Ravel Me At Ravelry
Natalie WouldCompleted in 2007 and 2008
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Completed in 2004-06
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I love my City Knitting
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••• Sunday, October 31, 2004
Season's Greetings From the House of Sty
From the Do You Love Me, Still? File....
You betchur sweet beskirted ass I do. And I'm proud as hell, too. For now and always.
From the Motown Shop of PR Whorers File....
Trick or Treat
Power is Sweet
Some thang stank
And it ain't your feet.
From the Reluctant Psychic File....
In comments, Beth asked if the nightmares about the house stopped. Yes they did.
There is more to the story though. I initally attributed the nightmare to a physical reaction I had to this same house a few years before I moved into the neighborhood.
The house had been on my jogging route. Several times I experienced a slight disturbance in my breathing when I ran past it. Like a little panic attack. I always blew it off as a subliminal reaction to the house's odd appearance (it was an old farmhouse in the middle of circa 1950's urban sprawl).
A year after my brother shared that tale, the house was sold. After the new owners took over, they did extensive renovations and I had no further reaction to the house. I have had other experiences (I believe, anyway) with the other side, but none with this level of "confirmation."
From the Reluctant Knitter File....
My husband tried to convince me to take a week off from my garter disturbance, to start something of interest. I said nothin' doin'.
I then proceeded with knothin' knittin'. In fact, I've developed a fullblown avoidance reaction to this project. I haven't even sat in "my spot" on the couch all weekend, 'cause, there the current square in progress sits. I have been busy this weekend, but any downtime has been devoted to playing Yahoo's Wordracer, my pre-blogging internet addiction.
But! I Will finish. One Square. Tonight. Promise.
For the record, I'd rather eat a package of last year's circus peanuts. Gag.
From the Do You Love Me, Still? File....
You betchur sweet beskirted ass I do. And I'm proud as hell, too. For now and always.
From the Motown Shop of PR Whorers File....
Trick or Treat
Power is Sweet
Some thang stank
And it ain't your feet.
From the Reluctant Psychic File....
In comments, Beth asked if the nightmares about the house stopped. Yes they did.
There is more to the story though. I initally attributed the nightmare to a physical reaction I had to this same house a few years before I moved into the neighborhood.
The house had been on my jogging route. Several times I experienced a slight disturbance in my breathing when I ran past it. Like a little panic attack. I always blew it off as a subliminal reaction to the house's odd appearance (it was an old farmhouse in the middle of circa 1950's urban sprawl).
A year after my brother shared that tale, the house was sold. After the new owners took over, they did extensive renovations and I had no further reaction to the house. I have had other experiences (I believe, anyway) with the other side, but none with this level of "confirmation."
From the Reluctant Knitter File....
My husband tried to convince me to take a week off from my garter disturbance, to start something of interest. I said nothin' doin'.
I then proceeded with knothin' knittin'. In fact, I've developed a fullblown avoidance reaction to this project. I haven't even sat in "my spot" on the couch all weekend, 'cause, there the current square in progress sits. I have been busy this weekend, but any downtime has been devoted to playing Yahoo's Wordracer, my pre-blogging internet addiction.
But! I Will finish. One Square. Tonight. Promise.
For the record, I'd rather eat a package of last year's circus peanuts. Gag.
••• Friday, October 29, 2004
One Thing's For Certain, Honey...
....love sticks. I think this guy gets the Kahonas of Steel award for his brass balls honesty. Not only did he admit to believing he could reuse the damn thing, but also that the article in question was too large to begin with.
They say God smiles on the meek. They don't say why.
This week's random musings....
'Tis The Season
The following is a true story...(and I promise, it includes no animal husbandry tails.)
Almost immediately after I moved into my post-divorce home (11 years back), I started having scary dreams about a particular house in my new neighborhood. In one of the dreams I was called into the house by a hysterical teenage girl (I know. Redundant). She repeated over and over "You have to look at it."
I was very scared and did not know this girl from Adam's cat. But, for whatever reason, I had to go in. It seemed like it was part of my job or something.
In the house were dozens of crying people. I asked these strangers what was going on, but no one would say. Finally the teenager grabbed my arm and pulled me to the door of the living room. Before we went in, she said, again, "You have to look at it." I begged her to tell me what it was, but she just pulled me into the room, as I closed my eyes.
I stood in the room with my eyes closed, hearing her over and over, "You have to look at it." I opened my eyes to look at it. A man in a recliner. Dead. Wearing pajamas. Next to the chair, on the floor, is a revolver.
"That's dad." the girl said. I screamed myself awake.
Okay. I moved into my new house in June and the dreams began immediately. That August, my brother came to town from California and stayed with me. We were in the car together and happened to go past the scary house. Without my having told him anything about my nightmares, he pointed to the house and said "I went to high school with a girl who used to lived there. Her dad was an FBI agent...committed suicide....in that very house. Blew his brains out in the living room. While his family slept."
True Story.
....love sticks. I think this guy gets the Kahonas of Steel award for his brass balls honesty. Not only did he admit to believing he could reuse the damn thing, but also that the article in question was too large to begin with.
They say God smiles on the meek. They don't say why.
This week's random musings....
- Blackout:: Long Island Ice Tea
- Platinum:: Blondie
- Leather and lace:: Bad wedding song.
- Court:: TV
- Mind your own business::Salt-n-Peppa
- Gambling::Proctoring
- Lily:: Of the Valley
- Evasive:: skater
- Turn-on:: remote
- Suspect:: smell
'Tis The Season
The following is a true story...(and I promise, it includes no animal husbandry tails.)
Almost immediately after I moved into my post-divorce home (11 years back), I started having scary dreams about a particular house in my new neighborhood. In one of the dreams I was called into the house by a hysterical teenage girl (I know. Redundant). She repeated over and over "You have to look at it."
I was very scared and did not know this girl from Adam's cat. But, for whatever reason, I had to go in. It seemed like it was part of my job or something.
In the house were dozens of crying people. I asked these strangers what was going on, but no one would say. Finally the teenager grabbed my arm and pulled me to the door of the living room. Before we went in, she said, again, "You have to look at it." I begged her to tell me what it was, but she just pulled me into the room, as I closed my eyes.
I stood in the room with my eyes closed, hearing her over and over, "You have to look at it." I opened my eyes to look at it. A man in a recliner. Dead. Wearing pajamas. Next to the chair, on the floor, is a revolver.
"That's dad." the girl said. I screamed myself awake.
Okay. I moved into my new house in June and the dreams began immediately. That August, my brother came to town from California and stayed with me. We were in the car together and happened to go past the scary house. Without my having told him anything about my nightmares, he pointed to the house and said "I went to high school with a girl who used to lived there. Her dad was an FBI agent...committed suicide....in that very house. Blew his brains out in the living room. While his family slept."
True Story.
••• Thursday, October 28, 2004
Thunky Thursday
The other day a friend and I were talking about when we were kids and dogs were allowed to run free, even in the city. This reminiscing brought to mind a true story from the files of The Girl With Gum in Her Hair.
My elementary school was six blocks away
:: And yeah, we walked. Uphill. And yeah, it snowed. Six months out of the school year. And yeah, in the winter we wore only bread bags on our feet. Twist-tied at the ankles. And yeah, some days I got lucky and snagged a bag with a slice or two of bread still in it. For added insulation. And yeah, those bags were slippery....::
...But I digress.
