It would seem that I got off to an awkward start last week, with my maiden voyage on the good ship WTF Wednesday. Apparently, I didn't fully appreciate the vision behind the concept.

In my post last week, instead of sharing something that makes me go WTF, I tried to make you, the reader, go WTF. In other words, I didn't know WTF.

Because I am a student of the universe, I am constantly evaluating my performance and seeking avenues to self-improvement. On that note, last week Thursday I set a goal for myself; to figure this WTF out. First thing I did was to start keeping a list of WTF moments and observations as they occurred, so I could share them here. With you. On WTF Wednesday.

Then, some time in the last 24 hours, I lost my list.

I can't remember everything that was on the list, but I do know there were a couple from WTF-TV. One of those WTFs was about the tampon commercial showing a bunch of women doing jumping jacks, to depict the absorbing action of an inferior brand of tampon. Then they show the women happily twirling around and around, to depict how their product, the good tampon, responds to bodily fluids. It twirls.

Let's review
Jumping Jack Cork: Bad. And Ouch.
Twirling Tampon: Good. And Twirly.

::I wonder how that particular job experience would read on a resume. Response-to-Flow Reenactor? Or, I'm not a real Super Suck Simulator, but I play one on TV?::

Other lost WTFs included some observations and impressions of morons who live in my house. on my street.

In the meantime, since I'm here and you're here, and were all hanging by a string, I'm just going to pull something out. From somewhere.

Before we proceed, please bear in mind that I'm at the end of day two, out of three consecutive, full inservice days at work. I'm ree ree tired and whipped and one-eyed typing.

So here goes my WTF. And it's a true story. This time.

I've always had a secret nightmare of being wrongly accused of a crime and going to jail or prison for it. When this is the plot on a TV show, I cannot watch it. Even if it's a favorite show. I couldn't even watch the previews of that new show about the law firm that springs wrongly accused anti-perps from prison.

Deep inside of me lives a reasonable, logical person ::Yes, she's very tiny and not real bright.:: who can almost always talk me out of my ridiculously unreasonable fears. Of course, I also harbor a nasty little gnome who is convinced that my fear of prosecution is a manifestation of a guilty subconscious.

Anyway.

Last year August, a receptionist at my beauty salon was accused of embezzling money from the shop, after a bank deposit she was supposed to make, didn't show up in the drop box. She was eventually arrested, booked and charged with embezzlement and ended up spending several hours in jail.

She was also fired from her job,had to pay back the money that was missing and also perform community service.

The bank claimed to have fully investigated the possibility of there being a problem with the box and also claimed that their video camera did not show her making the drop.

A couple of weeks ago, a maintenance technician came to do some work on the deposit box. He was only there a few minutes before finding the deposit bag lodged in the top of the box. Evidently neither the bank, the police or even the woman's defense attorney thought to look there as part of their individual investigations.

I'm happy to report that the woman recently made a settlement with the bank for an undisclosed amount of money. She was also offered a job by the bank, as well as her old job at the salon. She declined both offers.

I will now excuse myself to go perform a celebratory round of the Jumping Jack Cork. This tampon dance is dedicated to the bank. Because it sucks to be them. On WTF Wednesday.

Labels: Hustle and Flow, WTF Wednesday

I start back to work on Tuesday and tomorrow we're waking The Cakers early to surprise her with a trip to the local amusement park. She's been begging to go for two summers now and we thought it would be a fun end-of-the-summer-topper.

Then, at the end of the week, we're going north for the holiday. What this means for the purpose of this one-sided conversation is that blog posts will be few and far between this week. It also means that I'll be topic hopping in this here post, so lace up those Red Ball Jets, and hang on. ::Spring sprong. Spring sprong. Remember that one, you late boomers?::

Kindergarten Krackers
I don't know who has it worse, me or her, but I do know this particular affliction has it all over ASS, with less attitude and more goofy. I swear, this past week has been like living with a pin ball in a pin ball machine. I get her subdued and focused for three seconds, turn my back and ping, ping, ping, she's bouncing off another wall, ding, ding, ding.

I'm kind of settling a bit into the notion of The Cakers in Kindergarten. I think I've been troubled the most by the thought that she's entering a whole new world of people and influences and adventures and starting friendships she very well may carry into adulthood.

My boy went to kindergarten once. I didn't think anything of it at the time, but I now realize that kindergarten was the insidious beginning of the end of our life together as we knew it. Kindergarten is the gateway drug to college and/or otherwise growing up and leaving home. Which means that next week my baby girl will start the process of leaving her mother. And she's only four years old.

But she's ready for school. And really, I am too.

Are they ready for her is the real question.

Yesterday she wrote a story and made it into a book. Here's one of the pages.



Yes, it reads "I LOVE YOU ANA MOM ON CRACK BABY"

Now, before you go calling protective services, there really is a good explanation. See the heart with the crack in it, in this picture? Yeah, the pink one.



According to the author and illustrator, that crack represents a baby hatching out of a heart, just like The Cakers hatched out of her momma's heart. I'm just telling it as it was told to me, k?

According to the author, in that first page she was trying to say, from the third person perspective, "I LOVE YOU ANA, MOM AND CRACK BABY. The Crack Baby is the soon-to-be-born hatchling and, if I got the story straight, Cakers' imaginary baby brother or sister.

Crack Baby. Heh. Something tells me, once again, I got me a long, albeit interesting row to hoe.

Sew, What Now?
You may have noticed that there's been a sewing issue skirting knitblogland this summer. After weeks of oohing and ahhing and pining for some fresh shuttlecockin' of my own, I ordered this pattern.***

I first saw this pattern when Mariko modeled it earlier in the summer Mariko earlier in the summer ::It's kind of hard to keep up with the complexities of her proliferatin' ways*, I tell ya.::, and it was most recently referenced at Brainylady place.

The pattern came in the mail two days ago and I was very happy to see that the skirts look even cuter up close and personal. It also looks like an easy sew. I haven't sewn in years but the one thing I always liked about sewing, over knitting, was the immediate gratification quotient.

That quotient sounds particularly appealing after I recently decided that I need Trudie to be about 2 inches longer. One inch in the body, and another in sleeve depth. I decided this after completing the back and left front. It's really nont that demoralizing, since it's such a quick knit. But one thing I have learned about frogging is that it helps emotionally if I step away from the deed for a couple of days after. I guess it goes to that old adage "Absence makes the frog less harder." Or whatever...

