Okay. No po*rn here. Sometimes we have to bend our integrities a little, for creativity's sake.

Circle O' Brain Weekend Summary:
Mojitos were slung.



Chests were flung.



Songs were sung.



Toilets did plunge.

Sorry. No pictures were taken of this event, for good reason. In fact, I now realize that the amount of rum I would need to ingest to burn related image from my brain would likely kill me. I learn hard.

I will say this: When you spend 48 hours in a close environment with friends, eventually they will show their shit.

Here we have Sue and Kristi doing, well, I don't know what.



But I will say that I now know the answer to the age-old question: Is Kristi really a handful?

Uh, yeah.

Here we have a finalist in the A-Sue-Metrical Cup competition.



Kellie couldn't make it until Saturday. Here she is explaining to Kristi, for the 14 buttillioneth time, that there are no MP3 speakers at the cottage and that Marcia doesn't even know what MP3 speakers are, and neither could she pick an Ipod from a pea pod.



Kristi responded by once again showing Kellie the Ipod in question, then asking her to rethink the answer.

I Sock It
One of the reasons it took so long to get this post up is that I was spending all available moments this week, finishing these socks in time for my Mother-In-Law's birthday, which was Wednesday. We were originally to meet her for lunch that day, but things got switched up and we're seeing her Friday. But I was ready, dammit!

Pattern: Tidepool. Again.
Yarn: Knitpicks Essentials. Meteor Twist. It's very soft and kind of splitty.

And now it's time for me to make like a cheap yarn. And split.

P.S. Kristi has posted some pictures too. They look a lot like mine. The Circle of Brain is small. We like to keep it simple. We also talk a lot about holes. But I'll let someone else pick that up.

P.P.S. Umm...that's a camera Kristi is showing to Kel, isn't it? And not an Ipod...

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, Circle of Brain, Cottage, Knit Done, The Horsemen Knew Her

Wherein She Dons a String of F Words, Like a Lovely Strand of Purls.

A Finished Object.



Do not adjust your dial. The perception of Fair Isle at this here blog, is not the Fault of your receiver. It is For Freakin' Fabulous real, my Friends.

I apologize for the poor quality of the first picture, but it best models the real look of the sweater, minus the haze. For the record, we were using my old camera.



This picture shows the best color, but was not part of the actual shoot. It was taken afterwards, while I gave the cute photographer a spontaneous shimmy.

The pattern is Wendy Bernard's Tomato. And what a Hot Tomater this one is.

As you can see, I moved the herring bone to far below the boob line. ::Yes Sarah, I do have a preoccupation with my boobs. It could be worse. I could have a preoccupation with yours. Hee!::

Pattern: Tomato. It can be found in Amy Singer's book, No Sheep for You and is also a free download at the Daily Knitting site, linked earlier in the post.

Size: 35.5 inch bust. I went for negative ease.

Yarn: Cotton Ease in Orange (duh) and Red.

Commentos: Well writ and a great knit.

Things I Tried to F Up But Didn't: I didn't want to fiddle with increases during the fair isle portion, so I sped up both the waistline decreases and increases by decreasing the number of rows between. I didn't plan this out at all, so the potential for it going bad was great. But it didn't. Go bad. To counter the extended waistline, I also squished the herringbone section a bit by taking out the row of MC at the beginning and the end.

Things I did F Up Without Even Trying: This will be a remarkably short list, my peeps. I know. Who are you and what have you done with Watchitmacaller? Anyway. I left out one row in the first set of the herringbone pattern. This pattern kind of morph's itself into view after a few rounds, so I didn't notice the error until I was a couple inches past the pattern. My knit confidence has been kind of low these last few projects, so I figured the sweater would be an overall mess, just from my having touched it, so why waste time correcting something so small?

I'm happy to say that you really can't tell there is a mistake unless you look real close. I dare ya. Actually, it kind of reminds me of the work of that artist who did the optical illusion morphing stuff. ::I tried to google him, but no luck. He had a coffee table book, in the 80's. I'm thinking morphing geese and some tower with water. Anybody?::

If I Knit This Again: I would make it a bit longer and maybe try it in a much nicer yarn.

Additional, Meaningless, Self-Involved Drivel:After I found the mistake in the herringbone, I started worrying about the shaping and how messed up that had the potential to be. That's kind of why I didn't post any pictures of the sweater in production. I was mostly afraid that online pattern designers are becoming so disgusted with my mangling of their artistry, that they're starting a special fund with which to pay me to never knit their patterns again.

But Then I Got to Thinkin': I could use the money. Maybe I should run with this idea myself.

Dear Designer,
Give me $200.00 or your new Baby Sweater pattern gets it in the eyelet. If you don't believe the damage I can inflict upon your good name, with only a pair of needles and some yarn, check out my blog at...

Yours Truly,
The Mangler.

Alas:This latest success would kind of take the teeth out of the potential terror of threat. I guess that's a good F'ing thing.

So
Posts may be few and far this week. Both of my babies have birthdays and a party ensues for The Cakers next Saturday. That means there's shopping and shopping to be done, between the usual suspects of major calendar suckage.

Coming Soon...a mother's rant on Homework for 1st Graders or 10 Minutes a Day, My Ass.

Maybe coming soon, email correspondence for those who wait. Heh. Like I have that many friends.

Lansing Lovelies: I have not responded yet to the discussion of a Grap party, because I've been ree ree busy and will continue to be so this week, at least. Please keep me in the loop. October doesn't work well for me until the end of it. November looks good, except for one weekend but I don't know which, yet. And yes, I owe a meme. In time, my pretties.

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, Knit Done

...To the Dog Days of Summer.
And so it begins.

The days are getting shorter.

The neighborhood is getting quiet. ::Why is that the children disappear from the streets in August?::

And inservice itineraries are arriving in the mail.

All these things provide, in bits and pieces, psychological acclimation to the coffee-stoked reality that lies ahead: I'm going back to work.

Every August starts with a feeling of panic. It's not so much that I don't want to go back to work, because I do. I NEED to work. It's more about taking stock of what I accomplished over the summer. And what I didn't.

It's about counting coup and eating crow.
And making the most of what remains.

Tomorrow we're going back to the cottage for a long weekend. Our last until Labor Day. The In-laws are there. As is the dial-up that is rumored to have sent the Slowsky's to therapy, in search of their true bottom line.

All that being said: It's time for speed blogging.

Sahara


I finished her. Sleeveless. I just couldn't deal no 'mo.

Cabana took some pictures of me modeling Sahara, but they were horrible. I don't know if it was the angle from my leaning against the deck rail, or the camera flash picking up the white of my tank top through the sweater fabric, or a combination therein, but in the picture, it looked like I was nursing a six-pack of baby belugas under there. Not a lovely sight. Come to think of it, Cabana hasn't looked me in the eye since seeing the images.

Anyway. I hope to have a modeled view of Sahara to share in a few weeks, after I wrap up the Sea World tour.

In the meantime, the Effin' O Specs:

Pattern: Sahara

Yarn:Elsebeth Lavold, Cottin Patine.

Size: Medium

Comments: Really fun to knit, except for the parts that weren't. Some of the language in the directions was kind of confusing. One other thing I'm not crazy about is that the first decrease stitches in the front land right in the middle of the heads of the top two belugas. It gave my husband pause and has me thinking I may not be wearing it to work. Maybe some adolescent clients would find it distracting.