Because we lived on the farthest edge of the school boundary, there was never anyone to walk with to school. I usually took shortcuts through people’s yards or along the railroad tracks. But every once in a while, I’d take the conventional way to school. The sidewalk.
One day, when I was in the 3rd grade and walking the sidewalk to school, I noticed a neighbor dog, Pudge, walking close behind me. Back in the days when the dogs ran free, it wasn’t unusual for a friendly, familiar dog to follow a kid around the neighborhood. But Pudge was not usually a friendly dog and had a reputation for playing hard to pet.
That Pudge had chosen me as his walking partner on that cold, spring morn, was quite remarkable. Flattering even. When I leaned over to pet him, he gave me a quick, friendly lick on the face and commenced to sniffing my legs with a fury. Soon after I resumed my typical, trudge-like pace, my new friend stood up on his hind legs and clasped my waist tightly in his pudgy paws. Although initially startled, I thought this was the cutest thing. He was hugging me!
Ever mindful of being tardy, again, I continued walking to school, with my new buddy hopping behind, attached at my hip. After we went another half block, however, I decided it wasn’t so cute anymore and gently tried to break his clutch. Nothing doing.
I then tried to wrench free a la frenzied wriggle. Evidently a frenzied wriggle is exactly the wrong thing to do in this situation. Pudge became increasingly excited and more freaky on my ass.
Worried about being late for school, I trudged forth. With the dog hop, hop, humping along. Saw that the crossing guard was already gone, I began to panic. Even without the drag of a dog humping my ass, I was still 10 minutes from school. At least. And already very, very late.
I finally gave up the trudge of futility and began to cry. And the Pudge, he humped with wild abandon. While I was standing at the corner crying, a police officer pulled up in his cruiser and asked if I needed help. My face was now smeared with a combo of tears and snot and I could only nod.
While the Pudge could only bang on and on.
The officer quickly wrenched the horndog off my back and offered me a ride home. Fearful of my mother’s response to being brought home in a police car, when I should have been already 10 minutes in class, I begged him no. But he insisted and I bawled all the ride home.
It's not that my mom was an unreasonable ogress or anything. She was just one of those old fashioned, crusty types, who never, ever took her child’s side in a situation. If I came home crying from a bee sting, she would say "What did I tell you about hanging out with the bees?” or “What did you do to the bee?”
I’m happy to report that my mom was surprisingly compassionate about this incident and and thanked the officer for his help. After he left, she carefully explained to me that Pudge was “hugging” me because our dog Missy was in heat and he smelled her on me.
I didn't understand a word of it. But neither did I care. After fixing us each a cup of cocoa, she walked me to school.
We never spoke of the incident again.
And that damn Pudge never gave me another glance.
P.S. Wooliemama's Back! Yay
The other day a friend and I were talking about when we were kids and dogs were allowed to run free, even in the city. This reminiscing brought to mind a true story from the files of The Girl With Gum in Her Hair.
My elementary school was six blocks away
:: And yeah, we walked. Uphill. And yeah, it snowed. Six months out of the school year. And yeah, in the winter we wore only bread bags on our feet. Twist-tied at the ankles. And yeah, some days I got lucky and snagged a bag with a slice or two of bread still in it. For added insulation. And yeah, those bags were slippery....::
...But I digress.
Because we lived on the farthest edge of the school boundary, there was never anyone to walk with to school. I usually took shortcuts through people’s yards or along the railroad tracks. But every once in a while, I’d take the conventional way to school. The sidewalk.
One day, when I was in the 3rd grade and walking the sidewalk to school, I noticed a neighbor dog, Pudge, walking close behind me. Back in the days when the dogs ran free, it wasn’t unusual for a friendly, familiar dog to follow a kid around the neighborhood. But Pudge was not usually a friendly dog and had a reputation for playing hard to pet.
That Pudge had chosen me as his walking partner on that cold, spring morn, was quite remarkable. Flattering even. When I leaned over to pet him, he gave me a quick, friendly lick on the face and commenced to sniffing my legs with a fury. Soon after I resumed my typical, trudge-like pace, my new friend stood up on his hind legs and clasped my waist tightly in his pudgy paws. Although initially startled, I thought this was the cutest thing. He was hugging me!
Ever mindful of being tardy, again, I continued walking to school, with my new buddy hopping behind, attached at my hip. After we went another half block, however, I decided it wasn’t so cute anymore and gently tried to break his clutch. Nothing doing.
I then tried to wrench free a la frenzied wriggle. Evidently a frenzied wriggle is exactly the wrong thing to do in this situation. Pudge became increasingly excited and more freaky on my ass.
Worried about being late for school, I trudged forth. With the dog hop, hop, humping along. Saw that the crossing guard was already gone, I began to panic. Even without the drag of a dog humping my ass, I was still 10 minutes from school. At least. And already very, very late.
I finally gave up the trudge of futility and began to cry. And the Pudge, he humped with wild abandon. While I was standing at the corner crying, a police officer pulled up in his cruiser and asked if I needed help. My face was now smeared with a combo of tears and snot and I could only nod.
While the Pudge could only bang on and on.
The officer quickly wrenched the horndog off my back and offered me a ride home. Fearful of my mother’s response to being brought home in a police car, when I should have been already 10 minutes in class, I begged him no. But he insisted and I bawled all the ride home.
It's not that my mom was an unreasonable ogress or anything. She was just one of those old fashioned, crusty types, who never, ever took her child’s side in a situation. If I came home crying from a bee sting, she would say "What did I tell you about hanging out with the bees?” or “What did you do to the bee?”
I’m happy to report that my mom was surprisingly compassionate about this incident and and thanked the officer for his help. After he left, she carefully explained to me that Pudge was “hugging” me because our dog Missy was in heat and he smelled her on me.
I didn't understand a word of it. But neither did I care. After fixing us each a cup of cocoa, she walked me to school.
We never spoke of the incident again.
And that damn Pudge never gave me another glance.
P.S. Wooliemama's Back! Yay
Labels: Girl With Gum in Her Hair
••• Monday, October 25, 2004
Monday Mourning
Where'd my weekend go? To Garter Square Hell in a handbasket, that's where. It’s possible that this afghan could actually kill my love of the craft, one monotonous row at a time. Between the laundry and cooking and the family visits from all over the world, I was able to complete one more square by the time I went to bed last night. That makes three squares to go. At my current rate of one square per week...gawd...let's move on.
If you’ll recall, I left my Saturday post to save face with my lipstickin' Cakers.
This shot was taken immediately after imposition of the behavioral “cure.”
Tongue lashing?
Booty thrashing?
Nope.
And Nope.
She committed this face fart while underneath her little picnic table, without benefit of reflection. This means she had no concept of the end result.
So now, can you guess Momma's special cure for this particular malfaceance? A Trip to the Loo , my darlin'. For a peek in the mirror. Skeert the livin' Avon Calling right out of her.
Follow-up on the suspected prodigal son: He had a ready and plausible explanation for the footprint on the relocated table, and my supermomma-sonic lie detector gave the story a thumbs up. Besides, if he had been creepin’, he’d surely have a mind to move the table back.
Now, go put in a good word for me.
Then go tell someone you love them. As instructed.
Man, is this Boss Your Readers Around day, or what?
Where'd my weekend go? To Garter Square Hell in a handbasket, that's where. It’s possible that this afghan could actually kill my love of the craft, one monotonous row at a time. Between the laundry and cooking and the family visits from all over the world, I was able to complete one more square by the time I went to bed last night. That makes three squares to go. At my current rate of one square per week...gawd...let's move on.
