Wednesday, February 27, 2008


Do you ever feel as though having to put away dishes one more time will cause you to snap and start throwing every plate and bowl out of the too-small cupboard because the door won't shut when all the little ramekins are neatly stacked next to the measuring cups? Do you ever wish that you could throw out all your furniture and bed linens and rugs and curtains and paintings and electronics so you don't have to do anything other than vacuum the bare floor ever again? Do you ever want to give away all of your clothing and become a nudist (or exhibitionist) so you never ever again have to do laundry? Does even the idea of having an appointment with your gynecologist sound preferable to sorting through all the mail? Do you ever want to hermetically seal your house and live in a bubble so no dust ever touches any horizontal surface?

If the answer to any of these questions is yes, please tell me. We should form a group and do chants. Maybe learn witchcraft. Harness the undead to clean the microwave. Take up hooking to have enough money to hire a housekeeper. All of those things sound pretty reasonable.

Saturday, February 23, 2008

Instant Gratification

Knitting is rarely about doing anything quickly, especially when knitting something like this:

As I like to do everything quickly, this paradox and accompanying hair-rending can sometimes be troublesome to the soul.  Knitting is equal parts pleasure and therapy for me and I'm always looking for ways to be the faster, cooler knitter who blows the minds of other knitters with her expertise and prolific production of perfect, pulchritudinous products.  

Anyway, I've been trying for days to learn this technique of knitting, brought to light by the Yarn Harlot, who is the coolest knitter in the world as well as the most, well, prolific, if I may reuse a word.  I can't get it, though.  I just can't.  It feels awkward and strange and I keep dropping stitches.  I could not feel like a bigger loser, as other Ravelry knitters have tried it with great success and it has improved their speed and badassness and I really, really want to be a rock star, sex goddess knitter.  It's very important to me as I must be really good at things I love.  And now, I have to surrender this technique for a while, or until I start a new project where I can just knit on one side and purl on the other, as I've been trying the technique on Christian's aran, which is a mixture of purl, knit and cabling on each side.  I could be unintentionally just making it very hard for myself by trying a technique in the middle of a project with changing stitches, but IF I WERE A GOOD KNITTER IT WOULDN'T MATTER.  Pant, pant, pant.  

Fortunately, there is one aspect of knitting that satisfies the IG impulse, and that is buying pretty new yarn from the LYS with which to make a baby blanket, and then making a center-pull ball on my baller and swift.   That's not enough gratification, though, so then I have to ball all of my gorgeous new laceweight with which I'm going to make this.  Then, I have to fondle my new sock yarn that I'm going to use for Dad's socks for his belated birthday gift.  It's not getting any knitting done, but it feels pretty and soothes my troubled mind and I can convince myself that I'm actually saving future time by ensuring that the yarn I've purchased is up to snuff.

I have the tiniest fixation on balling yarn.  Since I got my baller (Heh.  I'm twelve.) and swift for Christmas (thank you, Lynn!), I want to ball everything, including loose threads from clothing and feathers dropped from the birds.  I spent a good two hours last night winding aforementioned laceweight into large, double-hank balls so it is usable, as knitting from a hank = a giant, horrid mess.  

The result, perfect little piles of delicious alpaca, makes the rest of it worthwhile.  

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

A personal failing.

Why, I ask you, do soft-spoken, laconic, deliberate people make me want to eat my own eyeballs with a hot fork? Why do they make me want to poke them with the fork with which I just ate my eyeballs and then scream, "That minute you just spent breathing and mumbling, I will never get it back!" Why do I hate them so much that, when I answer the phone and one of them is on the other end, I feel the need to slam the handset on the desk repeatedly and tell them that their time is up and they can't ever use the phone again?

I hate them. I hate people that I have to strain to hear, I hate people who cannot finish a sentence, I hate people who can't decide between 2% milk and non-fat milk and hold the door of the freezer open at Albertson's when all I want is some half and half and I can't get it and they won't move out of the way, despite the fact that I've asked them to and have had to take to nudging them with my cart. For the love of God, can they please drink some coffee, go for a jog, shoot up with heroin, and do whatever it takes to keep up with everyone else?

