••• Thursday, December 28, 2006

I Need Therapy Thursday 

We're going to the cottage this afternoon, through New Years. This was to be a joyous event. Now, not so much. First of all, Cakers and Husband were going to go skiing on New Years Eve day, and leave me to my own stuck-at-the-cottage-all-alone devices, which usually include some sleeping in and some blogging and some knitting.

However, it's supposed to rain all weekend and my laptop needs a new video card so is out of commission. Our desktop computers are my husband's work computers and do not have modems for dial-up.

I was really looking forward to getting some fresh air via some lenghty walks through my favorite up north haunts. See above note about raining all weekend.

I was really looking forward to getting caught up on some blogging. Time off from work seems to be the only time, anymore, I have the brain power required to pull a couple sentences together. See above note about computer.

I was really looking forward to catching up on other blogs and leaving some comments and shit. See above...

I was really looking forward to getting caught up on organizing and playing with my photos. On my computer. Ditto on seeing above...

I was really looking forward to taking some lovely winter shots at the cottage and playing with them on my computer. See above notes about rain and computer.

I really should get finished packing. My husband is at a meeting right now and will be home soon, expecting me standing at the door all agiggles, with three packed laundry baskets and a dressed kid and a tail-wagging dog.

I have one basket packed with stuffed animals and am still in my pajamas, trying to decide whether or not I should floss that piece of orange chicken leftover from last night's dinner or save it for a stink bomb in the car, and I think someone forgot to let the dog in and that may be his tail poking out from the neighbor's bushes, as I write. Damn them neighbors and their bushes. And I haven't heard from Cakers in about an hour. That's not good. Unless she's hunting Labrador in the bushes. And if that's the case, I won't expect either one of them for another hour or so.

Plus, I'm getting the crud.

Not So Happy Old Year Sign Off
We bought Cakers a digital camera for Christmas. It's a real one, not one of those kiddie kind. She's still getting used to it but we've been enjoying some of her "perspectives".

We're getting mostly self-portraits such as this one.

I had a few more but they wouldn't load. Fuck You Blogger. Why oh why couldn't this be I Get Therapy Thursday, instead?

Enough about me and my whining.

Have a Blessed New Year and Godspeed on All Your Happies.

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••• Wednesday, December 27, 2006

WTFF Wednesday 

As in What, The Foot Fetish?

This is a Kinda Ken doll which Cakers requested for Christmas. He's actually Prince Derek the Derelict, an alleged cobbler turned prince who apparently gets his freak on by sneaking girlie dancing shoes to the main characters in the Made for DVD Barbie movie, The 12 or 13 or How Many Ever Dancing Princesses.

And that is exactly how the Derelict Doll comes in the package, with 12 pairs of girls' dancing shoes. Now, if you didn't know the story line, WTF would you think?

I know.


The MEME Season
Over a week ago, Rabbitch blessed me with the 6 Weird Things Meme. And it goes something like this: Identify 6 weird things about yourself and then tag some other people and let the other people know they are tagged via comments at their blog.

1) When I was a little girl, I had an imaginary friend named Boo who would beat me up. I'm not kidding. Boo lived in a tree in the wooded lot near my home. She looked a lot like me, except she had twigs in her hair and a filthy face, and I just had twigs in my hair. Most of the time Boo was relatively harmless and would merely hiss at me from her perch. Every once in a while, though, she'd scramble down the tree to give me a sound punch in the stomach. I would then run crying home to my mom who would yell at me for making up weird shit. Honest. To. God. Ida passed a lie detector on this one.

2) When I was a little girl, I wanted to look like this:

I would stand in front of a mirror for long periods of time, tugging on my nose to get the effect. Way Weird was that my mother confessed to doing the same thing when she was a girl. I know. ::Maybe Boo was just trying to knock some sense into me, eh?::

3) I will not enter the stall of a public bathroom if the water in the toilet bowl is moving even a little from the last flush. I definitely will not enter a stall if the previous owner is still in the bathroom.

4) I am messy and disorganized and hate to clean house. Hate. It. But I love to clean my kitchen sink with old fashioned Comet Cleanser.

5) When I am on a walk and a jogger is jogging at me, I will hold my breath from the time the jogger is about 6 feet in front of me until he/she jogs past. If a jogger passes me from behind, I will hold my breath for 10 seconds after he/she passes. This is to make up for the seconds I should have been holding my breath on the approach, but wasn't holding my breath because I didn't know the jogger was coming at me. Every time I go on a walk, I pray that I won't cross paths with any running clubs.