If you’ll recall, I left my Saturday post to save face with my lipstickin' Cakers.
This shot was taken immediately after imposition of the behavioral “cure.”
Tongue lashing?
Booty thrashing?
Nope.
And Nope.
She committed this face fart while underneath her little picnic table, without benefit of reflection. This means she had no concept of the end result.
So now, can you guess Momma's special cure for this particular malfaceance? A Trip to the Loo , my darlin'. For a peek in the mirror. Skeert the livin' Avon Calling right out of her.
Follow-up on the suspected prodigal son: He had a ready and plausible explanation for the footprint on the relocated table, and my supermomma-sonic lie detector gave the story a thumbs up. Besides, if he had been creepin’, he’d surely have a mind to move the table back.
Now, go put in a good word for me.
Then go tell someone you love them. As instructed.
Man, is this Boss Your Readers Around day, or what?
••• Saturday, October 23, 2004
Knits and Knubs
My brother is here from San Francisco. Tomorrow we're having a big party in celebration of my other brother's safe return from "scary job across the seas" and the impending birth of his first grandchild.
This Week's Google Hilaria
"Phallic bedpost designs"
"smell the essence of my crotch"
"skinny uvula"
Hmmm...I'll be first on the google list when someone is looking for lyrics to the children's folk favorite "Does Your Uvula Lose Phallic Essence on The Bedpost, Overnight?"
Things That Knit Up My Last Nerve
Things That Knit Me Happy
My husband noticed that our patio table had been positioned under the balcony that runs off my son’s bedroom. There is one basketball shoe footprint in the dust. We have a couple of days to think up a plan of entrapment. L'il shit.
Things That Make Go “I gotta go! Now!”
The Cakers just walked into the room with my favorite lipstick all over her face.
Have a great weekend.
My brother is here from San Francisco. Tomorrow we're having a big party in celebration of my other brother's safe return from "scary job across the seas" and the impending birth of his first grandchild.
This Week's Google Hilaria
"Phallic bedpost designs"
"smell the essence of my crotch"
"skinny uvula"
Hmmm...I'll be first on the google list when someone is looking for lyrics to the children's folk favorite "Does Your Uvula Lose Phallic Essence on The Bedpost, Overnight?"
Things That Knit Up My Last Nerve
1. Excelerate. Thump.
Decelerate. Thump.
Stop. Thump,thump.
Go. ::pause:: Thump.
That is the sound of a basketball in the cargo bay of my vehicle, while I'm in a traffic fuster cluck on the interstate, trying to get home on a Friday afternoon. The ensuing seethe made my worst PMS-induced fantasy look like a float in the park with Good Witch Glenda.
2. Garter Squares. About 2 inches into each square, I feel like it's going faster than I thought it would. I say to self "This isn't so bad. Why are you such a baby?" And the heat of the impending Blaze is palpable.
By inch 5, however, I realize I fell once more for the "garter square illusion" and I'm still inches and hours from smelling the essence of another gartercrotchnotch on my bedpost.
3. Charitable People
Things That Knit Me Happy
1. Charitable People.Things That Make Me Go Hmmmm
2. Going to my yarn bin in search of yarn to knit up another little baby something for another little baby shower, and finding this. It was still on the needles, about 20 stitches from being totally cast-off. I can't imagine why I'd stuff it away, that close to the finish. The yarn is scrumptious, but I have no idea what it is. It has a heavy, substantial feel, but is very soft as well. Here's a closeup. (Do you know this yarn?)
My husband noticed that our patio table had been positioned under the balcony that runs off my son’s bedroom. There is one basketball shoe footprint in the dust. We have a couple of days to think up a plan of entrapment. L'il shit.
Things That Make Go “I gotta go! Now!”
The Cakers just walked into the room with my favorite lipstick all over her face.
Have a great weekend.
••• Thursday, October 21, 2004
Thunky Thursday
Truth be, all the stuff I dun thunk up on this Thursday is currently languishing in my draft bin. Just one of those posts that wasn't meant to be, after way too much effin' wasted time.
It's late, I'm tired and typing with heavy hands. So I'll just MEME without mercy, and go to bed.
Those Who Can, Do. Those Who Can Too, Be Bossy.
Yesterday The Cakers, all by her bad-ass self, single-handedly potty-trained a peer. "Go get pull-up" she said to the diaper-clad girl. She then walked her to the lou and walked her through the poo. This was repeated several times throughout the day, with no accidents.
Daycare lady simultaneously proud and put to shame.
It's late, I'm tired and typing with heavy hands. So I'll just MEME without mercy, and go to bed.
- Dimension:: 5th
- Roger:: Ramjet,he’s our man
- CSI:: splatter
- Passenger:: Side
- Thankful:: Cable TV
- Has-been:: My lovely ass
- Bambino:: Cheech and Chong
- Wrinkles:: My once lovely ass
- Cable TV:: Thankful
- Voicemail:: Andy Garcia
Those Who Can, Do. Those Who Can Too, Be Bossy.
Yesterday The Cakers, all by her bad-ass self, single-handedly potty-trained a peer. "Go get pull-up" she said to the diaper-clad girl. She then walked her to the lou and walked her through the poo. This was repeated several times throughout the day, with no accidents.
Daycare lady simultaneously proud and put to shame.
Labels: My Daughter Scares Me
••• Tuesday, October 19, 2004
Weekend Wrap
This post was meant for Monday, but whack happens. Actually, my weekend was nearly splendid, as it was the first in weeks that I didn’t have anything scheduled.
I finally had a chance to cook to the future (put meals in freezer) while simultaneously preparing meals for immediate consumption. I really do love to cook, but only when I have the time to do it right, and this weekend was perfect for that. One of the weekend's recipes (No Cheese Chicken Chili)will be contributed to Elizabeth's Knitblogger's cookbook. Besides the great taste and low fat stats, the recipe makes enough to feed a small army for days or my son and husband for dinner.
I also finished the baby sweater. All that’s needed now is a little Scrunchmuffin.
We’re having a baby shower/welcome home party for my niece and her father (my brother), who just returned from his “scary job overseas.” Brother number two is flying in from San Francisco for the weekend, which will be a surprise for brother nubmer one. We're having a family portrait done, as surprise for my mom.
Wheekend Whinebeckin’
Over the last few days I’ve been strolling around the blogosphere with a bit of bitterness in my usually charitable heart. Okay, maybe I'm not what you’d typically describe as charitable. In fact, I can be a cattyass, snipy bitch. But I’m not typically given to fits of envy. Unless I am forced to read all the cool stories about Rhinebeck. And it’s not even the haulin’ ass yarn pictures I’m talking about. It’s the escapades. It's bloggers from all over the country, uniting to raise woolly hell. This is my envy. My toxic green.
I told my husband I’m going next year. So let it be written. So let it be done.
Wheekend Whack
I did have a little bit of excitement over the weekend. Ever heard of these guys?*
They’re called Boobahs(pronounced BEE-Bah. No idea…) They are Public Television Freaks of Preternature. ::Scroll down to meet bagpuss. That's me in 15 years...ol' Bagpuss::
My first encounter with these furry balls of uncircum….uh…spection, yeah, uncircumspection, occurred over the summer while I was channel surfing. I honestly can’t describe the experience of this show, without using the word hallucinogen. If you lived clean and sober back in the day, this show will give you a glimmer (or trail?) of a sweet trip. Or so I’ve heard. ahem.
