Last week I brought work home every night. A report. It was a hard one. Not all of them are. But this one was. And there was a deadline.

And on the heels of that deadline, is another.
And another.

All told, I have to crank out 2.7 reports per week, over the next four weeks, in order to make legally mandated timelines. This is in addition to my other caseload duties. Understand that I'm not whining or complaining about my job. I love my job. I have an important job. And I believe I am really good at my job. I'm just laying out a little context.

So. Friday I am putting the finishing touches on the report summary, which is often the hardest part for me, of writing reports. Although I am pretty good at synthesizing all the information in my head, and coming up with what I think are solid conclusions, my brain doesn't always use language-as-we-know-it as its primary synthesizing tool.

It's hard to explain, really. And it's not like I see lights and hear bells and feel compelled to dance the funky chicken while wearing my husband's underwear, because that would be easy to explain, if not defend. It's just..well...hard to explain.

Anyway. After I spent a few hours translating the summary from the Language of My Brain to the Language of Human Consumption, a co-worker stopped by to talk about some evals that we are working on together. In the middle of this discussion he interrupted himself to ask my thoughts on the recent memo from administration, announcing that next year's budget calls for cutting two full-time soshel werkrs.

I hadn't read it.
I felt like I'd been punched.

Seniority-wise, my job is safe.
Quality-wise, that remains to be seen.

Several times per year I become so swamped and drained and pulled in many directions, that at the end of a given day, I am bereft of further cognitive capability. Sometimes I wonder how I make it home safely, on those days.

I currently am in the midst of one of those "times." That being said, I'm having a hard time visualizing how I will be able to take on another half of a full-time job next year, without someone getting hurt. Namely, me.

But the human spirit is stronger than we think. When I was a kid and we ran out of toothpaste, my mom would invariably say: "There's always one last squeeze in the tube." Oddly enough, over the years that statement has always held true for me, no matter how dire the tubular circumstance. ::And sometimes aided by a pair of scissors.:: And while said phenomenon always works to my benefit, it never seems to go well for the tube.

I am now the tube.

And then there is the issue of two cohorts who could* be out of jobs, come June, which I'm trying not to think about. There are also some related dynamics that I will not be discussing here, but that also add to the stress and emotional discomfort.

Needless to say, I've been more than a little distracted over the last couple of days. This weekend I had every intention of catching up on some blog posting, while my 2008 Intendments are still rattling around the Synthesizers. Orphans.

Friday I came home from work and took a picture of that flower up there, and had every intention of posting it as Eye Candy. In light of the emotional hazing I had endured that day, the sweet little flower just didn't fit into my world as I knew it. So then I had the idea of the captioned pig, to set the tone. Then I played outside. Knit some knit. Drank some wine. Then rinsed and repeated for Saturday.

And now the pig thing seems kind of dumb. But dumb happens. As does rambling.

As for now, my sweets, it's yet another gorgeous day (a weather pattern that I'm finding almost annoying at this point), and I need to go hunt some Cakers Gone Wild. Then maybe take up some knitting on the porch.

And then some writing on a report.
Sometimes stress pays the rent.

*The whole situation will be fluid until June. Even though the threat is real, I would be very surprised if they cut two full-time spots.

Labels: I Work Too, Now You're Whining

Preface Whine
Regarding this here cottage dial-up, I have figured out that I get about 3 "clicks"
per internet connection before getting booted or screen freeze. When it comes to Meaningful Events of Access, i.e. picture uploads or access to Blogger, I have determined my allotment to be about 3 per 12 hour period. And unused events do not carry over.

::I've also determined that the "up" in this "dial-up", is a bit of an exaggeration. In fact, there's nothing "up" about the internet here. "Dial-Over" maybe. And I'm pretty sure the guy in charge of the one internet modem for the county is also in charge of snow plowing and runs the local pizza shop. Therefore, whenever it snows or people are hungry, I'm screwed.::

On With the Snow. This is It.
1) If you read my last post directly from the Google Reader page, without coming to the blog, it may not have made sense. I don't know if bloglines left out the important slashes too. Just sayin'.

2) Friday Snowflake:
In comments on Friday's post, Carole and Kat asked how I caught the snowflake with my camera. ::Sorry I can't link to you right now. I tried. I can't get into my blog.I'm lucky to be here, right now.::

I wish I could share some magical formula, but I got none. I think it was fluke.

The problem I was having with the snowflakes was that the camera auto focus was getting confucused by all the snowflakes and couldn't focus on any one.

So, I set my camera to the "movement" setting and shot while standing close to the cottage, which buffered the amount of snowflakes that fell in front of me, and I started shooting. I took about 15 and all I got was that one good shot, and only because I happened to snap when there were suddenly few snowflakes to compete with. I then turned it into black and white for ultimate contrast, and cropped it. That's all I got.

3) Saturday Sky.



4) Sunday Cottage. Three Doors Down.



5) Monday Sock.* ::And I rock. I do. More on that when I'm all done.::





*You might remember that knitting a sock was on my list of Intendments for 2007, which makes the deadline Monday, 11:59 p.m. And yes, I think I'm in lurve.

I can't finish this post. The internet gods are pretty much dragging my ass up the stairs and are getting ready to throw me into the abyss known as Real Time. I'm hitting publish, as is. I gotta sock to finish.

Labels: Cottage, Knit In Progress, Now You're Whining, Sundry Sunday

Lessons From a First Grader
I always face the new school year with a bit of trepidation, but most years I'm mostly excited about going back. As I mentioned a while back, this year the usual trepidation has been raised to levels of true anxiety, with no real basis, other than a few changes in the work environment. And any other work-related horror the mind can conjure, at 3 a.m.