So, while resting on my post-frog-knitting heels, my bigger ass plan for the weekend was to dig up and dust off the White boy from the basement, and whip me up a skirt. Or two. Even.

So a diggin' I did go, and came up with this:



Except this wasn't exactly how I found it. When I found it, the side door was open. You know, the door that covers the parts that make the other parts go up and down and shit. The inside of the machine was coated with it.

Now, I may not be the greatest housekeeper in the world, but people, this is not your common household dust. It's dryer lint. Icky, sticky, putridly mildewy dryer lint.

The storage room also houses the dryer vent tubing. The same dryer vent tubing that somehow disconnected itself from some vital, anti-lint-puke connection some time last winter. Unfortunately, because it occurred behind closed doors, the disconnect was not caught for about two full laundry rotations. That translates into about two full rounds of lint droppings upon my faithful White model 1477, who had the unfortunate circumstance of having his barn door open at that very time, just a foot away from the break in the tube.

After a futile, two-hour search for the operating manual, I took the machine out into better light and tried to clean it up a bit. It did not go well. This stuff is like lint gum on hot pavement. The outside surface is not my concern. But this shit is all over the inside too. Stuck like glue. If it is salvageable, the machine is probably not worth the price of getting it cleaned and tuned up. Especially since I'll have to fork over an extra 20 bucks for an operating manual, per my online resources. And I can't find the little box of sewing machine doohickies.

It's a pretty cheap model. For the total cost of getting it cleaned and tuned, replacing the manual and box of doohickies, I can buy a new one. Maybe it would have to be the next model down, but all I really need is a straight seam, buttonholin' ops and a zipper foot. Problem is, there's not much room in the budget right now, to supportyet another hobby,what with kindergarten start-up costs and college tuition. I guess you could say I'm up skirt creek.**

Needles to say, I am disappointed. Especially after my traipse through the carnage lead me to this piece of long forgotten fabric, which would be perfect for that skirt with the little flounce:



Pretty, huh? It's a rayon, I think. Washable, I hope. I've had it for 12 years, I'm thinking. Upon closer examination, you can see it has some unusual features to its personality. This looks like a gnarly claw, reaching for a spider.



And here's a depiction of Abe Lincoln riding a moose without antlers through the mountains of Arizona. Or maybe Osama Bin Laden on a donkey? Interesting, nonetheless.



Interesting as it is, it still looks like no new skirt for me, at least for awhile.

And you know what that means. I'm giving up sewing for lint.

*speaking of...Have you seen her new online Japanese fabric store? It's called Superbuzzy. Fun stuff. Go give her a click.

**A Sew Cool Update: Husband just said we can get me a new one. This probably means we can get him a new guitar. Care. Not.

***I had the wrong link for a bit. Sorry for the confusion.

Author's Note: I am temporarily showing only two posts at a time, until the margin- offending little fuck of a post gets bumped down a few. Is it any coincidence that it's the WTF Wednesday post? Hmmm? Exactly.

Labels: My Daughter Scares Me

These are more shots from our adventures on the dunes last weekend. This one is of an area where I used to vacation, in a past life or two.



That farm in the background of the scene once belonged to a guy named Day. He donated most of the property in that picture to the federal government and it is now part of the Sleeping Bear National Park (or something like that). I used to ride my bike past the farm, via one of the most picturesque roads I've had the pleasure to traverse. The area is mostly abandoned farmland, with old houses, breezy fields and lots of apple trees. The big water is Lake Michigan and the litte water to the right is Little Glen Lake, upon which I used to rent a cottage.

Here is Lake Michigan, enjoying some spotty, shoreline sun.



I've been in a tiny, quirky funk this week, on and off. I'm sure it's just transitional stuff and nothing serious. College boy returned to his academic digs yesterday. His landing was much smoother than last year's, as it should be. For more than a couple reasons, it's kind of nice to have him getting on with his developmentally appropriate life, but the psychological emptiness is still kind of naggy. At her core, a mother likes to have her things about her.

Last night was "Meet the Teacher" night for kindergarten. I haven't written about this upcoming transitional heart tromper yet, and am not starting now. I will admit to pulling my deer-in-headlights-can't-speak-now-I'm-verklempting-'cause-she's-growing-up-too-fast thing, when the teacher introduced herself. And I call myself a professional.

On a positive note, I was pleased to see several sets of older parents ::like almost my age, but not quite::. The age thing and Cakers starting school this fall became a secret concern for me during our week at soccer camp, earlier in the summer. ::No, I didn't post about it, it's somewhere in my draft bin, which is getting kind of full.::

Today we commence with day three in a row of shopping for College/kindergarten. Yay me. While I hate mall shopping, I was recently thrilled to see that tunics are in for fall. I love me some coverage.

That's it for today. Sorry, no snappy.

Labels: eye candy Friday

::One more apology. I somehow lost comments on this post when I republished. Sorry. I'm done. I don't know what's wrong, but it's in this post because when I took it out, the blog appeared normal. This is not a publicity stunt. Now I need a drink. It's 11:00 a.m. somewhere, right?::

::Edited again, italics didn't work. This time I'm changing the WTF button upload. Sorry for the confusion::

::Edited 8/25 to remove italics to see if that helps with the page view issues.::

Last week it started. Once a day, three days running. Memos in the mail, from another planet, reminding me that I am soon expected back to the currently-alien-to-me world of work.

By the end of every summer, I'm always ready to go back to work. I not only love my job, but I also need it. The structure. The purpose. The morning drive radio.

Assisted by the observable traits of a devolving summer, in early August I begin the mental and emotional preparation for returning to work. In other words, I try to approach the end of my annual summer hiatus with gratitude, maturity and acceptance. Until this year.

Sunday night ::at the cottage:: we went for ice cream at our favorite shop; the canoe livery. Besides the canoes, kayaks, tubes, grill and ice cream shop,there is also a store, where you can buy just about any novelty geegaw or last minute, emergency camping supply you can imagine. ::I often wonder how many campers make a late night emergency run for the key chain with the rubber cow that bubbles a blob of retractable rubber poop when you squeeze it?::

Going to the canoe livery for ice cream is never a dull venture. The livery workers are mostly college-age students who, seemingly oblivious to prying ears, freely gossip, tease and cajole amongst themselves, sometimes about things other folks ought not be hearing. There are also plenty of people watching ops, via the other customers.