And if you of a different party ilk and it’s been years since you’ve dipped your toes in the bong water, well…this show should make a clean treat. It’s on daily. PBS. Check your local listings.
Meanwhile, you can find a sampling of Boobah freakage at what seems to be their main site. Just clear your calendar and click an orb. There appear to be several Boobah sites, although none are clearly defined. Click here for another peek at a preepyoos to creep youse.
*I hope this link works. It's to a PDF file, so I'm not sure if it just opens up for everyone or if you need to already have it in your cache, like I do. Let me know (in comments) if there's a problem.
This post was meant for Monday, but whack happens. Actually, my weekend was nearly splendid, as it was the first in weeks that I didn’t have anything scheduled.
I finally had a chance to cook to the future (put meals in freezer) while simultaneously preparing meals for immediate consumption. I really do love to cook, but only when I have the time to do it right, and this weekend was perfect for that. One of the weekend's recipes (No Cheese Chicken Chili)will be contributed to Elizabeth's Knitblogger's cookbook. Besides the great taste and low fat stats, the recipe makes enough to feed a small army for days or my son and husband for dinner.
I also finished the baby sweater. All that’s needed now is a little Scrunchmuffin.
We’re having a baby shower/welcome home party for my niece and her father (my brother), who just returned from his “scary job overseas.” Brother number two is flying in from San Francisco for the weekend, which will be a surprise for brother nubmer one. We're having a family portrait done, as surprise for my mom.
Wheekend Whinebeckin’
Over the last few days I’ve been strolling around the blogosphere with a bit of bitterness in my usually charitable heart. Okay, maybe I'm not what you’d typically describe as charitable. In fact, I can be a cattyass, snipy bitch. But I’m not typically given to fits of envy. Unless I am forced to read all the cool stories about Rhinebeck. And it’s not even the haulin’ ass yarn pictures I’m talking about. It’s the escapades. It's bloggers from all over the country, uniting to raise woolly hell. This is my envy. My toxic green.
I told my husband I’m going next year. So let it be written. So let it be done.
Wheekend Whack
I did have a little bit of excitement over the weekend. Ever heard of these guys?*
They’re called Boobahs(pronounced BEE-Bah. No idea…) They are Public Television Freaks of Preternature. ::Scroll down to meet bagpuss. That's me in 15 years...ol' Bagpuss::
My first encounter with these furry balls of uncircum….uh…spection, yeah, uncircumspection, occurred over the summer while I was channel surfing. I honestly can’t describe the experience of this show, without using the word hallucinogen. If you lived clean and sober back in the day, this show will give you a glimmer (or trail?) of a sweet trip. Or so I’ve heard. ahem.
And if you of a different party ilk and it’s been years since you’ve dipped your toes in the bong water, well…this show should make a clean treat. It’s on daily. PBS. Check your local listings.
Meanwhile, you can find a sampling of Boobah freakage at what seems to be their main site. Just clear your calendar and click an orb. There appear to be several Boobah sites, although none are clearly defined. Click here for another peek at a preepyoos to creep youse.
*I hope this link works. It's to a PDF file, so I'm not sure if it just opens up for everyone or if you need to already have it in your cache, like I do. Let me know (in comments) if there's a problem.
••• Saturday, October 16, 2004
A Month of Sundries
Today I’m blogging up on odds and ends, and knitting is knumber one on my list.
A while back I promised my husband I’d finish his gagger square afghan before starting anything else. He did grant me a reprieve to perform a family knit duty (The baby sweater. Still needing buttons. I don’t get out much.)
But a promise is a promise and I’m back at it, withloathe love in my heart and a gag in my throat. Last night I recalculated the total garter square need and I have six more to knit. That’s two more than I believed I needed when I went to bed Thursday night. Really, I can't even conjure a clever whine about it, so let's move on.
Blazin’ Hussy
After I perform my wifely duty, ad nauseum , I hope to be Blazin’ new trails with Melissa and company.
Not only do I love this pattern, I also happen to have a hunk-o-hanks of the required stuff, which I practically stole from the T-Bears last year. (I know,drug yarn pushers have a way of spinnin' things to make you think you're getting away with something...until you're hooked.) Because short sleeve sweaters are a bit impractical in Michigan, in winter, I’m going to make ¾ length sleeves instead of the short.
Hey,Hey Good Lookin’….
Elizabeth is gathering recipes for a knit blogger’s cookbook! Go check it out. She’s already posting contributions.
It’s all about MeMeMeMe!
I’ve seen this one around the bloggerhood, but saw it first at Bron’s. I certainly don’t consider myself a knit guru, but hey, The Quizilla doesn’t lie. I just paste em as I cut em.
You appear to be a Knitting Guru. You love knitting
and do it all the time. While finishing a piece
is the plan, you still love the process, and
can't imagine a day going by without giving
some time to your yarn. Packing for vacation
involves leaving ample space for the stash and
supplies. It can be hard to tell where the yarn
ends and you begin.
http://marniemaclean.com
What Kind of Knitter Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
Thanks La, for reminding me about my Random Thoughts responsibilities. I cut and pasted this week’s edition way last Sunday. I really like to mull my free associations over a bit, before I commit. It’s a Knitting Guru kind of thing, which you Knitting Purist types can’t understand. Sigh.
Night of the Livid Pig
A while back I mentioned that I was considering changing my blog name. I realize I never followed up on it(I’m bad like that), and would like to (belatedly) thank every one for their kind words of support.
I was still a pig on the blog name fence until recently, after receiving some late night callers. Uninvited.
While they were here for only a minute, it was definitely long enough for the lead pig to pickle me to the core with these simple words: The Pig, she stays. When the porkline squeals, the Guru listens.
So the pig, she stays.
Today I’m blogging up on odds and ends, and knitting is knumber one on my list.
A while back I promised my husband I’d finish his gagger square afghan before starting anything else. He did grant me a reprieve to perform a family knit duty (The baby sweater. Still needing buttons. I don’t get out much.)
But a promise is a promise and I’m back at it, with
Blazin’ Hussy
After I perform my wifely duty, ad nauseum , I hope to be Blazin’ new trails with Melissa and company.
Not only do I love this pattern, I also happen to have a hunk-o-hanks of the required stuff, which I practically stole from the T-Bears last year. (I know,
Hey,Hey Good Lookin’….
Elizabeth is gathering recipes for a knit blogger’s cookbook! Go check it out. She’s already posting contributions.
It’s all about MeMeMeMe!
I’ve seen this one around the bloggerhood, but saw it first at Bron’s. I certainly don’t consider myself a knit guru, but hey, The Quizilla doesn’t lie. I just paste em as I cut em.
You appear to be a Knitting Guru. You love knitting
and do it all the time. While finishing a piece
is the plan, you still love the process, and
can't imagine a day going by without giving
some time to your yarn. Packing for vacation
involves leaving ample space for the stash and
supplies. It can be hard to tell where the yarn
ends and you begin.
http://marniemaclean.com
What Kind of Knitter Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
Thanks La, for reminding me about my Random Thoughts responsibilities. I cut and pasted this week’s edition way last Sunday. I really like to mull my free associations over a bit, before I commit. It’s a Knitting Guru kind of thing, which you Knitting Purist types can’t understand. Sigh.