And I really should know better.

In my 13 years with the school system, I have faced/overcame/survived some very intense, short and long-term professional challenges.

But just as every year is different from the one before in terms of unpredictable stressors, each school year also guarantees at least three specific, predictables: A beginning, an end and lots of breaks in between.

Segue Alert:

This past weekend, Cakers and her father hatched a little plan for her to go tubing. Alone.

When I heard about this plan, I immediately put to it, a gentle kibosh.

To Cakers I said: Ummm. This is something that daddy and I need to talk about for a couple of days, then decide together. ::i.e. Tubing, my ass.* With assorted, flying monkeys.::

To Cabana, I said: Tubing, my ass. With assorted flying monkeys.
She's too young. I mean, technically she’s still in kindergarten.
She needs to practice more with a grown-up.
Behind a paddle boat.

For one day, I held firm.
Then, late Saturday, Cakers asked again.
Her dad then approached me, in private, and made an appeal.

She really, really wants to do this, he said, then promised to go really, really slow.

It was a spectactular, late summer evening. The water was like glass, with nary an enemy U-boat or warship in sight.

So, armed with the knowledge and conviction that my husband loves Cakers no less than I, and would never put her in harm's way, I found the courage to let go. Or at least the courage to let her go tubing.

That’s not to say that I wasn’t scared.

I was.
Terrified.
And thrilled.
And proud.
And even a little envious, of her sense of adventure.

But mostly I was terrified.

Initially this post was going to be about fear. You know, about poor me, having to go back to work with all those big, mean scary changes. And how my big, mean husband and little, mean daughter committed against me, that heinous act of emotional terrorism.

Heh.

But after I uploaded the pictures to the blog and started to write, a totally different story emerged. A lesson, if you will.

A lesson for the mother olden,
From her little daughter golden.

You see, the pictures depicting Cakers' little adventure on the high seas no longer looked like a scary venture, but instead reminded me of the phases of a typical (and survivable) school year, for me.

And it goes something like this:

1)The Fresh start. Note the hair, all flowy and light. And the coy little smile, nervous-yet-excited.



2) It gets Dicey. After a month or two, the year begins to reveal its true potential, forwarning the need to hang on and hunker down.



3) The Occasional Slap Upside the Head, When You Least Expect It. Self explanatory.



4) The End of the Trail . By that last day of the school year, this is pretty much how I feel/look. Flat and weary; with my hair stuck to my brain.



5) But Then... It's summer. Again.



And then I realized it was gonna be all right.


******
p.s. Please click pics for enhanced perusal.

p.p.s. I meant for this to be a Labor Day post, but my labors yesterday were happily redirected.

p.p.p.s. Where'd my baby go?

*Has great google potential.

Labels: Cottage, I Work Too, Now You're Whining, Passages, Scary Shit

I can't believe what I haven't done with my time.

There are so many things I wanted to do.
And I just don't know where it all goes.
The time.

Well, I do sort of know where it goes. Being a mom and wife and laundress extraordinaire isn't like falling off a keg.

But still, it seems that when it comes to summer hopes and dreams, my mind's eye is bigger than its stomach.

Someone Left the Cakers in the Rain
Last weekend, after a Cakers-induced, chain-reaction family meltdown of near nuclear proportions, we decided to make all our little worlds each a little smaller, with an impromptu weekend at the cottage.

My in-laws were already up there, which always makes the impromtu-weekend-grab a little easier. They, of course, were thrilled to have us. Melted Down Cakers notwithstanding.

Anyway.

The Mind's Eye Goes Dry. You Know, Like the Sahara.
In keeping with the Eyes Bigger Than Reality theme, I had high hopes of finishing Sahara while I was up there. So high were these hopes, that I packed another project to start up at Sahara's conclusion.

As so often happens with hopes on high, my Sahara hopes were left high and dry.

I blame it all on the short row, from here on known as The Rut-Row.

The Sahara pattern calls for a series of five Rut Rows in a row, front and back.

Now, I have successfully completed a Rut Row. Maybe even two. But not all at the same time. In reality, wrangling five wrapped Rut Rows, all in a row, was a little rich for my rudimentary repertoire of cognitive resources.

"Rut-Row," she said, "It looks like a sphincter, come unraveled."

An unraveled sphincter, unrivaled in its ribald wretchedness.
Really.

So I ripped the Rut Rows.

After the fluffy-sphincters were ripped, I tried it again, this time with instruction manual in hand. Round two of Rut-Rows turned out better. Good, even. That is, until I made one little mistake in one little stitch. A mistake which could not be undone and redone, on account of me not knowing exactly how to undo and redo an already picked up Rut Row wrap.

Rut-Row.

One teeny tiny stitch and a touch of inepitude, brought the whole damn thing down. Again.

Rut Row Round 3 was pretty much right, although now that it's off the needles, one side looks a little assish, but I'm not sweating it. 'Cause there's nothing much worse than sweaty ass on a summer sweater.

So I finished the bottom edge and cast off.



Here's a close-up on the edging:



I don't know what the deal is with that one row of stitches looking the other way, but I just noticed it in the picture. Bah.

After casting off, I tried her on and I think she's going to be a keeper. I may have to make a long-sleeved version for fall.

::Speaking of "I just noticed it in the picture", at the cottage I took some shots of Cakers doing cartwheels on the beach. In a dress. Commando. I had no idea she was traveling so light and breezy until I uploaded the pictures and came across the one shot of her sticking a solidly squat landing. Facing the camera. It was quite the giggle snorter.::

Next on the Fucket Up Docket: Capped sleeves. With Rut Row shaping.