Would I knit it again? I initially was thinking that I would knit it in long sleeves for winter, but right now I'm kind of not wanting to think about it for awhile.

You might say that I'm...

...Sew Over Knitting
Sometime way back, I bought a sewing machine from the internets.

Because I wanted to sew.

But I didn't.

Sew.

And for months, my new machine sat silent.

With the blue packing tape still sticking to its tiny parts and stifling its little hopes and dreams.

For whatever reason,the untaping of the machine and figuring out how to use it felt like a huge project. It didn't help that it was set up in the basement, two floors away from the ironing board, and the only available floor space for cutting patterns.

A few weeks ago I went shopping for patterns and fabric, hoping to feel some excitement and get motivated.

I mostly got a headache. It takes awhile to get your sewing legs back.

Anyway. I bought some fabric and a summery pattern for Cakers and even went so far as to cut it out. And there it sat. I just couldn't make myself sew in the basement.

Last week Cabana did some shuffling of large exercise equipment, and set up the sewing machine in a cozy corner in our bedroom.

And...Voila!





I completed this outfit just minutes before a predesignated departure time for our Anniversary date ::Cakers invited herself and insisted on it including an Underdog matinee.::

My mom sewed most of my clothes when I was a child. Many times I remember her finishing up a hem or closing a neckline on a dress, while I'm wearing it, as the family is heading out the door to some event. I even remember being sewed upon in the car, on the way to the Sunday School Christmas program. And she always left a pin in. Somewhere.

Just like I did on this outfit. Cakers felt found it while at the movies. And I didn't close the elastic casing.

Next on the docket:



The top at the top.

Sew Seredipitous.
Sew. Before this, the last thing I sewed was my headpiece, for my wedding, which happened exactly eight years ago from the day I finished Cakers' outfit.

Last week Cakers announced that when she grows up, she wants to marry Tom Petty.

While at our anniversary dinner at Applebees, Tom Petty's Even a Loser came on over the Musak and Cabana looked at me and said "'Even a Loser gets lucky some time.' My theme song, eight years ago today."

Okay. I guess you had to be there.
I was.
And it rocked.

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, Intendments, Knit Done, My Daughter Scares Me, Tree From Where I Fell

Not Necessarily in That Order.

The Knuttins


The weekend with the family was fab. The weather was perfect and the only plumbing-related near-catastrophe was a backed-up sink from my having stuffed too many egg shells into the garbage disposal.

But if one is going to exercise one's unalienable right to be a total plumbtard, there's no better time than when surrounded by the loving support of family.

My 76 Year Old Mother: I never would've put all those shells down the disposal.

Me: So where were you 20 minutes ago?

My Mother: What?

Me: I also stuffed a paper plate down there.

My Mother: You did what?

Me: And an avacado. And your camera case. And a tampon. And an ovary.

My Mother: Over where?

If you can't beat 'em, mess with 'em.

As The Egg Turns
We are now home from the cottage. Up until late Tuesday, Cabana was still awaiting further orders on his job, so we stayed at the cottage until late Wednesday. It was actually a good time to leave, as it was getting too hot for even being at the lake. ::Yes, there is such a thing. Humidity,heat,sand and no-AC are the classic ingredients for a motive-for-murder cocktail. And the water temp had reached 84 degrees.::

Boys With Fine Asses Like Girls Who Wear Glasses.
I got new glasses. I really, really like them. As in, I really, really keep going to the mirror to really, really take another look. My husband really, really likes them too, and keeps really telling me so.





Except for weekend mornings or evenings after work, I wear contacts, mostly for cosmetic reasons. I'm now rethinking that habit. And can't help but wonder if I've reached a new level of old, to recognize that I look better in glasses than without. And most amazing of all, I could give a waxed ass.

The Saga of the Saharried Knitter
To be continued....

But only after this sneak preview.
Of a sleeve.
About to meet its maker.



Actually, we've already met.
Twice.
But more on that later.*

Straight From the Sole
En route to the cottage, I usually take my potty breaks at Burger King. While the B.K. loos in northern Michigan are not luxurious by a log shot, they are usually clean and smell mildly pretty.

On this last trip we stopped at McDonalds because Cabana wanted their coffee, but not near as much as I wanted to wipe my ass with this:



Yep. That's toilet paper from McDonald's.

When it's just dangling off the roll, it appears to be of normal width, if not thickness. ::The thickness is Casper the Ghost-like.:: However, when you give it a friendly tug, it turns to that. And yes, I actually stole a wisp of toilet paper for blog fodder.

I wonder what gauge it gives?

*I had meant to give a full update on Sahara in this post, but the post had already grown longer than Great Aunt Nee-Nee's left boob. Besides, it can't hurt to have a post in a back pocket, along the lines of Aunt Nee-Nee's right boob. And I'm tired.::

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, Cottage, Tree From Where I Fell, When Knitting You is Hurting Me, With Grace My Ass

I no dust Buster any more. - Lupe the Housekeeper, Arrested Development.

Way back in June, you may remember I was going to block a sweater. Ariann.

But I didn't.

Because...Before I could block the sweater I had to vacuum my bedroom floor.

But before I could vacuum the floor, I had to dust.

Before I could dust, I needed to clear off the bureau.

While putting away the stuff from the bureau, I noticed my closet needed cleaning.

While cleaning the closet, I started a charity pile, which ended up on the bedroom floor. So I couldn't vacuum.

And then we went to the cottage.

And then we came home.

And then it was time to block the sweater.

But before I could block the sweater, I had to vacuum the bedroom floor.

And before I could vacuum the bedroom floor, I had to...

Clean my purse.


I come from a short line of messy-weirdly-contented purse clutchers.

For example, while we were sitting in the bleachers at my son's high school graduation, waiting for commencement to commence, my mother pulled a small zip lock bag of melted butter from her purse and held it up, all excited.

Apparently she had spent the better part of that morning looking for that butter. She thought she was going crazy. So finding the bag of butter in her purse meant that she wasn't going crazy after all. I know I felt better. As I'm sure did the fellow members of my community who were privy to our joy of newfound family sanity.

Anyway.

Results of the purge:



Itemized list of contents:

1 wallet

1 Cell phone

2 Prescription medications that are supposed to help me keep my purse clean.

6 Tampons of assorted suckage

2 Library cards.

10 Lipsticks

4.5 Pairs of earrings.

1 Cover stick.

9 Pens.

1 Bruce Springsteen concert ticket stub from June, 2006.

1 Disposable lens cloth, well dried in the packet.

2 Packs of contact lens, right eye only.

4 Over the counter bladder wack pills.

5 Grocery store receipts, one of which was wrapped around a wad of gum.

1 Burger King coupon, expired in December, 2006.

2 Clinique blushers.

1 Large make-up brush.

1 Large Ass button with ink spots.

3 Hair implements.

1 Package Cinnamon Listerine breath paper thingies.

1 Very Smushed South Beach protein bar.

5 Petrified sunflower seeds. ::Wouldn't you'd be scared too?::

3 Christmas-themed candy corns

1 Used band-aid

$4.59 in change.

Momma's Got a Brand New Bag



Of course, now my house is cluttered with tampons and ink pens and lipsticks.

I also cleaned out my knitting bag, but I was too embarrassed to share that.

Once my purse was clean, I was free to perform all the afore-mentioned pre-sweater-blocking rituals.