- Spacious:: cranium
- Crash:: Dave Matthews
- Autobiography:: Autoerotic
- Sparkly:: Soul
- Wild Thing:: The Cakers
- Haagen-Das:: mmmmm
- Sci-fi:: Old stereo
- Voice:: Inside my head
- Boy Scouts:: Girl pouts
- Grief:: Good
Night of the Livid Pig
A while back I mentioned that I was considering changing my blog name. I realize I never followed up on it(I’m bad like that), and would like to (belatedly) thank every one for their kind words of support.
I was still a pig on the blog name fence until recently, after receiving some late night callers. Uninvited.
While they were here for only a minute, it was definitely long enough for the lead pig to pickle me to the core with these simple words: The Pig, she stays. When the porkline squeals, the Guru listens.
So the pig, she stays.
••• Friday, October 15, 2004
Who You Callin’ a CoHo?
Last weekend(up north), we had a chance to get over to the river and check out the running of the Coho. ::Fish, not job sharing hookers.::
I don’t know if the life and sex and deathhalibuts habits of the Coho Salmon are common knowledge or regionally specific, so I’ll proceed as though you know not much, but wish ya did.
Coho are born in the tributaries of Lake Michigan, where they hang out for a few months before heading to the Big Waters. When Coho are four years old, they get a call. The Call of the Wild, if you will, or better yet, The Call of the Nasty.
The Call for Coho is the irrepressible urge to return to one's birthwaters, hookup with a little tunatang, and die. The Call always comes in the fall, which causes the streams and rivers to be overswum with trolling fish.
Cool story, eh?
Not quite. Enter Man.
Our visit to the river included a stop at the local weir*, which is a structure that blocks the river and allows the fish to be captured. Note: I forgot my camera that day. This story really needs pictures, so please bear with my primitive attempts at Natural Resourcefulness.
At the weir we visited, the fish are diverted into a little waterway, under which is a huge french-fryer-basket-like contraption.
The fish don't know they are in the frytraption, until the thing is unceremoniously hoisted out of the little canal, allowing for the fish to be drained, sorted and put into iced trash cans.
These tasks are all performed by Northern Michiganesque guys, who look a lot like this one, who I've named Dewey:
::I wonder if every small town in Northern Michigan has a guy named Dewey?::
Most of the unrequited Ho’s are next sent to a nearby cannery, where they get, well, canned. Some of the Coho are handed over to the DNR, who harvest and hatch the 'ho roe, at the state run hatcheries. The baby fish (called fry) born at the hatchery are eventually transferred to riverbeds, allowing this miraculous cycle to begin again.
When I visited the weir, I had no idea I would be so affected by the disturbing images. For days after, I couldn’t shake the impression of hundreds of tired, horny 'Hoes, lining up outside that fry contraption. I think the worst part for me is knowing these little buggers believe they’re linin' up for some Funky Cohomadina.
I floundered all week with writing this post and almost threw it back a couple of times. But now that I've fin ished, I feel much better. On a scale.
*that's not "our" weir. Our contraption is to the side, as illustrated.
Got Knitting?
Got Knothing.
Last weekend(up north), we had a chance to get over to the river and check out the running of the Coho. ::Fish, not job sharing hookers.::
I don’t know if the life and sex and death
Coho are born in the tributaries of Lake Michigan, where they hang out for a few months before heading to the Big Waters. When Coho are four years old, they get a call. The Call of the Wild, if you will, or better yet, The Call of the Nasty.
The Call for Coho is the irrepressible urge to return to one's birthwaters, hookup with a little tunatang, and die. The Call always comes in the fall, which causes the streams and rivers to be overswum with trolling fish.
Cool story, eh?
Not quite. Enter Man.
Our visit to the river included a stop at the local weir*, which is a structure that blocks the river and allows the fish to be captured. Note: I forgot my camera that day. This story really needs pictures, so please bear with my primitive attempts at Natural Resourcefulness.
At the weir we visited, the fish are diverted into a little waterway, under which is a huge french-fryer-basket-like contraption.
The fish don't know they are in the frytraption, until the thing is unceremoniously hoisted out of the little canal, allowing for the fish to be drained, sorted and put into iced trash cans.
These tasks are all performed by Northern Michiganesque guys, who look a lot like this one, who I've named Dewey:
::I wonder if every small town in Northern Michigan has a guy named Dewey?::
Most of the unrequited Ho’s are next sent to a nearby cannery, where they get, well, canned. Some of the Coho are handed over to the DNR, who harvest and hatch the 'ho roe, at the state run hatcheries. The baby fish (called fry) born at the hatchery are eventually transferred to riverbeds, allowing this miraculous cycle to begin again.
When I visited the weir, I had no idea I would be so affected by the disturbing images. For days after, I couldn’t shake the impression of hundreds of tired, horny 'Hoes, lining up outside that fry contraption. I think the worst part for me is knowing these little buggers believe they’re linin' up for some Funky Cohomadina.
I floundered all week with writing this post and almost threw it back a couple of times. But now that I've fin ished, I feel much better. On a scale.
*that's not "our" weir. Our contraption is to the side, as illustrated.
Got Knitting?
Got Knothing.
••• Thursday, October 14, 2004
Thursday's Poop Or: Just Some Little Turds
I have been working on one post all week, but this isn’t that. This is the classic Yikes!-No-Post-In-Days-So-Time-To-Pull-Something-Out-My-Butt post. Grab the T.P.
Speaking of pulling stuff out your butt and grabbing the TP, I’m happy to announce that The Cakers is about 99% potty trained, front and back. She’s pretty much done with the training chair and now perches precariously on the throne, au naturale. Her first poop was at the cottage last weekend, under a proud Nana’s watchful nose.
As many of you, when you have a tot in training, bodily functions become the family focus in both word and deed. But what’s really fun is when the young one becomes preoccupied with all things privy, including mommy and daddy’s Activities du Pot-TAY.
Yesterday morning The Cakers stood right outside the bathroom where her daddy had taken up temporary residence. Realizing he was out of toilet paper, daddy reached around to get a box of tissue. From the other side of the closed bathroom door he hears, “Daddy, that’s not the toilet paper!”
Upon exiting, daddy was greeted by his darling daughter holding out a gumball. “Here’s your gumball daddy! ‘Cause you’re a big, big boy!”
Clarify Me
Okay, about that ex-boyfriend thing.. You see, he mistakenly remembered that I drove a Volvo station wagon (which was really a Camry). When we met again, he tried to make small talk and asked about my car. He meant to say “are you still driving the Volvo?”.
This Couldn’t Weight
Remember that stupidly thin girl in high school who, in response to someone saying “You’re such a stick,” would say “Oh my Gawd, I’m a whale!” And remember how everyone hated her, but not because she was skinny (as she always presumed) but because she wouldn’t shut the eff up about how unskinny she really was?
Well, I found out what happened to her. She became a doctor. And to avenge the years of solicited animosity and related nightmares of being lunched at a Big and Tall convention, she came up with this notion.
You’re such a stick.
Oh my gawd, I’m a whale…on the inside!
From here on known as The Jonah Syndrome
Brother, Oh Brother
My brother is home from his “job” overseas. I’m glad. He’s sad.
Someday I might share some tales. But because he hopes to be rehired in a few months (and he's already on shaky ground for giving the local paper an interview that ended up on the front page of the Sunday paper), I’m keeping mums for now. It's weird business.
Knitting Knuggets
I have knone. But I’m thinking about it…..