We usually sit on benches by the river to eat our ice cream. On cooler evenings, we might sit next to the firepit where, regardless of the weather, there is always a crackling flame. On this Sunday the weather was cool and fallish, so fire sounded kind of nice.

The only picture I could find of the livery was this one of Cakers, circa 2004.



Anyway. So we arrive about 7:45 and get in line. The first thing I notice is the fire pit is empty and swept clean. Not even a cinder. Then I see that the benches next to the river are soaking wet, from the nearby sprinkler, running full blast. All the canoes and kayaks were neatly stacked and the livery counter was locked up tight. And not a college student in sight.

The whole scene was disturbing in its weirdness. And somehow very wrong. And then I saw the sign over the take-out window that read: Starting August 20, we will close at 8:00. No grill orders after 7:30.

I'm telling you, there is no amount of emotional and mental preparation that could have prepared me for this level of presumptuous audacity. These river rats are trying to close summer! Early!

First I was stunned.
Then I was scared.
Then I got mad.

"No!" I yelled at the other customers. My husband and daughter looked at me with mortified amazement as I continued.

"They can't do this! We must stop them!"

"Beg your pardon, ma'am?" asked the grandpa who bore a striking resemblance to Jabba the Hutt, sitting on the bench near the ice cream line.

"They're trying to close summer early. We have to do something. We can take them. "

"Well, ma'am, no disrespect, but summer is coming to a close."

"You think I don't know that? I know that. According to my calendar, we have two more weeks to righteously enjoy the full benefits of summer. I'd go in the store and grab a calendar to show you but the most recent year they have is 1996 and I'm afraid that working from an outdated calendar will just lay fodder for debate,dissent and custerfluckin'. We don't have time. We must move quickly."

"Move quickly?" He slurped through a strand of chocolate-caramel-peanut-butter-cup-hot-fudge-sundae drool. "I ain't moved quickly since 1972, the day I chased and caught my Vera. God Rest her soul."

"I'm sorry for your loss, but we need to take action now."
"Oh, my Vera didn't die. She's in prison for trying to shove a Sunday roaster up my ass while I was sleeping. It was Easter."

"Anyway...
We can stop this tyranny!
We can save summer!
WE CAN TAKE THEM."

Grandpa the Hutt just blinked at me, from behind his chocolate-caramel-and-peanut- butter-cup-splattered glasses. By now the rest of the customers, including my own family, had scattered in all directions. One family chose standing under the sprinkler over being anywhere near my craziness.

"I'll do it myself," I muttered, as went into the store.

Once in the store, the first thing I did was size up the situation. There were two women employees working behind the counter, both in their 60's. One was putting money in a deposit bag, while the other one was working paperwork.

There was only one other customer in the store. She was standing at the counter, trying to decide between two Alabama counterfeit celebrity driver's licenses. Osama Bin Laden and Kermit the Frog. She didn't even look up.

The next thing I did was select my weapon. Within arm's reach was a stack of wooden weenie sticks, so I grabbed one. My second choice was the very authentic looking rubber tommy hawk, adorned with fuchsia and blue raspberry-hued feathers. I stuck this handle-wise, into my waistband.

"May I help you?" asked one of the summer stealing crones, from behind the counter.

"Yes, you can help me," I replied, as I made my way toward my first bargaining chip, the Jiffy Pop rack.

"You can help me and this here package of Jiffy Pop by listening real good, and doing exactly what I tell you."

I then raised the sharpened end of the weenie stick to the Jiffy Pop package. "One wrong move, and the Jiffy Pop gets it in the expandable foil, which will render it useless. And I know that none of us wants that. Once word gets out that you sell impotent Jiffy Pop, you lose all campground cred."

"Is this a robbery?" She said all a tremble.

"You're the only thievin' wench in this room. I'm here to take back what's been taken from us. I'm here for justice."

"What are you talking about?" She asked.

By now, both employees were staring, mouths agape. The customer was still trying to decide between her choices, although it looked like she was leaning toward Kermit, but I'm not sure.

"I'm here to take back summer. You're trying to close summer early and we're just not having it. We're not ready. It's not time. We need more time."

"What do you want from us?" she said.

By now, I had the customer's attention. At first she looked scared, but then I looked her in the eye and said "They're planning on closing the shop in five minutes, from right beneath you, whether you're ready or not. Are you ready? Or do you need more time? To decide?"

The customer turned to the employees with a glare of betrayal. "Is this true? You're closing at 8:00? It's still August. We have two weeks left!"

My new comrade took the clerks' silence as admission and turned back to me and gave me a nod. In one swift motion, I pulled the rubber tommy hawk from my waistband and tossed it to her. Without taking her eyes off of me, she snatched the piece as it was about to fly way the fuck over her head. I'm guessing she played ball in college, but I didn't ask.

"Go stand by the shelf with the crystal unicorns adorned with birthstones. They're right next to the angel holograms of the Lord's Prayer. And when I say the word, the unicorns go," I commanded.

Both ladies behind the counter, gasped in unison, at the unicorns.

"We'll do whatever you say," says one.

"Well, I say you give us our summer back. I say you stay open every night until 10:00 until Labor Day. I say you be available to sell the Jiffy Pop to the desperate popcorn lover, without a microwave. I say you be available to the parents of the little camper who's afraid to sleep in a tent without a pair of x-ray vision glasses, so he can keep a watch out for bear and cougar. And what about the desperate antique collector who is looking for a late night coupe of a 1993 Garfield calendar? Who's going to help her get through the night, if not you? And since you asked, I say you quit selling black market Jart sets to the able visioned innocents who don't know better. Giving away free prosthetic eyeballs with every set, doesn't make up for the danger. In fact, it may give people a false sense of security. And you might want to pull the Rely tampons off the shelf. I don't have time to explain that one. Try Google."

Filled with shame and remorse, the weeping women apologized for their selfishness and agreed to our demands. While they refilled the cash register and changed the Closed sign to Open, my ally handed me the tommy hawk and returned to poring over her two selections. I bit my tongue to keep from giving her my input. I figured she has until 10:00 p.m. daily, for two more weeks to figure it out.

Finally, my husband came into the store and said "WTF is going on in here?"

