls 1824 wool. I added one cable repeat. Next time, I'm going circular.