I have been working on one post all week, but this isn’t that. This is the classic Yikes!-No-Post-In-Days-So-Time-To-Pull-Something-Out-My-Butt post. Grab the T.P.
Speaking of pulling stuff out your butt and grabbing the TP, I’m happy to announce that The Cakers is about 99% potty trained, front and back. She’s pretty much done with the training chair and now perches precariously on the throne, au naturale. Her first poop was at the cottage last weekend, under a proud Nana’s watchful nose.
As many of you, when you have a tot in training, bodily functions become the family focus in both word and deed. But what’s really fun is when the young one becomes preoccupied with all things privy, including mommy and daddy’s Activities du Pot-TAY.
Yesterday morning The Cakers stood right outside the bathroom where her daddy had taken up temporary residence. Realizing he was out of toilet paper, daddy reached around to get a box of tissue. From the other side of the closed bathroom door he hears, “Daddy, that’s not the toilet paper!”
Upon exiting, daddy was greeted by his darling daughter holding out a gumball. “Here’s your gumball daddy! ‘Cause you’re a big, big boy!”
Clarify Me
Okay, about that ex-boyfriend thing.. You see, he mistakenly remembered that I drove a Volvo station wagon (which was really a Camry). When we met again, he tried to make small talk and asked about my car. He meant to say “are you still driving the Volvo?”.
This Couldn’t Weight
Remember that stupidly thin girl in high school who, in response to someone saying “You’re such a stick,” would say “Oh my Gawd, I’m a whale!” And remember how everyone hated her, but not because she was skinny (as she always presumed) but because she wouldn’t shut the eff up about how unskinny she really was?
Well, I found out what happened to her. She became a doctor. And to avenge the years of solicited animosity and related nightmares of being lunched at a Big and Tall convention, she came up with this notion.
You’re such a stick.
Oh my gawd, I’m a whale…on the inside!
From here on known as The Jonah Syndrome
Brother, Oh Brother
My brother is home from his “job” overseas. I’m glad. He’s sad.
Someday I might share some tales. But because he hopes to be rehired in a few months (and he's already on shaky ground for giving the local paper an interview that ended up on the front page of the Sunday paper), I’m keeping mums for now. It's weird business.
Knitting Knuggets
I have knone. But I’m thinking about it…..
Labels: From My Loins, Passages
••• Monday, October 11, 2004
Mist Opportunities
The weekend at the lake was wonderful. It rained most of Friday, but Saturday and Sunday were the sort of fall days so magnificent with color and texture and smell, that you’re kind of afraid to look ‘em full in the face, lest you break the spell.
Soft and Sweet...
...and nearly complete. I just need some attention grabbing buttons and this little nugget will be wready for wrappage.
Thanks for the kind comments on it. And again, I highly recommend this pattern (Flax Jax, from Minnies) for a quick, last minute little sumthin'.
I finished the sweater last night, while watching Lawn Order:ICU ICU P UCmeP, 2? CI. The rest of the weekend I worked squarely harder on the afghan garter. I only have six squares to go. Be still my heaving breasts.
When this afghan of 35 garter squares is done, I expect to be inducted directly into the Widhof (Wifely Duty Hall of Fame), with high honors, even (For duties stealthily performed above and beyond and below the afghan. ...That northern air...::sigh::)
And if I'm not done with this piece soon, I'll be inducted into a different kind of hall of fame. Or ward, if you will. Locked and lit low.
Under the Hood
Several years ago I ran into an old beau. At that time, I was driving a Camry station wagon, a model which slightly resembled a popular Swedish make. The next time I saw this ex, amidst the small talk he blurted "Are you still driving a Vulva?"
Yeah, but I'm slowing her down, a bit. How 'bout you?
I got a uvula, you got a uvula, she's got a uvula, all God's children got a uvula. -Barney Fife, to Andy
The weekend at the lake was wonderful. It rained most of Friday, but Saturday and Sunday were the sort of fall days so magnificent with color and texture and smell, that you’re kind of afraid to look ‘em full in the face, lest you break the spell.
Soft and Sweet...
...and nearly complete. I just need some attention grabbing buttons and this little nugget will be wready for wrappage.
Thanks for the kind comments on it. And again, I highly recommend this pattern (Flax Jax, from Minnies) for a quick, last minute little sumthin'.
I finished the sweater last night, while watching Lawn Order:
When this afghan of 35 garter squares is done, I expect to be inducted directly into the Widhof (Wifely Duty Hall of Fame), with high honors, even (For duties stealthily performed above and beyond and below the afghan. ...That northern air...::sigh::)
And if I'm not done with this piece soon, I'll be inducted into a different kind of hall of fame. Or ward, if you will. Locked and lit low.
Under the Hood
Several years ago I ran into an old beau. At that time, I was driving a Camry station wagon, a model which slightly resembled a popular Swedish make. The next time I saw this ex, amidst the small talk he blurted "Are you still driving a Vulva?"
Yeah, but I'm slowing her down, a bit. How 'bout you?
I got a uvula, you got a uvula, she's got a uvula, all God's children got a uvula. -Barney Fife, to Andy
Labels: Cottage, Knit Done, Pho-Ho'
••• Saturday, October 09, 2004
Butt Loose and Diaper Free
On a beautiful fall day...It doesn't get much better...
Oops
I forgot about this weeks Free Association. ::It's Free!::
See Yas Monday
On a beautiful fall day...It doesn't get much better...
Oops
I forgot about this weeks Free Association. ::It's Free!::
- Courage:: Lion (lyin?)
- Stamina:: oh Baby
- Leader:: of the Pack
- Idea:: Bon
- Rockstar:: Amy
- Dew:: ya love me?
- Guards:: Right
- Lenny:: Bruce
- Alliance:: Federation
- Cigarettes:: Miss You
See Yas Monday
••• Thursday, October 07, 2004
Thunky Thursday
I can't shake this song, from first thing in my morning car…
Somebody told me
You had a boyfriend
Who looked like a girlfriend
I had in February of last year… - The Killers.
Be Killin.’
Me.
Autumnal Inequinox
I think I’m suffering from the seasonal malaise that Amy is reporting. I know that for me, it has to do with the shifting of the afternoon sun and the fact that I have no windows in my office (brain can't make gradual daily adjustments to changes). When Daylight Savings time is done in a couple of weeks, I’ll suddenly feel just right.
Tubular (Or: All That, and a Lithium Drip
I love:
The new TV show LAX . But I'm thinking that the writers can't keep up for long, the quick pace and interesting story lines that initially captured my attention.
I fear:
The BK commercial where the guy wakes up to find himself under the covers with a stiff headed Burger King, who lovingly hands him a sausage biscuit. Just add Dairy Queen with a banana split and they’d have the fixins’ for a ménage a porn parfait. (Anyone remember the joke about Burger King, Dairy Queen and an unwrapped Whopper?)
I hate:
All the new CSI copy cats. This includes the CBS copy cats, copy cat-assin’ their own show, about two too many copy cat-assin’ times. (Wordass Queen: I wasn't sure about the hyphens.)
My pick, however, for this year's copy cat lameass combo award goes to Medical Investigation. I wanted to like it, but the acting sucks and the premise can’t be swallowed without intubation.
SideNote: I’m actually relieved to hate this one. My brain is already overloaded with daily CSI reflections. I mean, every time I sneeze, I can’t help but picture, in full special effect slo-mo imagery, my little spittles flying through the air at 20,000,000 miles per hour, to land on some hapless victims shoulder who simultaneously brushes up against a woman who just had sex with a felon just moments after....okay...that’s my brain on CSI.