I have more stuff on my mind but there seems to be little time for little minds these days. That may be a good thing.

Labels: Bag-O-Hair, Bitchmom Screampants, If Knitting You is Wrong I Don't Want to Be Right, My Daughter Scares Me, Now You're Whining

*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

Absquatuknitting
I have not yet blocked Ariann. And/or my boobs. I don't know where my life goes these days. I do know that it hasn't gone blocking.

A long, long time ago, I pledged five items to the very worthwhile Dulaan Project over at Mossy Cottage.

I'm not sure when I made this pledge, but I do recall thinking the July 1 deadline seemed like months away. Okay, maybe it was months away. But it seemed like months away, using Football Standard Time.* And then I kind of absquatulated from thinking of it again, until a couple of weeks ago.

I also kind of absquatulated from my duties to post this button on my sidebar.



I think a good place for the button on my sidebar would be where the Run-A-Go-Go button is. You know, for the event that expired April 1?

::Sidenote to Ryan: I've been trying to make myself feel better by reminding me that I'm a pretty small frog in this international knit pond and therefore am taking comfort in the knowledge that you've been getting lots of big-ass press from the big-ass frogs, representing all time zones, real or imaginary*.::

Most important is that I will deliver.
That is the most important thing. Right?

My first Dulaan item is this children's sweater from Jil Eaton's Minnies.



I chose this pattern because it matched the yarn I wanted to use ::Gjestal:: and it seemed like something I could whip out real easy.

Rip out real easy is more like it.

I can't even begin to explain how it was that I could not follow this simple, 10 stitch chart. You'd think I'd figure it out by looking at it. Me too.

Actually, it was that confidence of my ability to "play it by eye" that tripped me up in the first place. I actually know exactly what happened, but it's too embarassing to say. Yes. There are some things that are too embarrassing for me to share here. Plus, if I tell the whole story, I fear that people will suspect I am too stupid to be entrusted with the care of a five year-old child, and call protective services.

If I tell the whole story, some of you might determine that I am too stupid to live, and start a knitblog fundraiser to get me a well-deserved mercy killing. ::Ke*vork*ian is my statemate and he used to offer intrastate discounts...::

I finally wrote the damn chart out, row by row. By the time I cast off for the back, I was doing pretty well without chart or row-by-row instructions. But when I started the front, I started up the same play-it-by-eye mistakes.

Visitation Absquatulation
I'm pitifully behind in email correspondence and blog visitations and comments and facial hair maintenance. ::Last week I found a pube growing out of my nose. Not my nostril. The top of my nose. Age is a mother plucker.::

I have three days left of work before summer hiatus. I'm not really all that excited because The Three Days of What Lies Ahead is going to be the equivalent of being behind in the 4th quarter of a championship football game in that: 1) I'll be intently focused on goals 2) Time will feel like it's passing slowly but, 3) I'll also know the constant sensation of running out of time. 4) There will be lots of interference. 5) When it's all over, I'm going to smell real bad.

*Football Standard Time: You know how your husband/boyfriend/cable guy says he'll be ready to leave/eat/install cable line as soon as the game is over? And then you ask, "How long?" And he says something like "There's just 12 minutes left in the last quarter?" And 30 minutes later you ask "How much longer?" only to learn that there are still 9 minutes left? That, my friends, is Football Standard Time.

Labels: Bad Sports Metaphors, Charity Knits, I Work Too, Knit In Progress, Now You're Whining, When Knitting You is Hurting Me

It's Ear Candy Friday
Finding this C.D. for $5.99, was the only good thing that's happened to me this week. Well, besides tonight's takeout of orange chicken and sauteed green beans and rangoon. Oh, and some wine. I think. No. That was last night. The wine.


I am having quite a stretch of shit-for-jobs. And outside of a day's lull here and there, I foresee no end in sight until June 7.

Anyway.

Last night I found myself at the neighborhood pharmacy. Our neighborhood pharmacy is of the national-chain ilk, except it's small and neighborly, with dangerously crooked floors and a faint smell of musty, from roof leaks gone by. Despite the element of national-chaininess, I loves me some neighborhood pharmacy. ::I got lots of stories of old neighborhood pharmacy living, from standpoint of child customer, and later, adult employee.::

In a moment of stress-based distractibility, I took to wandering the aisles my stinky, bumpy, neighborhood pharmacy. I fondled back scrubbers, re-contemplated the meaning of Midnight Blue Mascara, re-considered starting an Easter basket collection and re-read a brochure about lady holes that smell like rotted carrot tops, such as found in the bottom of the vegetable bin. At least that's what I think it was talking about.

And when I saw this new-to-me CD on the display, I recognized it right away as the perfect little sumpin-sumpin my cheese-shredded brain was seeking.

I was not disappointed. This man's voice has always been able to move me to tears, but singing these classics, umm mmm, it's like a blankie for my soul.

You can sample the CD here. Unchained Melody is my fave right now, but there aren't any cuts I would kick out of bed for eating carrot tops.

What She Said
Yesterday Cakers asked me, in all earnestness, if we could please get Bella's Kitten Maker fixed, so she can have kittens. I don't know why, but it kind of made me want to cry. ::I know. Big deal. These days I cry at sight of dryer lint and Valerie Bertinelli.::

Work, Work, Work, Work, Work, Work, Work.
I'm taking tonight off to dance and sing and drink, a bit. But the rest of my weekend belongs to the bitch in the briefcase.

Labels: eye candy Friday, I Work Too, My Daughter Scares Me, Now You're Whining, Too Tired for Pudding

**Ramble Warning**

As my Friday post implied, my brain's been a little under the whether. As in, whether-or-not-it's-going-to-make-it-to-June-is-anyone's-guess.