"WTF is exactly what's going on in here. It's WTF Wednesday."



"But it's not Wednesday."
"Exactly."

Labels: WTF Wednesday

Again.

Today it's Sandy's Saturday Sky, even though I'm not a boney-fide registrant. And this here renegade particpant has not one, not two, but three Saturday sky pics, to boot.

A regular Sky Harlot, I am.
How high can I fly?

Today's weather took a turn for the cool and windy, so my husband, Cakers and I headed to a nearby resort town* to take in some dinner and tourist sights.

This is my husband and Cakers looking over the wild and wavy goods of Lake Michigan, under a wild and wavy sky. ::Remember to click it to big it.::



Further down the shoreline we stopped at a famous scenic park, which offers a few overlooks of the Big Lake.* I took this shot from one of the viewing decks. ::No, I really did. I couldn't make this shit up.::


After a lovely tour of the shoreline, which included A-Cakers-Story-For-Another-Day.-Maybe, we made it back to the cottage without anyone getting seriously hurt or arrested.

As if we hadn't already been treated to a heaping serving of sky a la mode, we were welcomed home by this skyview:



Further down the shoreline is a fantastic scenic drive with several overlooks to Lake Michigan and other beautiful sights.

*I used to rent a cottage every year in this community and consider it one of the most beautiful, magical places I've ever been. Because I've paid some rent 'round these parts, I always enjoy a sense of belonging whenever I visit.

**West Michiganese for Lake Michigan.

Saturay Sigh
That would be the sigh of happiness in response to a project well going. Here's the back side of the Trudie Cardigan, just a couple inches shy of shoulder shaping and cast-off. Since this picture was taken,I finished the back.


We now return to our regularly scheduled, weekend nothingness.

Labels: Saturday Sky

I'm finally biting on the Friday Eye Candy. If you're unfamiliar, click on the button.



This is a picture of a bubble on a path. Typically I think of bubbles as being a bit random and without purpose. After taking this shot at the lake, I'm rethinking my thinking on the bubble. Please click for a close-up.



Confidence Candy
Here is yesterday's shot on the Trudie Cardie with Ruffles. As of this writing, I'm more than a few inches further along than what you see in the picture, and just half an inch from the armhole shaping. I'm really, really lovin' this stitch. It's not only easy, but it gives good fabric.



And Then She Went Away
Due to several circumstances, we haven't been to the cottage for a few weeks (the anniversary thing doesn't count, Cakers wasn't there). This coming weekend was off limits to us because the in-laws were having company.

Late yesterday we received the dreaded call; cottage company has cancelled and in-laws will need outside assistance in the partaking of company-intended food and drink. Apparently, there were also plans for the company to enjoy the beautiful, relaxing ambiance of the lake environment and maybe take in a boat ride or two.

Even though I really felt like staying home this weekend, to endure enjoy yet some more endless days on end meaningful moments, cooped up bonding with a lonely, bored, yakkity-yakking sweetly precocious four-year old, I realized that it's not always about me. We're needed, so we're going.

And it sounds like we have our work cut out for us.

Per usual, when the folks are around, the blogging ops are rare or stealth-like. To make sure we get the job done right, we're staying through Tuesday.

Labels: eye candy Friday

If when you die you get a choice between pie heaven and regular heaven, choose pie heaven. It might be a trick, but if not, mmmboy. -Jack Handey

In January, I started the ABC-along with A for Acceptance. Of my Ass. ::Review here. If you're feeling lazy, here's a brief recap: I was not handling well, my mid-life love handles and ASSociated features. While living in a van down by denial, I was pretending my ass was the same as it ever was and dressed it accordingly. With poor results. Under the influence of newfound levels of Acceptance, I vowed to be the bigger woman and buy my new body some new clothes that actually fit.::

Fast forward some months. I said I loved me, but I lied. Okay, I didn't lie, exactly. I hedged. I did take myself shopping, but the plan to find an updated, tucked-in image, got all tucked up.

While I didn't find the look I was looking for, I did find:

1) The miracle of Cellulight. You know,that special lighting in department store dressing rooms that awashes every dimpled ripple in a unique hue known as Dead Fish Underbelly.

2) That before I could tuck in a blouse, I had to tuck in the rolls of me underneath, which adds inches to the waistline waist area, and is a tad uncomfortable.

3) There are no Kleenex in dressing rooms.

4) There should be Kleenex in dressing rooms.

5) There is no booze in dressing rooms.

6) There should be booze in dressing rooms.

So,my Newly Accepted Big Ass Wardrobe ended up being three Calvin Klein ribbed turtleneck sweaters from Costco, in maroon, black and cream. ::Shut up. I hearted these garments all winter. They fit like a dream and looked great with the Gloria Vanderbilt elastic waist khakis, also courtesy of Costco.::

In March I ordered a cache of spring dresses from a favorite catalog, in what I presumed to be the appropriately larger dress size. A size, mind you, that I had never worn before. This larger dress size thing was kind of painful at first, but then I was okay with it. Because I was all about the Acceptance and shit.

Well, out of the five dresses I ordered,four were too small. That's right. The dresses I ordered in a size larger than the largest I had ever grown, were too small. The one dress that did fit was a black tanky sheathy thing, made out of that heavy spandex fabric that looks good on everyone.

Acceptance my ass. The bitch is going down.

I started to watch what I eat and exercise more. The watching the eating was not a huge adjustment, because during the school year, I really eat pretty well. I eat breakfast and usually a healthy lunch, with a snack in between. And almost always a healthy dinner, with lots of veggies.

I then upped my 30 minutes per day on the elliptical to 40 and resumed my pilates workout. Several weeks later, I hopped on the scale. Nothing new.

A few more weeks pass. Same hop. Same result.

Says my supportive husband: "Just think how big you'd be by now if you weren't doing anything?" Blink.

One day at lunch, a friend tells me that her personal trainer told her that women our age need to do at least 50 minutes of cardio at a time, to get into our fat stores. Oh.

So I upped my elliptical to 50 minutes. Nothing.

Then another friend told me that she heard the elliptical is not a good workout for women our age because we work it too hard and when we work it too hard for too long periods of time, our brain thinks we're going to overburn our fat stores so it slows down our metabolism. Oh.

So I started walking. 50 minutes a day, 4-5 times a week. Nothing.