6) I have some weird laundry habits. I love to sort dirty laundry but I hate to put it away. My very most favorite laundry activity is to load up the whites and watch the clothes go 'round and 'round until pulled down by the agitator. I watch this action until the water turns gray. I only do it with whites. My other favorite laundry activity is cleaning the corners of the lint trap with a metal bbq skewer. I sometimes need to be wrenched away from this one. What I need is some really long ass tweezers....hmmm.

I'm tagging Junior Goddess, down there in East Cupcake Texas and Denise and hmmm, Sarah.

And anyone else who wants it. I can't remember how many I'm supposed to tag but if this were a 7 Weird things MEME, you might learn that I can be dangerously oppositional.

I realize this is a second post in one day, but I still have some bad post karma to burn. K?

I'm still kind of mad at knitting so haven't done any in awhile. I am working on that though.

P.S. I'm suddenly not feeling well and need to lie down. I'll meme tag peeps later. yikes.

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••• Tuesday, December 26, 2006

So This Was Christmas 

It's over, people. Let's all do the happy dance around the sacred totem of the tripod.

Actually that's my husband and the Caker's enjoying some Christmas Morn Dixie Chicks. But the picture is also a decent representation of the feeling in my heart. When it's over. Forever. Or a year. Amen.

Writing the post-Christmas-cheer post has always been hard for me for several reasons, with the main one being that I pretty much kinda hate it. Yeah. That's what I said. I kinda hate Christmas. I realize that admitting to hating Christmas is akin to announcing an affinity for running over basketloads of puppies in parking lots.

But really, it's not as bad as it sounds. My hatred of Christmas is not pervasive. Nor is it an angry, rageful hatred (not usually anyway) targetting the holiday season. My hatred is primarily focused on the actual Day and is more of a slow burn, annoying, pepple in the shoe and sand in the 'gina and telemarketers-who-know- all-three-of-your-surnames-so-you-can't-say-"no one here by that name"-when-they-call kind of hatred.

An article about shopping the day after Christmas, on the front page of today's local newspaper had this sub heading: Invigorated by a day of rest and deals everywhere, bargain hunters fill the aisles.

Day of Rest? WTF?

Besides babies less than three hours old, teens,college students, the comatose or otherwise humanoid vegetative, who rests on Christmas Day? I want to know who these people are so I can meet them, and beat them about the head with a well heeled Bratz doll ask them how they do it?

Please Excuse This Interruption
Date: 12/27/06 You will notice that this post is dated yesterday. That is because I wrote the above portion of this post yesterday, on my laptop. About 9:00 p.m., after saving what I had so far, I got up from my computer station to perform some household tasks. My son then got on the computer and from there it all went to hell through Windows. XP. ::My son has some electrical imbalance that causes electronic devices to go crazy. We have recently concluded that he has the same impact on girls. And not in a good way. But we'll save that for the book.::

Long story short, my laptop is on the fritz, with all my un-backed-up Christmas photos on it. Except for what you see here. I really don't blame my son's misfired electrical impulses for this problem. I blame myself. For hating Christmas. So, no more hatred. From now on, I'm sticking with mild resentment. Promise.

Long post shorter, my original plans for this post included a historical chronology on the evolvement of how I came to be the Christmas Day Hater Resenter that I am. Unfortunately, there is no time for that now. The computer guy is coming here in about an hour to take a look see. So I have to clean the house. Or at least clear a path from the door to the table.

You see, part of my Christmas Day Hate Resentment Compensation Package includes my not having to lift a finger for 24 hours after the stroke of midnight on December 26. I know, Hatred Resentment is a complicated thing.

Before I sign off today, I will try to burn off a little more hater karma by sharing some lovelights from recent days.

This was taken during our Christmas Eve walk around the block.

For the record, Cheddar HATES seriously RESENTS it whenever we let Cakers hold the leash. Thus, the refusal to look at the camera.

Bad News Good News Christmas Tale
One bad thing about Christmas this year is that my son came down with a nasty intestinal virus that prevented him from being here for Christmas. He not only missed the immediate family celebration, but also my extended family party later Christmas night.

At our family party, it is a tradition that all party goers bring a small, stocking-type gift for each of the other party goers. These gifts then go into a huge stocking which is dumped at the end of the night and the gifts distributed to their rightful recipients. Each party goer is also supplied with a labelled gift bag in which to store said treasures.

We stayed at the party pretty late, so it was about 11:00 when a very tired Cakers was in bed. By the time we got through a quick Christmas story and hugs and kisses, her eyelids were barely staying afloat. Before I left her side, I asked "What was your favorite thing today?" Hardly awake, she immediately responded,"Holding my brother's bag of presents and keeping them safe."