The issues I have been dealing with at work are the kind that eat away at my mental and emotional reserves, and all are related to holes in administrative oversight. In such cases, the poo flows freely out said holes and up the stairs and through the crack under my door, like you'd see in a horror flick. Except I don't scream when I see it bubbling towards my feet. I just cuss a little, under my breath, and open a new, sludge-related file.
When I go through these periods at work, I'm pretty much out of words when I get home. And even if I find a minute to write a blog post, I've had nothing to say. Or maybe I've had too much to say...

In fact, I have to run an early morning meeting tomorrow and should be prepping for that right now. But I'm not.

To top it off, last week was parent-teacher conferences, which gave me two 12-hour days. It was also my husband's birthday, which he is milking the shit out of, a la dinner with his parents, dinner with me, and tonight we're going to see the Blue Man Group. Oh yeah, and I bought him a guitar. A Baby Taylor Spruce Top. ::Happy Birthday Baby. 10 years of Halle-Bopping Heaven, and still going strong!::

And let me tell you, that trip to the guitar store this week, was a mass homicide blog post waiting to happen. I don't have time for the whole story. But I will say that me and stress and med rebound and a warehouse full of musical musicians, musicating on electric guitars just feet away from my befrazzled brain and musically chatty staff not waiting on me, seemingly for hours, is not a good thing.

I finally garnered some attention from a guy who had been smoking a cig in the parking lot when I came in. He still had his coat on, which kind of bugged me. I know. After finally ringing up my purchase, the cig went in search of the free guitar case, and never came back, while two feet away,the guitars jammed on. Then the chatty tattooed guy went looking after the cig who was looking for the guitar case, and then I was really scared because I know how guys look for things. They don't. They just move shit around and say, "Mom! I'm telling you, it's not here."

And I was seriously near ready to start taking hostages tears after the cig finally came back without the case or the tattoo and asked the tall, chatty guy where the tattoo went and he told him that he went looking for him, the cig, and as they discussed this issue at length and the guitars jammed on, tattoo came back with the case and then everybody laughed and hugged and I put the switchblade back into my bra. ::The woman has cup.::

Through the stupor of all this stress, I've noted to my husband that his birthday has taken on the significance of a several-day holiday, now known as Cabanukkah. I'm really joking, but really, not really.

Caker's has been revisited with yet another respiratory issue and last night was wheezing in her sleep. We're taking her to the med center today. Hopefully she won't have to miss the Blue Man Group, because she will be very sad. And so will I. After all, Cabana boy can't miss his own Cabanukkah, right? ::She actually seems much better now and no wheezing is noted.::

Ran A-Went-Went
I finished my 100 miles last week and I hear Run-a-Go-Go has gotten its second wind and is kicking off another round. I'm in. I hope. I bought a new pair of walking shoes last week and they seem to be devouring my feet, from the heel up. They felt fine at the store and are my usual brand, but I think there was a problem at the factory, where a worker accidently left a tiny cheese grater in each shoe.

Here's my updated ticker. I'm feeling kind of proud of my past 100 so left them on there.




Over at the Run-A-Go-Go blog, people have been posting pictures from their travels. Most of my miles came from the elliptical, which is in our bedroom. Here's one of my related views:

Actually, that picture angle is more from where I change my underwear, after a bad day's work. Anyway, I love the shadow of her head.

Knitting Knuggets
I'm a few inches from casting off Spring ::a.k.a. Mimi Long Gone Scarf.:: I'd show a picture but they came out blurry and I'd rather just wait until I'm done.

After that I think I'll finish Cakers' William's Step-Bro, even though it is a wintery sweater. April and May can be chilly. Besides, I made some changes in the pattern and didn't exactly write them down. Much. So I should probably finish before the changes are lost to me forever.

I do have a 14-pack of Berroco's Cotton Twist, winging its way to me as I type, via a most excellent Ebay purchase. The intended purpose of this yarn is Bonne Marie's Ariann.

My Cakers and Heart Breakers
She came clean on the boyfriend thing, although it still bothers me that she was afraid to tell me from the beginning.

Anyway, I tricked her. ::I'm a trained professional, remember. It's what I do. For Higher Goodness and shit.:: She made a picture for the boy next door and showed it to me. I innocently asked if he's her boyfriend. She looked at me most sheepish and said "No. Cody's my boyfriend." Then I yelled at her for being too young to have a boyfriend and if she ever keeps a secret from me again, there will be hell to pay and the subject has not come up again.

Of course, I'm kidding. I was all enthusiastic and supportive and offered to knit him a future-son-in-law sweater. ::It's an inside joke with my son. Every time he mentions a girl, any girl, I ask if I should knit her a sweater.:: I was just testing to see if you were paying atention. 'Cuz I know these Sunday Sundry posts are long and tangly and boring, but it's the only way I can keep up, these days. And yeah, I didn't label this one as Sunday Sundries, so as to lure you from the usual Sunday bloglines skim.

I told you. I'm tricky.

And now I'm tricking myself out of here.

Labels: Bitchmom Screampants, How I Met Your Father, I Work Too, Now You're Whining, Runagogo

In Friday, Eye Can Delight.



How was my ass kicked at work this week?
Let me count the ways.

Okay, let me not.

I will say that if all my brain was a game of Scrabble, I'd be down to nothing but two Fs and a Q.

Labels: eye candy Friday, Now You're Whining

Ummm.
That's the first word, er, sound that comes to mind whenever I set about to write a blog post lately.

Eh is sound number two.

And funny how I have the sudden urge to write a post, when I have absolutely no time to do so.