In late May, I upped my walking time to 1 hour and 15 minutes, 4-5 times a week. Nothing. By the end of July, still nothing.

So, a few weeks ago, I'm talking to yet another friend about my frustations and she says that her personal trainer said that walking is a good supplemental activity and better than sitting on the couch, but it has very few fat burning or cardio benefits, unless you're speedwalking. Oh. That. Bitch.

When did the simple math of calories burned vs. calories earned get so damn complicated? If you don't eat enough, your brain thinks you're starving, so it slows down your body's metabolism. If you don't work out hard enough, your brain thinks you've got a bad attitude and punishes you by only burning the light and fluffy calories. If you work out too hard and for too long, your brain thinks you're fixin' to wander the desert for the next 300 years, so shuts down the metabolism. And now I learn that merely walking an hour a day, is not only a waste of time, but puts unnecessary wear and tear on the taxpayers sidewalk.

Of course, I tried the speedwalking. For two blocks. I stopped because I was afraid that my brain was going to be so embarrassed for me that it would tell my body to speedwalk me into 5 o'clock traffic.

Where am I going with all this? I'm kind of confused myself, but I think a segue is strolling the parkway.

Giving up on Futility
Remember the only dress from the batch I bought that fit? That dress is very important to me. Not only is it one of about three things in my closet that actually fits, it is also a symbol of hope. Hope that the world can be a fair, sensible place, even if 4 out of 5 dresses don't agree.

The recently DeCeCeased CeCe was supposed to be a companion garment to that dress, for fall. It was to serve as a little fashion coupe de grace for the terminally enlarging, on a deadline. So her failure to thrive was a double wham slam on at least a couple of my personal agendas.

But the only thing I'm giving up on at this point is futility. Before the Yarnball-Formerly-Known-as-CeCe had cooled in the bag, I had purchased two new cardie patterns on-line, neither of which worked out.

Next, I scoured through some old magazines and books and came across the ol'Cafe Cardigan from a 2005 Cast-on. I always loved that pattern and was real excited when the Sierra gave me perfect gauge.



After some email consulting with Cafe Cardie pioneer Bron, it was gonna be a go. And then it wasn't. It was the fabric issue again. After casting on and knitting a couple inches on the back, I realized it wasn't the fabric that the pattern was looking for, again. It's weird how sometimes you can't tell about the fabric until you get the whole thing going.

Then I happened upon this ol' fave from a Mission Falls pattern book. The Trudie Cardigan.



A quick little swatch with ruffled embellishment, found me singing the Got-Gauge-and-Fabric-Hallelujah chorus.



::I've actually got about 4 inches done on the back of the sweater, but Blogger wouldn't let me...well...you know. I should have known better, really. It is, after all, a day on Earth.::

As of this morning, according to my scale I have suddenly lost seven pounds. ::Same scale that I heretofore believed only registered gains and losses in 10 pound intervals::

Unfortunately I haven't noticed any changes in how my clothes fit, except maybe the back strap of my bra is a bit looser. And I guess my socks are feeling kind of baggy around the ankle. And that notorious little problem area behind the knee ::knee elbow?:: is looking pretty good, after all.

I don't know how this happened so quickly. Maybe my brain told my body that stupid is as stupid does and that I got gauge and fabric after all, and to throw me a fucking bone?

Or maybe my brain told the bod that we are in desperate need of a little insurance, vis-a-vis documentable encourgement, so I won't pull that speedwalking stunt again. Otherwise, somebody's really gonna get hurt.

Either way, giving up on futility works for me.

Labels: When Knitting You is Hurting Me, With Grace My Ass

Present.



Just a small block of wood, painted green and tied with grosgrain paper ribbon. My son made it at school, in 1993, and gave it to me for Christmas.

Christmas of '93 was our first Christmas as a broken little family, and I had been more than little scared as the day approached. I wasn't so much scared for me, but for the boy and his unknown-to-me level of pain at facing yet another broken-family-related transition.

I was a little scared for myself, too. I worried that the dawning of this holiest of family days, in a newly broken home, would be the final straw for the camel that carried my son's trusting and accepting nature. I worried he would wake up, filled with hate and bitterness towards his parents, for ruining not only his life, but the magic of Christmas. Forever.

Oh ye Mom, of little faith.

Attached to this little wooden block, painted green and tied with grosgrain ribbon, was this poem:



Sweet, eh?

I'm not done.

Of course I hugged and cried and oohed and ahhed. And that was before I heard the story of what, exactly, went into the making of this little wooden block, painted green.

With big gray eyes unblinking, in the somber tone of a poet, my son explained how before the ribbon was tied, on the count of three, every first grader in the class blew a kiss into the top of their respective wooden blocks, painted green. After a brief reinactment of the event, including the bowing of his little skater-cut-towhead to blow the kiss, he said, "And then we tied the knot, to keep the love inside forever."

This Present has held a place of honor on my bedroom dresser since that time. ::Although by the looks of the paper, it may have served a stint in the kitchen at some point. I think that's spaghetti sauce.::

I'm proud to say that the original knot in the ribbon has not been untied since that day. Unfortunately, The Cakers has gotten her grubbin' mitts on it once or twice, and slid the ribbon off, knot intact.

But that's okay. A goofin' little sister can never take away the best Christmas present of all: Grace.

Other Stuff
I can't believe it's been almost a week since I last posted. It's been kind of nuts around here, although I can't assign blame to any one event. I was down for a day or so with a weird bug, from which I'm still sporting a headache.

We've also been scrambling to get stuff done for The Cakers' upcoming kindergarten debut. ::We've already been labelled the Problem Family by the powers that be, which be the school secretary, of course. This on account of missing the part in the paperwork where it said to have all turned in by March 17, 2006.::

The anniversary escape was nice, but it's too weird and quiet up there without the girl. That being said, I very much enjoyed a full hour of raft floating, with impunity.

Here's my most recent shot my most recent run of CeCe.



I have no idea why blogger wouldn't upload it width-wise, but it matters not. Not long after taking the picture, I done ripped her anew. For good. It just wasn't going to work. Gauge matters, people. So, CeCe ya later. Maybe next spring?

I'm still in need of a nice little brown cardie for fall, and continue to look for the perfect pattern for the Sierra.

In the meantime, my weekend schedule is already packed, so maybe no mo' blogging for another coupla.