This is far worse in person. Don't look at me with cow eyes because I'm going too fast for you. Don't open and close your mouth repeatedly before you speak. Don't try to slow things down for me because you think I need to take life at a more leisurely pace. Don't EVER tell me to take a deep breath when I'm speaking to you because I seem flustered. I seem flustered because you cannot be bothered to exert enough mental energy to answer the question that you are paid more than me to answer. And stop blinking so much. No more blinking.

If you are elderly or very young, I exempt you from all of these opinions. If you are incredibly shy or anxious, you're excused, too. You are fine, you do what you need to do. If you are not any of these things and you simply don't see the point of expediency, please, for my eyeballs' sake, take a speed-reading course, learn to love Red Bull, watch any movie starring Rosalind Russell, and stop waiting on me in every store I seem to frequent.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

That sound you just heard?

It's my ovaries exploding.

God, I miss them. No, not my ovaries! The boys, silly people.

Monday, February 18, 2008

Bonjour, ma chere.

I am Monsieur Mander, S. Mander. I am wondereeng why you are bozzering me in my weenter slumbairs. Do you not 'ave ozzer petite creatures of zee slimy variety at home zat you can rip from zeir peaceful rest and poke and photograph and expose to zee cold, cold sea air? I beg you, put me back where you found me and go find a snake or somesing.  

Thursday, February 14, 2008

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

What have I been doing with my life?

Getting an invitation to join Ravelry has been a blessing and a curse.  It's a blessing because, oh my God, the volume of patterns and amount of help available is incredible and people actually swap unused or unwanted yarn, but the other knitters, they are kicking my ass.  Cables, lace, intarsia, Fair knitter who has been knitting for the same amount of time that I have has finished 49 projects.  I haven't tallied mine, but 49?  Not even close.  And my Lord, the galleries.  There's a little pool of dribble on my laptop from staring at things that make my knees get all achy in the back from lust coupled with a hearty helping of terror.  All of my work seems shabby and feeble and lacking fineness and imagination.  I suppose in another 27 years, I'll be able to have invisible yarn joins and hand-dyed socks to make younger knitters jealous.

Sunday, February 10, 2008

Reason 1,254,783 to get into shape.

Snowboarding is actually pretty damn fun.  However, when one is so out of shape that one cannot even push oneself up to a standing position when sitting on the hillside to enable oneself to do a maneuver that would get one to the bottom of said hillside, one should most likely start working out so the next session isn't quite as pathetic and hopeless.

Wednesday, February 06, 2008


Must scratch. So itchy. So tempting.

Monday, February 04, 2008

And it's all suddenly so clear.

Upon turning to Lifetime to catch Golden Girls, I was dazzled by the last five minutes of this movie, during which a young woman from Texas with big dreams and only ambition to keep her reaching for those damn stars sings the Habanera very badly at her prestigious music school recital while the bitchy girl she has been trying to best with her raw talent and angelic nature watches scornfully from the wings dressed as the Queen of the Night (wish I had seen that scene, too) and then suddenly is whipped into a costume change, given a headset mic and spun around to sing her own heartfelt words set to Bizet's tune about not letting anyone hold you back from your goals and that it's always darkest before the dawn and oh my God, kill me, and then I see that it was based on a book by Britney and Lynne Spears.  And now I really want to see the whole thing.  

Sunday, February 03, 2008

A nice kind of life.

It's the best kind of day.  A mostly clean house, hours of uninterrupted knitting and a lovely old movie I've never before seen.  The first sock is done:

And the second toe done.  I need to figure out how to reinforce the heel so it doesn't wear too quickly.  

I have spent a good deal of the day avoiding any contact between fabric, the couch, my husband and my new tattoo:

Yes, it hurt.  I wanted to die all during the first ten minutes, but then I just wanted to repeatedly hit the artist.  I love it and it's beautiful, but getting tattooed seems to be like having a baby; you forget once it's over how much it hurt or you would never do it again.  Don't tell Mom.  Despite the fact that it's merely a ball of yarn and some needles, it may as well be a leopard ripping my flesh, exposing bloody veins underneath with the words, "Satan is my Husband" over the top for all the difference the content makes to her.  So, it's our secret.  Sweet.

Friday, February 01, 2008

Short bus...I mean, short row socks.

Sock at 8 pm:

Sock at 11 pm:

Damn you tiny stitches...DAMN YOU!!!