Why don't I have any time, you ask?

I've got 100 reasons why. And not a one of them is that I plucked out both my eyeballs with an oyster fork. Yet.

1) Tomorrow is 100th Day at Cakers' school. It's a near frenzied-pitch-holiday-like celebration of the 100th day of school.

2) In honor of the holiday, Cakers must bring in a piece of poster board to which is adhered 100 same-item somethings, e.g. 100 cotton balls or 100 stickers or buttons, etc.

3) In the parent manual titled How to Get Your Child and Family Safely Through The 100th Day Celebration and Beyond, we were instructed to keep it simple by using items we already have around the home. You know, those every day items you keep in 100-count packages or piles.

4) Aside from feminine hygiene products, cans of creamed corn and whatever the hell I harvested from behind the bathroom door last week, we don't carry much around here in 100-count bundles.

5) But then I found the bin of pictures. Lots and lots of pictures of all the people and creatures in The Cakers' life. I cut them into face-size squares for her to count and put into bundles of 10, for later adhesion.



6) In the meantime, Cabana boy went to the store to fetch posterboard and two-sided adhesive tape.

7) In the meaner time, Cakers and I finished up the homemade Valentines for her class party.

8) The party is Wednesday.

9) The Valentines are due tomorrow.

10)After I cut and pasted Cakers' artwork onto the cards, she signed the cards and addressed the envelopes. Keeping her on task was not as easy as I make it sound. Picture that ol' Family Circus standby, where the kid takes a five-mile detour through the neighborhood, after being sent on a 50-step trip to the garage.



11) In the meanest time, Cabana Boy returned with the 100th Day project booty.

12) In addition to the 100 Things poster and Valentines, tomorrow we must also supply 100 small pieces of food thingies to put into the 100th Day stew.

13) Cabana Boy got right on that 100-same-food-things thingie, while I grabbed some miles on the Ellipticator.

14) Cabana Boy also supervised the adhering of the 100 things to the poster board, while I Ellipticated.



15) Tomorrow evening is the annual Father/Daughter Valentines dance.

16) After I worked out and showered, we were off to take Cakers for a scheduled manicure. ::My sister is a hair stylist and made the offer.::

17) The hair salon is right in front of Costco, so Cabana and I headed over there,while Cakers gets stylized.

18) Just inside the entrance of Costco were some tables of clothing in which I showed some initial interest.

19) A minute after leaving the above mentioned table, I noticed something out of the corner of eye. It was a pink baby outfit on a hanger, dangling from the outer pocket of my purse. I yelled out to Cabana, who looked, shrugged and kept walking. As I turned to bring the outfit back from hence I presumed it came, a woman approached me to say that she had been watching and thought it was pretty weird that I had a baby outfit hanging from my purse.

20) Hahaha I said. Crazy-ass bitch, I think.

21) I ran into the same woman further into the store. "Have you been able to keep things from jumping onto your purse?" she asked. Tee Hee.

22) Teeheehee, crazy ass bitch.

23) Cabana shrugged and walked away.

24) After the manicure, we were off to find some dance shoes and tights for Cakers.

25) Then people had to eat.

26) Bob Evans. Cakers' favorite.

27) Bob Evans. Momma's Barfinfuckinola.

28) I finished the front of Polar. The turtle boat neck thingie didn't work out, so I did some calculating on the orginal collar, so it won't droop so much, in the event I ever finish it.


29) When I fetched that piece from the couch to photograph, I came upon a bad scene: Cat barf all over the back piece of the sweater, and on a skein of yarn.

30) I've tried to deny it all day, but you pretty much gotta know that the sweater is doomed.

31) Survival status of the cat: Pending.

32) After returning from errands and getting Cabana's new girlfriend to bed, I spent some time looking at hat patterns, again.

33) I'm very pretty sure the sweater is doomed.

34) Anybody seen the cat?

100) I was absent the day we counted to 100 in grade school.

P.S. I think the poster turned out really cool.

P.P.S. I think that Ted Haggard should jump on the "I'm the father of Danny Lynn" bandwagon. It could give him some straight cred.

Labels: Now You're Whining

Things to For Five Days Without The Internets:

-Cry for the internets.

-Nearly complete another scarf* for the Red Scarf project.

-Cry for the orphans.

-Take Cakers to see Charlotte’s Web.

-Give praise and/or thanks to whose ever idea it was to make Charlotte so creepily realistic that you don’t feel so bad badder baddly when she dies and shrivels into what looks like a pile of pubes you might find on the bathroom floor, behind the toilet. ::Oops. I should’ve warned about the spoiler. Sorry, my peeps. But now that the fur is out of the bag, yes, there are piles of pubes behind toilets. Somewhere.::

-Go for some walks.

-Take some pictures.**

-Drink some booze.

-Explore uncharted late night cable TV programming, such as Adult Swim Hang on the Execution Channel. I also caught The History of Sex on the History Channel. ::Sex has a history? That’s some deep shit, Sherlock.::

-Pet the dog.

-Read a book. ::The Historian was a pretty good read, but I was kind of disappointed. It was no where near as interesting as The Internets. Just sayin and ‘Nuff said.::

-Cry some more.

Things NOT to do for Five Days Without The Internets:

-Do not convince yourself that The Internets actually live in the cable television cable and thusly attempt to Jerry Wig (Jerry Wrig?) the resident, non-modemed computer to the Television Cable.

-Do not peer (pier?) into the windows of neighboring cottages in search of the friendly, inviting glow of The Internets. Do this neither in broad daylight, while wearing a remarkably attractive orange hat with a big-ass button, or after dark, drunk stupid.