Ediot Note: I'm sorry for all the republishes on this post, but every time I'd publish and reread, I'd find chunks of text had disappeared, or corrections showed up in places I didn't put them. Last time, I promise. 4:30 EST.

Labels: ABC

...is for my big, strong, hunka, hunka, burning lens.

The Olympus E-500.



I received this camera as a gift last Christmas and have yet to mention it here. Until now. Of course.

The main reason I haven't mentioned it is that I really don't know much about it, except that it has a lot more pixels than my last one, that it takes around 14 fucktillion pictures before the rechargeable battery runs out and that it makes me very happy. I have yet to find make my acquaintance with the manual, but I'm sure it's very nice.

I was initially kind of uncomfortable with the extravagance, but I know better than to dicker with Santa. Besides, it has been my experience with the old hairy guy, that whenever he is really good to me, he rewards himself threefold, which gets me off the hook from that indulged feeling.

The second reason I haven't mentioned my new camera is that I've been feeling kinda guilty. About my old camera. And how, after it served me faithfully for 7 years, it was rewarded by being used to photograph its replacement, after which, it sat in a drawer for six months.

Oh, the humiliation.

In fact, I'm only posting this now because in January, I put the old dog back to work as the boat camera, because it's more portable. So there.

Even though I haven't found read the manual yet, I quickly came to appreciate the camera's diverse capabilities simply from looking at the easy-to-read dial on the top of the camera.



While I have yet to utilize all these features, the icons are easy to recognize and self-explanatory in their simplicity, as follows:

A-This is the Find Me a Girlfriend setting, as indicated by the icon of a woman's head, with a bouffant-y, upsweep-esque kind of do'. You have to tilt you head a little to see it right.

B-This is the Find Me a Boyfriend setting, as indicated by the icon of a man's, well, it's kind of hard to see in this picture, but it's clearly a profile of a man's, well, you know. You have to tilt your head the other way from the girlfriend angle to see that its clearly a man's, well, you know. If you can't see it still, I'll just say it's a big hangy thing kinda hanging over smaller hangy thing. k?

C-This setting will give you superhero athletic skills.

D-This one will make the person you are taking a picture of smell better. It also works for self-portraits.

E- This icon shows a star and a crescent moon, which is the universal symbol for for psychic powers. On this setting, well, you already know, right? I knew you did.

Although, I still don't know what that Auto PASM thing means. Although it sounds kind of freaky.

There is just one thing about this camera that concerns me. There are some settings that provide a brief description in the control panel screen, of the setting's specific purpose. There's one such description that reads "Shoot Active Children." I'm like, "All of them?" Yikes!

See? I don't need no stinkin' manual.

All I need is a thing of beauty on which to focus, and the rest kinda takes care of itself.







Scratchin'My Itch
Today is our 7 year wedding anniversary. Tomorrow we're sneaking off to the cottage for our annual slumber party for two, where we hope to float some boats.

So I'll be out for a coupla.

Bloggy Dearest
You are not getting up from this table until you have finished that meat.-Joan Crawford as depicted in "Mommy Dearest"

Before I get to that, LeeAnne, Neil, Kim and Chris, you may be excused from the table.

As for the rest of you...I'm going to keep putting Friday's post in front of you until you finish making your comments on it. I want no less than 15 bites.

And when I come back on Tuesday, I expect to find that you finished the job.

CeCe, Now
::You thought I was kidding, didn't you?::
Post Preface: The following post (this is not the actual post, part) is cognitively fueled by my family's genetic predispostion to explain every thought in one's head that is even remotely related to a given topic, at any given opportunity. Historically this familial phenonmenon has primarily been observed in restaurant settings where over the years, thousands of hapless wait staff have fallen victim to hearing loosely related thoughts and/or personal histories regarding menu items of interest, as shared by select (very) female members of my family. And it goes something like this (still not the post part, k? I'll let you know)

Waitress: Are you ready to place your order?

Fictional Female Member of My Family (FF MOM F): Well, the chicken looks good. Are there any nuts in it?

Wait Staff: Nuts in the chicken?

FF MOM F: I have diverticulosis. Just one sesame seed can kill me. ::pats tummy::

Wait Staff: Well, we wouldn't want that. Would you like some more time?

FF MOM F: The halibut looks good, but I just had fish on Wednesday. I had dinner with my son. He's been married four times,but this last one seems pretty nice. I think the rehab helped. When he was little I used to tie him to a tree in the back yard, so I could get some housework done and watch my stories. One time I accidently tied him to the dog. Boy, that was a quite the to-do. We had to put the dog down. Poor thing. Nerves, dontcha know.

Wait Staff: I can come back...

FF MOM F: Mmmm, I was thinking about the halibut. There isn't any shrimp in that, is there?

Wait Staff: Only if the halibut ate some as his last meal.

FF MOM F: Oh, no! I can't eat shellfish. Even if I'm sitting next to someone eating shellfish and I accidently stick my finger in their food or give them an open mouth kiss or something, I will spend the next two days in the bathroom, if you know what I mean. ::pats tummy::

Wait Staff: Really, ma'am, I was just joking. There's nothing on the halibut but a crunchy potato coating.

FF MOM F: There aren't any nuts on those potatoes are there? I can't have nuts...

Start Post Here...(you were warned, remember)
Ce Ce! What shall I see?
A horse's head where his tail should be.-Nursery Rhyme

A pretty face on a horse's ass. That's kind of how I've been feeling about my well honed skills at badly following a good pattern. But, back to that in a minute.

When Bonne Marie first released CeCe, I fell in love with her beauty, brains and personality, on sight. After purchasing the pattern, I decided I should finish that damned Peaches before casting on for yet another lace cardigan. Plus, it was too late to finish in time to wear to work for spring, when I would get the most use from a short-sleeved cardie.

And then: 1) Bonne Marie added 3/4 length sleeves to the pattern mix and 2) Peaches bit the dust.

And here we are, almost ready to make a selection off the menu.

After swatching three, gauge appropriate yarns from my stash, I found myself with no other choice but to go buy some yarn. At my neighborhood yarn store, I fell for a lovely wad of cocoa-hued Cascade Sierra.