And a sweater was born.



Button close-up.



The pattern calls for larger buttons, but my messed up button holes do not. Besides, I really loved those buttons and they didn't come in large.

The blocking did give me a bit more boobease, but not enough. I think it'll be fine worn open with a crochet chain belt.

Effin' O Stats:

Pattern: ChicKnits Ariann

Yarn: Berroco Cotton Twist

Size: 38

Comments: Fun pattern. Well written. Of course. At one point there was a dizzying amount of stitch comings and goings to keep track of, but if I can do it, anybody can. I'd definitely make this one again, but in a size larger.

Also, I'm thinking of adding a couple of inches to the collar.

For the Want of a Towel
I had wanted to model the final version of Ariann for your viewing pleasure, but to do it right, I need to get a little gussied up.

Before I could gussy up, I needed to take a shower.
Before I could take a shower, I needed a clean towel.
Before I could do the laundry, I needed to...

...Know: What's in your purse?

P.S. The weirdest thing I ever found at the bottom of my purse was a dried up barbequed rib.

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, Is That a Banana in Your Purse?, Knit Done, The Boss, Tree From Where I Fell

*You'll have to read yesterday's post for reference. But you don't have to comment. But you can. If you want.

I really need to clear the blog cache in my brain before moving on to a fresh, clean summer, so I'm just gonna let her spray.

Cue Alice Cooper, circa 1972
Wednesday was my last day of work for the 2006-07 school year. For the first time in years, I was actually ahead of schedule in completing my final duties. What a great feeling it was, to know that I was not going to be the Last Day Old Maid, sitting amidst a pile of "to-file", while office mates bid me summer adieus on their way out the door.

Earlier in the day I was not so confident I would be out on time. I had scheduled a very important meeting in another district. The Family of the Purpose of this meeting assured me that they had made arrangements to take a taxi to the meeting, were expected to arrive early. And I know this to be true, because I saw the taxi at the Purpose's house as I drove myself to the meeting, and per my estimation, they would be early. So, I get to the meeting place, and wait. And wait. Finally there's a phone call to say the taxi had a flat tire and another was coming and all would be even later.

They did make it, and the meeting went well, despite the time limitations. No harm, no foul. ::What the hell does that mean?::

Fast forward to my final drive out of the parking lot,after completing all my last day chores. I have my window down and am about to crank some Freddy Mercury/David Bowie, when I hear a weird slapping noise coming from the outside my car. Sounds like a flat tire.

I get out. It looks good. So I figured I was just being a little sensitive because of the event earlier in the day. But it was still kinda weird.

I get home, pull into the garage a smidge too fast, and harshly bump my front right tire off of the cement step of the garage entry to the house. I've scraped tire on that mutha many a time, but this was no scrape.

This was the all-weather, radial version of a Uranus Surprise.*

Yup. I popped a hole right in my tire. I don't think I've ever had a flat tire. Ever. Yet, 30 minutes earlier, I was pretty sure I did have a flat. But I didn't. And even earlier,I was practically related to a flat tire event.

There's got to me some universal meaning to this.
All I can think of is that sometimes, it just blows.

And Then
My husband is a self-employed contractor.
My husband has been self-unemployed for several months now.

His line of work is quite fickle, and even the most trusted intention or promise of a contract can fall apart at the last minute. He's had a few nibbles these past weeks, but no purchase orders.

With the high hopes of work later in the summer, we decided to take our vacation right away.

Anyway. Thursday. Cabana gets a call to see if he's available to take a job, with more details available Monday. ::Which means it's still not a sure thing.:: In the meantime, another shop is pretty sure they are going to need him to take two jobs, but they aren't entirely sure that they yet have the jobs to offer. In another meantime, still on Thursday, another guy calls to see if Cabana can take a seat ::that means sit at a computer and work on a job.:: in his shop for a couple of days, to finish up some easy detail work on a rush order.

This last item will give us some nice financial wiggle for vacation. A vacation we're postponing for a few days, with high hopes of Cabana being able to accept a couple of jobs, and turn down a couple of more. I'm not complaining at all, because he needs the work, but the timing is fuckily weird.

If he does get the work, he'll bring his computer to the cottage and squeeze in some vacation around the clicking. He may be able to handle all communications from the cottage, via email and phone, otherwise he'll need to commute once or twice. In order to correspond via email, he'll need my laptop from time to time. ::His work computers are work horses and don't have modems. We only have dial-up at the cottage.::

Butt Then
My laptop is fucked in the head. Evidently she picked up some nasty bug last time we were at the cottage, on dial-up. I don't know what the hell Mc*afee was doing as this bug was crawling up my back portal, without benefit of booze, lube or foreplay, but apparently, once this bug gets in, has the ability to temporaily disarm the McIffy.

The laptop is now at the cleaners and we won't know the verdict until late Sunday night. But if Cabana gets these jobs, we can't go on vacation without email capabilities. Outside of the base issues just described, I need my laptop.

And before sending the laptop to the cleaners, I spent hours fussing over her, cleaning and running ad-ware and spy-ware and going through the motions of believing that McIffy can do anything. It was kind of like taking care of a sick baby.

Thursday night, when I should've been drinking and resting up for my one and only stint as room mother, for Cakers' last day of Kindergarten, I was up late backing up my hard drive, in case she was going to need full frontal and ass-al lobotomies. And I was drinking.

::I was going to include my morning at Monster Kindergarten in this post, but it has the potential for too many complicated off-shot musings. I will say that by the time 1:00 a.m. Friday rolled around, and I was still backing up photos from my laptop, I was kind of wishing I hadn't volunteered myself for Kindergarten Mom. See, even the digressions on the topic are complicated.::

The only other computer available to me is a very old desktop. It's slow. It blocks shit that shouldn't be blocked. It blocks 90% of attempted photo uploads on Blagger, and instead gives me a Pop-Ups Are Blocked message, even after I Unpop the Blockups. It only lets me into AOL Webmail on even numbered dates, between the hours, er, minutes of 3:03 and 3:11 a.m. pst. It seeks permission to enter any and all websites, any and every time. And appears to be stone deaf, as it doesn't respond to any of my commands to knock that shit off.

And it's also pretty much Cakers' computer for her Dizney.com pleasure. While she's a bright girl, she's not quite understanding the concept of Eminent Domain.

On a positive note, I haven't killed anyone. Yet. I think that's a pretty positive start to the Summer of Uranal Surprise.*

And Then
I'm almost Effed Oh on the charity sweater.
I'm almost thinking about blocking Ariann.

On a Positive Note
I may have mentioned here, more than once, that I'm kind of not very physically coordinated. Well, I've got some good news on a newly developed, lifelong skill ::or what's left of it. My life.::

I can now sneeze and pee at the same time.
In fact, I do sneeze and pee at the same time.
Every time.

That's what I call Assure thing.

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, I Work Too, Now You're Whining, Tales of a Klutz, What the Hell and Oh Yea

Thank you for all the support and encouraging thoughts on my husband's recent heart scare. He seems to be doing well, although every time I asked him over the weekend, he'd make the Porker Face and tell me "fine". Yesterday, he sheepishly admitted to feeling totally symptom-free for the first time since before going into the hospital. He also corrected an earlier misperception of mine, that test results from the hospital revealed no abnormalities.