Oooh Baby, Baby Sweater
Almost done. All I have left is to whip up the collar and go upstairs and holler (where did that come from? I'm thinking of some childhood rhyme and pulling down pants...I think I’ve been Burger Kinged.)
Front
Back
Finis
My son received his acceptance letter from (to?) CMU yesterday. To say he is pleased would be an understatement. Last week we had a heart to heart about his college plans and he said he is really, really excited about going there and that he has no qualms giving up his Green Dreams. He also said he has no interest in visiting or applying to any other colleges.
Soooo.....Every fall my husband and I take a long weekend up north. We weren't gong to do it this year because I was needing to save my personal days for carting the Camster to college visits. Now that those plans have been neatly kiboshed, I'm taking a long weekend at the cottage, with The Husband, The Cakers, The In-laws and The Cheddar. ::My in-laws are great and their presence allows for a date night with my sugar daddy.::
We're leaving tonight after work. So posts might be scarce over the next couple days. Or not.
I can't shake this song, from first thing in my morning car…
Somebody told me
You had a boyfriend
Who looked like a girlfriend
I had in February of last year… - The Killers.
Be Killin.’
Me.
Autumnal Inequinox
I think I’m suffering from the seasonal malaise that Amy is reporting. I know that for me, it has to do with the shifting of the afternoon sun and the fact that I have no windows in my office (brain can't make gradual daily adjustments to changes). When Daylight Savings time is done in a couple of weeks, I’ll suddenly feel just right.
Tubular (Or: All That, and a Lithium Drip
I love:
The new TV show LAX . But I'm thinking that the writers can't keep up for long, the quick pace and interesting story lines that initially captured my attention.
I fear:
The BK commercial where the guy wakes up to find himself under the covers with a stiff headed Burger King, who lovingly hands him a sausage biscuit. Just add Dairy Queen with a banana split and they’d have the fixins’ for a ménage a porn parfait. (Anyone remember the joke about Burger King, Dairy Queen and an unwrapped Whopper?)
I hate:
All the new CSI copy cats. This includes the CBS copy cats, copy cat-assin’ their own show, about two too many copy cat-assin’ times. (Wordass Queen: I wasn't sure about the hyphens.)
My pick, however, for this year's copy cat lameass combo award goes to Medical Investigation. I wanted to like it, but the acting sucks and the premise can’t be swallowed without intubation.
SideNote: I’m actually relieved to hate this one. My brain is already overloaded with daily CSI reflections. I mean, every time I sneeze, I can’t help but picture, in full special effect slo-mo imagery, my little spittles flying through the air at 20,000,000 miles per hour, to land on some hapless victims shoulder who simultaneously brushes up against a woman who just had sex with a felon just moments after....okay...that’s my brain on CSI.
Oooh Baby, Baby Sweater
Almost done. All I have left is to whip up the collar and go upstairs and holler (where did that come from? I'm thinking of some childhood rhyme and pulling down pants...I think I’ve been Burger Kinged.)
Front
Back
Finis
My son received his acceptance letter from (to?) CMU yesterday. To say he is pleased would be an understatement. Last week we had a heart to heart about his college plans and he said he is really, really excited about going there and that he has no qualms giving up his Green Dreams. He also said he has no interest in visiting or applying to any other colleges.
Soooo.....Every fall my husband and I take a long weekend up north. We weren't gong to do it this year because I was needing to save my personal days for carting the Camster to college visits. Now that those plans have been neatly kiboshed, I'm taking a long weekend at the cottage, with The Husband, The Cakers, The In-laws and The Cheddar. ::My in-laws are great and their presence allows for a date night with my sugar daddy.::
We're leaving tonight after work. So posts might be scarce over the next couple days. Or not.
••• Tuesday, October 05, 2004
Happy, Happy Birthday Babies
Yesterday my baby girl turned 3 and today the boy is 18 years old. I can't believe it was just three years ago that I was hooked up to the morphine perculator, snuggling my new scrunchmuffin and caring not about the worries of the post 9.11 world.
The week I brought home The Cakers, my high school freshman was preparing for his first homecoming dance. This year he's a senior, and not even going to the dance.
I'm still a little fried from the weekend's festivities, likely on account of having celebrations both Saturday and Sunday. Late Sunday night, I was finally able to grab a moment for myself. Just me and my knittin' and my vanilla rum and Coke and the remote control.
Ahem...I said Just me and my knittin' and my vanilla rum and Coke and the remote...
I was actually alone in the room when I first leaned over to check the pattern instructions. I don't know how Bella knows to lie exactly where I'm reading. Do you think she knows anything about the squirrels?
At least someone got to have their Cakers and ice cream too.
Yesterday my baby girl turned 3 and today the boy is 18 years old. I can't believe it was just three years ago that I was hooked up to the morphine perculator, snuggling my new scrunchmuffin and caring not about the worries of the post 9.11 world.
The week I brought home The Cakers, my high school freshman was preparing for his first homecoming dance. This year he's a senior, and not even going to the dance.
I'm still a little fried from the weekend's festivities, likely on account of having celebrations both Saturday and Sunday. Late Sunday night, I was finally able to grab a moment for myself. Just me and my knittin' and my vanilla rum and Coke and the remote control.
Ahem...I said Just me and my knittin' and my vanilla rum and Coke and the remote...
I was actually alone in the room when I first leaned over to check the pattern instructions. I don't know how Bella knows to lie exactly where I'm reading. Do you think she knows anything about the squirrels?
At least someone got to have their Cakers and ice cream too.
••• Sunday, October 03, 2004
My Stupid
Ummmm...the Flax Jax pattern I'm currently working on is not from the Falick/Nichols book. It's Eaton's Minnies . And it's moving along nicely, without much flack. .
This is a shot from the back. The seed stitch stripe doesn't come all the way around the front, which looks cute when it's done, but makes for a strange picture at this point in construction.
Rocky Road-ents
Over the past few weeks there have been scores of squirrel carcii showing up on the shores of Lake Michigan. People are also fishing live ones from the lake and channels. (You can read more about it here.)
I'm not typically an alarmist, but this squirrel unrising is kind of creeping me out. Is it a message from God? Boris and Natasha?
Or is it something less mystical, such as an innocent game of Lemmings that went terribly wrong?
Okay, that's a leap.
Maybe there's a simple explanation, such as they just missed the commuterfurry ferry to Milwaukee and thought they could catch up.
The real nerve feeder for me is that the biologists don't have any answers either. While most of the scientists continue to stand around and scratch theirears heads, only a few have ventured out on a limb to hazard a guess or two on the etiology.
What I find odd, however, is that no one has mentioned the obvious similarities of this event to a phenomenon that occured a couple thousand years ago. I think you know where I'm scurrying with this.
The Dead Sea Squirrels. Exactly.
In fact, the Dead Sea Squirrel exhibit was in West Michigan just last year. I didn't go because I heard that you could only see little bits of squirrel and even then, could hardly tell what you were looking at. Truthfully, I found the whole concept a bit macabre.
So, is this just a dark coincidence or are we about to unearth a long buried secret? No doubt there will be plenty of chatter on the subject in the upcoming weeks. In the meantime, this mysterious tail, er, tale, is gonna drive me more than a little nuts. I'll be sure to update if I dig anything up.
Ummmm...the Flax Jax pattern I'm currently working on is not from the Falick/Nichols book. It's Eaton's Minnies . And it's moving along nicely, without much flack. .