Even though it wasn't on the prescribed list of yarns, I thought I could make it work because the gauge recommendations fit the pattern's. Mostly I thought I could make it work because I really, really wanted this color. It reminds me of buckeyes, which reminds me of the time I collected buckeyes as a kid, and thought they were so beautiful that surely people would want to buy them, so I went selling buckeyes door to door. I was, of course, mistaken. Consequently, over the next year or so, I was the neighborhood Kid's Choice for teasing and the random punch in the stomach.

I did get the stockinette gauge, but because I was in a hurry to cast-on for the next road trip north, I skipped swatching for the lace pattern. After casting on in the car and knitting up over four inches of pattern over the next couple days, I decided I didn't like the fabric. It was too beefy.



Now,I'm a girl who likes me some beefy. I likes me some beefy cakes and some beefy mitts and even a nice beefy wine. But beefy lace? Um no. Not on my swatch.

So I ripped it all out and started over with a larger needle, which resulted in the not-so-beefy look I was looking for.



Lovely, ain't she? My CeCe? The only comforting thought I carried with me, as I ripped out the four or so inches of the first try, was that the next try would go much quicker since I already had lots of practice with the pattern.

Ha. Well, let's just say my Comfort went Southern and I ended up ripping back two more inches, twice. You see...

::This would be about the time I'd start telling ya about that wintery day in the 7th grade, when I got off the bus and was laughing so hard that I peed my mini skirt. I mean, this stuff was a day's worth, race horse force, shooting and steaming from my in betweens, initially straight down into the snow, and eventually reduced itself to piddle, right into my stylin' plastic-fake-leather-look fleece-lined shoe boots. ::

...While going with the bigger needle, I had to go with a smaller size in the pattern, but I had memorized the pattern for the larger size, and therefore kept knitting that one, which reminded me of the time in kindergarten when I threw up all over my rabbit muff in gym class and how even though that muff never smelled or felt the same after that, I still loved it so..

Waitress: I'll give you a few more minutes.

Despite two more false starts, I'm happy to say I now have two full lace repeats completed, with nary a boo.

CeCe how I am?

Pre-K Wasteland
Things have been getting a bit gnarly here in the house of Cakers and Swine. We held up pretty well the first couple of days of being housebound on account of the inclement climate. While daddy worked in the basement, me and the girl had ourselves some crafty times, coloring, painting and doing nails via a special spa day afternoon. ::THAT spa thing was so fun that I've pretty much decided that it is an event not to be replicated until the Cakers'senior prom, or beyond, to better enable us to remain living and/or not incarcerated fully treasure the special and wholly unique memory of the day.::

At the end of the second day, however, I was seriously needing a cure for my shredded nerves. I did, however, make mental note of how well The Cakers was holding up through the hole-up. ::I'm now convinced that sound mental health can be talked to a slow, tortuous, and certain death.::

That being said, after my well polished Cakers was well in bed that night, I came upon this scene in the playroom:



Evidently, some of us hadn't been holding up as psychologically sound as I originally thought.

Here's a close-up of Mattel's latest release,Morning After Barbie:



This Barbie comes with her own bigger than life-size, hand free vibrator:



I'm not sure what he's planning to do with the compact car, but the dog adds a cute touch.

Really, things have been crazy ass around here. I am way behind in reading blogs and responding to comments. I especially wanted to get back to some of you on comments on my cottage neighborhood post. I hope to still do that. ::Sigh::

And I suppose I'm not even close to being caught up on the Alpha bit thingy, eh?

Thanks all for the compliments on the ribby shell. It really doesn't look as obviously swirly in real life, as depicted in the picture. I have worn it with total emotional abandonment.

I really need to make this a wrap. I've been working on this post for two days, two sentences at a time. At this moment, I should be taking full advantage of The Cakers being out of the house for a couple of hours, so excuse me while I try to fire up Barbies Robo-brator get some sorely needed housework done.

*Blogger will not let me upload pictures today at all. WTF, again? So the Barbie pictures are hand jobs and cannot be clicked to enlarge and look a little hinky, to boot.

Labels: ABC, Deep Shit, My Daughter Scares Me, Pho-Ho', The Casting On Couch, Tree From Where I Fell

Post Preface: The following post (this is not the actual post, part) is cognitively fueled by my family's genetic predispostion to explain every thought in one's head that is even remotely related to a given topic, at any given opportunity. Historically this familial phenonmenon has primarily been observed in restaurant settings where over the years, thousands of hapless wait staff have fallen victim to hearing loosely related thoughts and/or personal histories regarding menu items of interest, as shared by select (very) female members of my family. And it goes something like this (still not the post part, k? I'll let you know)

Waitress: Are you ready to place your order?

Fictional Female Member of My Family (FF MOM F): Well, the chicken looks good. Are there any nuts in it?

Wait Staff: Nuts in the chicken?

FF MOM F: I have diverticulosis. Just one sesame seed can kill me. ::pats tummy::

Wait Staff: Well, we wouldn't want that. Would you like some more time?

FF MOM F: The halibut looks good, but I just had fish on Wednesday. I had dinner with my son. He's been married four times,but this last one seems pretty nice. I think the rehab helped. When he was little I used to tie him to a tree in the back yard, so I could get some housework done and watch my stories. One time I accidently tied him to the dog. Boy, that was a quite the to-do. We had to put the dog down. Poor thing. Nerves, dontcha know.

Wait Staff: I can come back...

FF MOM F: Mmmm, I was thinking about the halibut. There isn't any shrimp in that, is there?

Wait Staff: Only if the halibut ate some as his last meal.

FF MOM F: Oh, no! I can't eat shellfish. Even if I'm sitting next to someone eating shellfish and I accidently stick my finger in their food or give them an open mouth kiss or something, I will spend the next two days in the bathroom, if you know what I mean. ::pats tummy::

Wait Staff: Really, ma'am, I was just joking. There's nothing on the halibut but a crunchy potato coating.

FF MOM F: There aren't any nuts on those potatoes are there? I can't have nuts...

Start Post Here...(you were warned, remember)
Ce Ce! What shall I see?
A horse's head where his tail should be.-Nursery Rhyme

A pretty face on a horse's ass. That's kind of how I've been feeling about my well honed skills at badly following a good pattern. But, back to that in a minute.

When Bonne Marie first released CeCe, I fell in love with her beauty, brains and personality, on sight. After purchasing the pattern, I decided I should finish that damned Peaches before casting on for yet another lace cardigan. Plus, it was too late to finish in time to wear to work for spring, when I would get the most use from a short-sleeved cardie.