This is a five year-old who spent entire day being showered ::spoiled rotten:: with gifts and attention, from a couple dozen immediate and extended family members.

This is a five year-old who, after all that center-of-the-worldliness, identified the best part of Christmas as a simple and selfless act of love.

I wish you all such magic.
And it's out there.
In spades.
Of love.

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••• Sunday, December 24, 2006

All About Eve 

Yes, that's my Cakers and yes, she's still only 5 years old. I know.

We're making Christmas cookies this gorgeous Christmas Eve Afternoon. They're called Russian Teacakes, but they are different from the Tea Cakes my mom made when I was a girl, which were more like shortcake balls with nuts.

These cookies are really easy and unbelievably delicious and because some of you may not feel finished with Christmas until you put one more "Have to" on your list, and it's altogether possible that you have the ingredients for these cookies already in your home, I'm gonna gift you the recipe. Right here. Right now.

Russian Teacakes

1 cup salted butter, room temp.
1/2 cup confectioners sugar, plus extra for dusting.
2 teaspoons of pure vanilla extract
2 cups flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
Fruit preserves of choice or chopped nuts.

Preheat oven to 325. Lightly grease cookie sheets.

In large bowl, cream butter and sugar, with electric mixer. Add vanilla, scraping down sides. Blend in flour and salt, mixing until combined.

Roll tablespoonfuls of dough into small balls, about 1 inch in diameter ::I like my balls a pinch bigger, but feel free to pinch your balls as you like. It's Christmas, after all.:: Place balls on cookie sheet, about 1 inch apart. Press down on the center of each ball with a spoon, to make an indentation. Fill each with your choice of preserves, or chopped nuts. ::I bet Hershey Kisses would be good too. Hmmm::

Bake 15-20 minutes or until golden brown. Transfer cookies immediately to a cool, flat surface. When cookies are completely cool, dust them with confectioners sugar.

I always make a double batch. Because the dough has no eggs, one can freebase consume with impunity.


Who Are You And What Have You Done With My Michigan?
This picture was taken just a few minutes ago. And this is wrong people. Just wrong. And I'm not talking about the port-a-potty, although I supppose that could be wrong too, on another level.

But instead of whining about a gorgeous day, I'm gonna get on my walking shoes and go out and get me summa dat.

P.S. The bottle of bubbly in the background of picture #1 is not open. It's for Mimosas du matin. Nanny boo.

P.P.S. Don't put the cookies in the oven and forget to set the timer and get on the internet. Just sayin'. And no, the bottle is not open.


••• Friday, December 22, 2006

Friday Eye Candy, of Which I Got Me Some 

This is a Petoskey stone.

I love me some Petoskey stone. In fact, several years ago I had a special thing for the Petoskey Stone. An obsession, if you will. It’s a long,boring and rocky tale,* which I will not soon be telling.

I will say that you know you have a problem with rocks if, while walking across the parking lot at a water theme park, you impulsively stop to comb piles of drainage rocks, in search of your beloved Petoskey. Meanwhile, your seven year-old son waits for you outside the park entrance, taunted to tears by the happy shrieks of the children already in the park. The children of normal parents. The children of parents who can find their way across a parking lot, without incident.

I did find two huge chunks of Petoskey that day. (maybe 6 x 7 inches apiece.) They weren’t perfect specimens by a long shot. Because they had been out of the surf for so long, they were significantly pocked. And dirty. And splattered with tar. But I didn’t care. They were the biggest mofo-in' Petoskey stones I had ever laid hands on.

Anyway. Last week I was shopping at a boutique in downtown My Community, and at the checkout counter was this Petoskey. While waiting to check out I picked it up and asked the clerk “Is this Petoskey?” ::Like I didn’t know. Heh.:: And the clerk said, “Yes it is.”

While the clerk processed my purchases, The Rock Whore That I Am proceeded to fondle and verbally drool over the stone's distinct beauty, texture and otherwise unique presentation.

After seeing that the clerk was somewhat taken aback by my effusive demeanor, over a rock, I quickly offered that I used to be a Petoskey freak, but am pretty much over it now.

Pretty much.

Next thing I knew, the clerk was holding out the stone and telling me I could have it, if I wanted.

I couldn’t believe my ears. “No." ::pause:: "I couldn't. Really."

Take it, she said, as she thrust the stone prit near into my chin.

By that point, and I kid you not, my eyes were wellin', like Mary Ellen, datin' a felon.