-Do not attempt to devise a not-so-very-much-clever plan to go “New Years Eve Caroling” at a nearby cottage where you are convinced The Internets are currently harbored, based on some late night, drunken window-pepping. Especially do not do this if you haven’t thought through the implications of singing "We Wish You a Happy New Year" to the tune of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas." Umm. It gets a little awkward at the end. Run through it a sec, you’ll see what I mean.

-After the awkward ending of the carol, if the embarrassed cottage residents invite you in for a drink, ::to help us all forget, no doubt.:: do not say this: “Since I’m here, would you mind if I took a quick peek at Your Internets?” Because then they would say this: “Um. We don’t have The Internets.” And then you’d say: “Sure you do. I seen it in that back room right there. That rectangular thing with the beautiful blue glow. That’s The Internets.” While one of your hosts explains that the blue glow in grandpa’s bedroom is actually a fish aquarium and further inquires as to what (is?) you been doing in grandpa's room, the other host will be dialing The 9-1-1.

-Do not go to the mall and inquire at every other kiosk, as to whether or not they have The Internets on their cash register.

-Do not tell the customer who is hogging the computer at the Free Genealogy Search Kiosk that you have it on pretty good authority that she is actually adopted and therefore wasting her time and therefore needs to get her fat ass off this computer and over to the Are You My Mother? Adoption Reunification Kiosk, where you happen to know The Internets are currently not working.

-Once you are arrested and safely contained in the hoosegow, do not ask for one browse on The Internets, in lieu of your one phone call.

No really, it wasn’t so bad.
No. Really. Actually. Not. So. Much.

* Scarf in question:



**Photos in question:





Thats' it for now. I'm about 5 days behind all y'all in blogtime and today I was back to work, so its'going to take a few four me to get my cliche on.

Labels: Cottage, Now You're Whining, Pho-Ho'

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.

Labels: I Need Therapy Thursday, Now You're Whining

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.

Labels: Christmas, Now You're Whining

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.

Labels: Now You're Whining, What the Hell and Oh Yea

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::

Labels: Knit Done, Now You're Whining, WTF Wednesday

...I Can Braise Your Eyeballs With Shots of Charity Knitting if I Want To.


Other choices I considered for the title of this post included: When Good Cold Medicine Happens to Bad Knitters and Not Your Mother's Acid Reflux

Seriously. I love this scarf.

I know that many of you will not.

I know that many of you are shaking your properly reared, high browed noggins in disgusted amazement, and wondering if I need a medication adjustment.

I know that a few of you have already fired up the IM's for a mandated dish session with like-dishing cohorts. ::For you, I offer this further fodder: It's Cotton Ease. You're welcome.::

I know these things to be true.

Yet unrepentant I remain.

The Thing Is
I had an urge to knit a Red Scarf, for a cause.

A Big But
This is the part where I was originally going to defend my choice of colors and yarn through detailing, ad nauseum, the fruitless stash dive at home, followed by the uninspiring trip to the yarn store, where I found many appropriate and mutedly hued yarns which SCREAMed to me: Staid. Settled. All-Grown.

Hello, Kitty.
I heard a whisper in my ear.

Muted Schmuted.
These are college students.
If you knit it, they will scream.
In delight.
Besides, their youthful eyeballs can tolerate quite a bit more than the eyeballs of the aged likes of you, without permanent damage.
But I'm not one to gossip,
So you didn't hear it from me.

So I did As Whispered.
I knit this crazyasswhimsical scarf for an orphan in college.

And I love it, so.
And I have a really, really strong feeling that the recipient is going to love it

Too.

This Random Header Shit Is Fun.
Isn't it?

Are You Thinking What I'm Thinking?
I should do this more often.

Anyway
Yeah.
The pattern is 300 stitches of garter, changing color as whispered.

Fringe
Pending.

Is it Just Me, or is it Getting Old in Here?
Thank you all so kindly for your lovely birthday greetings. And a special thanks to my Westward Sweetheart Miss Kim ::smooch::, for sending you all my way.
And if my typing seems a little, well, slurpy tonight, that's because, well, it is. For my birthday dinner I had me one of them there Applebee's Perfect Margaritas.

Mmmm. How I love me some Applebee's Perfect Margarita.

And Chicken
Whatchu think? That I drank my dinner?

So yeah, I'm 48. I do have some thoughts on that. One such thought was inspired by an incidental event that occured just today.

A thought I have about 365 days or so to ponder.

I'll Keep You Posted
Whatever.

Last week the candle factory burned down. Everybody just stood around and sang Happy Birthday. - Steven Wright

P.S. Happy Birthday today to Judith from NYC. And Prince Charles. Let's hear it for The Scorps Corps.

P.P.S. Note to self, no more tequila on weeknights.

Labels: BUI, Charity Knits, Knit Done, Now You're Whining

A Week in Review
It was WTF Wednesday, all week long.

A couple of weeks ago, when I was working a late night at school, Cabana Boy took Cakers shopping for a Halloween outfit.

The final choice ended up being a princess affair.
Again.
I cared not.

The final choice ended up being a kind of expensive affair.
Again.
I cared not.

Even though I had a bit of a pang of guilt over another Halloween passing without making my girl a costume from scratch, at this place in my life, in its relevant proximity to the nearest costume shop, an expensive, store bought costume is hella-bella-wella worth every penny spent and every second of Cabana Boy's precious time expended.

The night that the costume was modeled for me, I saw that it was kind of long but didn't think much about it at the time. Cabana Boy even mentioned it would need to be hemmed a bit so she wouldn't trip in the Halloween parade at school.

No biggie, I thought. I'll do it over the weekend.