And then: 1) Bonne Marie added 3/4 length sleeves to the pattern mix and 2) Peaches bit the dust.

And here we are, almost ready to make a selection off the menu.

After swatching three, gauge appropriate yarns from my stash, I found myself with no other choice but to go buy some yarn. At my neighborhood yarn store, I fell for a lovely wad of cocoa-hued Cascade Sierra.

Even though it wasn't on the prescribed list of yarns, I thought I could make it work because the gauge recommendations fit the pattern's. Mostly I thought I could make it work because I really, really wanted this color. It reminds me of buckeyes, which reminds me of the time I collected buckeyes as a kid, and thought they were so beautiful that surely people would want to buy them, so I went selling buckeyes door to door. I was, of course, mistaken. Consequently, over the next year or so, I was the neighborhood Kid's Choice for teasing and the random punch in the stomach.

I did get the stockinette gauge, but because I was in a hurry to cast-on for the next road trip north, I skipped swatching for the lace pattern. After casting on in the car and knitting up over four inches of pattern over the next couple days, I decided I didn't like the fabric. It was too beefy.



Now,I'm a girl who likes me some beefy. I likes me some beefy cakes and some beefy mitts and even a nice beefy wine. But beefy lace? Um no. Not on my swatch.

So I ripped it all out and started over with a larger needle, which resulted in the not-so-beefy look I was looking for.



Lovely, ain't she? My CeCe? The only comforting thought I carried with me, as I ripped out the four or so inches of the first try, was that the next try would go much quicker since I already had lots of practice with the pattern.

Ha. Well, let's just say my Comfort went Southern and I ended up ripping back two more inches, twice. You see...

::This would be about the time I'd start telling ya about that wintery day in the 7th grade, when I got off the bus and was laughing so hard that I peed my mini skirt. I mean, this stuff was a day's worth, race horse force, shooting and steaming from my in betweens, initially straight down into the snow, and eventually reduced itself to piddle, right into my stylin' plastic-fake-leather-look fleece-lined shoe boots. ::

...While going with the bigger needle, I had to go with a smaller size in the pattern, but I had memorized the pattern for the larger size, and therefore kept knitting that one, which reminded me of the time in kindergarten when I threw up all over my rabbit muff in gym class and how even though that muff never smelled or felt the same after that, I still loved it so..

Waitress: I'll give you a few more minutes.

Despite two more false starts, I'm happy to say I now have two full lace repeats completed, with nary a boo.

CeCe how I am?

Pre-K Wasteland
Things have been getting a bit gnarly here in the house of Cakers and Swine. We held up pretty well the first couple of days of being housebound on account of the inclement climate. While daddy worked in the basement, me and the girl had ourselves some crafty times, coloring, painting and doing nails via a special spa day afternoon. ::THAT spa thing was so fun that I've pretty much decided that it is an event not to be replicated until the Cakers'senior prom, or beyond, to better enable us to remain living and/or not incarcerated fully treasure the special and wholly unique memory of the day.::

At the end of the second day, however, I was seriously needing a cure for my shredded nerves. I did, however, make mental note of how well The Cakers was holding up through the hole-up. ::I'm now convinced that sound mental health can be talked to a slow, tortuous, and certain death.::

That being said, after my well polished Cakers was well in bed that night, I came upon this scene in the playroom:



Evidently, some of us hadn't been holding up as psychologically sound as I originally thought.

Here's a close-up of Mattel's latest release,Morning After Barbie:



This Barbie comes with her own bigger than life-size, hand free vibrator:



I'm not sure what he's planning to do with the compact car, but the dog adds a cute touch.

Really, things have been crazy ass around here. I am way behind in reading blogs and responding to comments. I especially wanted to get back to some of you on comments on my cottage neighborhood post. I hope to still do that. ::Sigh::

And I suppose I'm not even close to being caught up on the Alpha bit thingy, eh?

Thanks all for the compliments on the ribby shell. It really doesn't look as obviously swirly in real life, as depicted in the picture. I have worn it with total emotional abandonment.

I really need to make this a wrap. I've been working on this post for two days, two sentences at a time. At this moment, I should be taking full advantage of The Cakers being out of the house for a couple of hours, so excuse me while I try to fire up Barbies Robo-brator get some sorely needed housework done.

*Blogger will not let me upload pictures today at all. WTF, again? So the Barbie pictures are hand jobs and cannot be clicked to enlarge and look a little hinky, to boot.

Labels: My Daughter Scares Me, Tree From Where I Fell

We decided to return a day earlier from the cottage than originally planned. Left behind were my in-laws, who this morning called to report that the 2nd story of the cottage was registering 100 degrees. At least ::thermometer only went to 100::. When it's this hot at the lake, you're in a constant state of mildew and it was definitely time for the cozy comforts of home refrigeration.

I did finish my Ribby Shell. I love both the pattern and the fit. The yarn: Not so much. My initial impression from the mirror was not that bad, although the fabric was kind of heavy. It wasn't until I previewed the 16 fugzillion model shots that I realized that boobs and pink sherbet-y swirls don't go so well.

::16 fugzillion is a butt load of ugly pixel. So ugly, in fact, I was forced to take to the drink, mid-photo-stream. And this is the best shot, but only after lopping off my head.::



In fact, based on my review of the pictures, Boobs + Swirls = Impression of One Hung Low. Which, by the way, is an entirely wrong impression. My body may be falling to hell in a handbasket, but I'm happy to report that the girl things are falling at an equal rate, in perfect symmetry.

Behind the lens, the photographer was so frightened by the psychodelic view of his lovely bride askew, he was compelled to shift his aim to more pleasing appendages. Much to Cheddar's et. al. apparent relief.



::It really does look better in real life, although the ribbing came out a little tight and I'm frequenty pulling down the muffin top.::

Pattern: Bonne Marie's Ribby Shell. Size 37.
Yarn: Plymouth Sunsette(Print version).
Issues: The pattern was a fun, interesting knit and very well written. I wasn't crazy about my yarn choice and resulting fabric. Next time I might try it inside out. I kind of like the other side of the rib.

In Our Next Episode of How Marcy Got Her Effing O Back

Now you CeCe it.



Now you don't.



Don't miss it.

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, Cottage, Knit Done, When Knitting You is Hurting Me