So I did. I took it. And what a randy speciman it was. Bigger than anything one could casually pick up on the random Lake Michigan beach, it was just the right size for a casual pick-up off the random boutique counter.

It was such a weirdly wonderful coupe, I could hardly believe it had really happened to me. It was only much later when I realized the clerk's spontaneous generosity was likely sparked by my frenzied, spittle-riddled display of enthusiasm, which was not only mucking up the ambiance du boutique, but holding up the line as well.

Even if it happened because the clerk thought I was seriously insane, my walking out of that store with this rock is about nothing less than a holiday miracle.

*Post divorce, I celebrated my emancipation from a relationship that did not support frivolous pursuits such as rock hounding, let alone allow said booty to be brought into the home, as clutter.

Someone's Having the Best Week Ever
And as soon as I find out who she is, the bitch is mine.

I’m not going to sit here, once again, and complain about the ongoing and unbelievably crazy shenanigans occuring daily in my world of work. Still. Yet. Today. Not only do I not have it in me, the complaining, but I’m pretty sure that all 7 who continue to visit here aren’t all that interested either.

In my defense, several times this week I sat down with every intention of writing the semblance of a meaningful post, while excluding even a peep of work-based whine/weep/incredulousness/fear/anxiety-based-butt-pluck/more weep.

Alas, the only thoughts that came to me, every time were:


Today I have decided that I will quit fighting this urge. Clearly these are the sounds that need to be uttered from my adolescent-antic-ravaged brain, before I can move on. So here it goes.


Thank you.
I feel much better and am ready to move on to some non-work related, dynamo discussion.

In Other News
Is it just me or is Christmas like, three days away?

<----Gone drinking shopping.

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••• Sunday, December 17, 2006

A Month of Sundays 

I had a very busy week, this past, so both my calendar and brain were full. A full brain makes for fine blog fodder. A full calendar is fodder-expression prohibitive.

Anyway. I need to get a recap on the past week before commencing with the next, which so far appears to be even tighter on the calendar. Of course, I cannot anticipate what holiday jewels my work load will be bringing to the table, but I do know that anytime I'm overscheduled with the mandatory, the impromptu invites itsself to the party. In full regalia.

Monday: I had a 7:00 a.m. meeting. Muy importante. Procedural legal stuff related to speshul edukayshun and naughtiness. So I stop at my favorite early morning coffee drive-thru for a cuppa. The Dunkin' Donuts.

I was thrilled to see that there was no one in line, which meant I was in and out real quick. Whew. At the same time I was pulling out of the parking lot, I was making a move to cram the change from my 5 bill into my purse. But something felt wrong. Too heavy. Too many bills. She had given me change for a 20 instead of a 5.

Yes. I'm sure.

You see, the only money I had in my purse was a five dollar bill with a Where's George? stamp on it. I'd been saving it.

Back before I started knitting again and blogging, I spent most of my free time tracking a one dollar bill I got from the pizza shop. I'm not kidding. I don't have time to go into all that right now, though. Let's just say that I eventually lost track of my baby George, through no fault of my own. ::again, long story::.

Anyway. Even though I had already logged the sighting of this particular bill at the site, because I was no longer a member of the site, I wasn't able to make comments or observations on my new buddy. ::Which is really the best part.::

But I had planned on re-registering at the site, so had been saving the bill until I had the opportunity to fully and properly disclose and therefore feel mentally prepared to let it go ::Tracking money is an emotionally rich and cognitively complex process. No, really.::

So at 6:45 on a Monday morning, at the take-out window of the local Dunkin' Donuts, I had been faced with a horrible dilemma.Give up the Coffee or My New Best Friend? I chose the coffee. ::Yeah, be warned any who have me marked as New Best Friend Material. It's a long hard fall.::

Crumps. This story is getting much longer than I originally planned.

That is how I knew, in no uncertain terms ::Or in certain terms for those on a word diet:: that I had not given the woman a 20 dollar bill.

I didn't have time to take the money back right then. But let me tell you, that was hard thing to do, to drive away with illicit funds. I felt sheepish even putting it in my purse, because it seemed like it looked like I was claiming it as my own. So I stuffed it in my coat pocket, with an assortment of tampons and fresh lady-like liners.

Tuesday Morning: I make a point to leave for work early to make it to the Dunkin' Donuts to return the change. ::I don't usually stop for coffee on the way to work because there is usually some perkin' at the office, but not at 6:45 a.m.::

This time there is a car in front of me at the window. The customer inside the car is apparently buying donuts. Lots of donuts. A big-ass bag of boxes of donuts.