I didn't think of it again until the Sunday before Halloween when I planned on getting to it some time before going to bed. But the day got away from me.

No biggie. I'll do it Monday night.

I started working on it Monday at 6:00.

Two layers of seven miles of meticulously measured and trimmed tule, one layer of four miles of hacked underslip, one layer of nine miles of meticulously measured, pinned, pressed and hand-hemmed satin skirt and five hours later, the princess gown was ready for the ball. That's right, five hours. Make that five hours minus the time it took to run to the store for wine.

As I worked and watched the clock I kept thinking that for a forty dollar children's costume, I should not have to put in five hours of work. Hell, for forty dollars this rag should scrub toilets, weave in yarn ends and perform private lapdances.

FAQs
Q: Why not machine hem?
A: Because my new sewing machine is still in the box and it still would've had to have been trimmed by about 2 inches before putting the machine to it and it would've been more work at that point.

Q: Why not use duct tape?
A: Cakers had to live a morning of kindergarten in the costume, including usual recess and a parade. I think a princess should not have to worry about humiliating garment malfunctions.

Q: Wouldn't it have been easier and more gratifying to just make one from scratch?
A: Shut. Up.

Here's a slice of a class shot my husband took at recess, along with all the other kindergarten parents:



Look at that beautiful hem.

Someday that picture may end up on a poster at the high school senior retreat or someone's graduation open house. Imagine instead of that lovely edge, a fallen hem with duct tape still attached, with maybe some cling-on wood chips or candy corns riding along.

Lapdance or not, it was worth it.

Fur Gawd's Sake, Woman.
This was going to be my WTF Wednesday post. However, since I had WTF Wednesday all week long, it's not getting a special designation.

I was digging around my work bag the other day and came across an envelope of old pictures. I don't know why they were there or for how long, but I'm thinking it was from back when we moved to this house, over five years ago.

Anyway, check out the beaver brows.



That picture was taken in the early 90's I think. I've always loved orange and red together. And I thought those brows were the cat's ass.

Well, I was half right.
Make that two cat's asses.

Big Butt-
on on a hat.

Isn't that the cutest? And it's free! I'm thinking that style might become my pea head to a T.

Did I mention it was free?

Thank you Nik.

Eye Candy WTF Week
This is the last of my fall leaves shots. I promise. The leaves are gone.



The rest of my WTF Week sampling is related to work and not fit for public consumption. I can say that it was a week of weirdness. This upcoming week will be a week of weirdness-follow-up, which will be much less interesting and much more work.

That being said, it will probably be another week before I post. But I still reserve the right to pop in at any time, Norma.

Labels: Knit Done, Now You're Whining, Pho-Ho', Yore

Blogward Ho'?
Uh, no.

Systemic changes at Chez Porcine have further hampered the already hampered availability of blogtime to this writer. My from-June-til-now un-self-employed husband has found a job. Actually, he found two jobs. For job one he's contracting himself into a shop, 9 to 5. Job two entails working extra jobs for the same shop at home, evenings.

This is a good thing because we need/have needed/will need the money. It's a bad thing because I've lost my Cabana Boy. And how I loved me some Cabana Boy. Even when he was up to his twinkle blues with work, the freedom and flexibility of his schedule still allowed him to do dishes, laundry, pick up scripts or run to the grocery and grab some breasts. And broccoli. For dinner.

No more Cabana Boy means that I am now the Head Domesticator, which means that after work there is little time for fun and games and blogs and stuff. Even before this change, it was becoming increasingly difficult to carve out time to write posts, with sanity. So until I find myself a new groove,a new cabana boy and/or a live-in team of life-size scrubby bubbles, I'm going to be short on blog and long on whine.

Knitward, Ho!
So saith the directions for finishing the Trudie Cardie:

Join Fronts to Back at shoulder edge. Mark for buttonholes evenly spaced along Right Front straight edge. With RS facing and circular needle, pick up around front opening as follows....::imagine numbers inserted here.::

So how I readeth the directions for finishing the Trudie Cardie:

Drink the wine. Intuitively space and mark for however many buttonholes your little button heart desires.. Drink the wine. Shitfaced and with RS facing, take the circular needles and stab wildly into general area of front edge. Continue with wild abandon until it looks like you have stabbed yourself just about enough stitches to go all around the neckline. Say to self “Peeesha Cake.” Knit a row. Drink the wine. Drink the wine. On next row, include some button-size holes along the front, as spirit moves or spinning couch allows. Knit another row and cast-off. Take some Ibuprofen. Say a prayer of thanks to St. Pinot of Gris. Go to bed. Wake up the next day and weep like a baby.

Let's just say the end result looked like 7 miles of ass. So I ripped.

In my second attempt, I used much more care. And math. And much less wine. And random. But after buttonhole three was carved, I thought they were spaced too close, so I tinked back the row and redid it. By then I didn’t need no dang markers, because I had math on my side, as follows: Make a hole, count 9 stitches, make a hole, count 9 stitches...How could I go wrong? Heh.

After I cast off, I found my self pumped and plumped with pride, at the beautifully spaced outcome ::Or maybe it was water retention. Whatever::. It took me a few minutes to realize there was a problem. Yet again.

If you look directly above the top marker, you can see the ill-fated hole.



When I changed the spacing of the buttonholes while the stitches were still on the needle, I kind of missed an important component of buttonhole planning for a v-neck cardigan. The V. Which begins about where that top marker is, about an inch lower than the top buttonhole.

Too bad, so sad, 'cause I’m not doing it again. The Trudie Cardie has been hereby redesigned itself from a five hole garment to three.



I sometimes hear my yarn crying out from their bins in the basement. I wonder what it means...