Weird thing is, I was in the room when the cardiologist revealed that E's heart pumper thangy was heart-pumper thanging a little slower than it should be. I know I was there when he said it, because I remember him demonstrating the slow pumper action using the universal heart-pumper thangy hand signal, which bore a disturbing resemblance to the universal feel-a-boob-thangy hand signal. But I still don't remember the words.

Maybe I was distracted by the doctor's disturbing/intriguing hand gestures, or his baby-poo-green turtleneck, or the Charles Nelson Reilly-esque glasses.

Or maybe I was preoccupied with the deeper implications of this sign*, hanging on the bathroom door:



Umm, yeah. I'm pretty sure that in the event of any of these things happening, I would run right down to the nurse's station and ask for a gown and a mask, so I could get myself right back in there.

And in consideration the protection of others, I made sure to take care of any potentially splatterable bodily fluid functions, in the public bathroom down the hall.

There's Not Much Clever to Be Made From the Name Ariann, But Ain't She Pretty?




I did get lots done on her the second day in the hospital, while we sat around waiting for discharge papers to be delivered.

I'd like to stay and chat but I have to get myself to work. Speaking of, between home and work demands I'm suffering from a low-grade life ache. For the next couple weeks, posting will be sparse.

Gotta go. And no time to edit.

*This is not the actual sign. I copied the words of the sign, verbatim, then created my own sign, using this warning sign generator.

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, Knit In Progress

And sometimes you close your eyes and see the place where you used to live, when you were young.-The Killers

(Just sayin': The following post is kind of ramble-y and was not well thought through prior to publication. Twas also proofed sparingly.)

One of my walk routes takes me past a place that has a distinct smell. I'm not crazy, or at least I'm not crazy in a way that sounds or smells like what I'm about to type, but I swear that this place with a smell smells like mashed potatoes, with lots of butter and black pepper. Like my mom used to make. On Sundays.

And just for a minute, could you please indulge me by paying no mind to the fact that you are sure that a place outdoors, in a residential neighborhood, cannot smell like mashed potatoes with lots of butter and black pepper?* Because it does. Because I've smelled it. And do smell it. And whether or not I'm experiencing a localized olfactorial hallucination, which I'm not, is not the point. At least not today. So please play along.

The first time I smelled the smell, it made me cry, a little. It wasn't a sudden break down and blubber kind of thing but more of chokey-uppy-where'd-that-come?-from-gaspy kind of thing. During 5 o'clock traffic, no less.

While I haven't cried the mashed potato since that first time I smelled it, the scent does still make me feel kind of sad and nostalgic. I think it's about Sunday dinner with my family, when I was a kid. When my family was whole. Or as whole as it would ever be.

Before my brother went to Viet Nam.

Before my daddy got sick and died.

Before my brother came home from Viet Nam and cried a lot in the basement.

Before my big sister went off to college to save her soul.

Before my mom went crazy from grief and worry.

Before my little sister and I grew boobs and tempers and a keen appreciation for a swinging vacuum cleaner hose as a weapon of choice.

Before all that.

I make a pretty mean bowl of mashed potatoes with lots of butter and pepper. But no matter how many steamy bowls I prepare of the stuff, it never quite tastes the same as that haunting smell.

Lately I've been feeling kind of sad and nostalgic about my current tribe. Mostly my girl, but the boy too. I miss them.

Yeah, the boys at college and that makes some sense.

But The Cakers is here every day.
And yet I miss her.
Every day.

Because every day she comes home from school different than she was the day before.

And every day I am simply amazed at the new person she has become.

And every day I want to get to know this new person. But there's never enough time. And before you know it, it's time for bed.

So she goes to bed and gets up and goes to school and changes all over again.

And before I have a chance to miss the girl from the day before, another one has shown up at the door. So we do it all over again.

And I feel like I'm watching a movie of my life at hyper-speed. In this movie I play myself, watching the movie of my life at hyper-speed. And all I can say is that it's a good thing I don't have any lines because I find it hard to breathe at times.

Just point me the button to slow it down. I promise I'll use it sparingly. Otherwise I'm just going to have to grab hold and not let go until she's big enough to kick my ass. Which may be as early as next week.

The same week I turn 48.
The same age as Madonna, who, according to the host of a nightly entertainment show, is doing some amazing things for someone "pushing 50."

I don't want to be amazing for my age.

I just want to be.

eh.

I soon will post a knit updater.
But it must wait a few days later.

*I'm pretty sure it's a plant I'm smelling. Smell familiar?

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, Deep Shit, Passages, Tree From Where I Fell, Yore

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

Okay, it's more like 3/4 shell.



As you can see, I'm just a shoulder and a shape from yet another finished garment.

I know. I'm scared too.

And yes Stephanie, I think I was thinking of the Yipes Stripes Beechnut gum.

The Family Poop
I've not yet recovered from the weekend with the family. It was a glorious time, but I'm still kind of worn from the prep, the hostessing, the flush frets and the packing up the post party pooh and dragging it home. ::Not that pooh, although the "tank-full" alarm did go off Saturday night. Nobody died.::

More scoop on the weekend poop in a later post. Maybe.

Could You Put a Sock in it?
So. Last evening at dinner, my husband, The Cakers and I were sitting and eating. Well, two of us were eating. One of us was talking and talking and talking, while creating yet another dinner routine. ::Truthfully, there is nothing routine about this childthing of mine.::

This new routine involves dishing rice from the serving bowl on to to her plate, then transferring the just dished rice from the plate into a bowl that her mother had just fetched upon harsh demand.

The transference of the rice could not take place, however, without the getting up from the table to go to the kitchen to dig through the silverware drawer to search for the perfect rice transferring spoon, which is not at all the same as the perfect rice serving spoon or the perfect rice eating spoon.

My husband and I have long given up on the expectation of any semblance of dinnertime decorum. These days we mostly just keep our eyes downcast; a strategy that has significantly reduced the incidence of dinnertime conflict absurdities.

Anyway.

We were finally all three of us, sitting and eating. Eyes dog down. After about 30 blessed seconds of normal, The Cakers announces "I think I'm going to take off my bra."

With her parents staring in shocked silence, she pulls off her t-shirt to reveal that indeed, she is wearing a bra. A nice one too. Wacoal. 34-D.

One strap drops. Then the other.

And before you can Cross Your Heart and hope to die in the event of any similar events taking place any time in any or all of our respective futures, she spins the clasp to the front, unlatches and whips it off.

"That's better," she says, as she resumes her attack on the rice bowl, using the perfect rice eating spoon. Topless.

My husband then looks at me all accusing and shit, like WTF goes on here all day? And I shrug and make my face all I got the boobs so this is all my fault? Shut-up.

Trying my best to not think about the reality of my four-year old daughter walking her world all day* wearing my precious, premium bra under her soccer camp t-shirt, I say real calm, "You can't sit at the dinner table naked."

To which she quickly replied, in her snootiest I'm-four-years-old-and-just-took-off-a-$60-bra-at-the-dinner-table-and-that's-it-right-there-hanging-on-the-back-of-my-chair voice, "I'm not naked. I'm half naked."

After another non-verbal exchange of fear and amazement, but mostly fear, my husband and I returned to the safety of dog down eyes, and finished our dinner in silence. Meanwhile, the merely half-naked Cakers cleaned her plate and asked to be excused.

After she's gone, my husband says "I hope the kindergarten teacher is getting lots of rest over the summer..."

...Or she'll be doing lots of drinking over the next, I think to myself.