This is a shot from the back. The seed stitch stripe doesn't come all the way around the front, which looks cute when it's done, but makes for a strange picture at this point in construction.
Rocky Road-ents
Over the past few weeks there have been scores of squirrel carcii showing up on the shores of Lake Michigan. People are also fishing live ones from the lake and channels. (You can read more about it here.)
I'm not typically an alarmist, but this squirrel unrising is kind of creeping me out. Is it a message from God? Boris and Natasha?
Or is it something less mystical, such as an innocent game of Lemmings that went terribly wrong?
Okay, that's a leap.
Maybe there's a simple explanation, such as they just missed the commuter
The real nerve feeder for me is that the biologists don't have any answers either. While most of the scientists continue to stand around and scratch their
What I find odd, however, is that no one has mentioned the obvious similarities of this event to a phenomenon that occured a couple thousand years ago. I think you know where I'm scurrying with this.
The Dead Sea Squirrels. Exactly.
In fact, the Dead Sea Squirrel exhibit was in West Michigan just last year. I didn't go because I heard that you could only see little bits of squirrel and even then, could hardly tell what you were looking at. Truthfully, I found the whole concept a bit macabre.
So, is this just a dark coincidence or are we about to unearth a long buried secret? No doubt there will be plenty of chatter on the subject in the upcoming weeks. In the meantime, this mysterious tail, er, tale, is gonna drive me more than a little nuts. I'll be sure to update if I dig anything up.
Labels: Dead Sea Squirrels, Deep Shit
••• Friday, October 01, 2004
Gnitting Gnus (or I Said I'd Finish You, But I Lied)
I really really really really was planning on finishing my husband's afghan before starting another project. I really really really really want to be done with this task, moreso than even my husband. But...my niece is having a baby in November and our family's having a little shower gathering for her in October (which is, uh, now?) and I kneed to knitter a little something. And my husband says he can live with a lap warmer for now.
The sewing of the garter squares ain't been pretty. The mattress stitch is not so easy on mis-sized garter squares, sewn horizon to vertical. In fact, it's downright fugly in some spots (so you'll never see this piece close up. Nope.) I finally started using a very delicate overcast stitch, which looks about 1000 to 1047 times better than the mattress stitch.
For the baby to be, I'm making the Flax Jax from Falick/Nichols' Knitting for Baby book. It's a very quick knit, all in one piece until the arm holes and the sleeves are picked up at said holes and knit down, in the round. The yarn is just Encore. I'm hoping to find some cool buttons to jazz it up, but I like simple textures for babies.
You Spin Me Redrum, Baby, Redrum...
Actually, I don't have much to say here, on the big Duh-Bate. Ya see, I didn’t watch it. And Lord knows, I tried.
My son, who turns 18 on Tuesday (and will be voting next month), was watching the debate in his bedroom and had came down to see if I was watching. I told him I had tried, but couldn’t stomach it.
First of all, I owe my son an apology of sorts, because I couldn’t wrap my brain around the fact that he was watching the debate without someone making him do so. I bet I asked him three times, in some manner, “Is this part of an assignment?”
Nope. I want to see what they have to say, he said.
I offered him a seat so we could watch it together, but he declined (No doubt there were 27 of his closest friends, screenhanging from his computer monitor as we spoke.) After he went back upstairs, I felt a small wave of shame wash oer me. Seems I was being out-civicked by my teenaged son. So I set out to tune back in.
Hmm…now, what channel was that on again?
Click. Oh yeah, there it is.
Click. Oh yeah, there it goes.
Ten seconds into my second viewing attempt, I witnessed our president drink from an empty glass. Somehow, I took this as a remote message. From God.
So I grabbed the remote and switched back to VH-1’s the Surreal Life just in time to see the perpetually trashed Bridgitte Nielsen, in a leopard print bathing suit, roll/flop/hump around on the floor with a puppy, while several children looked on. Apparently there's nobody drinkin' from empty glasses ‘round here.
::All I’ze got to say is I hope I look this good at41. 61. And yes, she’s naked under that apron.::
I did watch some talking head chit, post-debate, in hopes of a catching a quick-n-dirty summary. What I heard was the pre-spin on the post-spin, which was that the outspin can't really be spun out until the spindoctors are done. This spin will take a couple weeks, at least.
So the best spin wins?
Did I get that right?
Pass the Drama Mine.
Move over Bridgitte, it’s time to Drink Drop and Roll. And try to keep your boobs on your side of the bed. K?
This post edited to make some sense, later in the day of 10-1-04.
I really really really really was planning on finishing my husband's afghan before starting another project. I really really really really want to be done with this task, moreso than even my husband. But...my niece is having a baby in November and our family's having a little shower gathering for her in October (which is, uh, now?) and I kneed to knitter a little something. And my husband says he can live with a lap warmer for now.
The sewing of the garter squares ain't been pretty. The mattress stitch is not so easy on mis-sized garter squares, sewn horizon to vertical. In fact, it's downright fugly in some spots (so you'll never see this piece close up. Nope.) I finally started using a very delicate overcast stitch, which looks about 1000 to 1047 times better than the mattress stitch.
For the baby to be, I'm making the Flax Jax from Falick/Nichols' Knitting for Baby book. It's a very quick knit, all in one piece until the arm holes and the sleeves are picked up at said holes and knit down, in the round. The yarn is just Encore. I'm hoping to find some cool buttons to jazz it up, but I like simple textures for babies.
You Spin Me Redrum, Baby, Redrum...
Actually, I don't have much to say here, on the big Duh-Bate. Ya see, I didn’t watch it. And Lord knows, I tried.
My son, who turns 18 on Tuesday (and will be voting next month), was watching the debate in his bedroom and had came down to see if I was watching. I told him I had tried, but couldn’t stomach it.
First of all, I owe my son an apology of sorts, because I couldn’t wrap my brain around the fact that he was watching the debate without someone making him do so. I bet I asked him three times, in some manner, “Is this part of an assignment?”
Nope. I want to see what they have to say, he said.
I offered him a seat so we could watch it together, but he declined (No doubt there were 27 of his closest friends, screenhanging from his computer monitor as we spoke.) After he went back upstairs, I felt a small wave of shame wash oer me. Seems I was being out-civicked by my teenaged son. So I set out to tune back in.
Hmm…now, what channel was that on again?
Click. Oh yeah, there it is.
Click. Oh yeah, there it goes.
Ten seconds into my second viewing attempt, I witnessed our president drink from an empty glass. Somehow, I took this as a remote message. From God.
So I grabbed the remote and switched back to VH-1’s the Surreal Life just in time to see the perpetually trashed Bridgitte Nielsen, in a leopard print bathing suit, roll/flop/hump around on the floor with a puppy, while several children looked on. Apparently there's nobody drinkin' from empty glasses ‘round here.
::All I’ze got to say is I hope I look this good at
I did watch some talking head chit, post-debate, in hopes of a catching a quick-n-dirty summary. What I heard was the pre-spin on the post-spin, which was that the outspin can't really be spun out until the spindoctors are done. This spin will take a couple weeks, at least.
So the best spin wins?
Did I get that right?
Pass the Drama Mine.
Move over Bridgitte, it’s time to Drink Drop and Roll. And try to keep your boobs on your side of the bed. K?
This post edited to make some sense, later in the day of 10-1-04.
Labels: From My Loins, Knit Done