Labels: Bag-O-Hair, Knit In Progress, Now You're Whining

Tuesday night I sat down to write a quick little post. But I couldn’t. Write.

Then I decided I needed a special link, to get me started on my quick little post. But I couldn’t. Find it.

And then I got distracted.

And then I got tired.

And then I looked at my blog and saw that it was already the day before WTF Wednesday and I had only posted once since the last WTF, which would make my last post a WTF Post Sandwich.

For some reason, a WTF Post Sandwich about a crazy dead cat named after a shriveled fruit sounded like a beg for bad luck.

And then my brain felt like it was going to melt from all the internal sweatin’and frettin'. So I stopped thinking about it.

Still harboring a strong need to worry about something totally senseless,I got to stressin’about my visitor stats. And comments.

And even though that felt better than worrying about a WTF Raisin Post Sandwich, it still didn’t fit the bill.

So I decided to worry about someone else’s blog problems,and rested my worried mind on JenLa’s bleeding bloglines, which reminded me to wonder about something else: If a woman has her period all the time, can it still be called a period? And if not, what should it be called? Infinity? Ellipses?

And then, in a burst of selfishness, I brought the spotlight back on me, to wonder, in a worrying kind of way, why can’t I blog like I used to?

Was I past my post prime?
Had my wad done blowed?
My ship done sailed?
Had the best I got to give, done got given?

And then I wondered if I was really wondering if it's better to read the writing on the writing on the wall, and dump the guy before he dumps you, even if it's sure to break your heart?

And then I went to bed.
And then I got up.
And then I went to bed. Again.
And then it wasn't WTF Wednesday. Again.

Now here we are.
Still.
Again.

Anyway...

Tuesday's Post or WTFYF or What to Feed Your Family

Last weekend I whipped up a batch of La's Drunken Bovine Stew, ::It’s the shit, I’m tellin’ ya. :: and Monday I went with Carole's American Chop Suey ::Yes, we all know we’re talking about goulash. Because the local Bostonians have a history of getting their beans all up in a bunghole, on the issue, we’ll just wink and play along. Mmm k?.::

k.

I haven’t had American Chop Suey ::wink:: since I was a kid. My mom used to make it but never worked from a recipe. When I asked her about it a couple of years ago, she laughed and said there was no way she could remember what she put in it, except for a plop of brown sugar.

I was very excited to try Carole's recipe, and am happy to say I wasn’t disappointed. I did add salt, pepper, paprika and a plop or two of brown sugar. I may add a little bouillon or broth next time. Minus my generous helping at dinner, my husband ate the entire batch within a 14 hour period.

In a gesture of good blog karma, I’ll now share with you, one of my favorite, easy, culinary comforts. Not only is it tasty it only uses one pan. I don’t have a name for it yet, so I think I'll call it...

Rosemary’s Chicken. Yeah.

Ingredients:

4 chicken breast halves, with skin and bone-in.
Baby redskin potatoes
Baby carrots from a bag*
Olive Oil
Salt
Pepper
Dried or fresh rosemary
Up to ¼ cup of white whine
Large, shallow roasting pan (size matters here.)

Preheat oven to 400.

1) Wash and pat dry chicken and place in roaster.

2) Wash veggies and halve potatoes

3) Put 1-2 Tablespoons of olive oil in a large sealable storage bag. (enough to lightly coat veggies**)

4) Put potatoes and carrots in the bag with oil and shake until coated.

5) Arrange vegetables in pan around chicken.

6) Brush chicken with olive oil.

7) Season chicken and veggies to taste with salt, pepper and generous amounts of rosemary (well, don’t actually taste the chicken at this point, just imagine with your mind's tongue.)

8) Place in oven.

9) Bake for 45 minutes or until chicken is proper temperature, per meat thermometer.

10) About halfway through baking time, remove pan from oven and turn the veggies.

11) After chicken is done, increase oven temperature to 425 and remove pan from oven. Remove chicken from pan and keep warm on a plate, under foil.

12) Pour 1/8 to ¼ cup*** of white wine into the still hot pan and stir to mix with chicken juices and to loosen bits on bottom of pan. After wine and juices are mixed, toss with vegetables until coated evenly. Return pan to oven for 10 minutes or until most of liquid is absorbed or evaporated.

*The baby carrots in the bag is most convenient but fresh carrots taste noticeably better with this recipe and are worth the trouble to me. Just watch the size. If the pieces are too small, they will kind of meld with the bottom of the pan.

**You can use skinless/boneless chicken but it won't provide as much juice, so add 1/8 cup of chicken broth to the olive oil when tossing the veggies. Chicken broth can also be added to the pan during the bake, to replace fluids.

***If using a smaller than large roasting pan, use less wine. The more area there is to cover on the pan for stirring the bits, the more wine you need. Since we're on the subject of size, the veggies should not be crammed together in the pan but have a little breathing space. Choose pan size or quanity of veggies accordingly.

P.S. I've used chunks of red onions and whole garlic pieces with the veggies. If you add extra anything, just be sure to leave breathing room.

P.P.S. If you have big breasts, you may need to cook them a bit before adding the veggies. If your breasts are small, cut the veggies smaller.

P.P.P.S. It’s not as complicated as I make it sound. The recipe, that is. Not my brain. My brain can complicate dust bunnies.

I may have some knitting updates soon. Or maybe not. I’m still fibrous. I promise.
College Boy is coming home for the weekend and I’m sure he’s going to want to spend extended amounts of quality time with his momma.
Or at least her computer.

Labels: I Need Therapy Thursday, Now You're Whining, Someone's in the Kitchen with 'Gina