And Lawd, how I know that summertime feeling.

*In her mother's bra, she played at a neighbor's house for two hours, after which we went to the grocery store for some major shopping.

My husband said 'show me your boobs' and I had to pull up my skirt... so it was time to get them done!-Dolly Parton

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, My Daughter Scares Me

Thanks for the sweet comments on my Manpie post. Truthfully, I was/am kind of taken aback by the impact, seeing as how the piece was pretty much the result of taking my brain for a ride on the porcelain bus.

A special thanks to Debra for submitting the post to Blogher's Sex and Relationships page.

Speaking of Blogher this knit blogger wants to know your thoughts on knit blogging, to bring to a real time blog-world-meets-people-world discussion.

And speaking of some more Blogher, it was there I found links to some cool, new (to me) blogs, such as This and That. What is it about those California bloggers?

Anyway, reading these new blogs has provided me both inspiration and validation for my new found (or maybe re-found) Blowing-Brain- Chunks approach to blog posting. Of course, I would never compare my chunks to theirs. Clearly, their skills in both aim and arrangement are keenly developed.

Anyway, with the new visitors and a tiny moment in the spotlight, I am suddenly feeling, as The Cakers says when the focus of unexpected attention, shy.

Cakers a la Mode
Speaking of pie and chunks of love and stuff, here's The Cakers modeling The Crumpets.



She loves this piece so much that she asked me to make her another one, only longer. For a dress. Damn if that didn't warm the cockles of my heart.

My cockles got so warm, that the still fresh and painful memories of knitting inches and inches of 360 stitches, around and around and around, slowly melted away. They were soon replaced by a waking nightmare of 47,000 additional inches in length, of 360 stitches, around and around and around...and I just said no.

Sure she's cute and shit, but the girl needs a serious grip.

What the Shell?
I'm just a few inches shy of a completed backside on the Ribby Shell. The color pools remind me of some candy from back in the day. Even though I can't recall the candy, this vaguest of recollection is making my teeth hurt.



We're back north for the weekend and tomorrow my (almost) entire family is coming up for a gigantic picnic and sleepover. I was hoping, at this point in the post, to offer some humorous, snarky prognostications on the weekend outcome, but I suddenly find myself overcome with fear.

Of flushing.
17 people flushing.
All day.
All night.
And all day again.
Into three tiny, delicate tubes of poo.
It's simple.
Really.
We're all gonna die.

I'll P.U. on the other side.

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, Cottage, Knit Done

Gable, Gable,
Sweet Enable,
Another project
Off the table.

And now, I present to you, za pipples of za blogs, who come for za knit and mehbee za peek to booby. Okay. Never za booby. Can't hurt to peek, zo. No? Just sayin'.

But we do got za knit. For za pipples.

Pattern: Green Gable, from Zephyr Style

Yarn: Lion Brand Cotton-ease,in, uh, Blue.

Size: Mostly Medium, with some Large around the Boobease.

Modifications:I went with the medium directions but added more stitches for bust and then some extra decreases. Fit is great, but I think I could've tapered in a couple more rows after boobs.

Dork Alert: I was sooo excited about posting this today, I couldn't sleep last night.

I was also going to discuss, today, my plans to clean out the unfinished business in my bag of burden. Since this post is about celebration, I'll just save the whining for another day. ::Okay, maybe I'm just a teensy bit not exactly ready to face the baggage, but I'm working on it.::

In the meantime, here's 9 out of about 100 katillion reasons I will not be America's Next Top Model:



::No zat not za booby, down dare.::

Have a Monday.

P.S. Pictures can be clicked for closer view. But you prolly already knew that.

P.P.S. The picture mosiac is courtesy of Flagrant Disregard. Go Check out his Flickr Toy array.

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, Knit Done

Note:This post was initiated on June 18, the day after I attended the concert in subsequent mention. It's old and stale news. However, I have found that if I spend some time writing a post and neglect to publish it, I get all brainstipated and am unable to post at all. So, consider this post a kind of an enema. Since we're on the topic, there's one more backed up post waiting in the queue, plopping your way soon.

Yeah.
That Boss. And he was completely off his rocker. In a good way.

I think I mentioned this a while back, that my husband and I had tickets to see Bruce in concert, on the We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions) tour.

I'm no music critic, but I will say that if you have a chance to see this concert, go. And if you haven't yet bought the album; buy.

I've never been a huge Springsteen fan. I didn't hate him or anything, he just didn't float my boat. My first year at Michigan State (1977), I remember more than a few Bob Seger-Bruce Springsteen wars on my dorm floor, between the Detroiters and East Coast students. At the time, I was a little confused by all the ruckus, since I thought they were the same guy.

After June 17, I'm proud to say that Bruce is my new crush. Actually, considering my husband, we should call it a three-way. ::In the mood for good google.::

The night wasn't just about the music. There was also some great people watching, once I got over how old most of the concertgoers looked. I think I was expecting a younger crowd. You know, more my age. Then I realized that these old people are my age. Then I started drinking heavily, after which, we all looked pretty damn good.

On a positive note, if the fellow concert attendees were mostly my age, it's safe to assume that they couldn't see well enough to notice that my left eyebrow hasn't been tweezed in about a month. My good tweezers were left at the cottage, so I've been using my old ones, which are about 20 years old (the old-fashioned scissor style). For some reason they only work properly on the right side. I will admit that I'm getting pretty good at leading with the right side of my face, a la Nancy Grace.

Our seats were in row PP, which meant I was destined to visit the increasingly-concert-venue-esque-as-the-night-wore-on bathroom every 30 minutes, or so. I'm just glad we didn't sit in row PooPoo. ::There had to be a row PooPoo. That could be the only logical explanation for women working on their Night Moves, in a packed jon, with Bruce Springsteen cranking it just a few hundred feet away. Just sayin'.::

Knitting
I have finally finished the knitting portion of the Crumpets. I decided to go with the Picot cast-off, as recommended by the designer. Unfortunately, I didn't really like the looks of it ::Note the Poky Uppy Thingies on the right, which bear close resemblance to a pack of jolly sea serpents, on meth.::



I swear, I followed the directions for this cast-off to a stitch. When the results from my first attempt ended up looking nothing like the picture in the book (Epstein's) I checked an online source. Same directions, same results.

It was at that point I determined that I had invented a new stitch and thusly named it Serpicot. But birthing a monster does not mean you have to love it.

Lawd, no.

So I searched further, for the picot cure, and ended up here, where I found directions for said picot cast-off, which ended up looking just like the picture in Epstein's book. ::It's the little nubby on the left, in the above picture. Bloggerhag won't let me upload a better shot at this time.::

Vacating Further
Is it just me, or is there a theme here? Anyway, yes I am on vacation. And yes, I have no vacation updates. My husband has been working, on vacation, and today it was raining, and basically, to date, we've moved our homelife to the cottage. i.e. Same shit, better view.

My next bloggstipation post will be a wrap-up of last week's festivities at Soccer Camp. Where there were lots of mommies. And fear. For my life. And theirs. For the next 13 years.

I'll just wrap with this Soccer Mom's Mother-of-a-Soccer-Camper's Moment of Summer Break Enlightenment: It takes some balls to kick some ASS.