I'm not sure which took longer, for the donut lady to fill the order or for them, as a team, to figure out that a bag of boxes of donuts will not fit through the take-out window.

Umm hmm.

If I wasn't so pissed and anxious to get to work on time, I may have found the whole thing kind of funny. But I was, so it wasn't.

First I was mad at the lazy ass customer who couldn't park the car and walk into the store to get her bags of boxes of donuts. And if the donuts are all for her, then hell yeah, she needs the exercise.

And then there was the Donut girl, who clearly should have known better. I mean, this is her job. Her profession. She is, after all, a Donutista.

Finally the woman pulls her car ahead a little so she can get out of the car to wrench the bags of boxes of donuts from the window jam.

I'd say the woman was a donut shy of a dozen...

So finally I get to the window. I had ordered a coffee and after I paid for it, I handed the window girl the 15 bucks and told her what happened. She was immediately suspicious, and looked at me as though I were trying to pull a grift. And instead of taking the money, she just peered at it.

I don't think so, she said.

Uh, yeah. I gave you a five.

Are you sure?

Yeah, I'm sure. It was a five dollar bill with a red stamp on it. ::And I cried my good-byes, all the way to work...::

I was half-tempted to ask if they might still have the stamped bill and if she'd be willing to trade, but I was already late and clearly the woman was an idiot.

As we talked she still couldn't make herself take the bills, and continued to eye them with contempt and suspicion. I'm still convinced she thought I was pulling a scam. Eventually it must have dawned upon Her Dullness that I was giving her money and asking for nothing.

She finally took it and hesitantly said "thanks." Not that I was expecting free coffee for life, but I guess I was expecting this to feel a little more gratifying. Honest, even.

Yah Rabbitch, no good deed and all that. ::Thanks for the meme tag. ahem. Later this week, k? Or next.::

Kno Knitting For You
I put myself on another knitting time out. Except I did't really know I was on a time out until I realized that every time I thought I'd sit down to knit, I would find something else to do, like clean toilets or scrub grease traps. yeah.

Last week was a charity auction at work. All year I had been planning on donating some packets of photo note cards. It seemed like a simple thing until a couple of weeks ago, when I realized that I needed to individually wrap each card so bidders could see what they were bidding on and therefore needed some sort of something to set the cards in.

So, after having months and months to prepare for this event, one week prior I decide I'm going to knit and felt some little boxes. Heh. So I get my hands on a pattern that I can bastardize (i.e. ruin) and go to town. Of course I was in a hurry so didn't swatch. The first box turned out just right in concept but too small. So I made a second box, in a bigger size. And in a different yarn. Yarn number two didn't felt the same as yarn number one, so the second box was too small, by a p.b. ::swatch first?:: So one day before the auction (after having months and months to prepare) I am cruising craft stores on my lunch hour, looking for holiday baskets.

Blogger won't let me load pictures, so here's a link to the basket in question. Cute eh? And fairly worthless. And I have two. And a third even larger one on the needles,which I abandoned in disgust.

Dang, this post is way too long and I'm not even half done with my week. But I really need to go. The Cakers has been bugging me all morning to join her in some creative, crafty endeavor. I asked her why she can't be happy watching TV like normal children?

On that note I'll leave you with a Cakers WTH? moment. ::I don't like using the other word when it comes to the delicate sensibilities of a five year old. Although, there seems to be nothing much delicate about this Miss Thang, and most days she kind of frightens me.::

Wednesday: Every day, it seems, The Cakers is spouting off on something she wants for Christmas. Bratz dolls, a Barbie House, A Mermaid kitchen set, Camera, Dancing Magical Somethings or Others...etc. So finally this week we asked her to pin some things down for us. Make a choice. Be specific. You know, for Santa's sake. Of course she clammed up, except to say "I want to tell Santa."

Okay, that's fair.

Wednesday night daddy takes The Cakers to see the ol' man. Daddy listens closely to what is being said, with hopes of gathering a clue or two, with which to guide our sleigh.

So what does she tell Santa she wants for Christmas? A basket of marbles. That's it. And to this day, that's her story and she's sticking to it.

What the hell and OH YA.

::Cakers Christmas List Update Just Before Publishing This Post: At this very moment she is declaring a huge Floam kit as seen on TV as her new top gift idea. "Can I Floam my bike?" She asks. I swear that girl is trying to Drive Me to Newberry.::

Speaking of that Kinda House, this upcoming work week is already wound pretty tight and I'll likely be bringing work home near nightly. This could be my only post until late in the week, 'lessin' I get to that damn meme.

And I guess you'll know otherwise, otherwise.

P.S. I'm pretty sure there is a state psychiatric hospital in Newberry (in da UP), thus the context of the phrase. When I was a kid, one of the finest, most scathing insults one could hurl was just one word, "Kalamazoo". That's where the state hospital for our region was located. It wasn't until I was much older when I realized that Kalamazoo is just a city with a funny name.

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••• Friday, December 15, 2006

I Never Promised You a Post Garden 

I Can Defy Day
I'm sitting and typing and defying all odds of a person possessing a smidge of coherency after a week such as I've had.

What did she just say?

No idea.

I guess she's losing the good fight, eh?

Prit near, hey. But she gave it her best, dontcha know.

Oh yah.

Why we talking da Yooper dere, eh?






Those are lights-on-a-hairnet, on a bush. ::Snort. Sometimes I crack myself.:: Shot was taken from our porch, with a good camera and a bad case of D.T.'s.

Speaking of delirium, this week we were visited by the One-Earringed-Bald-Lady-Dangling-a-Purse. As legend goes, a sighting of her Royal Slim-Pickins-ness brings good luck. Or at least a good bourbon and a bread stick.

I hope to return here this weekend with at least a modicum of a post of an eek, er, week in review.

P.S. I have visited hardly a blog this week and am missing me summa dat.

P.P.S. Re: Google reader, I'm still getting into the swing evidently, and am finding myself mostly clicking again from links on my side bar. I really don't like that whenever I need to Google something, I am firstly greeted (distracted) by the list of unread posts. I gasp. I sigh. I click. I deny.

P.P.P.S. For more on dat dere vernacular da Yooper click here.

P.P.P.P.S. By now you may be thinking I'm about outta my ever lovin'. Or drunk on ass.

Well, yah. Hey.


••• Saturday, December 09, 2006

Muletide Joy 

I'm posting here today to tell you I have not time to post here today.

1) Cabana Boy has disembedded from the shop and now has Cabana Balls to the Wall here at home.

2) I had to stay late yesterday at work because of yet another emergent issue, which will require massive followup next week. I had originally planned on staying late yesterday to prepare for an important meeting I am running at 7 a.m. Monday morning and to finish up a document that is now over a week late and to do some work on a mandatory report that is .007% done (i.e. it's named and dated) and needs to be completed by the end of the day Tuesday. I brought said report and other document home to work on. Here. Who's that laughing?

3) Last night I was about to finish a hat for a local charity and found a mistake at the start of the decreases. With the help of a rich red buzz, I took this very well, and commenced to rip it back to the boo-boo. Before I knew it I had ripped the entire thing out, balled up the yarn and plopped it in my knit bag. I told myself I'd redo it today but I know I won't. I'm having a hard time with it because I feel guilty that I knit myself a cute hat while a bunch of knitters are busting their asses for charities. Although, at the rate of my current affective degeneration, I may become my own charity case, real soon. More on that. ::I SO should not be on this computer.::

Here's a better shot of my Republic color. ::Yes, this is the third post on this one effin' FO. I'm going for the Milkin' the F.O. in Blog record. Anyone know the current stats on that? Thanks.::

I wore the hat to work yesterday ::I never wear hats except when I'm engaging in outdoor sport:: and got lots of compliments. A friend who is a frequent flyer of the B-Republic recognized the model immediately. I feel very chi-chi in it, which is a rare and beautiful hat experience for the likes of a Pea Brain like me. Although when I was leaving the building yesterday, I ran into an administrator who stopped to update me on a situation. As he spoke, he couldn't NOT look at the big ass button. I wanted to ask him, Does this Button make my Head look big? But I didn't.

3) We've done nothing around here for Christmas. No tree. No outdoor lights. No shopping. Naught. We live in a heavily-draped-with-lights neighborhood, and every house on our block now has outdoor lights, except for us and the house that is still under construction. Most of them went up Thanksgiving weekend, when it was 69 degrees. I'm half expecting neighbors at the door, bearing cookies and casseroles under the guise of assumption that we have met with some Christmas-tree-light-preventing-tragedy. Cabana says he's on it today.

4) I have committed to making a handmade contribution to a charity, due this coming Thursday. I have, er had pieces and bits of the supplies required for the intended product stored hither and yon. It's a craft project involving paper and glue and photos. Amidst the living room carnage last night I found a few of those previously stored items required for this project. I am afraid to take a closer look. This contribution also requires a bit of knitting, of which I have knit not a bit. And I have not clever closing for this one. On to 5.

5) The mice are back. They have been chowing down on the D-Con, then crapping in the empty container. Evidently D-Con in Mouse means "Eat this Fiber. Live Forever."

6) I signed up for Google Reader. I once signed up for Bloglines but it would never let me log in and when I tried to sign up again, it said I was already a member. I'm still trying to figure out the big attraction with the readers. Is it just me or is it more work this way? It seems like a lot of clicking, especially if you fall behind a day or so and you have to read more than one post on a blog, as opposed to just doing it the old fashioned way, by visiting the blog. I'm definitely less inclined to comment. Yes, that is less inclined than my current less inclined inclinations.

7) Last night I was watching TV and on came that commercial with the man and woman watching "It's a Wonderful Life." You know, he's on the couch, she's on the floor, perfectly made up and cutely coiffed, like we all look at the end of the day. From his spot on the couch he reaches under the tree and hands her a gift of diamonds. The only thing in the room, it seems, is them and a tree and a T.V. I looked around my sitting area and this is what I saw:

Here's a closeup on that upper left ::except blogger put it sideways. Fuck you blogger. Just Fuck the Hell you.::

Note to self: Find Therapist for Cakers Entire Family.

In the meantime, I really have no business sitting here. It's almost Christmas for, Rice Cakes! I got some Muletide Ass to kick. Right after go I shoot some bubbles. Just one game. Really.

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••• Wednesday, December 06, 2006


Okay. I wasn't really going to put the hat and the Koolaid in the washer together. I got Stupid, not crazy.

But I did microwave me some Black Cherry goodness.

And I did find me a Big-Ass Button. For my hat.

And seriously, I don't wanna know no nothing 'bout no other kind of Ass Button. Big or otherwise. But thank you very much anyway, MOG and Jen,for offering up the intriguing thoughts in comments.

Pattern: Republic, by Nik

Yarn: That Lopi Lookalike stuff that has too many consonants in its name.

Color: Black Cherry Kool-aid over Buttery Sallow.

Button: Big-Ass Button from Hancock Fabrics. I found it on a repeat visit in search of a compromise size.
This is a really quick knit (minus Stupid) and an a well executed pattern. And it's free! Thanks again Nik.

And yes, I look like hell. And no, I don't care.

The color here is not a good representation of the true flavor. I'll try a better shot later this week, in daylight.

Dis Clammer
Please don't let my quasi-normal posting schedule fool you. We are busier than ever over here, and most days I can hardly believe we're all making it out the door and back home again, in our respective pieces.

I thought Cabana boy was busy a month ago. Whoo boy. Those were days of wine and roses, baby, compared to his current load. He's been working 20 hour days for the past week. ::And still runs little errands for me, like filling the tank and fetching wine. Whatta sweetie. He claims that he needs the break, but I know he loves feeling needed.::

Today Cabana Boy called me at work to tell me he was off to yet another beating.

You mean meeting?
That's what I said. Meeting.
You said beating.
I did say beating. I said I was going to a beating.
I'm scared.

His little Tysonian slip ended up being a bit prophetic. Poor guy. But just a couple more weeks and he'll be gainfully unemployed, and I'll have my Cabana Boy back.

My job has been a butt boil as well, these past weeks months. I swear my caseload has been staying up nights, devising ways to contort itself into new and unusual and uncontortable formations. You know things are going to shit when you're sitting in a meeting and hear "We still haven't heard back from the Feds..." regarding a situation near and dear. And no, they weren't talking about Brittny's bits.

I really need to get some new knit thing cast on tonight, now that I'm over my Republican Stupid.

Say Goodnight Stupid.

Republicans understand the importance of bondage between a mother and child.-Dan Quayle

P.S. I am too tired to proof. ::Poof::

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••• Monday, December 04, 2006

My Quayle Song 

What a waste it is to lose one's mind. Or not to have a mind is being very wasteful. How true that is.-Dan Quayle

I make Dan Quayle look like a rock scientist.- Lindsey Lohan, sort of.

::Following is the first and possibly only installment of the Got Stupid? Fuckumentary Series.::

Got Stupid?
I did.
Got Stupid.
Still Do.

Most people think of Stupid as a distinct absence of thought.

Oh no. Not me. Not My Stupid. I must Think About My Stupid. I must Plan My Stupid. I must be at My Best Stupid. Always. My Stupid has Standards.

How Do I Stupid?
Let me count the ways.

I knit a hat. See?

It's Nik's N'adorable Republic pattern. Sans big-ass button. Only because I can't find me a big-ass button.


It took me three tries to knit it right. The hat.

Why three times, you ask? Was there a problem with the pattern?
Uh no. The pattern is perfect.

Was there a problem with gauge?
Uh no. The gauge is perfect.

The answer is quite simple, actually.

For I Am Stupid.

When the hat is 5 inches long, the knitter is instructed to begin the descent into the crown shaping. Thinking ::Some trouble that, eh?:: the hat could be too small, I tried it on, did some Stupid Math and determined that the hat was going to be too small for my tiny pea head ::Yes, you read that right. Because I have a tiny head, I was afraid the hat would be too small.::

So I added an inch. Or so. And it came out huge. So I frogged.

Still not convinced that the author of the pattern could possibly grasp the intricate complexities of designing a hat for my tiny-ass pea brain,I could not,I would not, follow the pattern as written. And I made it longer again. But not so much.

Even though it was not as huge as the first hat, it was still too big for my tiny pea. So it puckered. A tiny pea pucker. So I ripped it. A not-so-tiny pea frog.

On the third try I made an amazing discovery: The designer of the hat actually did understand the delicate nature of a tiny-ass pea brain, and the hat fit perfectly when knit as instructed.

There is one thing I don't like about the hat. The color. It is a beautiful buttery yellow, which against my skin, gives me the pallor of the terminally hungover. So before I hunt down a big-ass button, I'm going to dye the hat with Kool-aid. Black Cherry.

I hear that Kool-Aid dyeing is pretty easy. Even if I Got Stupid, what can possibly go wrong with a Kool-Aid dye? I mean, you just fill the washer with hot water, toss in the Kool-aid and the hat and a squirt of Dawn soap and run her through. Right?

That’s exactly what I was thinking.
My redemption.

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••• Friday, December 01, 2006

Eye Candy Snowday 


The first one of the school year is always the sweetest, even without the element of surprise. Of course, an envious Cabana Boy tried to ruin it for me by calling from his workplace to declare my district's Snowday declaration a "gift," on account of the roads not being "all that bad." Some of you might recall his last year's feeble attempts to play killjoy by assigning ::ha!:: me some special Snowday household duties.

Although, just between you and me and what remains of my other 17 faithful readers, this storm received more news hype than Brittny's last butt wax. And even though there was nasty ice coming down right around school commute time, we got no where near the 37,000 feet of snowfall that was predicted.

A Perfect Day After The Perfect Storm
After The Cakers stopped crying about missing yet another day of her beloved kindergarten,* we helped ourselves to the perfect Snowday breakfast. With whipped cream, of course. A growing girl needs her dairy.

By 8:30 Cakers was snow-packaged-to-go and spent the rest of the morning slogging in the freshly fallen slush with neighbor kids. I spent a small portion of that time trying to crank out the blog post that's been rolling around the brain bowl all week. ::This isn't that post, either.::

Instead of a cooking up a post, I fried my eyeballs on this new obsession. ::Please don't go there yet! You will not return. I promise.::

After a deliciously Perfect Snowday lunch of Shop Teacher's Finger in a Towel...

...Cakers was invited to play at a friend's house. I commenced to get ahead on some long overdue housework beat my personal best score of 45,000 on that Damn Bubble game, which I followed with 45 minutes of cardio, to the rhythm of the beating of the brows on People's Court and Judge Judy. I next took about a gazillion pictures of snow and berries outside my bedroom window.

On this Perfect Snowday, I did NOT bathe, wash, rub or rinse any dish, tool, countertop, piece of furniture or body part of any body.

Nor did I knit.

I'm not ready to talk about that Nor Knitting part. I will soon, via a much longer, whinier and sadder tale. ::Is sadder a word?:: A fuckumentary, if you will.

I hope to get to that post later this weekend. After that I will return to my previously scheduled Life-Without-Cabana-Boy-And-It-Still-Really-Sucks-Ass-But-There-Are-People-With-Worse-Problems-Than-Living-in-a-No-Cabana-Boy-Service-Zone-With-No-Time-to-Blog-But-Just-Enough-Time-to-Fuck-Up-Just-About-Everything-Else-I-Come-Into-Contact-With-Including-Small-Knits-Chits-And-Furry-Woodland-Creatures.


I really just wanted to say that The Perfect Snowday doesn't blow.

*She'll cry again when I remind her of this on her 2nd Snow Day, which I'm guessing will be some time around the year 2013. In the six years Cam attended this district, he only had 2 snowdays. This district has no busing, thus no fear of the snow.