The Artist Formerly Known as Cabana ::TAFKC?::
Over the past several weeks, TAFKC has been working three jobs, mouseballs to the wall. ::He's a private contractor in the automotive industry. He designs tools. Not hammers and wrenches. It's complicated.::

Anyway. A few months age he hit a long stretch of unemployment. In recent weeks, however, he's been blessed with almost more work than he can handle ::Delicate balance, that.::

While this is a very good thing on several levels, it's wreaking havoc on his normally calm, happy demeanor, and my usually calm, happy expectation of having the dishwasher routinely unloaded and the almost magical appearance of clean laundry in my drawers and closet. ::He's much better at things like laundry and dishes than I am. It's my job to cook and look good.::

Later this week my over-employed husband is contracting himself into a shop for a few days. This is a good thing on many levels, the best being that it's a sure indicator of his having walled his balls to the top of the contractor list of a seemingly thriving company, in a seemingly dying industry.

What this means for you and for me is that, between my usual household tasks, extra tasks, the maintenance of the semblence of a regular exercise regime and my own work stressors ::this is the first weekend in weeks I haven't brought work home.::, there will be little time, energy or even cognitive reserves left for things like blogging. Or knitting. Or thinking. Even.

Knits in the Belfry
I have no idea what that means. But I like it.

On my girls' weekend a couple weeks back, I made a several inch dent on Cakers' Williams L'il Step-Bro sweater. Last weekend, after crawling to my favorite knit spot on the couch, I fixin' to switch to the main color when I realized that my cable pattern was two rows shy a full cable. Throughout the whole 7 inches. So I ripped it back to ground zero. ::I've decided that the worst part of ripping a garment back to nothing is the casting it on again. Hate. Ful.::

Last night I finally faced up to my stupidity ::She has a huge black hair jetting out of her chin. Idiot.:: and started anew.



I should be working on it right now, instead of doing this, but I need to get this done too. And then the laundry. And a workout. And that black hair on my chin. I think I can see it when I look down. ::I do have a small nose.::

This L'il Step-Bro pattern is a basic 4-stitch cable, and what I once would have called "mindless knitting." Since making yet another of what seems like a fucktillion and three stupid knitting mistakes in recent months, I've redefined my definition of "mindless knitting," as follows:



The Mother of All Designers
After seeing some previews of Vera Wang's clothing line for Kohl's, I went over there for a look-see. I was gravely disappointed. For one thing, none of the items I saw online that piqued my interest were in stock. Or if they were, I couldn't find them.

The Wang display was ridiculously clusterfucked with deep racks, stacked over deep racks, which made it almost impossible to dig to the back. Of the rack. On these deep racks, were skirts of black, mixed with pants, mixed with jeans, mixed with sweaters, none with any outward indication of size.

As I dug to the back of the rack of black for a pleated skirt I saw on a mannequin, my head somehow dislodged a jacket from the overhead track of the rack, which wracked my last nerve as it tumbled upon my head.

And how wack, that the top track of the rack was too tall for me to put the jacket back?

Way wack.
Tak-a-lak.
Candy lak.

I ended up bringing home a nice pair of black pants, and some disturbing images of my boobs-as-plumb, from my having tried on some gathered blouses with unfortunately placed gathers; clearly designed for the A to the B Girls Club.

Parting question: When Vera Wang says to her teenage daughters "You're wearing that?" do you think they pay her heed?

P.S. I had another whole topic for today but unexpectantly blew my wad on the above.
You might actually see two days in a row of posting 'round here, y'all! Or not.

Labels: Sundry Sunday