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, The Boss

Dear Boob Walkers,
For the past five years or so, I've been a real nice lady. Whenever I approached a group of two or three of you walking abreast, and it was apparent that no one was going to step aside and make room for me to pass, I'd be forced to step into a gravelly ravine, or onto a lawn. One time, while moving out of the way, I caught my shoe on the edge of the sidewalk and almost landed on a freshly expressed lugie, dangling in the grass.

I always stepped aside because I am typically not one to sweat the small things. I did this because life is too short for dwelling on the petty, including your unfathomable, consistently boorish behavior. I did this because I am a sane, well-balanced person, with many things going for me. At least I was that person.

But, dear ladies, now that I've entered the Peri-Pausal zone, all bets are off. These days I'm feeling old and tired and that perhaps life ain't so short but is indeed, very long and draining and otherwise an old tired bitch. These days, I'm not feeling so well-balanced or that so many things are going my way. In fact, you might say that these days I'm feeling a little off my nut. Sweetly crazed. Peri-Menocidal. Even.

What does all this mean for you, dear ladies? It means I ain't moving no more. Why should I? When my husband and I go for a walk and another person approaches on the sidewalk, we wouldn't in a million sidewalk squares expect that person to move out of our way. Beside being rude, expecting the other person to move doesn't make any kind of sense. I like things to make sense.

I know that for years now I've been the objet du joke of your little club. Your poster child for Easy Sidewalk Prey. But no more. Starting today, I'm not moving. Neither am I going to be rude. There will be no dirty looks. No obscene rumblings. I'm going to say "Excuse me," with a smile, and stand. And wait. Until one of y'all steps aside.

And because being the training bra for The Boob Walkers Club has become my new mission in life, I've cleared my calendar. I've plenty of time. I'll stand as long as need be. ::Remember The Zax?::

Then, once you move and let me pass, you'll all look back at me. And I'll be looking back at you. And I'll give a little wave and a smile. Then later, back at the Boob Walkers clubhouse, ::You know where the Boobs hang out:: one of you might swear to the others that when looking back,you saw a strange red glow in my eye and heard a faint, unearthly howl in the near distance. Someone else might say they think they saw and heard the same thing. And a new poster child will be born. And within a few days, word of my new annointment will be out and I'll be parting The Boob Walkers like Moses and the Red Sea.

Just Sayin'. Dear ladies.

::This story went a bit long. The Best Stalking Story Ever will soon be available in the third installment of the Walking the Blog series.::

Knittin' Knuggets
Over the past week I have knit up three hats for the Get Connected charity. Here I am modelling one (pay no attention to the lady behind the eyebrow):



The yarn is Lion Brand Chunky Kool Wool and the pattern is Crazy Aunt Purl's Brangelina hat pattern.

I'd love to stay and chat, but it's a beautiful spring day, and I've got some sidewalk ass to crack. So I'll leave you with this...


...Two people walking a breast

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, Charity Knits, Walking the Blog

Thanks for all the kudos on my test results. While I wanted (and planned) to answer some of those comments up close and personal, it appears that me and the life I put off living over the past 6 weeks, have suddenly become reacquainted. In spades. It didn't help that for about three days after the test, my brain felt like it was humping on a cheese grater.

Post Testicular Stress Disorder
So, I’m sure you’re all dying to know how’s Life Behind the Testie for the Newly Objectified.

:: And I promise, I will try to make this the last post on The Subject I can’t Seem to Shut Up About. In the meantime, please bear with, while I find other things with which to fill my time::

::In fairness to moi, it’s hard to ignore something that ate your head.::

PTSD Knitting: While in the throes of exam obsession, I had a very difficult time reading or even comprehending blog posts about knitting. At the time, it was nothing more than fuzzy on the brain. No doubt that was merely a defense mechanism, to prevent me from flinging myself into a vat of 9-inch aluminums. That being said, neither will I be spending any time further, trying to figure it out such matters. In fact, I’m way over learning some shit and look forward to my rapid devolvement to pre-test levels of functional stupidity.

*I’m pretty sure my co-workers are also over the new improved me. In a meeting the other day, I actually used Hawthorne Effect in a sentence. With meaning.

k.

Back to Knitting. First of all, is it too late to get in on the Knitting Olympics?

Damn.

k.

Knitting.

My first, post-test yarn yearn was to start a new project (of course.). You may recall that BT (Before Test), I was working on a baby cardie for a co-worker. ::He’s small-framed.:: I got as far as picking up stitches for the collar, before deciding that the thing was a tactile hideosity. At least for use as a baby gift.

::For the record, Cotton-Ease doubled, on one-size too-small needles (in the spirit of good gauge), does not make for good fabric for a sweet baby gift. Fencing garb? That's another story.::

I will finish the baby sweater eventually, for charity.

Since I already told this co-worker that I was knitting a baby gift, he is now kind of expecting something handknit.

::Note to self: Don’t do that anymore.::

Therefore, in my plans for casting on anew, I stuck with the baby gift theme.

After a quick glance over the stash accounts, I determined I could get a swift, yet satisfying leg-up with this number, from Last Minute Gifts (the denim baby drawers):



The yarn is that Denim Dammit stuff from Elann, which I had been saving to complete the Anchors Away* sweater.

k.

More knitting.

Saturday, on the way home from the exam, I stopped into my favorite, local yarn shop, for some therapy-on-a-string. Unfortunately, I was too fried to even look at the yarn. It was nothing but fuzz.**

I didn’t leave empty-handed though, thanks to an impulsive, nearly blind book purchase. More on that another day.

PTSD Working:
Plump with pride from a test well taken, Monday morning I floated into work on a cloud of vainglory, convinced that I possessed powers to heal, through mere presence.

Ha.

By 9:00 a.m., in the aftermath of an unprecedented deluge of concurrent, constituent-based behavior issues, I was well off my high horse and flat on my ass. Next, I tried to figure out (yet again), how all my charges managed to squeeze into the same damn handbasket, at the same time. In other words, the devolution had begun.

I was well on my way to normal.
In a handbasket.
And it was good.

I've got lots more things to talk about, but I’m worn. And it’s my first free Friday night in weeks. So I'll leave you with this weekend treat:

fox hat

::Since I've been living in a rathole the past several weeks, there's a very strong chance that this video link has already been around knitblogland, and back. Please forgive if I missed it at your place. I received my own copy in an email, but couldn’t figure out if or how I could load it directly to my post.::

::Yah, I'm a techtard.::

::But I’m your techtard.::

::And it’s Friday.::

::So tonight, we drink. ::

Adoo.

*A sweater I started two years and 20 pounds ago. Cate, I swear that I was stretching that ill-be-fitten front sweater piece across my girls at the very time you were writing the post containing our Knit While it Fit KAL. I tried to comment on your post but it wouldn’t stick. I think you had your boring comment filters on. In retrospect, I think it was a good move.

**Special Shout-out to my buddy Char, who gave me today's fuzzy inspirations. Fuzzzzzzz. Hope you're feeling better sweetie. You can leave a comment where it says piggies going wee wee.

Big Ass P.S. I know I am pathetically behind in my sidebar updates and blog cruising. Hopefully this weekend.

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, I Work Too, That Damn Test

I should soooo not be doing this. But here's the deal: I may be a bit hepped up on some prescription medication that I took at rather unfortunate intervals (i.e. I might have taken one but before it could kick in to help me remember that I already took it, I took another. Maybe. Hey. Things ain't been right up there for a coupla days...just sayin.)

Anyway, whenever I sit down to study, I can't. The words swim, my heart races and I end up plucking imaginary chin hairs with my bare fingernails and dreaming of better days, like all-day root canals and Vagnitis on a Hot August Night.

To distract myself, I thought I'd check my email and maybe a couple blogs. So I just happened over to Crazy (my ass) Aunt Purl's place, and read the cool story about a boyfriend she had when she was 19 years old. At first I happened to be jealous that she had such a cool boyfriend-at-19 story to tell.

But then I said "hey!" and then I happened to remember a boyfriend-at-19 story of my own. That's right.

When I was 19, my boyfriend peed on my mom's chest.

In the living room.

It was antique. The chest.

He was drunk. The boyfriend.

When I saw what he was doing, I screamed and ran to the kitchen and grabbed some Bounty. Then I screamed some more and ran back to the stream of the crime, and held the Bounty under the pee, like a safety net.

How did it work, you ask? Well, let's just say that there is a reason the marketing people over at Bounty have never used the image of a weeping, drunken 19 year old holding a sheet of their paper towel under a hot, beer-fed peefall. It did not go well.

Fortunately, beer pee doesn't smell much and my mom was never the wiser. I might tell her, someday.

My boyfriend's story was that he usually peed off the front porch, into the bushes. My mom had a dried flower arrangement on her chest. He thought he was on the porch.

Now I gotta go. If any of any of you of the psychic persuasion have any advice for my face to face with the big fat testie tomorrow, now is the time.

Otherwise, I'm good.

::No proofing on this one. As Is only.::

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, BUI, Yore

I only had one New Year’s resolution for this year, which was to find and remove the last of the pencils from under my boob. But then I came across this woman,and changed my mind. Now, she gets boobs.

Be sure to check out her other blog, which is alleged to be more chatty. And her Christmas Day post is a must read. You can almost smell the boozey breath of the carolers in the park. Oh yeah, and her profile. Read her profile.

Back so soon?
Okay! Okay!

You Say You Wanna Resolution?
I never could do the New Year resolution thing. It's not entirely due to my possessing the attention span of a flea. And neither is it directly related to the fact that I am so oppositional, I routinely defy myself. ::An ex-beau once called me Terminally Oppositional. Quite a compliment, coming from a clinical psychologist. Later, I wondered if he wasn't on some level, wishing me dead. I always preferred to think of myself as Fiercely Independent.::

What I don't like about resolutions is that they are not human-friendly. Being human is a process. Every day of living brings a new thought or perspective, on something. No day, in the life of a human, is exactly the same as another. Resolutions, however, are not fluid, or process-oriented. Resolutions are rigid. Resolute. Even.

One year, I made a pitiful attempt to incorporate the New Years resolution with human process, as follows: Starting January 1, I will no longer be fettered by the corollary implications of being a self-serving, lazy, redundant, brazen boozer and part-time strumpet. I was back in therapy by the ides of February.

I like Stacey Joy's idea, of an annual plan. While she didn't necessarily say that her plan would be in lieu of a New Year's resolution, I really like the idea of a New Year Plan. A plan is process. Fluid. Malleable. In fact, it can be written into a New Year Plan that the Plan can be cancelled at any time. ::Makes for a nice soft landing, when falling off the commitment wagon.::

We're On the Segue to Hell
I just barely made it into the new, cool, year-long meme thangy (i.e. guaranteed post material, at least once every two weeks) The ABC Along*. For those knot in the know, it's about the ABC's. And pictures. You can read all about it at Anne's blog.

This week's picture is sponsored by the letter A.

A is for Acceptance.



Over the past year, I have had a difficult time accepting the changes in my body, brought on by middle age. For several months, with the assistance of my best friend Denial, I was able to cling to the hope that one day I will get back into my favorite jeans, which are two sizes smaller than my current ass.

Even after adjusting for size, I continue to shop for clothes with my old, er, former body shape in mind. I guess I still see myself as that girl. But the styles that once became me, now betray me. It's not a good look. These are the things I must accept. Unfortunately, my closet is still filled with the clothes of Denial, which means that most days I go to work looking either skank or frump.

Therefore, Marcy's New Year Plan for 2006 will be about Acceptance. I will not only accept and embrace my plumper, juicy ass, I will also dress her up in the finest, most stylin' of garb.

From now on my pants will be boot cut. And worn with belts, with shirts tucked in. (I can't do the shirttails hanging under the short sweater thing. I always worry that I'll accidently tuck them in, after using the toilet. And how embarrassing would that be? I can't even think about it.::

I'm going to redefine my look, in a style befitting both my personality and my new bod.

::Okay, I'm really tired and put way too much pressure on myself to get this post out, tonight. But I will, dang it.::

The bottom line is that the vibrant, sexy, stylin' young thang that I thought I used to be, is still here, somewhere. I need to pick her up and dust her off and give her a big smooch.

Then take her shopping.

And maybe someone should do us all a favor, and drop a hint along the same line, to Mariah Carey? I mean, did anyone see her New Year's eve getup? It looked like a little something she picked up at Tonya Harding's last garage sale.

And, so ya know, I'll probably be cutting back to two posts a week for a while.** Things are hopping at work and home. And I still have to get to studying for that big test.

A is for Aye Really Tired. G'night.

*I'll post the ABC webring thangy later this week. Dude. It's late.

**With the same number of commas.

Edit Note: This post was edited 7am, Thursday, for your reading comfort. I am now late for work. I'll probably be fired, which means there will be lots more commas in all your respective futures.

Labels: ABC, Boobs and Pee and Poo, With Grace My Ass

Wednesday’s Child if Full of Whoa

Thank you for indulging me in my moment of doubt, via my last post. Insecurity happens. And yes, Judith, some days I am a dry rub kinda gal. Unfortunately, it’s usually in the wrong way.

Today is Sunday. ::No shirt, shitlock.:: Wednesday of this week, I return to work, courtesy of two back-to-back days of hours-upon-hours of painfully imposed staff inservice. Talk about your dry rubs. On a humpday. Oh, the whimsy.

And now it’s time to start the annual wail-song.

Summer is done.

Wail over.

Truthfully, I always look forward to returning to work in the fall. You see, if didn’t have a job to go to in the fall, I’d not “have my summers off.” I’d not have opportunity to enjoy the lazy, hazy, days upon days of feeling like a totally indulged, spoiled brat. At 46 years old. I’m tellin’ ya, it's an annual treat, beyond my wildest, exclaimabilities. And neither is it hateful.

::Another benefit of returning to work is access to my dictionary.::

And besides, I love my job. I love the structure and routine, and the kids and the energy and the overall sense of professional competency, a la flight by the seat of my pants. And, my family and neighbors alike, always appreciate the annual return of my daily hygiene practices.

Is That an Elephant in the Living Room, or are You Just Happy to See Me Go?
On Friday, my son leaves for college. I have nothing to say on this matter. No thoughts or feelings. I’m a grown woman. Well-adjusted. Mature.

Sidenote to parting child: My job is done. You have your entire life before you. Godspeed, hey. Just one thing? Please give me a week's notice ,if you plan on coming home for Thanksgiving. This way I can give the new tenant who is renting your room, adequate notice. For the record, sometimes college students get invited home by their roommates for weekends and holiday breaks. I think this sort of thing affords excellent opportunities for interpersonal growth and exposure to other life forms. Just so ya know. See? I'm totally okay with you being gone. From our home. For weeks and weeks. You're grown. Have I mentioned, My Job is Done?

Always, your mother.

And no, I'm not in denial. Because being in denial, would suggest the existence of a problem. An impending loss. A life transition. An "oject-du-deny" or a "deny-ee," if you will.

But not me, man.
I'm good.
Solid.
The Beans.

Ass Can See Clearly Now
All day yesterday, it was evident that the lease on my contact lenses was up, and it was time to toss. So, last night, while preparing for bed, after brushing my teeth and before the nightly pee, I tossed my contacts in the toilet. (Pee and boobs..)

Then I went to bed. In my nice shortie nightie.

This morning, I got out of bed, pulled on my yoga pants, under my nightie, and went downstairs to face the Sunday. About 10 minutes into the newspaper, my right cheek started itching, a little. In an annoying, poky, itchy kind of way. Being the lazy ass that I be, I shifted weight to the other cheek and kept on reading.

The poky itchy continued. And then I started to worry, a little. What if it’s a bug? Or a spider??!!!?? A half-dead spider, half-smooshed on my ass. No, no...a half-dead, half-smooshed spider who is totally aware of her impending demise and desperately trying to lay her last sac of eggs, in my ass, before taking her last, half-smooshed breath.

Oh my god, I’m thinking, as I run the faster-you-run-the-scardier-you-get-run of childhood. (You remember that one? Running back to the house after taking the trash to the garage, after dark? Every step to safety, making you somehow more afraid?)

Once in the bathroom, I really start to panic. I pull off the pants and start swiping manically at my cheek. Because I was afraid of touching whatever it was, I really did not give this butt whacking my best effort. Instead, I hoped that the “I’m gonna get you,” frenzied, hand job would be enough to scare the half-dead-half-smooshed-lethally-venomous-egg-laying-black-widow off my ass. To make us both feel better, I promised aloud to let whatever-it-was to live, then added that a reciprocal courtesy would be the decent thing, as well.

After the hand-to-ass dance, I scanned the floor for deadly bug debris. Seeing nothing on the floor, I suddenly felt calm and brave and all grown up. And with a burst of additional courage, I rubbed my finger over the offended area. ::I still could not bring myself to look at it in the mirror. I wasn’t ready for what I might see . Besides, I think I might have some legitimate denial stuff going on with the size of my ass, a fret I’ll save for another day.:: As I gently poked at the area, I felt a distinct abnormality on my skin. Something hard and crisp and totally stuck on my ass. Realizing it was too crisp to be a half-dead-half-smooshed spider, I lost all sense of trepidation and ripped the thing from my flesh.

It was a contact lens. Blue and puckered and dry as a witches.... pork rub.

Evidently I picked up a little something off a toilet seat last night.

First I chuckled.

Then I tried to find some mystical message within, such as "What would it look at, if my ass could see?" The answer came loud and clear, "Your husbands ass. While you sleep." As asses go, his is pretty sweet, but not mystically so. Perhaps, if my once seeing-eye-ass could talk....we'd hear a differnt tail?

But for now, that's as far as my ass can see.
And officially concludes today's list of Sunday Sundries.

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, From My Loins, I Work Too, Passages

Once upon a time there was this pig. She was a cute little pig, in that snorty, slob-esque, curly-ass-piggy kind of way.

One day, the cute little pig decided that even a sow has her shit-living limitations.



So she pulled aside her boar, looked into his beady little eyes and squealed "Do me."

A favor.

Take me shopping for a new sty.

And she wound up with this palace. A pig palace.



Ain't we purty? Ummhmmm.

Well, purty comes at a cost. These simple pictures belie not only the physical work required in this makeover, but also the mental anguish.

It was just so hard to decide how to use the space. And I still haven't quite decided on all of it, but I'm making headway. In a pigheaded kind of way. And it doesn't help that, on account of it being college season and all ::gulp. Denial. Denial.:: that the local home supply stores are all out of shelf and drawer organizers.

Here's what I got so far:



This isn't going to be yarn storage, per say. I have too much, for one thing. And I'm not of the sort who can ponder the pomposity of her yarn stash, on a daily basis. This is on account of my liking to breathe. And stuff.

And if I saw all my yarn, displayed all in one place, on a regular basis, I'd be dead in a week. Which is exactly why my yarn is stored on three separate floors of my home, in private bins.

But I digress.

In one drawer are my circular needles, and a basket of knitting tools, which were once stored in a knitting bag. In the other drawer are baskets containing works in progress, again, previously stored in another knitting bag.

That bottom shelf thingy will store current project yarns. And I'm thinking that top book shelf will be a showcase for new yarn purchases, before I put them in a bin. You know how that goes. Ya gotta coppa couple feels before sending it off to Knever-Knit Her Land.

Speaking of Knever-Knit-Her Land, while reorganizing my shit, I came across some infinished business, soon headed for Frog World:



On the left is the Smocking On the Move, from a past Interweave Knits. I still love this pattern, but my boobs have outgrown the size I knit. If it weren't a travelling cable pattern, I probably could pull it off (or at least on), but when I hold it up to test the fit, the cable pulls noticably. The yarn is a Harris blend, and will find some great new use in the future.

On the left is JStrizzy's own Dreamy Creamy design, in Rowan Calmer. I loved the pattern, but effed up the sleeves. I had planned on just cutting the sleeves out and making it into a tank thing, but again, the shifting of the boobage over the past year, brought the eyelet holes for the ribbon, just about nip level. ::yeah, boobs and pee, boobs and pee....It's who I be. No apologee::

Further rummage revealed this lost friend, the lacy tunic from Knitting the New Classics by Kristen Nichols. I really, really loved knitting this piece, but I fear it just isn't going to work out.



I found a significant error in the shaping of one armhole, which is probably why it went to the bad boy bin in the first place. It's been sitting there for two years now, and I fear it's just accumulated too much bad knarma. But damn, if I just didn't love knitting this pattern.

What's that? You don't believe that I really, really loved knitting this pattern? Well, lookie lou at what I found in an old Target bag, at the bottom of a yarn bin this week:



Yep. Same damn sweater. This one was knit a long, long time ago, when the pattern was in a Vogue Knitting. Kind of like going on a date and realizing that, 10 years prior, you threw up in the guys back seat after too many tequila shooters. As in: I had absolutely no recollection of doing either. Both All pieces are now in the trash.

Yeah. Love hurts.

::Is it just me, or do those shots of sweaters on death row, kind of bring to mind mug shots?::

Shawl-ly Goodness



Okay, I promised some knitting knews, and here it be. The Ocean Lace Wrap is a wrap. The ends are woven and it now awaits a square-off on the floor, with some pins and a spray bottle. It was a fun knit, and very easy. Too easy, toward the end. And it was the sensory delight of the yarn that kept this project afloat.

Pattern: Ocean Lace Stole, from Just One More Row
Yarn: Silk/Wool blend from Spirit Trails.

My husband just came home and announced that we're going to the cottage. Tonight.

I said FTS. We go tomorrow. 'Cause I need to line up some car knitting and map out the pee stops. ::Boobs and pee, pee and boobs...Get over it.::

Clever Closings
The other day The Cakers and I were talking about our broken jogger and how it needs to be fixed. After some thinking on the matter, she said "Only daddy can fix it. Right? Or Cameron. Because he's a dolt, just like daddy."

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo