The Life and Times of Florence Knitingale

A Ball Breaker....and Some Other Stuff

2007-12-13T18:33:00.001-08:00

I'm sorry in advance but, really, I couldn't resist. Yes, I'm aware that I have a little problem with self-control. Anyway, this is a photo of the biggest ball-breaker of them all:

And this is but one of the innocent balls who have fallen to an untimely death due to her deft paws and unnatural persistence--to say nothing of her astounding resistance to frantic shrieking and arm-waving.

She sits on the stairs, pokes her paws through the stair rail and bats at the balls until they smash satisfyingly on the hardwood below. But it gets worse. The other day I came home to find another man down--only this time, it had landed on the rug and remained intact. I was delighted. I picked it up to rehang it, but then realized that I couldn't find the hook. No matter. I picked it up, carried it out to the garage to get another hook, and promptly dropped it on the garage floor and shattered it.

I think it's quite good of me to help out on those rare occasions when Gracie's aim fails her.

Speaking of cats, have you seen these?

Nope, you're not seeing things. They're glow-in-the-dark cats, genetically engineered by Korean scientists. I realize that this work is monumental in terms of studying genetics and how it can be used to help treat and prevent human disease and yet, I keep thinking the same thing: my cats are already faster, sneakier, and more determined than I am. Now they have their own built-in LIGHT SOURCE????

Ed, who most definitely does not glow, spends many a winter morning (by morning, I mean an ungodly hour such as 2 am that should not exist in the waking world of civilized individuals) standing on my chest and smearing his snotty nose all over my face in the hope of getting me to come feed him because, the two bowls of dry food available in the mud room notwithstanding, he is a poor, starving, unloved kitty. As it is, I can more or less ignore him and go back to sleep....but, with this new technology, he can actually shine an eerie, hairy sort of light in my face while snot-smearing. I do not feel that Mr. "13-pound Cat with Toes Like Iron Pebbles on My Boobs at O'Crap O'Clock in the Morning" needs any more advantages.

On the other hand, I suppose I could spot Gracie climbing up the Christmas tree....or, at least, I'd have a pretty good idea when I noticed some of the tree lights moving. And shedding. And, I suppose I could save energy costs by having her sit by my shoulder while I read in bed at night. Oh, and maybe if I could get her to follow me into the closet in the mornings when I'm trying to get dressed without waking Mr. K, I might actually make it to work with socks that match, scrubs that don't appear to have spent the night wadded up inside a goat (they all look ironed in the dark, what can I say?) or my underwear inside out. It does bear thinking about.

And then, just because scientists evidently feel that cats deserve ALL the advantages, take a look at this:

They have managed to breed mice that lack the gene that tells them to be afraid of cats. Seriously. (Just so you know, the scientists carefully selected the cats used in this experiment and, while the mice walked right up to the cats, played with them, and even snuggled up to them, they did not become mousekabobs. No mice were eaten to bring you this photograph). Again, the implications for the understanding of human behavior is astonishing, and I do see the importance of this work. But I can't help worrying about some of the less savory implications. For instance, a glow-in-the-dark cat who can find my credit card in the dark and use it to order a gross of fearless mice who will then take over my house and party all night once they've ganged up on the cat and tied him up under the sink. Or something. At any time I could come downstairs to find a cocky mob of mice gazing beadily up at me, saying something like "Yeah, we fixed Glow-Boy's ass, we can fix yours, too."

I have concerns, people. I have concerns.

Apologies

2007-12-09T11:18:00.000-08:00

You'll notice I've deleted the Christmas Gift Guide. Unfortunately, my sense of humor was offensive to one reader and, rather than start a debate, I've opted to remove the offensive material. For the record, the item in question was put in because I found it to be stupid--I wouldn't really buy any of those items (except the George Bush t-shirt, and no apologies there--if you're one of his fans, you probably won't enjoy my blog) and the only people I was intentionally making fun of were the people who manufacture and purchase this crap.

I would like for this blog to remain fun and silly and as non-controversial as possible. It is fun for me as long as this is the case; when it becomes a platform for argument, it becomes a chore. I get enough stress in my life without that. Please accept my apology for the inadvertant offense (you know who you are). My beliefs where not represented by the item in question, beyond my belief that such things are ridiculous. I will be more careful in the future.

p.s. Tola, I love Hello, Kitty stuff as well--in fact, I have several Hello, Kitty scrub tops......so with that one, anyway, I think it's fun and silly and I don't think you're goofy for liking it at all. Do they really have a Hello, Kitty waffle iron....?

Customer Service Isn't Dead....

2007-12-06T18:25:00.000-08:00

...but it's feeling rather poorly. In fact, there are times when I think it just needs to put its affairs in order and start shuffling off this mortal coil. Consider this (sadly true) story:

I was out this evening picking up the last of Mr. K's gifts (which I'd love to tell you about because I'm so excited about it but he does read my blog so nanny-nanny-boo-boo to you, Mr. K--I ain't giving it away THAT easily. Ahem. Back to your regularly scheduled adult.) and I stopped by a grocery store, and I decided to stop and pick up some of the turkey I've been craving lately (yes, I do realize it's just two weeks past Thanksgiving--honestly, I could eat turkey until I blow up and not feel the least bit badly about any part of it except Mr. K having to clean giblets off the walls). I tend to like to snack/graze rather than eating big meals, and my doctor tells me this is a splendid idea for me as long as it's healthy stuff, so I often keep sliced deli turkey and chicken around for snacking on. I don't even have bread with it--just have it stark, staring naked, because that's the kind of sicko I am. Anyway.

So I walked up to the deli counter, and I told the lady behind the counter "I would like a pound of the peppered turkey breast, but I would like it sliced more thickly than what you have in the case, please." Simple, right? And so it seemed to me....until the lady went and got the big hunk of turkey, headed to the slicer, and then turned back and said "Well, how thick do you WANT it?" in a tone that is usually reserved for things like "how big do you WANT your ass to be?"--i.e., "you are clearly a complete whacknut and I only hope that someone somewhere will remember that I was last seen with you."

I was taken a bit aback, but then figured that perhaps I'd misread the woman, perhaps I was tired and/or cranky (not as cranky as I was about to me, though..she said in a foreshadowing sort of way), so I smiled brightly as I replied that I wanted it about half again as thick as what was in the case. Problem solved, yes?

No. Because she looked at the turkey in the case, and then looked at me with pursed lips, before asking "What do you want it for?'' What do I.....wait, what??? What do I WANT it for? I have to generate and justify a three day plan for a pound of sliced turkey? Look, I'm not adopting it--I don't need a home study. I just want my slightly thicker turkey. I thought all of this--I didn't say it. In fact, I was so surprised by the question that all I managed was a weak "I'm sorry?" She frowned more deeply and repeated the question, adding "Are you going to eat it in sandwiches?"

Why no, kind helpful deli-lady. I'm not going to eat it at all. I'm going to stitch all the slices back together and try to fashion a cunning little lifelike turkey made of turkey meat to stand on the table for next Thanksgiving. Does it freeze well, I hope? Or maybe I'll make a meat parachute out of it and go hopping out of planes. I have a sneaking suspicion that it might just be the one plane..I've not heard any good safety reports on meat parachutes. Again, I thought--but did not say. Instead, I think I just stared at her because she finally walked over to the deli case and plucked out a slice of turkey so thin that I could make some pretty hot lingerie out of it...if it weren't for the fact that cat spit isn't such a great aphrodesiac. She held up the turkey for me to gaze through, while saying "Because this is plenty thick enough for sandwiches. We slice it pretty thick." Uh-huh. Remind me not to let her cut my birthday cake for me.

At this point, I was too tired to be confrontational--my feet were sore and my eyes felt lightly sanded and someone was playing the anvil chorus with real anvils just south of my right temple. Instead, I just stared at her briefly and then said "Okay, fine. Go ahead and give me a pound of that." At this point, she seemed to realize that perhaps she had not been giving the "number one customer service" advertised somewhat falsely on her chest, and she opted to make matters far worse by arguing with me some more, telling me that no, she'd be happy to cut more turkey for me. Look, I said, I'm tired. It's fine. Just give me a pound of the turkey. You don't have to slice it. You can just give me a hunk of meat to gnaw on. Or a bone. Whatever--just do it while I still have enough of my own teeth to eat it.

Okay, I wish I'd said all that. I actually only said the first line. But I thought the rest quite firmly. And still, she didn't get it. She held the hunk of meat in one hand while telling me that she'd be happy to cut some more for me, if only so I could have some that was fresh. Fresh? The stuff in the case isn't fresh? How the hell old IS it? I mean, is it collecting a pension? Is it wearing giant granny panties and support hose? What are we talking here? She went on to say that it had probably been sliced around noon today, and she'd be happy to cut more if that made a difference to me. I said no, just please put a pound of that turkey in the case in a bag for me. Please. So she proceeded to put about 4/5 of a pound of meat on the scale, looked at me, and asked brightly "Is that okay?" Is that--why would that be okay? I asked for a pound of thickly sliced turkey--why would that sound to anyone like 4/5 of a pound of stuff I could not only read through but probably WRITE through as well (I'm using a few slices of it grafted together for a glare shield on my computer now...quite effective, actually, except for not being able to see through all the cats)?

In the end, though, it was okay because I didn't want to argue with her and because I was tired of the great turkey adventure and because if I'd said anything it would have been in that angry, shrill voice that I get when people act like dorks. And then I would have felt silly.

As if the turkey glare shield and the peppered turkey bra and panty set weren't making me feel silly enough.....

"Ha, Ha, Ha--Merry Christmas!"

2007-12-04T18:34:00.000-08:00

Have most of you read about how Santas in Sydney, Australia have been told by the department store that hired them that they can't say "ho, ho, ho" any more, because it's demeaning to women? It's things like this that make me want to humbly hand over any claim I might have had to being a writer of the absurd--because surely, I cannot make up ANYTHING as stupid as this.

The department store had two supremely asinine things to say about this:

"We didn't tell them they couldn't...we simply advised them to exercise their own good judgement." Which is much like when my mother used to advise me that I could certainly miss dinner at my relatives' house, if I wanted to break my grandmother's heart. Yeah...it was kind of a choice...if I wanted my grandmothers imminent demise from a severe cardiac explosion on my conscience.
"We feel that the phrase 'ho, ho, ho' may be frightening to children." I admit that today's children are a bit more jaded than they were in my day, but I still can't picture some sweet little 4-year-old sitting in Santa's lap, and looking up at him to lisp winningly "Who you calling a ho, fat ass?" Call me crazy.

It makes me wonder just how far our society is willing to go to avoid offense, even if we have to imagine the offense in order to do it. For instance"

The familiar and beloved carol, "Do You Hear What I Hear?" must now be banned, because it may cause offense to deaf people...who obviously do not hear what I or anyone else hears.
"Winter Wonderland" must likewise be removed from the airways, in that it features an impulsive, underage marriage ("he'll say are you married? we'll say no, man---but you can do the job while you're in town) as well as impersonation of clergy by a snowman.
There will be no playing "Deck the Halls" anymore in the presence of children, in case the phrase "don we now our gay apparel" is offensive or demeaning to drag queens.
All songs and stories about "Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer" are right out. For one thing, the whole story smacks of blatant nose-ism, as well as open bullying that is never addressed. And, as Mr. K pointed out, the "red nose" reference could well be offensive to alcoholics who cannot help their condition and should not be asked to pull sleighs.
"Jingle Bells" is a no go--too many sufferers of tinnitus hear ringing all the time--it is unnecessarily cruel to sing happily about it.
"Santa Claus is Coming to Town" is also full of problems. For instance, when Santa finds out who's naughty and who's nice, isn't he really labelling children and discriminating against the ones who are merely being mischievous when they set the mailbox on fire and hawk their mother's jewelry to buy cigarettes? And, the line about "making a list and checking it twice" could be very hurtful to the obsessive-compulsives out there, who have no real choice but to make a list, and then check it and check it and check it and check it and....
"We Wish You a Merry Christmas" is all right on the surface...but there has been some concern that those people who are depressed during the season may not like having it thrown in their faces by being told what sort of Christmas to have. Extortion, in the form of figgy pudding demands, does nothing to improve the song and may form the foundation for a life of white collar crime/employment with the government.
"Frosty the Snowman" not only smokes a corn cob pipe, not only has eyes made of coal (not the cleanest source of energy, clearly), but is shown melting. Clearly this may be a painful reminder for children about global warming--hardly appropriate during the holiday season.
All references to Santa Claus involving the words "fat", "big", and "bowlful of jelly" are clearly size-ist and must be stricken from the holiday repertoire.
The song "Silver Bells" refers to bringing good cheer "to young and old, meek and the bold". Middle-aged folks are clearly excluded here, as are children who are neither meek nor bold but somewhere comfortably in the middle. Perhaps if the song included the phrase "appropriately assertive but not pushy or aggressive" it would be better.
"The Little Drummer Boy" is a lovely song, but potentially hurtful to both girls, and those who don't have rhythm.
"I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" is needlessly distressing to children, who may incorrectly believe that their mothers are engaged in an act of infidelity. Truly, the entire fabric of marriage in this country is threatened by this.
"All I Want For Christmas is My Two Front Teeth" certainly makes the implication that having teeth is better than not having teeth and, as such, is too judgmental for children to listen to.
"A Partridge in a Pear Tree" is clearly a song about obsessive love bordering on stalking--after all, if the gold rings didn't do it, it's cinch that bird crap all over the place from the geese a-laying and the swans a-swimming and two turtle doves probably ain't gonna do it. And yet, he keeps sending her more.
"Let it Snow" is just plain cruel to children living in such desert or tropical climes, unless care packages of snow can be sent to them via very fast courier.

It may be best if we all just sit quietly in our homes and hum "Silent Night" to ourselves and try not to offend anyone. And if you hang mistletoe, be sure not to use the word "fungus". The mistletoe is very sensitive about that little fact.

The Camera Did Not Remind Me To Take it Along

2007-12-02T15:51:00.000-08:00

Or, to put it another way, I am a complete spaz and completely forgot to take the camera along while we were hunting and bagging a Christmas tree. It might be just as well, though. The whole experience was absolutely wonderful and we'll definitely do it again next year...but the farmer in question apparently helps keep weeds down around the trees by letting the cows in to graze between the rows. Effective, and definitely cost-effective...but it is perhaps challenge enough to look up long enough to locate the perfect tree, and down long enough to avoid stepping in a giant cowpie. While keeping ones hands warm because it was cold enough to....well, let's just say there was a line of very worried brass monkeys outside the local welders. Adding in a camera may have had disastrous and somewhat dung-ish results.

We ended up choosing a Frasier pine, in that they last forever, have tight, short needles that lend themselves to ornament hanging, and the needles are green on top and silver underneath and so are unbelievably pretty. See for yourself:

Warning: this photo does not accurately reflect the two hours spent untangling lights that had magically unwound themselves from neat little coils over the last two years (remember, I was mad at pine trees in general after they took out the hood of my car last year, and absolutely refused to invite one inside) and became knots that would make a sailor proud. Or make a sailor swear. Or I used language that would make a sailor blush. It was one of those.

There are multiple cow ornaments on the tree--a tradition of ours because Mr. K use to work on dairy farms, and because Ms. K is just plain weird.

Speaking of cows, the old farmer who sold us the tree reminded me greatly of my Grandpa whom I adored and who was also a farmer. He (Grandpa) raised cows for beef and, later, huge amounts of wheat. Anyway, this farmer yesterday had several fields of assorted Christmas trees, and also four cows, happily munching away (clearly the gifted creators of the multitude of above-mentioned pies). They were Holsteins--the black and white ones that I adore--and I was charmed when the farmer told us the story of how he got them from a local dairy when they were just a day old, because they are male and the dairy doesn't have use for male calves, and still more charmed when he described feeding them through the night to keep them alive and more charmed yet when he said "they're my babies" and later "Yeah, they know when I'm coming to feed them. They recognize their mom." And then he reminded me still more of my pragmatic, old-school grandfather as he added cheerfully "I'm going to butcher 'em next summer and sell the meat." Ewww....... Mind you, Mr. K was delighted, since the resulting meat will cost no more than $2 - $2.50 per pound, and has now decided that he will purchase half a cow for us, along with a new freezer in which to store it.

Which begs the question: why have I been angsting so much about finding him the perfect gift...when clearly, I could have been wife of the year just by purchasing him half a dead cow? And another question: where else but the Northwest could you negotiate a Christmas tree and a half a cow, all at one time? The mind boggles.

Having finally put that lovely image out of my head (and put it into yours...sorry about that), I did manage to do more decorating (translation: I went quite happily nuts and the place looks like an elf threw up). This first picture is proof once again of my eternal optimism:

You can't see it, but the floor below that banister is oak, with no rug whatever to soften the blow when Gracie happily pokes her paws through the rails to knock the red and white balls to their doom. I know this, and I have even had the joy of awakening to the certain crash of exploding Christmas balls...and yet, there they are again. I can't explain it, other than to say I am the same woman who has enough knitting patterns to provide diverse wardrobes for all of Montana and half of Idaho. It's hope. It's not sensible or wise hope...but sometimes you have to work with what you have. And buy an extra box each of the frosted red and white balls.

I also decorated the sitting room, or family room, or whatever the heck that extra room is:

I have neither seven feet nor seven children...it is simply a further measure of my weirdosity that since there were seven nails in the mantel at stocking height when we moved in, I simply had to hang seven stockings. I suppose it makes as much sense as the nutcracker on the hearth that could no more crack a nut in its jaws than I could with my armpit. Not that I've tried, mind you....shell shards, and all.

Here's a picture of the same room from the other angle:

No, I have absolutely no idea why I felt you needed to see it from both directions. As I said, weird.

I am off to dip peanut butter balls in melted chocolate, having decided that the almond pastries were not up to my standards (that is, the little buggers stuck together in the freezer like they'd been iced with superglue), and then finally knit a bit in front of the tree and tv.

Happy Knitting....I still think you guys are the greatest.

Oh, Christmas Tree

2007-11-30T18:59:00.001-08:00

Mr. K and I are going to go out tomorrow to hunt and bag our own Christmas tree. Translation: we're tired of tree lot prices and going to try cutting our own at a Christmas tree farm. It seems unsportsmanlike to hunt farm raised trees but, then again, it also seems very VERY unsportsmanlike to charge so much money for a dying, soon-t0-be mulch tree that bankers have to get involved.

Okay, so I'm exaggerating a little, but not by much. When I was a kid, you could buy a Christmas tree for less than $20 (the ones the dinosaurs hadn't eaten, naturally). In fact, my parents grumbled bitterly if they had to spend a full $20, and it became holiday sport to try to find one with only one bare spot for $15 or less (the bare spot could go against the wall).

Nowadays, I live in the Seattle area, where it is yearround tradition to spend several times more on things than they could possibly be worth (need proof? Starbucks--home of the $3 cup of coffee--started right here), and where you can't even THINK about getting a Christmas tree for less than $50, and $80 or $90 is really the minimum for anything taller than the cats and more or less perky. Over $100 is not unusual at all. And you know, I'm all for getting completely and utterly screwed in order to bring home a temporary decoration that I will then throw out....but you really do have to draw a line somewhere. It's starting to feel a bit like when I bought my first car (and I use the term "car" quite loosely here, given that someone had sheared the bolts off the head gasket and replaced them with superglue....and I only WISH I'd made that up).

Me, walking onto a tree lot: "Hi, what do your Christmas trees cost?"
Sleazy Salesman: "Well, how much tree are you wanting to get into?"
Me: "What? How much tree? I don't know..5 or 6 feet? You know, a regular tree."
SS: "Yeah, but what kind of options you looking at?"
Me: "Options? What options? I just want a tree."
SS: "Are you gonna want branches on this tree?"
Me: "Branches? Of COURSE I want branches! What are you thinking?"
SS: "Okay, so you're wanting one of our higher end models. That'll cost you, of course, but I can see you're a discerning customer. What about pine needles? Do you want pine needles on the branches?"
Me: "Needles on the branches? Are you crazy? If they don't have needles, it's just be a bundle of sticks! Why would I buy a bundle of sticks?"
SS: "Well, now, some customers really enjoy our economy line of trees. Obviously, that isn't for you. Let's see...branches AND needles...yeah, you're talking luxury class."
Me: "LUXURY class? I just want a damned Christmas tree to hang damned ornaments on!!"
SS: "Oh, you want to hang ORNAMENTS on it. You didn't mention that. We'll need to look at the heavy duty line."
Me: "Heavy duty? I'm not going to hang bowling balls on it--just Christmas ornaments. You know, little baubles."
SS: "Are these ornaments heavier than, say, a post-it note?"
Me: "Well...yes. Of course they are."
SS: "Okay, yeah. You want the heavy duty, reinforced branches. I know it's tempting to cut costs now, but you'll regret it if you do. Those extra bucks won't seem so important once you have a living room full of ornaments and the kiddies are crying on Christmas morning because they can't find their presents..."
Me: "Okay, okay! Fine. A heavy duty tree. Now, what's this going to cost?"
SS: "Well, we're talking top of the line, here. But you know, I can save you a bit of money if you're not picky about color. Does it have to be green?"
Me: "Does it have to be....what?"
SS: "Green--you know. Green like grass. Because if it doesn't, I can get you into one of these brown ones over here for a great discount."
Me: "Brown? That's not just brown--it's freaking DEAD! You want me to pay money for a dead tree?"
SS: "Well, the brown line isn't for everyone. I understand what you're saying. Let's look at this little beauty over here. Multiple branches, lots of needles, and you could put at least three or four ornaments on this tree before it started to tip."
Me: "Look. I just. want. a Christmas tree. That's it. You know, a trunk, branches, needles, bark--that kind of tree?"
SS: "Wait-you want bark?"

And so it goes. So wish us luck. I'll try to remember the camera so you can share in the holiday joy of poor Mr. K laying on the cold ground to cut down a luxury, high-end Christmas tree.

It is a Good Day

2007-11-28T18:41:00.000-08:00

I know it is a good day, because when I came home there was nothing dead in the garage. Neither was there anything in the garage that I WISHED was dead, or that Mr. K would be pressed into making dead as soon as he comes home. This is a good day.

I may have mentioned that my priorities and standards have shifted a bit as I've gotten older. Specifically, they've shifted south faster than a pair of queen sized pantyhose with no elastic on a 90 pound woman with stork legs.

There was a time I would have thought it a good day if there was a Porsche in my garage when I got home. Later, I'd have thought it a good day if there was a paid-for vehicle in my garage. Later still, I'd have been looking for a clean, leak-free garage. Now, it's nothing dead/dying/should be dying.

Other reasons I know this is a good day:
I dressed in the dark so as not to traumatize Mr. K (who is still deathly afraid of light and sound in the unearthly hours BC--Before Caffeine) and still managed not to show up at work wearing a bright red bra beneath a white shirt.
Even better, I managed to not put my panties on sideways or inside out--and they weren't a bright color, either.
I did not throw my keys away (this is a new priority, of course, but one I'm delighted to have met just the same)
I remembered where I parked my car and did not believe for 10 panicky moments that it had been stolen (we shall not discuss this in depth....Mr K is STILL saying good-bye to me each morning with the phrase "I love you, have a good day, don't lose the car")
I did not jam a syringe full of cat dander protein into the tip of my thumb so hard that it hung there, wobbling slightly, while the patient I was about to give several injections to looked on in horror (yes, I did once and no, it did not feel nearly as good as I had hoped it might)
I did not fish the paper out of the mailbox in the dark and hear the unmistakable splash of a puddle the size of East New Brunseltucky swallowing up the Seattle Times.
I actually remembered, when walking down the stairs in the dark this lovely 4:00 am, that I had wound fake pine garland around the banister top to bottom--instead of forgetting, using the banister, and ending up with a newel post wrapped in 15 feet of lumped up fake greenery, and a pile of fake pine needles in the entryway.
I fed the cats without sticking my finger in the cat food, and so did not have to spend the morning answering the question "What fragrance are you wearing?" with an earnest "Mariner's Catch...and you?"
I finally managed to wear enough layers at work to not freeze my tushie off...never mind that I looked a lot like the Michelin man and could not actually put my arms down for most of the day.
I remembered to put ground coffee in the coffeemaker before turning it on, so Mr. didn't have to drink vaguely flavored hot water and complain bitterly about how much more caffeine it takes these days to really wake him up (it was a good day for Mr. K, too, in that he did not mix up the mug he drinks coffee out of and the mug he spits tobacco into and end up spitting in his coffee. Yes, he has done this in the past. Yes, it is a very good thing that he didn't mix them up the other way.)
No one barfed on me, my knitting, the couch, the carpet, the roof of the car, or my favorite pair of fleece pants.

See? A good day. And to think, I used to dread being middle-aged. Not anymore. Just look at all the drama/trauma/angst I've avoided in this one day alone!

Is It Wrong to Love a Blanket?

2007-11-27T18:45:00.000-08:00

No, Virginia, it is not necessarily completely wrong to love a blanket, as long as one is careful not to do so in public in an obvious way. And one must always ask the blanket's permission, in any case. But when it's THIS blanket, one can be forgiven for a small lapse in control and respect for wooly boundaries:

I know, you guys are probably sick of looking at this thing and are all smiling and nodding politely while racking your brains to think of a polite weay to say "Yep, it's still a big, green blanket." And I can't disagree with you, but I love it completely and absolutely and so I have to keep running to the camera and to the blog with such mindbendingly interesting posts as "Look, I've knitted another two inches--aren't they spectacular?"

Forgive me, if you can. I figure in another month or so it will be on the back of the couch infused with cat hair and I might possibly be somewhat more sane about the thing. Either that, or I'll have made all the cats tremblingly nervous by shouting at them whenever they're within breathing distance of the blanket, and will also have dipped them (the cats) in varnish, just to be doubly sure that the hairs stay put.

On the bright side, my passionate and forbidden love affair with a blanket has kept me from knitting a festive, Christmasy house cozy, hand dipping holiday candles using broken crayons and some old shoelaces, handpainting 1000 pieces of origami paper so as to have cranes in "just the right colors", and perhaps writing a brand new Christmas opera because, after all, it's nearly December and the stores are piping in holiday music wherever I go and I'm pretty convinced that there are subliminal messages working to convince me that I'm more craft inclined than I actually am and that sleeping one hour out of every 40 in order to make still more use of the glue gun is actually quite a good idea.

In the 80's or so, there was a big hue and cry over the notion of "backward masking"--the practice of recording a second track backwards on a record, so that when you played it correctly you heard a rock song but if you played it backwards, you got some sort of evil message. If it was a rock song, the rumor/hysteria went, there would be satanic messages when played backwards. (If it was a country song played backwards, you probably got your woman, your dog, and your pick-up truck back, but Satan was probably still drunk off his ass on Budweiser, sobbing about the woman that did him wrong). It took awhile for the panic artists to realize that almost no one had the ability to play records backwards anyway except for radio DJ's and, since they were playing rock and roll all day they were probably already evil so it didn't much matter.

All of which leads me to my new theory that the holiday music played incessantly from dawn til dusk in all the local stores is actually a cover for some clever masking wherein innocent shoppers like me are advised that they can construct an entire nativity scene out of pipe cleaners, use a straw and a disposable lighter to hand blow molten hard candy into intricate shapes, knit gifts for 700 people during a few lunch hours, and fashion a convincing Star of Bethlehem out of old gum wrappers. This could explain quite a bit. Like why I have a small but growing pile of paper cranes and my freezer contains enough fat and sugar to explode a cow.

Come to think of it, it's possible that the same phenomenon is also responsible for the acquiring of holiday sweaters by otherwise sane women who, the rest of the year, cannot imagine that they would spend $50 on a red cardigan with green felt tree shapes on the fronts, decorated lovingly with a whole bunch of beads and jingling bells and ribbons and really anything that would otherwise reside in perfect dignity at the bottom of the sewing basket instead of across the breasts of these same poor women. Really, if your breasts jingle, you are likely a victim of the retail holiday music plot and should consider wearing ear muffs (and maybe boob muffs) the next time you shop.

I believe this plot to be the brainchild of merchants everywhere--after all, it's a win-win for them. Look at it this way: first, you will buy the glue sticks/glitter/styrofoam balls/beads/tragic holiday sweater which, of course, puts money directly in the hands of the merchants. Then, you'll come back for burn ointment for the glue gun incident, some sort of solvent to try to unglue the fake pine boughs from your cat's butt, a flashlight to help you locate the shiny bead your toddler just stuffed up his nose, a book on family health to determine whether eating half a styrofoam ball can be harmful, and a new vacuum cleaner that promises to be strong enough to suck 10 pounds of multi-colored glitter out of a white carpet (but is more likely to suck the fibers out in odd, random patches while leaving the glitter scattered shinily about). Then, if that weren't enough, your friends will take pity on you wandering around with bandaged fingers, a pissed off cat, a toddler with sparkly snot, a collection of chewed up styrofoam, a carpet with premature balding, and a pair of jingling boobs and come to buy you ornaments so you don't have to make them, a new sweater that does not bear such a close resemblance to a disco ball, a gross of kleenex for your toddler, and a bottle of something that will hopefully make you forget where the instructions are for making that lifelike reindeer out of pretzels and some canned frosting.

Loving the blanket may be weird, but it keeps me out of Fred Meyer and Macy's. Which is why I haven't purchased various sorts of candy and glued them together in little train shapes to attach to presents (don't laugh--I really did that one year). This is a very good thing, indeed.

Stop Me Before I Craft Again

2007-11-25T15:36:00.000-08:00

I have just finished the Miner's Blanket Project, arguably one of the largest things in which I've ever participated (there was also the time in high school when I decided to crochet a patchwork bedspread for a queen sized bed and no two squares could be alike and there were different patterns AND different colors and most of the patterns were designed be me including, God help me, a PLAID one--proof, if you ever wanted it, that the Knitingale brain cells began to trickle out early).

I just came off of what may be a personal kitchen best in that I have baked 11 items for goodie basket/tin giftgiving in 3 days:

Cookies and cream fudge
Milk chocolate and almond fudge (which, comfortingly, refused to set up until I messed with it some more in a damp panic--it's nice to know some things never changed. I did attempt to throw out the recipe since I believe it's the same one that's caught me before and honestly, you'd think even a person with two brain cells total could figure out to toss that particular recipe unless they have a thing for lumpy ice cream topping--but the damned thing disappeared. I still can't find it and I'm not naive enough to believe that it got tossed out anyway. No, I know that it's slunk back into my recipe file somewhere so that I can honor the same sorts of handwringing/swearing/shrieking tradition in the years to come)
Maple Pecan fudge
Cinnamon Tea Cakes (tasty, but I am apparently challenged in the measuring department, in that I complained to Mr. K that it was unfair that the recipe make half as much as it was supposed to and I didn't even eat the dough and he said maybe I made them too big and I said no, they're supposed to be one inch balls....aren't these one inch balls? and he stared at them and then walked outside laughing. My balls are too big, and get your mind out of the gutter, willya?)
Double Almond Pastries
S'mores Bars
Chocolate Raspberry Bars
Truffle Brownies
Orange Cranberry Bars
Chocolate Peppermint Cookies
2 Loaves of Pumpkin Bread

I have eleventeen works in progress, which is Knitingale speak for "I'm pretending that I'm going to finish this even though we all know I'm just waiting until it's sat there long enough that everyone who ever saw it forgot about it and I no longer feel guilty about unravelling it"

I have the Boku beckoning me shamelessly every time I come near it.

I could invest ten years and 3.5 gallons of elbow grease and still not fully de-cookie my kitchen.

And yet.....and yet........

And yet, I have a terrible and compelling urge to dig out some origami paper and make hundreds of cunning little paper cranes to thread on gold thread and hang on the Christmas tree that we don't have yet. Oh, and find the glue gun and repair the garland of peppermints I made the other year and maybe make it a little longer (you just glue the little twisty cellophane ends together...and burn your thumb and forefinger holding them until the glue sets--this last is apparently very important.). And make a little snowman family out of styrofoam balls and knit scarves and hats for them.

I have lost my mind.

I think perhaps, for the good of all humanity, I should go lie down. Would anyone like to come try to talk some sense into me? I have cookies.

Verily, My Kitchen is Trashed and There is Chocolate in My Hair.

2007-11-23T13:20:00.001-08:00

Surely it is the time for holiday baking. (Yes it is, and stop calling me Shirley--why do I never get tired of that joke? Aside from sleep deprivation, I mean.)

Mr. K and I have no children and do not live close to any famly, so holiday traditions tend to be a bit thin on the ground-that is, aside from the annual "Cursing of the Tangled Lights", "The Losing of the Ornament Hooks" (we put away the equal numbers of ornaments and hooks every year, and the next year invariably take out about 1/3 more ornaments than hooks...I'm starting to wonder if we have mice with a metal deficiency or a neighbor with a lockpick and a hook fetish), and everyone's favorite "Screaming at the Cat as She Bats Happily at the Glass Ornaments and Wonders What Everyone's So Excited About". But there is also The Holiday Baking.

In truth, and all my tales of culinary disaster notwithstanding, I actually am an okay baker. And I like doing it, which means that I look forward hugely to the process of choosing recipes (always on Thanksgiving and not one minute sooner), purchasing ingredients (always the morning after Thanksgiving when everyone else is at the malls knocking over small children to buy the latest electronic toy) and, of course, making the goodies. These goodies all get frozen and then taken out and arranged on plates--2 - 3 of each cookie/bar/etc--to be handed or mailed to people I love/care about/appreciate.

There are some old standards that I make yearly--my Aunt Lori's Pumpkin Bread, for instance, is the stuff of legend. It is dense and moist and spicy and is topped with a cinnamon and nutmeg glaze and tastes like Christmas to me. (Well, except for that year when I tipped a tiny bit too much nutmeg into the icing and it somehow tasted like deodorant soap. It's a mystery--a little nutmeg = good. A lot of nutmeg = Lifebuoy soap. I don't get it...but I'm very careful with the nutmeg these days.) Also, the Truffle Brownies that I invented because anything with enough chocolate to choke a moose can't be bad. Oh, and the cranberry orange bars with the oatmeal topping, primarily because it's another tradition for Mr. K to look at them when they're done and announce that "that might be really good if it weren't for the oatmeal crap on top." Because yes, crap cookies were what I was going for.

But it wouldn't be Christmas if I didn't try out some new recipes. After all, what's a holiday if you don't find yourself at zero hour, loading cookies into baskets and realizing with dawning horror that the new recipe that was supposed to be "delicious, mouth-watering, a sure favorite with the whole family!" tastes, in actual fact, like ass and now there's a big empty spot in the arrangement and what the hell am I going to put in it because if I just put more of everything else then then there won't be as many cookies and..... (insert soft sobbing and/or desperate shrieking here).

One of this years new ones, optimistically named "Outrageous Double Chocolate Chunk Cookies" and promptly altered by me to be "Chocolate and Peppermint Cookies", has some interesting directions in the recipe. Specifically, it asks me to "melt the chocolate in a small bowl. Set aside to cool--BUT DON'T LET IT HARDEN." Don't let it harden? Cool it, but don't let it harden? What am I supposed to do--show it pictures of ugly chocolate? (Yes, I know...I just lowered the tone of my blog significantly. This is another symptom of the baking melee--a tumble to base humor that is directly related to assorted, ingredient-related stressors.) Seriously, though, am I really supposed to override the rules of basic chemistry so that a substance that is solid at room temperature suddenly isn't? I have a dark suspicion that the recipe creator may have also designed a few knitting patterns.....I know I've faced the same sort of impossible requests in a more wooly medium.

In any case, there are many things without which it would not be the holidays around Chez Knitingale. For instance:

If I did not eat my weight in cookie dough and then complain bitterly that the recipes never make as many cookies as they say they will. (Mr. K has both the good grace and the native intelligence to avoid speculating on the cause of this strange phenomenon--one of many reasons we are so very good together.)
If I did not lose one of my 1 -cup measuring cups early in the day, thus requiring the constant washing and drying of the other one and assuring that the drying will never be fully complete and will result in damp flour, soggy sugar, and seized chocolate.
If I did not then find the missing measuring cup tucked neatly into the flour bag where I put it this morning, apparently quite certain that it would be far more convenient for me.
If I did not have one batch of fudge refuse to set up, creating the world's most expensive, labor-intensive ice cream topping. Lumpy, too, if I was trying for fudge with nuts. The fudge I made this morning seems to have made it to fudginess, but the season's early. There's still the maple walnut fudge and the cookies and cream fudge to break my spirit.
If I did not look up from what I was doing at some point to find a cat happily window shopping the cooling bread/cookies/candy/whatever, causing me to scream and then frantically toss out anything that might possibly be contaminated with cat snot, spit, or toe jam.
If I did not manage to break several of the only cookies that Mr. K dislikes, thus requiring me to eat food that I'm not supposed to eat, or throw away perfectly good broken cookies--a serious crime where I come from.
If I did not forget to take out the butter early enough to soften on at least one of my baking days, resulting in an overwrought whine from the hand mixer as its beaters clog up with cold butter chunks and a strange, un-Christmasy sort of smell in the general region of the motor.
If Mr. K did not remind me again that the motor is only so big and maybe I should let the butter soften a bit before I try to beat it.
If I did not reconsider what/who needed beating as soon as Mr. K decided to entertain me with the above selection from "Statement of the Obvious Theater" (I love you, Sweetie, you know I do!).
If I did not drop at least one messy item on the floor, fail to notice it, and then track chocolate or melted butter or icing all over the house before catching on (in my defense, I do not cook barefoot as I have as much ability to maintain heat in my feet as does a popsicle, and it's hard to feel even molten chocolate through a sweatsock).
If I did not remember only after baking four different items that I should probably have cleaned out the freezer first, since holding it closed with a big elastic band didn't seem to work last time.
If I did not forget about the last batch of one type of cookie and end up making little chocolate charcoal balls.

Ah, yes. Tis the season.

Oh, I nearly forgot--the blankets went out to Utah today. Hooray! It was really very civilized--turns out all I had to do was get to the Post Office 10 minutes before it opened with my "I haven't had my tea yet, don't mess with me" face, and I was in and out in under 8 minutes.

Whoops--time to take out the chocolate charcoal balls.

What Are You Thankful For?

2007-11-22T13:04:00.000-08:00

For me this year, it's something different. It's you. I am so very thankful for all of you--whether or not you ever comment--for many reasons, but today because of this:

I know, it's hard to differentiate one from another. Turns out, it's hard to get that much love into one picture, or even two. But there are definitely six blankets there and it's all because of you. Even if you didn't knit or crochet a darned thing, I felt you believing in this project. I think all of our energy did this great thing, and I am thankful for it and for you.

I think you had the hard part. After all, it's a piece of cake to sit on the couch watching movies and joining squares (feline assistance aside), but it is a leap of faith to send your beautiful handiwork to someone you've never met, in the hope that she will do it justice. It is a leap of faith to assume that that same someone will be able to get all the ducks in a row and get the blankets where they're going. It is a huge leap of faith to give one or two or ten pieces of a huge creation, and just know that the rest will arrive. Thank you for taking that leap with me. One of my very favorite expressions is "When you take the leap and step off the edge, you must believe one of two things: either there will be someone to catch you, or you will be taught how to fly." I think you guys did both, and it makes me feel so very blessed.

I boxed up the blankets this morning and will be taking them to the Post Office tomorrow. They are going to the Mayor of Huntington, Hilary Gordon, because she is the one who has been distributing items to the miner's families. In order that she not think some crazy person had sent her three boxes of yarn (I put two in each box), I included a letter to explain the Miner's Blanket Project. I'll put an excerpt from it below:

Dear Mayer Gordon:

Enclosed please find 2 of 6 handmade blankets (there are a total of 3 packages), intended for the families of the 6 miners who were tragically killed in August. There is a story to this, as you might imagine.

In August, when I first began to see news coverage about the miners, I was tremendously moved and wanted with all my heart to be able to do something, anything. Of course, there was little anyone could do. Finally, after a week or so and as hope was beginning to dim for the men, I used my weblog to ask if anyone would be willing/interested in helping me to knit squares that I might put together into 6 blankets—one for each family. I thought I might get a few people saying they might be able to help; at that point, I admit that I had little hope that I could get the project off the ground. I was quickly proven wrong. Within 24 hours I had e-mails from all over the world, many of them stating that they had one square partially finished and wanted to know where to mail them. I was astounded.

Even with that outpouring of support, I still doubted that I would be able to get all the squares I needed. I had asked for 10-inch squares, with the intent of making each blanket 6 rows x 5 rows—meaning I would need a total of 180 squares. This seemed daunting to me, so I started making squares myself. At my most optimistic, I assumed I would end up making half of them. Again, the generosity of people in general and knitters in particular took me by surprise. I made the request in early September; by mid-October, I had 192 squares, as well as donations of money for postage, yarn for edging, and more yarn to give as gifts to people who donated squares. It was a phenomenal outpouring.

It took me until last weekend to finish assembling the squares into the incredible displays of hope, support, and unity that I have mailed to you. My goal was to have them done in time to be given for Christmas, as it seems that the first Christmas without a loved one would be a terribly painful and lonely time—a good time to hear the message that you are not alone, not forgotten. You will note that some of the squares have notes or tags or cards attached to them. Some knitters opted to send along messages of support and caring and so I left them with the squares for the recipients to read.

Thank you so very much for taking this project on the next step of its journey. It has been an experience both somber and joyous—somber in that it is rooted in such a horrific accident and so very much suffering and loss; joyous in that I have had the opportunity to be reminded quite graphically of the real goodness of people. There are squares in these blankets from as far away as the United Kingdom; as close as right there in Utah. People everywhere care about your town and its losses. I join them in offering our deepest sympathy for your pain.

I know it's been said....but I love you guys. There is no way to thank you enough--for the catching, and for the flight lessons. I want to be like all of you when I grow up.

Happy Thanksgiving to one and all. So far, this is my best one ever.

Love,

Ms. Knitingale

Me and the Scarecrow

2007-11-20T18:53:00.001-08:00

A riddle for you: What has 9 bazillion pounds of yarn for the petting and is as dumb as a box of hair?

Answer: That would be me. No, I'm not being self-deprecating, although I may need to apologize to boxes of hair everywhere for denigrating their fine, hairy intellects. Truth is, I'm an idiot and need only a little girl from Kansas with a small black dog, a man made of tin, and a strange talking lion to accompany me on a journey to get a brain. Because here's what I did:

I went to Knit for Life last night (that's not the dumb part). I walked from my car into the hospital and sat in the same spot and knat for two hours (still not the dumb part, although my back might beg to differ). I walked out to my car...and my keys were gone. ALL my keys. I emptied my purse. I emptied my knitting bag. I looked in the gutter and on the ground around the entire path I took from car to hospital. And yet, believe it or not, we're still not to the really dumb part.

'Cause I finally gave up and went home (thanks to the valet key I keep in my purse--the only known proof of any brain activity in my head whatsoever) and just as I was driving onto my block, I remembered: I had eaten a banana on the way to Knit for Life (no, still not the stupid part) and I had not wanted to leave the peel in my car so that it smelled like monkey breath all the way home (getting closer to the dumb part). You can see this coming, can't you? I walked into the hospital, I found a garbage can, I tossed away the peel....and as near as I can figure, I also tossed out a keyring containing three or four sentimental-value type keychains, a $50 computer-chip-containing car key, the remote fob that goes with the key, my house key, the key to my work, three assorted little dealies from supermarkets that give you discounts while shopping, and a bewildering number of odd keys whose purpose remains a mystery to me.

It is, I believe, one of the great mysteries of life how pretty much everyone I know somehow manages to accumulate a number of keys whose purpose is unknown to them. Either keys breed when we're not looking just to mess with our heads, or there is a sick little key fairy who sneaks them onto the ring while we sleep; then hangs around snickering to himself when we try to figure out what the hell the things unlock--maybe even walk around the house trying to open shit, with the apparent hope that perhaps--just perhaps--we or our significant other might have installed a lock on the microwave and forgotten to mention it. Or we all have memories that are fading faster than Tom Cruise's popularity. It's got to be one of those things. I vote for the fairy.

I called the hospital as soon as I got home and the nice young man from security (nice because he waited until I was out of earshot before muttering something about crazy old broads who probably have to write themselves notes to remind them how to put panties on each morning) went down to search the garbage can but, in a stunning display of efficiency heretofore unseen in any hospital I've yet visited, the cleaning crew had been and gone. Just like that, no more keys.

See what I mean? I cannot be trusted with shiny objects.

The good news is that Mr. K, who was apparently using the family brain the day we bought the Toyota, refused to sign unless they promised to give us a second key and key fob. He figured it would come in handy some day. I'd kind of hoped it wouldn't have anything to do with my marshmallowy brain, but you can't have everything (where would you put it?). And, since I use a garage door opener and go in and out of the house through the connecting door (which is never locked), the house key is not an emergency and we can copy Mr. K's this weekend. And even my boss took pity on me and gave me another work key. The supermarkets will probably issue me new savings cards. So really, the only irreplaceable items lost (besides the keychain made in a remote village in Africa that I got at a fundraising dinner and no small amount of dignity) are the half dozen or so keys to whatever the fairies stole them from. I guess I can live with that.

On the way home tonight, I stopped at Fred Meyer to pick up a new keychain or two--something loud and rattly and shiny and not easily lost (like the light up, moooing cow on the one I lost was somehow quiet and subtle--delusion is a sad thing). Turns out they do not have a 12 pound cowbell that rings at 78 decibels if dropped into a garbage can with a banana peel (I know--I was surprised, too) so I was stuck with a stylized silver key and a little medallion that says something about living and loving and laughing and not being a complete and total nitwit. Okay, I made the last bit up...turns out they don't have that, either. But they should.

Anyway, I got to thinking about what I might do to avoid such moments of brain death in the future. Here's what I came up with:

Connect my keys to a long, knitted string and thread it through my jacket sleeves like we used to do to humiliate kids when they lost their mittens too often. It has the added advantage of providing humor to anyone who wishes to come tug on the key sticking out of my right sleeve, thus causing me to hit myself in the head with the other hand as the string tightens up.
Wrap my keys in a ball of multi-colored sock yarn, such as Colinette Jitterbug in the Mardi Gras colorway. It could be raining steak knives and I'd still take a moment to make sure THAT was safe.
Paint my keys brown and wrap them in Hershey's wrappers. When have you ever known me to lose chocolate?
Have my forehead tattooed with the phrase "Ask me about my keys". It'd be a conversation starter if nothing else.
Tie them around my neck on a dirty, knotted piece of white string and then get my mother to threaten to beat me if I lose it. It worked quite well when I was a child.
Get a St. Bernard dog and attach my keys to its collar when not in use. It would be a bit more work, true...but I think it would be tougher to lose a whole dog than it was to lose a ring of keys (which was WAY easy).
Have all my keys remade in the same stuff they make superballs out of--you know, those ones that you used to bounce around the house while your mother screamed at you to take it outside and the cat nearly got whiplash trying to track the thing? That way, even if I drop them, they should bounce right back to me.
Give them to a bank manager and then default on a loan. I'd NEVER lose those babies--they'd be hot on my heels no matter where I was.
Roll them in ham and then just watch for the crowds of dogs and cats.
Announce to my husband that they have disappeared and cannot be found. History shows that whenever I utter this sentence about anything, the item in question immediately removes itself from wherever it is, rips through time and space faster than a medical office can go through a plate of free food (it's not pretty, let me tell you), and tucks itself lovingly into his hand so can look pityingly at me as I stammer unconvincingly that I looked EVERYWHERE.

I'll be headed off to Oz now, but I don't have a ton of hope. After all, even if he gave me a brain, it's a cinch I'd put it down somewhere and lose it.

Oh, I nearly forgot--the miners blankets are FINISHED. Seriously--they really, really are. Which might explain where my brain cells are. I think crocheting may actually eat them. Anyway, I'll get Mr. K to take a picture of me with all of them before I wrap them up and mail them to Utah. Is this exciting, or what??

If You Have a Choice....

2007-11-18T17:36:00.000-08:00

...between Christmas shopping for Mr. K, and having your toes chewed off by rabid hamsters while sitting naked in an igloo, do yourself a favor: save up for a hamster wheel. You never know--distraction could go a long way. And you REALLY don't want to go Christmas shopping for Mr. K.

Don't get me wrong--I absolutely adore my husband. Mr. K is kind and funny and smart and loving and silly and tender and generally my very best friend and greatest love. It is also about as easy to buy gifts for him as it is to hand tie cooked spaghetti to a moving train while riding a horse. Backwards. I may have had this rant last year--if so, feel free to go knit a few rows and come back. Otherwise, read on and share my pain.

See, you knew there was going to be pain involved as soon as you realized that I was Christmas shopping before Thanksgiving, didn't you? And you were correct--I would much rather be panicking at 11:25pm on Christmas Eve and trying to wrap something from Rite Aid in an empty cardboard toilet paper tube and hoping that the thought really IS all that counts. You know, like normal people. But the fact is that I live in the Greater Seattle Area, which means that Christmas shopping after Thanksgiving is only slightly less chaotic than the running of the bulls in Pamploma, with nearly as many tramplings and quite as many gorings (I do realize that I could probably impact that last number if I didn't insist on carrying my knitting with me...on long straight #10's...but that's another matter entirely). For that reason, and because I cannot afford the additional crazy that shopping in such circumstances is likely to inflict upon me (got plenty, thanks), I graciously made my way out to the shops today to shop for Mr. K. (If you understand "graciously" to mean "I sulked and pouted and glared at anyone who attempted to touch any item I was even remotely considering within a 10 foot radius." There's a reason no one likes to shop with me at Christmas time.)

Let's start with clothes. Mr. K has a lot of rules about clothes. When we shop together, a typical interchange goes like this:
Me (holding up attractive shirt): "This is nice...what about this?"
Mr. K (with expression on his face suggesting that someone somewhere nearby has dung on their shoe): "Ew. No, I wouldn't ever wear that color." (Picks up another, nearly identical shirt in a shade approximately 1/8th off of the one in my hand. ) "But look at this one. I really like this one."
Me: "?"
Me: "But.....they're practically the same shirt!"
Mr. K (looking askance at the heathen in his presence): "They're not at all the same. For instance, I'd never wear that one."

Which is when I try hard not to scream. And then again today when he told me that he really could use some new, long-sleeved shirts for when he starts his next job. That sounds easy, but let me assure you: it is easy in the same way that parking a 1957 Chevy in a restroom stall is easy. It is easy in the same way that threading an elephant through a turnstile to get on the subway is easy. It is easy in the way that finding a shred of Brittany Spear's dignity or self-respect is easy--that is to say, pretty much impossible.

Some of the rules are pretty clear, such as "no stripes". Many of the rules, however, are vague and known only to Mr. K and a buddhist monk somewhere on a tibetan hillside who has taken a vow of silence and anyway does not talk to women and has a sore throat--such as why one of two nearly identical shades of blue is "perfect" while another is "really gross". Some of the ones I know:

As mentioned above, there can be no stripes, with the caveat that even a single stripe bisecting a shirt at chest level is still a stripe. And the two halves of the shirt are now really fat stripes. Therefore, it is clearly a striped shirt and definitely off limits.

It may not be any shade of red, yellow, orange, or white. It may only rarely be black and frankly, that sort of exception is best left to Mr. K. It may, in fact, only be dark blue, forest green, or one of two shades of gray that are never in the stores I shop in, even though all the wrong ones inevitably are. Brown is right out.

It may not be in any way a sweater--not even a thin sweater, not even a stylish sweater, not even a handknit sweater--not even a cashmere sweater. It may not have friends who are sweaters. It may not have fantasies about being a sweater.

It may not have a collar and it may never EVER have short sleeves. I'm not sure if Mr. K goes through life fearing a monkey attack on his wrists or what...but he seems to think that short sleeves are the devil. Unless he's wearing a ratty t-shirt...and even that's a little risky.

It may not be any sort of wool or wool blend--too dangerously close to sweater territory.

It may have a logo on it, or it may not--this is one of those rules that is troubled by the vagaries of Mr. K's mood at the time of purchase.

It may not be light enough in color that spilled coffee or chewing tobacco would show (I know, it would be easier if he avoided spitting on himself....but there you are).

It may not have any polyester in it at all, due to Mr. K's fear that he will wear it into the metal shop, stand too close to the forge, and set himself alight. The fact that he has special work clothes for the shop and would be tackled by me in short order if he attempted to wear his new Christmas shirt in there with all the grease and fire and metal bits does not, apparently, figure into his reasoning with this one.

And there are non-shirt rules, as well. Socks are desirable as gifts (honestly, he really likes getting them) but they must be white cotton, they must not have stripes on them (I'm not sure if he was terrorized by a stripe in his childhood or what), and they must be exactly the right length to go over his calf but no further. I inherit the socks that fail this exacting test...which is why I have a whole drawer full of socks and he needs new ones each year after the two pairs that passed muster LAST year have gotten worn thinner than the page of a 200-year-old hymn book.

He does not wear hats. He does not wear scarves. He does not wear gloves except for a pair that he has had for some years that understand him. These gloves are special friends and threatening to supplant them is a bad judgement call indeed.

He does not play golf, go boating, or bowl--thus eliminating an entire shelf of "gifts for the man in your life" in most stores right now. Can't say I blame him there. I'm still trying to figure out what marketing genius figured that 12 items ought to be just about right to create a Christmas wonderland for 175,000 different men. Some of them REALLY different.

He is not a "motorhead"--that is, he does not spend time or money doing anything to his truck but driving it. I did have success one year buying him a seat warmer for it but, since he still has just the one ass, I think that gift idea has pretty well been used up.

He has a perfectly dreadful wallet made of stingray that creeps me out if I ever have to touch it--which is probably part if why he likes it so much and will never part with it in favor of one that I purchase for Christmas. It's fun to give the wife the heebie-jeebies.

He enjoys a limited number of musicians and has all the music of theirs that he wants. Once a person has Blondie, Toad the Wet Sprocket, Peter Gabriel, and Queen, Mr. K does not understand why that person would waste money on more music.

He loves his tools and always wants more, but they are all terribly precise and expensive items that can be found only in a tiny hidden shop at the end of an alley in a small town in Outer Mongolia which is open from 10pm to 10:15 pm on the third Thursday of every month with an R in it. No one knows what they're for besides Mr. K and a few other knifemakers who are, apparently, sworn to secrecy.

He does not do puzzles, play games, build models, have or want an ipod, or collect anything except the abovementioned tools. He likes to go out and pet them. This is not a real help in choosing Christmas gifts.

A gift certificate is, clearly, the most logical choice and yet, Ms. K unfortunately has Christmas foibles of her own. Specifically, she wants to surprise Mr. K on Christmas morning with the perfectly chosen gift, without him having any clue what it might be, without him already having it, without him having to guide the process, and without him knowing how much was spent. In other words, Ms. K is sworn to defend the ridiculous yet again.

I fear it may be a long December.

Go Here. Buy Yarn.

2007-11-16T17:50:00.000-08:00

This, my children, is what we call Ms. Knitingale being an enabler. Let's all say it together now....

But seriously, you must go here. It's The Knitting Zone and I just bought the rest of the Boku for this astounding piece of knitter's crack (and no, I don't mean for knitters who wear low rise jeans and keep dropping their knitting):

15 squares into it and not only am I not tired of it, I've been wondering if the 63 squares called for in the pattern will really make it big enough for my taste.....? Seriously--I'm starting to wonder what Plymouth coated the pattern paper with. But I digress.

So I went to the Knitting Zone and ordered the rest of the yarn for the Boku because of the superhighway to hell that I'm building (I've actually got it 8 lanes wide in both directions these days) with all those good intentions (like buying it a little at a time, maybe, hmm?) and because really, it was absolutely the cheapest way to do it. For one thing, they ship orders over $50 for free and for another, it's out of state and I didn't have to pay Washington State sales tax, which is somewhere between "Are you freaking HIGH?" and "Can I just give you my firstborn child instead?" Frankly, I think the governer needs to send me some accounting about how he's spending all this money I keep giving him in return for the pleasure of spending money. More on that later.

I ordered the yarn on Tuesday. As far as I can tell, what happened next is that a magical moonbeam transported the information to a little leprechaun stationed down the street from my house who promptly ran up the road and stuffed the yarn in my mailbox, because the stuff arrived YESTERDAY. Two days. I can't get stuff from INSIDE the state that quickly. It probably would have made it in one day if the leprechaun hadn't had to stop for a stepstool to reach into the mailbox. These people totally rock. The yarn was well-packaged, all in stock, and did I mention it was here in two days? That's faster than I could probably convince my lazy ass to drive to any LYS more than 5 miles from my house. LOVE the Knitting Zone. And I was so impressed I wrote them a note and told them I would tell you all about how awesome they are, so here I am and they are, indeed, pretty darned awesome.

But since I was talking about the governer, allow me to share just a teensy weensy bit of my frustration with you. See, Washington is either the most taxed state in the union, or close to it. No state income tax (probably because there isn't enough left to tax once we pay all the other taxes) but sales tax is nearly 10% in some areas. There's tax on cigarettes, alcohol, rental cars--probably one on using more than two squares of toilet paper if you care to look into the matter...which I really, really don't.

Thing is, I can think of some WAY better ideas for taxes. I mean, if we have to have them and if nothing is going to get taken care of until we do (because in spite of all these taxes, the roads are still in such crappy shape that you could go play pool on main street and use the potholes for pockets), why not at least have sensible taxes? For instance I think we could make a fortune on irritation tax:

Irritation tax should be applied to everyone who feels obligated to trot out such gems as "hot enough for you?", "yep, it's Wednesday--all day." , and "nucular" instead of "nuclear."

It could be applied to anyone who comes up behind you humming "The Pina Colada Song", "I Write the Songs" or anything else that is guaranteed to stick in your head until you want to bash your head against the wall on the theory that the ringing in your ears might drown out the damned song.

There could be a huge surcharge for those people who drive up to a four-way stop at the same time you do and, when you gesture to them to go, simply smile at you and gesture back that no, you should go. It's cute on that cartoon with the chipmunks--when driving, it's just that much longer that we both have to sit there in traffic and read other people's bumper stickers for entertainment. After all, aren't you just dying to learn what the guy in the green chevy would rather be doing?

There could definitely be a tax for people who are worried that they might forget what their favorite perfume smells like so they somehow manage to marinate every pore in their body in it on the apparent theory that if they do forget, people a mile and a half away will be able to accurately describe it to them.

There should be a tax for that guy who comes to the bank during the busiest hours with six bags of quarters and realizes only when it's his turn that he forgot to take out the Canadian ones.

Likewise the woman in the express lane at the supermarket with more coupons than merchandise and no understanding of the the term "expiration date" as it applies to said coupons.

Every clothing store that has those little partial doors on the dressing rooms--you know, the ones that essentially cover you from nipples to knees if you happen to be exactly 5'6" and otherwise really don't cover you much at all--should have to pay at least 25 cents per unnecessarily displayed inch of flesh.

People with cell phone ring tones that are ear-splittingly loud, poorly done versions of pop songs but who still can't seem to notice that yes, it's their phone ringing until about the 3rd solid minute--these people should definitely be taxed, preferably enough that they can no longer pay their cell phone bill and must rely on a land line telephone in the privacy of their own homes.

See? Only a few ideas and already we could have enough money for the State of Washington to fix its roads and care for its kids and probably give 50 bucks and a pet goldfish to every man, woman and child. Why don't they ever ask me? Oh yeah...that's right. That would make me a politician and I've already refused the necessary surgery to remove my integrity. Gussie and Gracie say they're just as glad about that--as you can see, they were a little worried:

Ed doesn't really give a rat's tushie...although he could probably work up a little enthusiasm if someone could share with him the location of the rest of the rat.....

I Could Not Make This Stuff Up....

2007-11-14T18:04:00.001-08:00

This may actually be back in the "you might be a redneck if...." department--see what you think.

From the Associated Press comes the story of a man in Kitsap County (a county or so over from the one I live in) who apparently had been working on repairing a Lincoln Continental for about two weeks. At that point, he decided to remove the right rear wheel but was not able to get the last lug nut off. He tried and he tried and he probably cursed and tried some more (the paper doesn't mention that...but I feel fairly confident about it) and then finally took the only action that a real man could reasonably take.

He shot it.

No, really. He went and got a 12-gauge shotgun and fired it at the stubborn lug nut from about arm's length. The deputy sheriff commented that the man was "bound and determined to get that lug nut off", to which I am forced to reply thusly: Deputy, if you think he shot that wheel because he thought it the next logical step in removing the stubborn lug nut, you are high or stupid, and you have clearly never been driven to near insanity by the infuriatingly calm mutiny of a small, smug, inanimate object.

Speaking as someone who has known intimately the impotent rage of the computer that repeatedly informs me that it "cannot perform that operation at this time" (I don't WANT an operation--I want the damnable thing to print!), the knitting pattern whose precise directions would actually produce a three-armed sweater (and possibly a four-assed monkey) if the knitter is not vigilant for the carefully buried errors (I nearly typed "booby traps", but that just made me giggle like a 12-year-old boy when I used it to describe a sweater pattern), or the printer that chews and swallows paper so fast that the pie-eating champions in the world are worriedly trying to sabotage the thing to eliminate the competition, my hat goes off to you, Kitsap County Man. Stupid, yes. But satisfying--at least before the pain kicked in? Oh, I can only dream of such bliss.

It seems that Mr. Kitsap County hadn't figured on the way that buckshot scatters and ricochets, nor how close he was standing to it when it did. He'll be fine, although I don't doubt he's a hurtin' unit right now--he got hit with scatter all the way up to his chin. And I'm sure it doesn't help to have to tell the doctors and so on that he did it shooting his car wheel because the lug nut wouldn't come off. Laughter may be the best medicine, but I'm pretty sure that having it directed AT you wasn't the intent of that particular prescription.

The article also mentioned that the man "did not make a statement at the scene", a comment that makes me wonder just a bit about our press over here as well. What's he gonna say while he lays there full of buckshot, anyway? "Yup, shot my car and myself with one shot. It totally rocked. I'm thinking of mounting that wheel on the wall of my den when I get out of the hospital. Do you know a taxidermist that does wheels?"

An unlikely hero, this newly ventilated man from Kitsap County--a man who struck a blow for inept people everywhere when he stood up and refused to take it anymore. Just before he laid down to swear colorfully and bleed.

And this much is certainly true: you may be a redneck if you have ever put yourself in the hospital while attempting to shoot your car. You are probably a redneck if you have ever attempted to get a coherent statement from the man full of buckshot and embarrassment, writhing on the ground. And you are almost certainly a redneck if, like me, you kinda wish you'd had the guts (and temporary stupidity) to do something just like it.

But without the bleeding, naturally.

Dudes, It's Like Crack

2007-11-13T18:02:00.001-08:00

Not just knitting itself, although I can't argue that there is some serious addictive stuff going on with the entire knitting experience (go on, just TRY to convince me that you've never been caught in a store, huffing cashmere...or that you don't start getting twitchy if you've not handled fiber for more than a few days). But no, this crack is in the form of the Boku blanket which I wasn't going to start yet but which refused to take anything but "you are the most fabulous blanket ever" for an answer.

See, I finished this over the weekend:

Miners blanket number 5, in all its glory. I wish you could feel how warm and wonderful it is. Call me kooky (you won't be the first, I assure you) but I swear that when I'm edging the blankets and they're resting on me, I can feel the difference between ordinary blankets, and these ones made with love by so many wonderful people. It's like they're infused with love, and you can't help but feel it. Seriously.

But to get back to the crack story.

Since I only have one more miners blanket to go, and since I've made each one over the course of a weekend, and since I have two weekends between now and my stated goal of mailing them the Monday after Thanksgiving, I decided to reward my hard work by making a square or two of the Boku blanket. I thought I might enjoy it, or I might hate it. I thought I could stop any time I wanted to. I didn't think I would need to go out hunting for a wool patch in order to put it down long enough to work and sleep. I was such an innocent.

Folks, I ADORE this blanket. All 7.5 squares of it. I love the yarn, I love the construction, I love the fact that each square is started by picking up stitches along another one so no seaming. I'm in heaven. It's kind of like when I first learned to knit and a nice lady (whom I like to call "my dealer") gave me some needles and yarn and I went home and knitted obsessively. Seriously--I can remember waking up in the morning and picking up needles and yarn to knit away on a tiny little swatch of stockinette--slightly grimy from handling--just to prove to myself that I still knew how and the wonderful knowledge hadn't run out of my brain during the night. I still get that thrill over 20 years later, although now I do actually get up and get showered and dressed and stuff (Mr. K appreciates these details--it's the little things that make a marriage work) and, whereas then I was making a swatch without a project, now I make all manner of projects without swatches. This suggests that I like to swear at yarn and tear things back repeatedly...which seems unlikely but will have to do until I find another explanation.

Anyway, that's how its been with the Boku. I pick it up every chance I get. I knit at lunch. I knit on the recumbant exercise bike. And, just lately, I knit on the elliptical, which is a fine place to knit if you have no objection to sharp stabbing pain between your shoulderblades and spending the rest of the day doing a fair impression of Quasimodo. But man....this pattern. It goes together like a jigsaw puzzle. The colors are beautiful. Everyone who sees it catches their breath (and not, I'm assured, because they were terrified or trying desperately to think of a polite way to say "What in the name of all that's wooly possessed you to create that monstrousity? And what the hell IS it?").

When I started, I thought I would use all the different colorways. However, in working on it, I've realized that the color runs are long and the squares are small so no two squares really look all that much alike with just one colorway. After careful consideration, I decided that using all the colorways was likely to look as though a clown just threw up a kaleidoscope, so I stuck with two: one with autumn golds and greens and pale oranges with some purple thrown in, and one in many greens. I adore it. See what you think:

This photo shows pretty true to color on my monitor, except the oranges are subtler in real life. Oh, and the shape looks all weird because I just picked up the stitches for a square in the center bordering two other ones which pulled it right out of shape. Here it is closer up and with kinda washed out color--I have no idea why I would think you want to see a lousy photo of it....I think it's like those people who say "This tastes funny--here, taste!" We want someone to share our pain:
The thing is made in diagonal rows, so I'm switching colorways with each diagonal row. The diagonal of two green ones and the one in the top right are one colorway; the others are, naturally, the other colorway. See what I mean about the variety with even one of them?

Before I started this, though, I did manage to finish some lovely socks (they were my exercise bike project once I realized miners blankets and exercise bikes apparently have some sort of age old fued and don't work well together at all....the bike likes to try to eat the blanket) from the beautiful yarn that Celtic Jo gave me. Jo, what do you think? And will you tell me more about it? Did you dye it yourself? It's unbelievably yummy, as you can see:

It's a Little Arrowhead Lace pattern that's both fun to make and really impressive looking.

Okay, I'm off to hold my precious....er....finish that square on the Boku. Yeah. That's it. This weekend I'll finish the last miners blanket and then I'll get them all wrapped and mailed off. Don't you love knowing that some families are going to get such a wonderful surprise? I know the best good deeds are done anonymously...but I still wish I could be a fly on the wall when they see firsthand how many people care.

The Annual Holiday Rant

2007-11-11T06:50:00.000-08:00

It's starting already. And because it's starting, so is the conflict that the holiday season has come to include around these parts. It is early days, but I am already shaking my head in dismay.

Remember last year, when I mentioned all the kafuffle about the decorated trees at the airport and people thought there should be a menorah and finally the trees were taken down? Now the airport is putting up this year's holiday display that they feel will not offend anyone: a bunch of bare birch branches with lights, the whole made as eco-friendly as possible and supposedly "representative of winter in the Northwest". Bearing in mind, of course, that Washington is nicknamed "The Evergreen State", entirely because of the abundance of those very trees that are now being banished from the airport for being exclusionary.

Meanwhile, there is a group of people now who every year complain bitterly of what they perceive as "the theft of Christmas", partly based on incidents like the airport one, but also on things like store clerks saying "happy holidays" instead of "merry Christmas". Some of them refuse to shop in stores that don't offer the latter greeting.

People, I am weary and confused. And some of you may disagree with my thinking and that's okay--I'm fine with people who have different opinions, a concept on which this country was founded. Clearly, I don't always have a ton of company in that viewpoint--but full speed ahead, anyway. Here's what I think:

First, I believe that Christmas, for good or for bad, has come to have two faces in this country--it wouldn't actually be too extreme to say it has become two different holidays. There is the holy holiday celebrated by Christian-based faiths, wherein December 25 is chosen as the day to recognize the coming of a Savior, the gift to humanity of the Son of God. There is also the retail holiday, wherein December 25 is chosen as the day to celebrate rampant consumerism and spending.

For most things, it's easy to see what goese with which version: Manger? Holy holiday. Santa Claus? Retail holiday. "Silent Night"? Religious. "Deck the Halls?" Retail (or at least secular). Christmas tree? Hmmm. Not so simple. It's come to be considered kind of both although, if we're going to be completely honest with ourselves, it's actually a pagan symbol that has nothing to do with either. Which is one reason I'm so tired of the airport war over evergreen trees.

I think I can understand the frustration of some devoutly religious folks who feel that their holy day has been co-opted into something cheap and shiny and consumer-driven. But I don't understand how this situation is improved if the chirpy 20-something making extra money as cashier during the holidays is required by her boss to say "merry Christmas" instead of "happy holidays". Likewise, I don't understand why setting aside a 2-foot square section of the store for menorahs and dreidels and stars of David are somehow showing any sort of respect for the Jewish faith, particularly given that our society has insisted on making Hanukah into "the Jewish Christmas", which it most assuredly is not. Most people who pat themselves on the back for this kind of "inclusiveness" could not actually tell you the story about the miracle of the oil in the temple with any clarity; neither could they tell you about Rosh Hoshana or Yom Kippur because there is a difference between learning about and respecting a culture on the one hand, and giving it lip service to be politically correct on the other.

You can tell me I'm an idiot if you like, but here's what I believe: I believe that celebrations of faith are private things--not shameful and to be hidden, but holy and reverent and away from the clanging and sparkling and spending that the holidays have come to be. I believe that cheapening the faiths of non-Christian groups by tossing around symbols with no real understanding does nothing to honor them or include them. I believe that Jesus spoke a great deal about loving one another, not judging, and embracing the brother and sisterhood of all human beings. I believe that He would be dismayed at the thought of people honoring His birthday with petty squabbles over the correct form of greeting in a department store. I believe that there is way more depth and beauty of faith in this country than Christian and Jewish.

One year, I was fortunate to attend an Interfaith Thanksgiving Service. There were numerous faiths represented, and each group was allowed to have the stage for a set number of minutes to share what they felt was important. We had Wiccans, Pagans, Seikhs, Muslims, and many, many more. And there was a pivotal moment in that service for me, when the Whirling Dervishes were on the stage (how many people know that the Whirling Dervishes represent a deeply holy ritual, a form of prayer and devotion?) and I looked around the room at the hundreds of people and realized in a single, breathtaking epiphany: everyone there, despite skin color and despite the presence or absence of turban or veil and no matter what method they personally used, was trying to do the very same thing. We were all trying to be closer to God. Nothing less, nothing more.

I'll buy that as "inclusiveness"--not the shabby display of plastic menorahs tucked in behind the thousands of santas and reindeer and fake trees.

I'm not sure I can bring this all to a logical and focussed point, other than this: I think we need to be more gentle with each other. I think we need to recognize that no one can take away from us those beliefs that are deeply held and that no faith is either honored or undermined by a blow-up Santa or a scripted, rote greeting at Macy's.

I think we're all here to help each other get home. Whatever you believe home to be. I think we'd do well to all start with that.

Olives

2007-11-09T18:30:00.000-08:00

First things first (which is a goofy expression when you come to think of it. When was the last time you heard someone say "7th things 7th...." or "first things 12th..."? ): Jenn, you almost made me snort hot tea up my nose--a blanket with boobies...I'm still giggling! Thank you so much for that! But no, I really don't think I want my blanket to be curvier than I am.

Anyway. Here's today's odd saga (frightening, isn't it, how I always have one?): It all started a year and a half ago, children, shortly after Ms. K had returned to knitting after a brief (but far too long) hiatus. I was enchanted by all the lace knitting going on (they didn't have that sort of thing back then...at least, not in my local yarn cave. Mind you, the dinosaurs might have eaten the laceweight.), and I wanted to try it. But I was a bit afraid of laceweight yarn, and not just because I'd seen it referred to as "cobweb" yarn (although that didn't help--note to marketers: you could be selling a 30 carat diamond for a buck-fifty and if you associated it with spiders, I'd still be doing the spider dance and jumping up on a chair squealing like my tail was just stepped on).

No, I was afraid of laceweight because it seemed so darned delicate and fragile--like knitting with angel hair pasta or something. I feared I would sneeze and destroy the whole skein. And you know, you don't have to look too closely at my life to realize that graceful isn't usually a word applied to me. I am, after all, the one who dropped an entire strawberry pie face down next to my neighbors mailbox when I was a child. And broke my toe doing a cartwheel in the bandroom just to prove that I could (I couldn't, as it turned out). And hit a boy in the stomach with a thrown baseball bat when I quite unexpectedly HIT the ball with the bat and my brain sort of left my body and...well...let's just say that crouching behind me when I just made contact between a tiny white ball and a narrow stick of wood is just a stupid place for a catcher to be. I mean, really. So, yeah. I was afraid of the laceweight, and I think we can all agree that yarn smells fear. It smells fear and then delights in forming knots, breaking into pieces the length of rice grains, and otherwise being decidedly unpleasant.

With that fear in mind, I purchased a large amount of frog tree alpaca fingering weight in deep teal and started a shawl in a bell pattern. It was quite lovely and soft as the underside of a bunny's belly (I really don't know what that would feel like...but it's fun to say, plus I've never seen any bunnies with belly stubble or anything) and I was just ticking right along when I realized two things.

Knitting a complex pattern that gets wider with each row until you have hundreds of delicate stitches is perhaps not the best FIRST lace project in that it is an endeavor that demands significant amounts of uninterrupted time and no small amount of patience. Oh, and a smidge of whacknutishness. I had the last in spades (extra, in fact, should anyone be in need of some), but neither of the first two in spades. Not clubs, hearts, or diamonds either, for that matter.

The end of the pattern stated merrily that I could "put a border on it if desired". The picture that made me love the shawl showed a border but the instructions for it were limited to that one sentence, which is about as helpful as a cake recipe that reads "bake cake. put frosting on it." Apparently this shawl is part of a covert fiber operation and, if I needed to know the border pattern, I would already know it.

Since then, the shawl has sat quietly in a knitting bag, utterly neglected, for so long that even in my most optimistic moments I cannot honestly say I believe I will ever pick it up again and finish it. I've made some lace socks that I quite like and have now developed a fondness for the the rhythm of lace knitting, but the shawl and I just have too much history. Time to take it apart and move on. But the problem (and getting at least within spitting distance of the point of this story) is now what to do with all that lovely and not inexpensive yarn?

I might have gone a bit nuts when purchasing it and there just might be four unused skeins of 230 yards each in addition to the three or so already knitted. In other words, it is possible that I am the proud owner of enough fingering weight yarn to make a polar icecap hat and thus slow global warming. More or less. The only thing I could think of first was socks and, true enough, fingering weight is my favorite for sock knitting. But considering the well over 1200 yards of the stuff I have, I could be a giraffe on stilts and not use all the yarn making socks.

I thought of a scarf or hat...but same problem, really. I suppose I could make the scarf 75 feet long but there's that whole giraffe thing again--in that I'm not one. What to do? So I started cruising the internet for patterns made in fingering weight yarn. I mostly found socks and shawls and scarves and baby items. Then I found a site that listed several patterns for frog tree alpaca, including one entitled "olives". I considered this for a minute....and figured that it was probably a sweater with an olive branch sort of pattern to it, or a sweater or hat or scarf in shades of olive green or something of that ilk. So I clicked on it. And you know what? It was olives. (Seriously--click on it. I dare ya.)

And they're kind of cute and all...but knitted olives? Really? 'Cause, I can kinda see making knitted cupcakes and stuff (after all, you could always stuff 'em and use them for pincushions if you wanted to....a dessert bristling with pins being such a delightful image), and even little baby hats that look like apples and pumpkins (because every mother should have a picture of her child dressed like a fruit or a vegetable to hold over his head and embarrass him with at his wedding). But olives? About the only reason I can think of to knit a bowl of olives would be if a relative I really didn't like much was coming over for Thanksgiving dinner and I was hoping to give him wool block or hairballs. ("Really, Uncle George? The olives taste funny? I think it's just you...have another one. And yeah, they're a new hybrid so it's normal to have to chew them longer. Yeah, half an hour's pretty typical for this species.")

Since I found the olives, I've been combing the internet for knitted turkey and stuffing and cranberry sauce...I figure I can have this whole Thanksgiving dinner thing whipped out in no time without even heating up the kitchen. Anyone want some angora mashed potatoes?

Failing that....anyone know what I can knit with a bazillion yards of fingering weight yarn?

Of Course I Can Eat the Whole Piece....

2007-11-07T17:59:00.000-08:00

You've heard of the little girl with eyes bigger than her stomach? It should have served as some sort of warning that I was always that girl. Two cookies? Why not half a dozen? Two kinds of pie? Why not try a piece of each? Yes, I was a chubby teenager and yes, I've definitely had to learn to curb that behavior if I didn't want to acquire my own area code, along with arteries the consistency of petrified wood. The bad news, is that the tendency hasn't gone away so much...it's just been channeled.

Turns out that now I have eyes significantly larger than my knitting bag. All my knitting bags. All my knitting bags, my craft room, and the secret storage place where unloved yarn goes to die (I used to buy a significant amount of cheap and nasty acrylic before I knew better....my mother crocheted with it, saying all the while that "yarn's yarn--why pay good money for wool and who's going to know anyway?" She said the same thing about margarine vs. butter, so that should have made me suspicious). In fact, I have eyes the size of small planetoids, as evidenced by today's incident.

Let me back up. I am currently working on the last two miner's blankets. However, this is not a portable project by any means. It is heavy and comprised of many pieces that have to be kept in order and so it gets worked on at home, primarily on the weekends (there's also the fact that I'm crocheting them together and crocheting the borders and I'd rather be nibbled to death by ducks than crochet most of the time--so an occasional knitting break is definitely in order). At Knit for Life, I've been working on the birthday sweater (finished a sleeve the other night....then realized it was too short, in spite of being a half an inch longer than the pattern required. Who was this pattern written for, a human T-Rex?) so I had to unpick the cast off edge and put it back on the needles where it's now having a time out until I'm not mad at it anymore. On the exercise bike and during my lunch hours, I've been working on a pair of little arrowhead lace socks made of the beautiful aqua and white yarn sent to me by Celtic Jo (Thank you again, Jo!!). I also have a partial shawl in teal alpaca that must be unpicked because even I can't make a solid argument for the possibility of my returning to it after a year (also, I made it in fingering weight because I was afraid of laceweight and I'm just not feeling the love), and a partial sweater in Atacama Alpaca that must also be unpicked because I was never thrilled with the pattern I picked for it and now I've found THE pattern for it (always wait for the yarn to tell you, Grasshopper. Unless you like unravelling delicate yarn until you want to bash your head against the wall.) This is plenty, right? Well.....

For whatever reason (full moon? temporary or not-so-temporary insanity? I need my head examined?) I was looking back at the Lizard Ridge blanket/afghan on Knitty. I love that thing. I do not love the price tag associated with 22 balls of Kureyon, but I love the blanket. I started thinking about how I could maybe buy a couple of balls every pay period and then make a couple of squares every pay period and just see how it would all come together (no, I wasn't drinking....I just wish I had that kind of good excuse. And yes, I WOULD like a third piece of cake...do you have any ice cream to go with it?) Then I started looking more closely and realized that 1) it is made with a devilish amount of short rows which I know how to do but feel much the same about them as I do about crocheting--refer to duck nibbling, 2) it apparently knits up bubbly and must be blocked well if it's to lay remotely flat (I don't want it to stray into egg crate land when it's lying strategically across my couch, inviting admiration and cat hair) and 3) it would require an assload of crocheting squares together--possibly two asses worth. Never mind, said I, feeling all virtuous for not taking on another project.

Ha.

Then today, when I found myself with a lunch break and nothing to do, I wandered over to Ben Franklin (I should get hazard pay for working within walking distance of a store with an impressive yarn department). And I found first these:

and then this:

The yarn is Boku by Plymouth, 95% wool and 5% silk, 99 yards for $6.99 at Ben Franklin. The pattern (which didn't photograph well) is a mitered square blanket with absolutely no fiddly short rows. It does not become bubbly, and each square is made by picking up stitches on the edge of the last one...so no joining the squares. I'm in heaven. I snapped up the pattern and two balls of yarn without the thought even wasting time with my brain or my restraint centers (yeah, like I have those). See, the blanket in the picture is made with just one color of yarn...but Boku is rather like noro in that it comes in a ton of beautiful colorways. And I figure I can make each square in a different yarn, which means I can buy it gradually--a couple of skeins each pay period and....well, there you are. This is not what falling off the wagon looks like. This is what falling off the wagon into a mudpuddle and then having the wagon back over you looks like. But won't it be PRETTY? And hey, now Miss will have her OWN blanket. Rationalization, thy name is Knitingale.

Speaking of yarn, Tonia asked about the green sock yarn. It is 450 yards of superwash merino from Pagewood Farm, hand dyed especially for Main Street yarn in Mill Creek, Washington. It is also terribly seductive. Don't look directly at it, Tonia. You may never get back out.

I Can't Believe I Didn't Choke Blogger

2007-11-06T18:30:00.000-08:00

Not that I was trying to, of course, but if a picture is worth a thousand words, then this is a 5000 word essay and we know how blogger feels about such things. Mainly, it waves its arms around and runs down the street screaming like a little girl. It's forgiven me so far...but the night is young.

First, an enormous thank you to the Yellowstone Unravellers. They sent me another box of squares the other day, bringing their total to 24 squares--almost a whole blanket by themselves. This is them (the squares, not the knitters--I think they balked at the idea of packing themselves into a box...which is too bad because I think we would have had a lovely time together):

Aren't they way pretty? And to answer the questions, I do indeed have enough for all six blankets. Four of them are completed. The others will be done by Thanksgiving. I have a few more than needed; I'll likely take out some of my own and substitute the ones that were sent to me so all of your lovely work gets used and the blankets have that beautiful, diverse look. And, since you're probably wondering, a photo of blanket number 4:

The black strand across it is because I was still edging it when I took this and not because I keep it on a leash so it won't attack the other three blankets. Not that that wouldn't make for a terribly interesting blog post.

Now, look closely again at that blanket photo--somewhere around the green square at the near edge. See anything odd? How about now?

Yep, she was under there the whole time I was photographing and actually much of the time I was edging. Miss is nothing if not adaptable. Oh, and "big boned". Adaptable and big-boned (as in, "I couldn't have pulled it out from under her tubby little ass if I'd tried"). Here's a closer shot--you'll note all the flash photography didn't disturb her majesty. If Miss is comfy, a 72 man parade, a 21 gun salute, and 136 men belching the theme from "Shaft" couldn't disturb her.

Lastly, I ventured out on a mini-yarn crawl over the weekend (if it doesn't require a small wheelbarrow, it qualifies as "mini" in my book). In my defense, Village Yarn and Tea was having a sale on Koigu--$7.45 a skein! Unfortunately for me, the sale started Friday and my employers are heathens who do not fully understand the emergent nature of a good yarn sale. As such, I did not arrive until Saturday when almost all the Koigu left was shades of lime green and bright yellow--not a combination I wear (yeah, I know--I made socks in a mosaic of black and something the color of a clown wig and now I'm drawing the line at lime and yellow? I can't explain it, either.) I ended up finding two colors that I liked but one of them was an orphan skein so I settled for two of the other one. You'd think this would satisfy the yarn craving.

Wait, who am I talking to? If anyone knows the "gas on the fire" nature of purchasing a tantalizing two skeins of yarn, it's you. Saying one pair of socks worth of yarn should quell the need is like saying the breadsticks on the table at dinner should take care of that hunger problem. Okay, so they're really good breadsticks...but still! So, naturally, I went on to Main Street Yarns where they happen to carry Claudia's Handpaints and a whole host of other yumminess. I pondered and petted and generally had a good time and was about to leave feeling terribly virtuous when I looked up. There, on the top shelf, tucked almost out of my vision was the non-koigu yarn in this picture:
Yep, a second chance at a green colorway. And I'm pleased to say that I've learned from my mistakes--I did not hesitate. I did not pretend to a level of self-control I only wish I possessed. I brought it right home. I also just got my Knitpicks Harmony sock needles. You can bet there will be some sock goings on around Chez Knitingale. Just as soon as the last stitch is put in the last blanket.

So, does anyone else hear a little green wooly voice insisting that it would look perfectly wonderful in the Tilting Cable sock pattern in the Winter 2007 Interweave Knits? No? Just me? Huh.

Why Take the Lights Down at ALL??

2007-11-04T18:05:00.001-08:00

You'll never guess who I ran into when I was out buying Halloween candy. I"ll give you a few hints: big belly, tiny private aircraft, reindeer fixation, elven slave labor....yep. The big guy himself. Santa Claus. Seemed like every store I went into that day, there he was--peering up at me from plates and mugs and napkins and tablecloths and wrapping paper and tree ornaments and quite possibly jock straps for all I know (I was afraid to look).

Now, I have nothing against Santa personally, I really don't. I do worry that the Great Pumpkin's union is going to go all Halloween on his jolly ass if he keeps trying to horn in like this, but that's for them to work out. No, I'm concerned about where this is going to lead.

See, when I was a kid (and I'm dating myself a bit here), Christmas started the day after Thanksgiving--not one minute sooner, except for the appearance of Santa at the end of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade which is tradition and, as such, could be overlooked. Now he's out trick-or-treating with the kids. Mind you, I suppose the reindeer with the light up nose could be a great safety feature when going from house to house in the dark.....but still.

It seems like it won't be too long before the stores have their traditional July store displays, complete with Santa in a red, white, and blue Speedo. I know, I think I just threw up a little in my mouth, too. No offense to Santa--there isn't a man alive who can pull off a Speedo and, if there were, the term "bowlful of jelly" wouldn't be on his resume...if you catch my drift.

And that's not the only concern. A local radio station actually played some Christmas carols on Halloween--for real. I don't know about you, but I find "Deck the Halls" and "Silver Bells" charming for about a week ("Partridge in a Pear Tree" for about 12 minutes). After a month, I'm ready to deck the moron who keeps playing that crap, quite possibly with a silver bell upside the head. We won't discuss the fate of the partridge, although I hear they're good with sauce. If my local radio station has their way, we're looking at two solid months of mommy kissing Santa Baby....and no good can come of that.

Oh, and what about the Christmas goodies? Resistance for a week or so of a work breakroom filled with cookies and fudge is doable; two months of that stuff and I'll need to be rolled to my desk.

Christmas sweaters and sweatshirts--you can see where this is going, can't you? I bear no ill will to those fine fashionistas who choose to have santa plastered lovingly across their breasts for a week each year, but the little jingle bell sewn cunningly into his hat could well end up shoved in someone's ear if I have to listen to her walk around for two months at work.

Oh, and I don't know about you...but I have a fairly low tolerance for the bright, chirpy sales girls wanting to know if I'm "all ready for the holidays?" Lady, if it's not midnight Christmas Eve, if I don't have tape stuck to my butt, if I'm not shrieking wildly at the cat chewing on the ribbons, if I'm not nipping away at the eggnog and staring wildly around the room while the tree lights wink knowingly at me, then no. I am not ready for the holidays. Nor do I want to be. It is a long family tradition to wonder desperately if there is any way to do all my Christmas shopping at 11:00 pm on Christmas Eve, even though Rite-Aid is the only store that's open (I'm sure Mr. K would love a box of bandaids and a Lady Gillette for Christmas...don't you think?). All this being the case, it is nothing short of hazardous to start asking me that question before I've managed to pour the Halloween Candy into a suitable bowl for the trick-or-treaters.

So Santa, if you're reading this, here's what I want for Christmas: go home--just for another month or so. Put your feet up, snuggle with Mrs. Claus, give the elves a night off. Don't come back until I've had at least one sandwich made of leftover Thanksgiving turkey and cranberry sauce on squishy white bread. THEN we can talk.

Quick and....

2007-11-01T19:45:00.000-07:00

...well, not dirty. At least, not other than the language that I am ashamed to say came from my pristine lips the other day. (This is a familiar trend, isn't it?) See, I read all your kind posts and thought "Why yes! I SHOULD buy the green yarn. Monica's right--I'd be a traitor to the entire Pacific Northwest if I didn't buy it! And Jo's right that I could win the lottery and have all the time in the world to knit and then I'd just whip through my stash in no time so I'd really better start building it up. (We'll just breeze past the fact that I've never purchased a lottery ticket in my life....a fantasy is a fantasy, after all.) And you know, it's all going to be just swell--hey kids, let's put on a show!" And so on. Thusly hopped up on the enabling of good friends (who know when "talk me out of it" really means "you know I'm going to buy it so go ahead and tell me why I'm going to"), I rushed over to e-bay. I found the auction in question (not really hard, since it was bookmarked in the "my e-bay section"..ahem) and clicked on it, intending to use the "buy it now" feature. I could already feel the green socks on my feet. Until, to my amazement, someone else used the "buy it now" option not two seconds after I got there intending to do the same thing. So wrong.

And what have we learned here? We've learned that self-control is highly overrated, never goes unpunished, and can lead to some other undeserving person wearing my green socks. Okay, okay--if she's a knitter, then she's probably cool and very deserving. But still.

A couple of other tidbits for you (I'm so tired I just typed "tidbuts"....the mental picture of which is really quite unnerving) before I go try to convince Mr. K that weenie alfredo is haute cuisine:

Ed, the most perfect of all perfect cats, was out playing in the driveway today. I got out of the car to go pet him and discovered that he had a playmate. Specifically, he had a small, beady-eyed playmate of the rodent variety, which he was casually knocking over every few minutes, after letting it think it might get away. Don't ever try to tell me that only humans hunt for sport--unless you can also convince me that Ed's human. Which, come to think of it, he might well be. ANYWAY, I felt rather sorry for the poor scurrying victim and it WAS running away from the house towards the woods so I decided to show a bit of compassion and distract the Edster long enough for it to get away. I hunkered down and started scritching behind his ears (which would distract him from just about anything, up to and including a free sushi feed with a cream chaser) and, sure enough, he turned his back on the wee mousie friend. I hummed a few bars of Born Free and considered what a great mousatarian I am.....until the mouse gathered its composure and ran--directly into Ed's feet.

What have I learned here? That there is a fine line between "compassion" and "interfering with natural selection". That, and apparently we have dumbass mice.

Lastly, I offer you this Halloween photo of the serious and dedicated nursing staff of XYZ Allergy Clinic (name changed to protect the sniffly):

I may have stood out just a bit.....and not just because I molted glitter all day like a strange, gay bird. We weren't the only ones who dressed up, either. This other picture includes the front desk staff, including Amy of the new (and well entrenched--that toaster'd better be on the way) knitting habit:

That's Amy towards the back in the white toga. She was truly adorable. My favorite part of the day was when Kelli (second devil from your left) asked me to go read the tests she put on an older gentleman and I did so, somewhat suprised that he stared at me but never commented on my outfit. She told me later that when she went in with his prescriptions and stuff he told her that "an angel came in here a bit ago. I was kind of afraid I might have died."

Hugs all around. I'm off to get that weenie alfredo on the table.

The Gods Must Have a Mean Sense of Humor

2007-10-30T18:38:00.000-07:00

In Terry Pratchett's universe--which is, by my own reckoning, a superior universe, indeed--the gods don't sit and play chess with human lives. No, they play Chutes and Ladders (Snakes and Ladders, to those of you on the other side of the pond) and sometimes the ladders have been greased. I can well believe this. Consider, if you will.

For well over a year now I have been searching for a sock yarn that seemed to exist only in my fevered imagination. It was shades of rich, deep greens that would bring to mind a forest fill of elves and fairies and other mythical creatures. It had emerald and shamrock and grass colors all woven together and whatever sheep gave up his dignity for it was actually proud to have done so. Heck, he might have just stood up and offered the fleece off his back when he heard the idea for this yarn--so perfect was the combination of greens. Needless to say, I did not find it. I looked in every yarn shop, at every knitting event, in every possible place that a skein of perfect sock yarn might hide (leading me to believe that possibly the gods play hide-n-seek with us). I started to figure that the yarn couldn't exist--that my mind had produced colors that cannot exist in the real world lest the wool burst into flame from sheer hubris and be sucked into a rip in the time-space continuum.

Fast forward a few months. I am now starting blanket number 4 (about halfway through it) and have had a chance to take stock of my modest yarn collection. (Modest in the way that Brittany Spears is modest, okay, fine.) There is....a significant amount of it. There is especially a significant amount of sock yarn, and this is odd. I have checked, and I have just two feet. Mr. K is not very interested in hand-knit anything. I have one friend whose foot size I know. The cats are not interested in cunning little four-sock sets (Ed looked a bit interested when I mentioned that it might make him quieter when sneaking up on mice...but then he changed his mind when he realized the mice just might laugh themselves to death before he could taunt them to death) and no local businesses will let me pay with socks. I can only use so many draft excluders (those things you wedge under the doors, that some people think should be stuffed affairs shaped and decorated to look like weiner dogs--it is a comfort to know there is sickness greater than mine), my windshield wipers don't need covers at night, I have no use for knitted sock puppets with no faces (can't throw my voice, you know) and, although the local squirrel population does look a bit chilly, I am assured that they don't need tail warmers in a variety of bright wools.

To sum up:

1. I have a lot of sock yarn

2. I do not have a lot of time to knit

3. I have a lot of sock yarn

And being a rational adult (i.e., a whiny child who finally stomped her feet and said "Fine, I don't want the icky old green yarn ANYWAY"), I decided to cease the quest for the perfect, mythical green sock yarn. Which is when I found this on sale on e-bay:

For $12 a skein. And each skein is PLENTY of yarn to make a pair of socks. I want it so much my teeth ache.

The gods are laughing. And probably setting up the board for another round of "Torment the Humans Until they Whimper for Mercy." Bastards. So, what I need from you is reassurance that I absolutely do NOT need this perfect green sock yarn. That I will never wear the number of socks I could make from the yarn I already have. That a centipede would not wear the number of socks I could make from the yarn I already have. That you will come sit on me and smack me about the head with handknit socks if I don't give it up RIGHT NOW. Please?

If that doesn't work, please hide my debit card. And my piggy bank (which is actually a china cow at my house--the Cash Cow, of course). And my checkbook. And anything you think I could trade for yarn. I'll let you know where I live and how to get here and where I keep all of those things. Just give me a few minutes to check something out on the internet. No, no, it's not e-bay. Of course not.

Would I do something like that?

p.s. You'll notice I did not give you enough info to find it and buy it first...I said I had lots of sock yarn. I didn't say I was crazy.

....dudes..... (and also a killer pumpkin)

2007-10-28T19:11:00.000-07:00

That is to say, thank you so much for the support. I swear, I really wasn't trying to get you all to give me compliments--at all. I really just wanted you to know that I felt badly about neglecting you when you've given so much to me. And that I'd give up writing if that's what it took to make it possible to give back. But, seeing as how there is an "arse whooping" in store for me if I continue with that plan (Mr. K loves that phrase, by the way, and wants me to stop blogging just to see someone do it), I'm thinking perhaps I need to consider other methods of dealing with the situation. But you guys are so very dear to want me to stay. As far as I know, I just sort of babble along and you are kind enough to be nice about it...thanks so much for telling me different. (Self-esteem issues? Me? Nah.)

But, on to the interesting stuff. Specifically, this:

I have been viciously assaulted by a rogue pumpkin.

No, really. See, it all started.....well, to tell the truth, it probably started a few years ago when I broached the idea of carving pumpkins at Halloween and a delighted Mr. K encouraged me with great enthusiasm. I had visions of some Hallmark card moment where the two of us lovingly gazed at one another and carved his and hers pumpkins...or something like that. I admit, the details were a little fuzzy, seeing as how most romantic scenarios I've ever seen do not include huge knives and piles of goo. But it was a moot point, anyway. Turns out that Mr. K, a scientist who has handled all manner of disgusting-ness, who slays hooved spiders without turning a hair, and who actually rolled around under the porch in the mud getting the hot tub all wired......has a problem with pumpkin guts. Seriously. He can stick his bare hand into a clogged toilet without a moment's thought, but the inside of a vegetable--ew.

I'm not sure what led to this issue, but I'll try to remember when I see Judy next to ask her if he was by chance attacked by a gourd or something as a small child. Which is not as farfetched as I thought before this weekend, as you'll come to see. Anyway, the upshot is that I am in charge of the Halloween decorating each year, a task I quite enjoy until the moment when I cut right when I meant to cut left and end up with a strangely picasso-esque pumpkin and a new assortment of profanity. (Of COURSE it's meant to have three eyes that's what makes it scary and who asked you anyway?)

This year, I got inspired by a picture online and decided to make a large pumpkin eating a smaller one. I know, I'm a sick unit. The idea seemed to me to call for a very large BIG pumpkin, and a very small tiny pumpkin--because without the disparity in size, the whole thing would just look weird. (Yeah, because cannabalism among hollowed out vegetables with candles in them is usually so very normal.) So I went to Albertson's and picked out the biggest pumpkin I could find, along with some of the little miniature pumpkins. Perfect. The monster pumpkin, as it turned out, weighed in around 29.5 pounds (70 some kilos).

Now, in my defense, let me say that I know this is not exactly herculean. I exercise every day and I lift weights and I'm not THAT big of a wuss. But pumpkins differ from weights in many ways, one of them being that they are round and smooth, and another being a conspicious lack of a handle. Okay, yes, there's a stem--but if you've never found yourself standing in the driveway surrounded by pumpkin chunks with juice and seeds all over your socks while speaking in loud, anglo-saxon prose, then you've obviously never tried to carry a pumpkin by the stem. You are fortunate, indeed (or smarter than I am, which amounts to much the same thing at times).

The bottom line is that I carried the pumpkin into the house by bending over it and wrapping my arms around it and waddling like a pregnant hunchback until my back screamed for mercy and then stopped speaking to me in anything but loud, pissed-off words. Note that this did not stop me from bending over for another two hours to carve the pumpkin....which may seem foolish to you but look at it this way: it did cause me an injury, but I got even. I cut it open and pulled its guts out. And took great pleasure in doing so, too. Here, the results--first the back-mangler pumpkin by itself in the daylight....

And then the whole scenario later at night with candles and the addition of a horrified onlooker pumpkin:

Note the carnage of chopped up mini-pumpkins scattered on the steps. As I said, I am a seriously sick unit--and being pumpkin-assaulted did nothing to put a lid on that particular problem.

Okay, I'm going to hobble back downstairs to my hot water bottle. But I do love you guys. And thank you for liking what I write. I love doing it, too...but like my creative writing teacher once said: writing can be a little like wetting yourself in a dark suit: it gives you a nice warm feeling, but people don't necessarily notice anything. Thanks for noticing. Seriously.

Dilemna

2007-10-27T07:48:00.000-07:00

I just spent a delightful hour going through and reading the blogs of friends and leaving a few comments here and there. It was pure joy. And it brought my attention sharply back to my dilemna: between work and other pursuits (many), I find that I have time to write my own blog, or time to read and comment on others, but not time to do both well. I miss whichever one I don't do. I know many of you do both without a blink or hesitation...all while taking care of children. I suspect my perfectionist streak has much to do with this--I can spend 20 minutes leaving a two sentence comment because it has to be "right".

All of which is to say that I'm sorry if you've felt ignored or unimportant to me. Truth is, I had more fun this last hour than I've had in a long time, catching up on the stuff you're all up to. And I'm not sure how I'll resolve the dilemna. When the miner's blankets are done, I may shut down the blog altogether. Or I may decide to post once or twice a week and use the other days to catch up with you. Or something.

I do welcome suggestions...and again. Forgive my absence on your wonderful blogs. I've missed them.

Benefits

2007-10-25T04:51:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: Ms. K truly enjoys her job, and actually finds 99% of the people she encounters to be delightful or funny or fascinating or just plain fun to be around or some combination of all of those. That said, there are those things that make you shake your head....and those things just happen to be funnier.

It's amazing how priorities change in life. For instance, on Monday I thought that a good day at work meant that people had been nice or I had accomplished a great deal or one of the docs had thanked me or whatever. After Tuesday, I now know that it's a good day at work if no one brings in a child who barfs up her body weight in macaroni and cheese in one of the rooms, leading the doctor to come out to me smiling to say "yeah....we have a little emesis problem.....can you take care of that real quick?" From "need to get a lot done and make the doctors and patients as happy as possible" to "no macaroni and cheese barf" in one day. It's all in the perspective. And perspective is just one of the many benefits you get when working in a medical office. Another is constant exposure to a particularly sturdy brand of optimism that seems to take hold of patients everywhere. Among the things they believe:

merely seeing the doctor is enough to resolve your symptoms. Doing anything the doctor said, up to and including taking any of the prescribed medications? Pshaw. Totally unnecessary.

likewise, merely being in the same room as the doctor is enough for him or her to figure out everything that might be wrong with you. Tell the doctor all my symptoms? What, I have to do EVERYTHING???

people working in a medical office have immune systems armed with suitcase nukes and a limitless supply of weapons for hand to hand combat. It's totally unnecessary to cover coughs, sneezes, etc.--just let it fly.

the doctor would be delighted to refill the medication he prescribed four years ago--even though that's the last time you saw him. And you can call at 4:57 on a Friday night and have the medication for the weekend, because no one at the office is doing anything at all except waiting for you to call.

the results of the x-ray/ct scan/blood test/whatever you had done half an hour ago are probably already available, and all you need to do is call the doctor's office. Right now.

you are the only person needing forms filled out for your child to be able to have medication at school. It's fine to wait until the day before school starts, drop them off, and then ask to pick them up again in half an hour.

the girl at the front desk has complete control over how quickly the doctor moves, and if you're unpleasant enough to her, you'll get seen immediately. (this one boggles me...because even if she DID have that kind of power, wouldn't being nice to her be a more effective strategy?)

if I lie about things like my smoking habits, my eating habits, or my exercise habits, it won't matter. Doctors are all powerful and can keep me healthy no matter what I do.
The nurse/medical assistant is a genius with perfect recall and mind reading abilities. Therefore, it is only necessary to remember that you take "these little blue pills that my other doctor gave me" for him or her to figure out the name, dose, and amount you take.
If you reason with a 20-month-old long enough, they will completely understand the reason for the shot and will stop crying and hold perfectly still without any parental intervention at all.
No one else waiting to see the doctor has anything else to do all day, and would absolutely love to wait a bit longer so that you can be seen after walking in half an hour late. The doctor was just sitting around waiting for you, anyway.
The office policy of "please do not wear perfume to our office" really means "everyone but you". We just forgot to put that in there.
It takes no extra time for the doctor to have two patients instead of one, so if you're there for your child's asthma and want to talk about this strange rash you've had for awhile, go for it. Appointment length is a loose concept anyway because, as mentioned above, none of the other patients have anywhere they need to be.
If you've booked back-to-back appointments for your children--say, 1:00 and 1:30--it's perfectly fine to "split the difference" and come in at the start time of the second appointment. What's half an hour?
The only reason we don't handle your request exactly the way you want it handled within 37 seconds of your phoning in is that we need you to yell at us and call us names. We wish you'd do that every day, because it has such a positive effect on our productivity.
While it's true that we denied your prescription refill request last month because you haven't been seen since 2005, and it's also true that you were told that but still haven't made an appointment, go ahead and try to get it refilled again. Who knows--maybe we forgot.

Today is Friday and I know that the optimists will all figure they can get their refills at 4:59 tonight. And you know, I fuss about it a bit, but I have to admire their absolute conviction and resilience. Because they'll do it again next month. And quite probably the month after that as well.

May you have a delightful Friday, and may you experience only those optimists who don't make you tear your hair out. Don't even get me started on optimistic drivers.....

A Treatise on Many Things

2007-10-23T18:29:00.000-07:00

Okay, so probably not really a treatise...I just always wanted to use that word in an offhanded and breezily intellectual fashion, almost as if I were naturally glib and clever. We all have our fantasies.

First, squares. This first picture shows six squares from my beloved sister of the heart, Marianne:
Delightfully soft, and one of them (the purple one) even has a dragonfly that stubbornly refused all attempts to photograph it.

This next photo shows two really beautiful squares from Kitty Mommy:

Kitty Mommy, I'm in awe--how you got these done with all the other goodness going on in your life, I'll never know. But I'm grateful. You've also convinced me that I absolutely MUST buy some of this yarn in the pink colorway...or maybe the blue and brown...'cause, you know. I don't have any yarn to knit with.

The next picture is extraordinarily special....see if you can guess why:

Yep, they're beautiful but no, that's not why. It's special because one of these squares is number 180. I'm not sure which--the one with the stripes was given to me by Kristy a couple of weeks ago, but the other three were handed to me last night by Marti so they are 178, 179, and 180 in whichever order you care to look at them. Marti says she doesn't want a prize for last square--just recognition on the blog. Marti, you got it. For those unfortunate enough not to know Marti, she is funny, talented (beyond belief, actually--she can knit, spin, design, draw, write, and play soccer, and probably a lot more that I'm not thinking of right off the bat.), and an all around delightful person to know. Her dry wit has caught me off guard more than once, and I adore people who can do that. She's also trying to teach me to spin, which is a HUGE testament to her patience (as is the fact that she hasn't told me to quit whining about it not being perfect...or even in the same zip code as perfect). Marti rocks. And she is officially the maker of square #180.

As to the rest of you, I am speechless, tearful, and in awe of the goodness that each one of you represents. Look what you did! Okay, wait until I finish sewing them together and edging them...then I'll put up a photo of all the blankets and THEN you can look what you did. I know the families are going to be deeply touched and will be wrapped in all your love all winter long.

If I ever again doubt the power of knitters, just thwap me upside the head with one of those "pound of love" skeins of acrylic baby yarn. It'll serve me right.

As long as we're talking about awe-inspiring, breathtaking things (which we were and which you are), Mr. K took this picture last night from our hot tub on the back deck:

Those giant trees are in our backyard and, on nights like last night when they're not threatening to throw branches like javelins at the house and the car, I love them.

So, back to Sears on the weekend. Mr. K has spent much of the summer nursing along the Exxon Valdez, also known as our 12+ year old riding lawn mower which developed a disconcerting habit of spitting oil out randomly in the yard. (Some people are trying to shrink their carbon footprint; thanks to the Valdez, we could fit ours with an Olympic sized swimming pool.) Surprisingly, this did not alarm Mr. K as much as it did me, and neither did the occasional expulsions of thick, white smoke that made me wonder vaguely if my ass had caught fire while simultaneously avoiding that particular bit of knowledge. Oddly, the possibility of flaming ass was less concerning than the fact that the smoke made it difficult to see the spiders before running into them. My ass will heal...my psyche, after finding a tomato sized striped spider on my head planning a meal for 170 friends....not so much.

Even that didn't really budge Mr. K, but he caved in at last a couple of weeks ago when I noticed the mower not cutting all that well and opined that "perhaps the belt slipped" and he went to look and the belt was actually hanging out the side of the mower like a very tired snake. He initally went to replace the belt but, as he wandered around the manly area of Sears (you know the one--lots of tools and machines and men scratching in an undignified fashion and burping a lot), he was suddenly lured by the siren song of new lawn mowers. Shiny ones, at that. It was a candy store with horsepower.

He gazed upon these wonderous creatures for some time before finding me trying on jeans upstairs and encouraging me to "just come down for a quick look." And, much as I love attempting to avoid spiders while choking on smoke and dribbling oil down my leg, I finally agreed to come look at some mowers that actually turned on, stayed turned on, and cut grass. A novel concept.

Now, those of you who read this blog or know me personally know that Mr. K is my dearest friend and greatest love and I adore him. However, I am not blind to his foibles, one of which is making decisions at a glacial pace. Which is why Saturday afternoon found me seated on a riding lawn mower in the Sears basement, coat still on, sweating all over a plastic bag containing my pair of jeans, and repeating several times "they're both comfortable, I'd be happy with either, I don't think it matters much." Good times. Still, I must admit that Mr. K almost invariably makes very good decisions, likely because he thinks them through (and through and through and through and through and through and....), so I sat patiently and answered his questions and sweated on my jeans bag. And we were nearly there...heartbreakingly close, in fact, had it narrowed down to two....when the salesman said brightly "Of course, there's also this one over here, have you looked at it yet?"

I'm assured that the salesman will be fine, and that it's not necessarily fatal to have a crazed sweaty woman try to stuff a plastic bag full of jeans in your mouth. He got off lucky in my book.

But the upshot is that we brought home a shiny, black riding mower with a loud, manly engine and enough cutting power to take care of the astrodome in about 15 minutes flat. It really is quite macho.

I think I'll call it Black Beauty. Or Spider Crusher. I'm not sure which.

Fast Fly By

2007-10-22T05:18:00.000-07:00

Which is to say that the weekend mysteriously got away from me and now I have about minus 5 minutes to get on the exercise bike so I won't be late for work. I promise to write more tomorrow about the weekend (What bright, shiny new thing was purchased for Ms.K's comfort and brought home yesterday via trailer? How long did it take Mr. K to decide on it? Why did Ms. K come to the conclusion that all salesmen should be shot on sight? These and other answers when we return tomorrow to "As Ms K's World Turns").

BUT, I did want to show you what Childe did:

With the 6 that Marianne just sent to me (but aren't here yet for me to photograph--rest assured, I will), I believe this brings us to 176 of the 180 needed. (What wonderful prize is in store for whomever sends me number 180? Tune in tomorrow...)

This is what I did:

When not at Sears wondering if salesmen eat their own young. It still needs to be edged (the blankie, not the salesman) but I think it's awfully pretty.

Finally, since I have no humor of my own to offer you this fine Monday morning, I offer the work of a cartoonist from my local paper:

Why this made me laugh so hard, I don't know. It probably says something slightly disturbing about me.

Keep on knitting, and learn from the above: stay away from Sears on weekends, and always keep your shell on.

Chutzpah, and the art of Wife Traps

2007-10-19T18:39:00.000-07:00

chutz·pa /ˈxʊtspə, ˈhʊt-/
Pronunciation[khoot-spuh, hoot-]
–noun Slang.
1. unmitigated effrontery or impudence; gall.
2. audacity; nerve.
Also, chutzpah, hutzpa, hutzpah.
[Origin: 1890–95; < Yiddish khutspa < Aram ḥūṣpā]

Oh, and number 3: Mr. K. Whom I adore and who is my dearest friend and my greatest love but still. Chutzpah. Let me tell you the story and I'm sure you'll agree.

I am a morning person. This is not by choice so please don't throw things at me. Believe me--I know that the bright, chirpy, larks of the world are not roundly adored and I even know why. I don't hold it against you that you find me nauseating when I rise from my bed fully functional at least 20 minutes before the alarm, or when I mention that I have only actually heard my alarm clock about 3 times in the past year (twice were when the power had gone out and the damned thing had reset itself for midnight). It is worth pointing out, though, that as much as I might have an advantage in the wee hours, truth is that I'm a disaster at night, falling into slumber with all the self-control of a 3-year old by 10:00 no matter how exciting the movie or book or knitting or whatever is. I've seen the beginnings of more movies than probably anyone you know...but you could completely lie to me about the ending and I'd never know. Not unless it's one of the two I actually stayed awake for.

Larkdom aside, however, I always wake up in the early morning and this time of year, that means wandering around the house in the dark. I do this so as not to awaken the above-mentioned chutzpah king. So this morning I went down at around 5:15, thinking to feed the fur people who were all laying money on whether or not I was actually smart enough to understand that leaning on my head and screaming into my ear while I typed meant "Feed us now, or we'll start eating you." I made it all the way down to the entryway...before encountering the sole of one of Mr. K's shoes, lying on its side in the very middle of the downstairs hall. I ran into it piggy first--the piggy that had none, as it happened (the piggy that ate roast beef was, happily, spared) which is now the piggy that rained fiercely whispered profanity down on the tender hours while hopping madly about like a twit. One bent toe, and the morning was still young. This was not promising.

I fed the cats just in time to keep all my limbs, and then went up to exercise. On the way there, I decided to head back into the bedroom to get my cell phone, as my boss knows she can call me early if she needs me to come in early and it's easier to use the phone than to shout wildly into the dark. I headed into the bedroom....and WHAM. My knee made absolutely ferocious impact with the dresser drawer. The dresser drawer that Mr. K had left standing open. One bent toe, and one battered knee with instantly purpling lump. No, this was not a good beginning.

And worse, it was actually NOT the beginning. Because earlier this week I tangled my feet in the sweatshirt Mr. K had left on the floor, set my sleeve in the sauce he'd dripped on the counter, and tripped over a 9 x 13 pan of rainwater sitting on one of the back steps (don't ask--I still don't get that one), which promptly flipped up and dumped icy water down my sock to pool in my shoe. So this morning, once the culprit--the beloved husband, I mean--woke up, I gently described this series of mishaps. My intent was to end with a gently worded request to try to perhaps stop setting wife traps all over the house because he already has me and because I may have to beat him firmly about the head with a slipper full of cat litter if he doesn't.

Before I could get to the moral of the story, however (the one about the man who would rather not explain the presence of cat litter and slipper fuzz in his ear when he gets to work), he said this:
"Wow, Honey. You should be more careful."

I should....what? I should be more CAREFUL???

Chutzpah, I'm telling you.

While I have you, please join me in wishing a very happy birthday to my delightful "cybermom"--that is, the mother of the booby-trapper, my mother-in-law. I hate calling her that because there really isn't any "in-law" about it--she's my cybermom and I adore her wit and her kindness and her wisdom. I don't know how old she is, but I know she's old in wisdom and young at heart and in spirit and utterly wonderful. Oh, and still a superhero who has managed to send me enough squares for nearly two whole blankets--by herself.

Happy birthday, Judy. The world is a better place because you're in it.

Oh, and Mr. K? About those wife traps? I'm telling mom on you.

Full Moon Over Washington

2007-10-17T19:09:00.000-07:00

I'd have been better off if I hadn't seen this. The catalogue people know this, of course--this is why they send them to me, poised to arrive at my weakest moment: the end of a long day, when I am weary and worn and tired of being nice to idiot insurance companies and idiot pharmacies and doctors who would rather walk down the hall and interrupt me to press one button on the computer than simply do it themselves (I imagine it's supposed to help me "build character". Yeah, well, my character looks like Goliath on steroids, push your own damned button.). At such moments, it would be possible to convince me to take out my credit card to purchase 16 pounds of cow manure if it was photographed attractively and the 17th pound was free. Never mind the tools of my obsession (okay, OUR obsession--I know you understand all this).

And since I am a yarn-weakened creature (and you make take this to mean "yarn and anything to do with yarn"--hell, standing too close to a field of sheep could probably do it), I went immediately from the shiny, glossy catalogue to the shiny, glossy website and found the set of needles and clicked the shiney, glossy "add to stash" button. And hugged myself gleefully. I love those needles. And then I realized something: it would cost $10.79 to ship those bad boys....but if I bought just $10.01 more worth of merchandise, shipping would be free.

Folks, I tried hard. I mean, I tried HARD to make myself just order the needles, pay the shipping, and be done with it. But I have relatives and ancestors who did things like save and re-use wrapping paper and scotch tape, wash aluminum foil in the dishwasher and re-use it, make popsicles in ice cube trays out of the 1/4 teaspoon of juice left at the bottom of a dish of sliced peaches and for all I know I might have had ancestors who read the newpaper one article at a time for a month so they didn't have to order the newspaper as often. All I know is that the dead ones would have spun in their graves like tops if I'd paid $10.75 to get nothing when I could have paid $10.01 and gotten something. Anything.

This meant that I spent the next hour selecting and rejecting items, trying to get a little over the minimum for free shipping without getting WAY over. It's no good saving $10 if you have to spend $30 to do it. I worked on it last night. I worked on it this morning. I angsted over this, all the while realizing that the needles are on a first-come-first-serve basis and that if I wanted to receive them before my mind goes and I no longer recall what they're for (a day which seems closer at times than at others), I'd best make a decision before the start of the next decade.

Finally, I chose some sock yarns in two colors (don't ask me which ones--it could be old twine wrapped around a toilet-paper roll at this point for all I remember) and set about putting in my order. And, after a frustrating 20 minutes trying to get my computer to enable cookies so I could complete my order (since when did COOKIES become bad??? Seriously, if they're bad for your computer, shouldn't they be called something like "pattern mistakes" or "moths" or "unmatched dye lots" or something?), I finally got in and triumphantly hit the right button to complete my order. Which is when I finally realized what I probably should have realized the LAST time I ordered from Knitpicks.

How did I not know that Knitpicks is right here in my own state? Vancouver, Washington, to be precise (not to be confused with Vancouver, B.C., although that's a common mistake), which means that for all my finagling and strife, I got to pay for no shipping--but plenty of Washington State sales tax. I hate sales tax. And honestly, though I keep asking, no one in the governer's office seems interested in sending me a clear and concise accounting of what they're doing with all the money they've been tacking onto my purchases since I was old enough to push my own quarter across the counter for a candy bar (yes, I am old enough to remember when you could buy a candy bar for a quarter. No, I do not care to discuss this.).

To ease my troubled mind I went down and spread out the envelopes that all the lovely squares came in, and I asked Miss Gracie to make another couple of picks (Ed was out doing cat stuff and opted not to be bothered with stupid human tricks). Interestingly, Grace seemed to have some sort of understanding of her mission this time--I spread them out and she approached them carefully, sniffed each one in turn before carefully laying a paw on first one (Karen in Utah) and then another (Vivienne in Great Yarmouth). I have some fine sock yarn heading both your ways as soon as I can get to the post office (likely Saturday, although I'll do it sooner if I can). Here is the booty to be had--I'll let you be surprised as to who gets what:

There's a skein of Monarch sport weight in Ruby Redmond, and a skein of Opal handpaint. I'm hoping you might send me a photo of what you make.

Lastly, I have to show you the sock I've been working on when I'm on the exercise bike. I can't work on the blankets there--not enough room, plus they're quite heavy--so I do get to do a little something else from time to time. This is a little arrowhead sock made from the beautiful yarn Celtic Jo sent me:

It's not really a weird shape--I just sort of arranged it badly. I was still annoyed at the governer at that point.

I did end up placing my order as it was, by the way, and I'm looking forward to getting the needles. But I'm still thinking I might have to go up to Olympia so I can moon the governer's mansion. Or something.

Invasion, Part Deux

2007-10-15T18:31:00.001-07:00

First, allow me to start whinily by detailing the injustices in life which have allowed me to catch the upper respiratory virus that's been going around the office....after everyone else has had it and gotten better. And you know how that goes--if you get it first, everyone feels sorry for you, if you get it along with everyone else, everyone commiserates with you, and if you get it last, everyone just says breezily "Oh, yeah-I had that last week. I'm fine now." Fabulous, but my head still contains enough snot to grease highways from here to outer Mongolia (am I the only one whose mom used to describe things as "slicker than snot"? I am? Sorry. Then the highway reference is probably pretty gross. She also said things were "slicker than shit through a goose" but that begs all SORTS of ugly pictures), my hair hurts, my throat has been rubbed with steel wool, and I'm cranky and whiny. Since I woke up this way yesterday and spent the entire day huddled under a blanket, cursing the cheery, happy co-workers who gifted me with this, I have not yet drawn names for the yarn I promised, but I will. I'll do it tonight or tomorrow night. I did have to work today (and aren't you glad it wasn't your arm I was bending over to read skin tests when my nose started running?) so my plan for this evening is to collapse exhausted onto the couch and do further cursing of my cheery, happy c0-workers. I read somewhere that getting absorbed in a hobby is good for recovery. Cursing healthy people seems as good as any.

ANYWAY. So on Saturday Mr. K felt strongly about mowing the lawn one last time before fall is fully upon us (my argument that we live in a virtual rainforest and fall is NEVER fully upon us fell on deaf ears) so he sharpened up the blades of the riding mower and had me drive around in ever decreasing circles until all the grass was short. (Do you ever think what aliens from space might thing viewing our activities? Like planting and watering and tending grass which we then hack down to the the ground while driving around in circles? Let's just say they're probably not going to stop and ask us for our accumulated wisdom...or even directions to the next "little alien's room" for that matter.) What he and I had both forgotten, at least initially (I remembered real jiffy quick) was that while the spiders around the house had been duly shopvacced, the ones on the OUTER edges of the yard were enjoying a respite, a dappled autumn afternoon--and these were the very edges on which I had to mow. There are a lot of spiders around the edges of our yard.

In truth, Mr. K and I both think that there are more spiders this year than we've ever seen, which lends some credence to my theory that every one we kill has an enormous funeral and all of his family and friends move in, waiting for an opportunity to break my legs or put the evil eye on me, or whatever. And Monica, I'm not at all sure what kind they are. I know we have what Mr. K refers to as "little wolf spiders" (which is like saying "slightly trashy rock star" when discussing Brittany Spears) but they are hooved and tend to hang out in the sinks and showers for maximum scaring potential. The ones outside are striped and huge--like cherry tomatos with stripes and legs and little black hearts. I think I've heard them called "money spiders" because of an old superstition that having one outside your door means you'll come into money. Aside from the collection the neighbors are raising to try to bribe me into not screaming quite so much when taking the garbage out in the wee hours, this has not proven true for me.

So, on my first pass around the yard, I nearly drove right into one of the aforementioned black-hearted tomatos. I was not impressed. Neither would Mr. K have been if I hadn't finally stopped flailing long enough to grab the steering wheel, mere inches from the tree that had somehow leaped into my path as I tried to look at my entire body at once, certain that the thing was there SOMEWHERE. After that, I started watching and, sure enough, there were tomato webs stretched across my path at intervals all around the yard, with nasty little occupants sharpening up the cuisinart blades in preparation for a tasty meal of Knitingale. This would never do.

I tried all the logical things--screaming some more, nearly driving into multiple stationary objects, and flailing desperately but to no avail. They seem to have brought every friend they ever knew. Finally, when he stopped laughing long enough (he'll pay for that), Mr. K presented me with a thin, light board that I could hold in front of me as I drove, swatting the offending nasties out of the way before they could land on me and suck out my brain or whatever else they might have been plotting. (Yes, I did watch too much cheap horror as a child..why do you ask?)

And so it was that the Knitingales held their first ever jousting event--with the brave Lady Knitingale perched on her trusty riding mower, jousting pole at the ready, and then driving hell bent for leather into the webs of the enemy, unconcerned for her safety.

Well, okay. So absolutely panicked about safety--but not, oddly, worred about plowing into a tree, running my stick into a tree and impaling my torso with the other end, or getting my stick caught on something and pulling myself from my trusty, oilsnorting steed. No. I was worried about one of the little buggers leaping for safety to my hair and as such spent much of the next two hours waving a stick crazily with one hand while using the other to swipe ineffectually at my head. The riding mower pretty much was given free rein. I rather suspect that the back yard appears for all the world to be completely covered in complex crop circles at this point. I am absolutely not one whit interested in trying to remedy that.

By the way, I did prove once and for all that spiders have not just a sense of humor, but a vicious one. I noticed one spider on my way around and, knowing that I had to get close in to where it was, planned to attack with my stick when I came back around. But when I got there, it was gone. Which, of course, forced me to wonder where it had gone, how close I'd gotten to it in the first place, and what that strange tickling sensation on the back of my neck was (turned out to be my hair...but for a minute there....well, you know). Took me a few more rounds and a LOT more batting at my neck to finally look up and see the little bastard, about 15 feet up, laughing like hell as it watched me circling around trying to locate it.

Okay, I can't prove it was laughing. But I'm pretty sure I heard some evil, tomato-y snickers.

Invasion

2007-10-13T18:03:00.000-07:00

Not of the body snatchers, but rather, the Ms. Knitingale's dignity snatchers. Because all dignity flies right out the window when I stride obliviously into one of these:

See, I got up this morning in one of those happy, Pollyanna, the world is great, "hey kids, let's put on a show!" kinds of moods, in the throes of which I am wont to do strange things like schlep outside just after dawn in my Seahawks fleece pants, my bright red fleece jacket from Victoria (if you don't think THAT'S a color palette to melt the mind--Seahawks colors are gray-blue and white with a lime green accent), and Mr. K's giant slippers which I hold on my feet in the dewy damp grass by curling my toes into a collection of ten tiny, little white knuckles, with the giddy plan of taking artsy shots of ordinary things because I apparently am deluded into believing that I just missed a career taking pictures for National Geographic by thiiiiiiiis much.

Really, I should just lie down until this sort of mood goes away. My neighbors probably wish I would.

Anyhow, I looked toward the gnarly tree in the front yard which isn't all that old but has a sort of "old tree" personality (at least, at dawn in a crazy-person outfit, viewing the world through a camera lens and ten layers of bizarro vision, it does), thinking there might be a lovely picture there. And that was when I noticed all the spider webs.

Marianne, I know you like the spiders and I'm sorry for thinking them soulless little beasts who have meetings each fall on how to rotate taking turns clattering up to me on their little spider hooves for the sheer pleasure of watching me scream and dance around and try in vain to see the top of my head, certain that one of the little monsters is probably perched up there, plotting how to get me back to its web where it and all its spidery hooved buddies will eat for the next month. But there you are. I am probably on some black list created by Mother Nature for this.

This morning, though, with the sun glinting off the dew caught in the spiderwebs, and my brain tripping on some sort of giddiness thing, even I saw the beauty of it and thought to clench Mr. K's slippers further onto my toe knuckles and wander closer to the tree to take the above photos. Pretty, no? (Try not to notice that the bottom one is in there sideways--the program I use to manage photos and I had a terrible falling out. Frankly, it's a wonder this was the only casualty. It's best not to talk about it.)

So there I was, clicking away, thinking how proud Marianne would be when she saw that I had sort of seen the light (I still wasn't ready to go pet the little horrors or anything, but I was at least seeing them as less than completely evil in that moment) when I happened to look down. Which was when I saw that another enterprising spider had built another web extending from the tree in front of me, to the ground, also in front of me. And right about crotch level (mine, not the tree's) was a glaring, pulsating, nasty spider, sharpening up its teeth and reading a teeny tiny cookbook entitled, no doubt, "To Serve Man." Or something like that.

If I'd moved an inch forward (which I had been about to do in order to get a few more pictures) I'd have been wearing him like an 8-legged bikini bottom and the whole neighborhood would've been awakened by my screaming like a banshee, tearing off my pants, and stomping frantically on them while simultaneously batting at my head, all while gloriously bare-tushied in the bright new dawn.

Mr. K apparently has some feelings about my displaying my tushie to the neighbors, bright new dawn or no, because he spent much of the afternoon sucking up spiders around the house with a shop vac. He does this frequently, which leads to my repeated nightmare in which one of those sucked-up critters survives by eating the others, growing to the size of a volkswagon before picking the lock and marching upstairs while I sleep to smack me around for having it condemned to suckage.

It was not a good start to the day.

This, however, made it all better:

These five squares were mailed to me by Tola, but made by several people. The diagonally striped one has a note that indicates that it is reminiscent of the Wizard of Oz movie, in which things start out sepia, become black and white, and eventually become brightly colored. Nicely done. I can't wait to put it in a blanket.

Now, unless I miss my guess (and quite frankly, it's more than a little bit possible that the spider thing has cost me a number of exploded brain cells...a good spider dance can do that to you), that means I have 155 squares of the 180 needed. You guys are beyond amazing. Just 25 more to go. Two of the blankets are completely finished and ready to go, and I'm about to lay out a third. I can hardly believe we did this. When they're all done, I'll have Mr. K take a picture of me in the middle of them all. Wish I had pictures of all the talented artists who made them.

Tomorrow I'll get Ed or someone to pick out some more prize recipients. I located some Monarch sock yarn in the Redmond Ruby colorway which I had purchased for myself but which I have opted to donate to this cause. Someone will be making Ruby Redmond socks soon. You may want to kiss up to Ed if you're a Ruby Redmond fan. He particularly likes Friskies tuna and egg....and also mice. In no particular order. (But please don't mail mice to my house...my nerves are still shot from Mr. Crotch Spider.)

Yes, Amy, There is a Yarn Fairy

2007-10-11T18:14:00.000-07:00

Remember Amy--the startlingly beautiful young lady in my office whom I (brought over to the dark side) taught to knit? We were eating lunch today and discussing knitting (what else?) and she mentioned that she's knitted a blanket for her new puppy (miniature doxie--and so cute he kind of makes your teeth ache) is about to start one for herself and that's when she made this statement:

"I have so much yarn I can hardly believe it. I don't know where it all came from, but it's suddenly overflowing my yarn basket and I need a new place to put it all." Proof positive, by the way, that Amy has been a knitter all along, just needing to grab that first pair of needles: she said she needed another place to put it--not that she needed to get rid of any or stop buying it. That's my girl.

Anyway, I wanted to help her with this yarn explosion issue, but the same mystery seems to take place at my house on a startlingly regular basis and I've yet to figure it out. I've had some guesses, though.

There are several sheep holding AA meetings at my house when I'm asleep (wouldn't you drink heavily if you knew the world was populated with people holding pointy sticks who wanted to make you naked?), and they leave behind bits of yarn in lieu of coffee and donut money.
The dust bunnies under the beds, the fridge, and possibly under any cat who lies still long enough, have started their own version of "Extreme Makeover: Dust Bunny Edition" wherein they turn from disgusting clods of dust into lovely skeins of fiber (I could possibly debunk this one by looking under the bed....but I don't wanna).
The ghosts of all the handknit items I received but failed to appreciate BK (Before Knitting) are haunting my house. Fortunately, they are all happy and lovely ghosts.
A herd of Alpacan rebels, fed up with the cold climate of their native home, have taken refuge in my craft room. They don't want to be sent back, so have perfected the art of lying very, very, very still. In brightly colored mounds.
Unbeknownst to me, one of the plants Mr. K brought into the house when we married is actually a yarn tree. I've never seen it blooming, but I'm loathe to let go of such a delightful possibility.
I've been the victim of a drive-by yarning. Many, many times.
In a heretofore unknown weather phenomenon, banks of yarn clouds regularly move into my craft room and rain heavily. Not anywhere else, though.
The cats have located my drop spindle and become more adept at spinning cat hair than I ever will with any other fiber. They can apparently dye it, as well.
Fairy tale characters have been sneaking in and out of my house for some sort of nefarious purpose, and Rapunzel got sick and tired of all those witches and children and princes and dwarves climbing up her hair. It's obviously taken many tries to find just the right substitute. In fact, based on the amount of fiber, she may still be trying.
The universe, impressed by my patience and fortitude (shut up, it could happen) has decided to reward me with a new ball of yarn every time I swear at my current knitting project.
There's a hole in the time-space continuum that allows the gentle yarn people of Woolotopia to leak through into this reality. They like it in my house, though, and have given up trying to explore our world or spread their message of peace and lanolin.
I don't just sleep walk--I perform stand up comedy in my sleep, but am so bad at it that I get pelted by the audience. Thankfully, they do not have rotten tomatoes, but merely balls of yarn to throw (they are sadly mistaken if they think this will discourage me, but there you are).
They've started giving out yarn with every fill-up at my local gas station. Judging by the size of the infiltration of fiber products, it would seem that my car gets about 17 inches to the gallon....give or take.
My collection of sweaters have been getting way too friendly with one another, and the house is filling up with their love children.
Santa Claus totally gets me. And I've been so good, I don't even have to wait for Christmas.
It's really an infestation of very cleverly disguised mice. Which would also explain why it's so hard to keep the cats out of the yarn.
What yarn? I don't see any yarn.
It turns out that spinning your swift very, very fast while winding hanks of yarn actually produces a worm hole in space though which balls of intergalactic yarn hop like little wooly rabbits until the spinning stops. Like the Tribbles on Star Trek, they're soothing, soft, comforting, slightly addictive, and born pregnant. They have litters of about 50.
When I wanted to confront a co-worker but was too chicken and uttered the slightly crude phrase "I need to get some balls", a genie in the watering can overheard me. He didn't understand the reference and couldn't quite figure out what I wanted balls OF, but figured yarn would be a place to start. Good thing I didn't say I wanted balls of steel. I don't think the floor boards would have held out.
Every time a new ball of yarn is purchased, a yarn fairy gets her wings. And I feel a personal responsibility to make sure that there are no fairies run down while jogging or trying to hail cabs. Or falling off of ferries. Fairies falling off ferries would be bad.

Have any of these things happened to you?

Square count is holding steady at 150, meaning I need just 30 more. I believe the Yellowstone Unravellers were hoping to send another 16 to complete one blanket made just by them (they're so cool) which means I'm even closer than that! I'm so excited. Miss is, too. I've not had the heart to tell her I'm mailing them all away.

Imagine

2007-10-10T18:52:00.000-07:00

Have you ever wondered what we did before the internet? If you're my age (or, God forbid, OLDER), you grew up without even guessing that people would actually have computers in their homes but still....doesn't it seem like a basic essential these days? There are so many things I know that I wouldn't have known without the internet. For instance:

I would not have known that my penis is entirely too small. Thankfully, there is a nice person who calls me attention to this on a regular basis via e-mail.
I would not have known that Brittany Spears, to everyone's great astonishment, is not mother of the year material.
I would not have known about the famous moose-burp study
I might never have learned that I have almost no chance of surviving a zombie attack, that I would be neopolitan if I was an ice cream flavor, or that my vampire name would be Jezebel the Demented.
I would not have known that a very determined man could play the piano with....well...something other than his hands. I won't link it, but if you're an adventuring sort, type "piano man" and the name of the body part in question into google. Dudes. I had no idea. He probably isn't getting those e-mails I mentioned.
I would not have known that there are at least 7456 things you can do with marshmallow fluff.
I might never have learned the fine art of prespending 60% of my paycheck from the comfort of my home office chair in my jammies (thank you SO much, Knitpicks)
I wouldn't have known that there are literally dozens of ways to mutilate and otherwise abuse Peeps....or that there are so many twisted individuals thinking up those ways.
I might have missed seeing a close up photograph of a holy grilled cheese sandwich (remember the sandwich with the Virgin Mary on it?)
I also might not have known that the woman with the sandwich had a likeness of the thing tattooed onto her breast. (Well, yeah...what would you do with a holy sandwich?)
I would not have known just how many dangers are lurking in the world, trying to get me--like deodorant, underwire bras, and the invisible beams from cell phones.
A logical follow-up to that last--I also wouldn't have known just how many people out there are a few french fries short of a happy meal.I wouldn't have known that I can knit a novelty yarn sweater for my cat (happily, the internet can also point me to the nearesty ER after I try to get the thing on the cat and am in need of 200+ sutures).
I might never have heard about the woman whose cousin's sister's boyfriend's boss's brother's maid ate a handful of pop rocks washed down with coca cola and her stomach exploded. I would have completely missed the opportunity to download a free cowboy hat smiley for my e-mails
It would have taken me much longer to figure out that I have all the wrong clothes (I have failed to replace my entire wardrobe every few months--can you imagine?), am too tall, am not blonde enough, am not an interesting enough lover, and am in dire need of botox and cellulite thigh cream.
I would not now have the opportunity to choose from thousands of possible halloween costumes online, all of which boil down to assorted incarnations of prostitute--whether you want to be a witch, an angel, a goth fairy, or a nurse, you'll have your goodies hanging out.
I wouldn't have learned that I have the symptoms of 47 rare diseases and can expect to live through next Tuesday at about 7:45 pm.
I wouldn't have known what happens to spiders on drugs (watch this to the end--it is SO worth it!)

I also wouldn't have met you guys, though, and that really is the best part of all. Even better than spiders on drugs.

Food Network Has a Lot to Answer For

2007-10-07T16:36:00.001-07:00

It started, as such things often do, with an innocent comment, this time from Mr. K: "Honey, what do you think about having our friend, Daniel, come over for dinner Sunday?" to which I replied cheerfully "Of course, Sweetie--it'll be good to see Daniel." And things sort of went downhill from there.

For those not in the know, I do not cook well. In fact, I barely cook at all and the best thing that can be said about my culinary talents when I DO attempt to cook, is that I can be charming enough to distract my guests from whatever it is they happen to be eating (their guess is often as good as mine). That, and I do bake pretty well, so I can always cleanse their palette with enough nicely-prepared chocolate to give a moose seizures.

Keeping the above in mind, wouldn't you think I'd have said something like "Great--let's get Chinese and I'll make brownies"? Or something of that ilk? Hell, if I make the caramel brownies and serve them with vanilla bean ice cream, it might not even need to be GOOD Chinese food. But no, I said this instead: "Hmmm...how about if I make some creamy potato soup, and some fresh bread?" This is actually not too bad so far--there's a company that makes a pretty passable potato soup mix that I've used before--it's fine if you dump in some cheese and corn and some kind of meat. But I just wouldn't shut up, try though I might to SHUT myself up. I then said "But I think I'll make it from scratch. And you know what else? I think I'll try to make a roasted potato soup. Roasting gives such good flavor." Like I know what I'm talking about. Like I'd know a roasted potato from a baseball mitt in a blind taste test. Please.

It was at this point that things might have gone differently, but for Mr. K's cruel and unusual comment: "Sounds great, Honey. I know you'll make something really wonderful." I know, you're thinking "What a sweet and encouraging husband." But no. This is not encouragement. This is fostering dangerous delusions of competence. You must know that no good can come of it.

To put it another way, I think that if I went on the reality show Top Chef, I'd be told to pack my knives around the time I approached the world famous chef judges--most likely after a fellow contestant just offered braised duck with a ginger fig sauce and a cauliflower puree seasoned with things I've never heard of--and said something like "Good evening, Chefs. Tonight I have for you a plate of rice-a-roni brightened with frozen veggies and weenie coins. I've got some pre-shredded kraft cheese if you want to garnish it properly. I'd recommend the 2007 diet Pepsi to compliment it. What? It's seafood night? No problemo, Pierre. Let me just whip open this here can of tuna."

Anyway. I then proceeded to make matters even worse--there's got to be a demon living in my head, I swear--by finding multiple recipes online, reading them carefully, AND THEN DECIDING TO WING IT. Don't ask me, I don't know. And yes, I was sober.

My plan was simple--cut up potatoes, place in pan with olive oil and herbs, roast. Take out half the potatoes and puree them with chicken broth and milk. Mix the resulting puree with more chicken broth, the rest of the potatoes, and some veggies and ham. Simple, no?

No. Because I am to estimating amounts, what Brittany Spears is to parenting. Or underpants. I never think a mere 3 pounds of pasta looks like NEARLY enough food for two people, one of whom just had oral surgery and can only eat water. The same holds true, it seems, for making soup. I roasted two pans of potatoes. Two entire pans. For three people. Moreover, I somehow skipped the part about stirring them frequently, so spent an unholy amount of time scraping the crispy bits out of the bottom of the pans. I splashed potato puree on every conceivable surface, I almost choked the blender with too much potato and not enough liquid, I got olive oil on my favorite shirt and one of my favorite cats.

From then, it was just a nightmare of guilt and recrimination, as I tried to balance liquid and spices and seasonings and so on (you know the drill--"oh, it's too spicy--add some more broth. wait, now it's not seasoned enough--add more seasoning. Wait, now it's too spicy again..."etc.). At some point, Mr. K came in and helpfully offered things like "I think it needs some heat. Did you put pepper in?" and "I have some great hot sauce we could try." Men are confusing. They SAY they don't want to be swatted viciously with half an onion, but then they do stuff like that. Anyway, the soup doesn't taste all bad at this point...but would you all like to come to dinner? You and all your friends? And would you like a doggie bag of oh...say, three quarts of roasted potato soup? Each?

To add insult to copious soupy injury, my kitchen now looks as if a hurricane hit it. The blender is potato puree coated, the stove looks like it has soup brail on it, there are onion bits from here to hell and back--and speaking of onions, how did I forget that whole "stand there blinded with tears while holding a sharp implement" thing? It's been awhile since I used fresh onion, apparently, and clearly my boycott was justified. The things are vicious and obviously do not wish to be cooked. But back to my hurricane--I cook as if there were an award for "most dishes and utensils used in the preparation of an only average meal". If only there were. Hey, the award could be a year's worth of take-out....

The soup and I, by the way, are no longer speaking and will not be seeking counseling to try to repair the rift. We know when a thing is not meant to be. It is clear that I should stick to things I know more about.....Yep--blankie number two, ready to go. Breathtaking in my estimation. And in someone else's, too:

I'm not sure if you can tell, but I was stitching the thing together when this was taken, and Miss was actually underneath the finished portion with only her head sticking out.

I think she likes it.

I think my poor guests will be here soon. I do have some cookie-dough brownies for dessert...maybe I'll float them in the soup like croutons. At least it'll be a dinner they'll be talking about for awhile.

We All Saw This Coming

2007-10-05T19:21:00.000-07:00

How does one know when one has turned the corner from "loveably eccentric" to "a couple of french fries short of a happy meal"? Hell, I just might be short the burger, too.

See, I'm not surprised at all when I find myself talking to the radio, the news, the cats, my football team ("Good Grief--why don't you just walk up and HAND them the ball????")or even my knitting ("let GO, you bastard!" is heard frequently when I'm trying to crochet squares together and the hook catches a thread instead of the whole strand and...well, you know). I no longer think it's all that odd when I stand in my closet and muse out loud "Okay, so who wants to be worn today?" Yeah, I know. One man's whimsy is another man's nut job. But still, I figured I was okay because I had a relative long ago whose cheese slowly slipped off her cracker, as evidenced by her naked forays down the street at night to steal pea gravel from the neighbors driveway...one piece at a time (which makes sense, really--I mean, it's not like she had pockets to carry a whole BUNCH of pea gravel) and I still see that behavior as kind of out there. My standards of sanity may not be terrifically high, but I'm clear on what they are. Naked gravel theft: bad. Yep, still pretty much together.

Anyway, I may be forced to look to another standard of measure because today I caught myself talking.....to my HAIR. Yep. I was walking up the stairs at work and caught sight of myself in one of those weird hubcap-shaped mirrors that make everyone look like a swollen goldfish? And they put them in the corners so you can if you're about to run into another swollen goldfish? And I was well into the following monologue before I realized that yes, I was talking to my hair:

"No, no--we talked about this. I gave you the choice. I said you could flip up or curl under and you chose under. You may not go back on your choice now. I'm sorry if you're not happy with your choice, but it's too late to make another one now. And no, flipping up on one side only is neither cute nor whimsical. Particulary when it's the side on the left back of my head. Beside, remember yesterday? Remember you chose to be flipped up? And what did you do? You remember, I know you do. You curled under on one side only. I expect better from you than this, I really do."

I know, it's bad. I also offered today to make offerings to the computer gods for Dr. V--we agreed that it might take lettuce or carrots, since it was clearly a geriatric hamster with bad arthritis and a limp running the server, if speed was anything to go by, and threatened to introduce birth control to the laundry basket to stop the out-of-control reproduction that seems to be going on in there (it's a party all day in that basket, judging by the enormous number of offspring that keep turning up--there's just no way Mr. K and I have worn that many socks in the last three days). See? The elevator's going up but really only stopping on the half floors. It's a sad thing.

Oh, and I might have slipped a bit of a cog while speaking to the person at a mail-order company who was allegedly working in customer service, but I find that terminology to be a heinous act of deceptive advertising. By the time I called, I had placed an order (a month and a half ago), e-mailed about the order's whereabouts twice, called once, and then e-mailed again--all without response. Cogs were definitely in danger by the time I called again today. And, in my current state of "flexible sanity", it made perfect sense to me to ask calmly "Am I bothering you by trying to do annoying things like purchase merchandise from you?"

I will defend this last, though, because not only did I get a full apology, I got a discount on my next order once they determined that the missing one is never going to come because the manufacturer discontinued it and they never got around to sharing that teensy, tiny little detail with me...or, apparently, the 39 other people waiting for the same items. A better person than I would probably not find it funny to think of the company scrambling to right this situation.

For a happy thing, though, check out the delightful bounty that arrived today from Childe:

13 of 'em, if you're counting, and each more beautiful than the last. Childe, you're a rock star. She also threw in some money for postage which was totally unnecessary, but much appreciated. These squares will be warming some very fortunate folk.

I'm off to welcome home Mr. K. And to be thankful that the neighbors have a paved driveway. This seems like it might be a good thing.

The Law of Knitingale

2007-10-03T19:11:00.000-07:00

You've all heard of Murphy's Law, I expect--that old adage that if anything can go wrong, it will? Yeah, well Murphy was a big girl's blouse. He never would have stood up to Knitingale's law, wherein if anything can be made more interesting (read weird) and amusing (read downright irritating), it will become so at the speed of free cashmere leaving your local Knitnight. For instance:

Imagine you are Ms. Knitingale.

Imagine that you are a moron (I realize this is repeating myself).

Imagine that you are a bit self-control challenged when it comes to collecting scrubs (that is, I am a scrub whore of the worst possible order, and could probably outfit the entire NFL, their wives, the cheerleaders, and several of the players dogs in medical wear if I so chose...which would almost seem appropriate, given that those guys have "soon-to-be hospital patient" written all over them..but I digress).

Okay, now imagine that a friend has offered to sell you some scrubs she can no longer use, at bargain basement prices. Got it? Excellent.

Now, imagine that you receive the scrubs from her in the mail and are particularly enamored of a pair of turquoise scrub pants with a matching top in magenta with turquoise trim (need I say to imagine that you also have the subtlety and good taste of a tiny car full of drunken clowns?). And then imagine that you suddenly notice a stain on the magenta top and it becomes quickly apparent that a sandblaster couldn't get the damned stain out. You do not wish to embarrass your friend by pointing this out to her. You ADORE the outfit and you have absolutely nothing that matches the pants (which are not stained). What do you do? Do you:

A) Sigh, remind yourself that they were ridiculously inexpensive anyway, chuck both pieces, and move on.

B) Consider that the scrub gods are apparently having some sort of unholy union with the knitting gods, try on the pants to see if you even like them when they're on, and then tuck them away until you find a matching shirt.

C) Eat chocolate.

For the record, C is always a good option. Now, if you chose either of the other two, you are not Ms. Knitingale, and you know nothing of the law of Knitingale and you are way smarter than I am and poo to you with knobs on. Because what really happened is that I found a local scrub store that carried that line, found a new shirt to match the pants, and delighted in my luck...until today when I tried to wear the outfit and found that the pants were both too short and too wide and would only fit me if I strapped pontoons to my legs and squatted slightly. Now, of course, the bargain basement scrubs have already cost three times what they started out to cost WITHOUT purchasing a new pair of turquoise pants that actually fit, but the shirt doesn't match anything I own unless I am prepared to look like turquoise beach ball with a stick on top.

Knitingale's Law, I'm telling you. And if you were thinking of pointing out that I could have saved myself a great deal of anguish had I either tried on the pants when I got them OR established somehow what my friend's measurements are these days (she doesn't live close by and we've not seen one another in some time), let me remind you that I am also the woman who took apart a sock for the third time the other day when a beloved friend said it looked too big....and then was foolish enough to try it on when it was halfway unravelled and realized that it would have fit perfectly. It was, of course, a lace pattern that would have been nearly impossible to get back on the needles.

In my defense, I couldn't try it on before I unravelled it because it was on 4 dpns. Still, it seems obvious that a smart woman might have avoided trying the thing on once all hope was clearly lost, sockwise. Then again, if I had, it would have been far too big and Beloved Friend would have been exactly right in her estimation. These things don't occur if they wouldn't be really funny to some sick bastard somewhere.

In brighter news, however, look what came in the mail today:

The sharp-eyed among you will recognize more work of Super MIL--9 more from my wonderful mother-in-law. There are also 5 from Annelle (the lovely black and white ones at the back) and 1 from CCR in MA who has naughtily failed to provide name OR address so that I might put her in the drawing. Tsk. But you're wonderful and I thank you all so very much. The square total stands at......

134. Since I need a total of 180, that leaves just 46 to go. I'm agog. Which is good...the world could use a few more gogs, I suspect....

Oh, and Ed has decided that he needs absolutely nothing in life except this fireplace and this pillow:

He certainly doesn't need any hairless thumbed ones...although he did say to tell Monica "mewowr"...which I'm pretty sure means "Hi, Monica!"

(Un) Reality TV

2007-10-02T18:35:00.000-07:00

I accidentally flipped my TV channel to a reality show the other night wherein these women were all competing to be the "girlfriend" of this former rock star. And you know, it was kind of like watching a train wreck: it's awful, and you really don't want to see it...but you can't take your eyes away. So I ended up watching a bit of it and now I really wish there was a way to bleach my brain.

I can only say this (scrambles up onto soapbox...feel free to go about your business and return when I've returned to reason): What has to go wrong in your life--horribly, spectacularly wrong--for it to seem like a really good idea to appear on national television dressed like a 1980's prostitute and trying to convince a balding, middle-aged, has-been rock star that you're worthy of his affections? C'mon, now. You'd lose less dignity wearing plaid capris and a boob tube to a $12,000 a plate fundraising dinner.

For that matter, you'd probably lose less dignity riding a unicycle down main street wearing a thong and a feather boa....at least until the boa caught in the spokes and you tipped over. And maybe even then you'd still have just a tad more pride than these women.

There's something inherently weird about reality TV, in my mind. See, I love my job and my life and I love working with people and so on. BUT, I think anyone who works with the public in any capacity will agree with me that you don't need to pay for cable TV or even tune in a network to see nasty, unreasonable, manipulative, and downright stupid behavior. Which begs the question...why watch it on TV? I can see people be unpleasant any old time--all I have to do is tell them that the doctor can't see them now that they're 25 minutes late for a 15 minute appointment and I'll be wishing it was TV so the expletives could be bleeped out.

Here's another question: is there a line anywhere that the TV execs will draw? That is, will the day ever come when they'll toss around an idea for a reality show and say "Nah....let's not do that."? No...I'm pretty sure that if it can be thought of, you can watch people do it and be mean about it. Watch your TV guide listings for such scintillating offerings as "Redheads Eating Soup and Calling Each Other Names", "Depressed Clowns Hitting Each Other With Pie and Calling Each Other Names", "Elephant Trainers Cleaning Dung Our of their Sneaker Treads and Calling Each Other Names" , "People Who Like Fluffernutter Sandwiches and People Who Don't Sharing a House and Calling Each Other Names", "27-Year-Old Virgins Who Collect Bottle Caps and Live With Their Moms Calling Each Other Names" and "Snake Wranglers in Love With Ladder Manufacturers and the Women Who Hate Them--All Calling Each Other Names."

My co-worker says that the thing about reality TV is that it isn't--people don't behave like that unless they're motivated by a lust for money and limelight. But I can't think of enough zeros behind the one on a check to make me style my hair in the latest in hooker chic, pour myelf into a skin-tight dress, and sleep with a man I barely know who is also sleeping with at least one other woman and then describe that other women in words that would make a sailor blush--all on national TV. Could I just put on a leopard print bikini, paint myself with mint chocolate chip ice cream, and walk down my block with a flashing light on my head and a sign saying "I'm a little minty pixie"? And maybe singing limericks? It would be way less embarrassing.

All that said, I think the reality--the REAL reality--is more like this:

That's part of blankie number two, about halfway finished.

These two squares--the purple one and the orange/turquoise stripey one--were both made by Lily in California and you'll notice that one is already finding a home in blankie #2. Sorry about that Lily--I mean to get a picture before I put it in there, but it just wanted to be in that row of that blankie and who was I to argue ("Blanket Squares and Blanket Makers, Calling Each Other Names")?

The box that came yesterday had the white block with Massachusetts on it from Cheryl, the autmny looking sqaure and the absolutely drool-worthy handdyed yarn from Debbie (it's called "LadyBug" and I'm already jealous of whomever wins it!), and another square that didn't photograph nearly as pretty as it is and which had no identifying label. If you had a beautiful square in that box that was black flecked with all different colors and soft as a kitten, let me know so I can thank you personally. And a huge thank you to all of you I DO know about. Man, you guys just keep rocking my world.

I guess TV execs don't think anyone would watch something about people like us, reaching out to give love and hope to other people. Boy, are they missing the boat. I'll leave you with some of my favorite song lyrics. I'm not sure who wrote it originally, but it's on at least three different albums that I own and listen to incessantly, and I love it each time (this is just the last verse):

"I feel a touch, now will I hold on?

Reach out with love, to those with no one?

With a kindness such, it lives though I'm gone.

I feel a touch, now will I hold on?"

Sure seems like you guys have that part down pat.

Politically Correctional

2007-09-28T19:13:00.000-07:00

We are a careful people in the Pacific Northwest. Seriously. We are careful about our environment, careful about our manners, careful about each others feelings. This is good, in some ways. In others, it's about as useful as a screen door on a submarine, and about as functional. I was talking to Marianne (I love Marianne...have I mentioned that?) about the fact that employers in Washington usually do not give references about former employees. They don't want to say anything bad that might prevent someone from getting another job. Hence, you can steal the pens, sleep with the boss's wife, and pick your nose with a pencil from every desk in the place and no one will tell your next prospective employer that you're a jerk. We just don't do that.

As I told Marianne, Human Relations folk have learned some basic codes to help them (I was in HR for a time), such as the phrase "is this person eligible for rehire?" which sounds like it means "are there any legalities that would keep him from working for you again?" but really means "If you had a choice between taking this person back and trimming your nose hairs with a chain saw, which would you do?" In this instance, a "yes" answer means "Bob's okay, go ahead and hire him" whereas a "no" answer means "if you have a chimp you could strategically shave, hire him instead. You'll be happier in the long run." Given my HR experience, I am aware of many such secret codes around here, including things that might appear on a performance evaluation:

"Jill has a wide variety of unique skills" actually means "Jill stays really busy, but none of us have a damned clue what she's actually doing other than the fact that it's not, apparently, her work."

"Bob has strong opinions" means "Bob is an arrogant SOB who should be muzzled before attending any meeting, even one about where to order out for lunch."

"There are a number of growth opportunities available to Susan this quarter" means "Susan is a peabrain who couldn't staple two pieces of paper together without calling tech support."

"I would like to see David work towards an upper level transfer" means "I hate this guy, but I also hate Bob upstairs....I see a perfect solution here."

"Leadership opportunities could be a stretch goal for Carla" means "People wouldn't follow Carla out of a burning building if their clothes were on fire."

"Rick has quite a spirit of fun" means "The most productive thing Rick's done all week was to fashion rude shapes out of paper clips. It was a big week for him."

"Lori can be a bit unpredictable at times" means "Lori's mood swings have mood swings and she has a mean overhand. Do not under any circumstance allow her to have a heavy stapler."

"Jon thinks outside the box" means "Jon is a weirdo who probably has some sort of strange slingshot device to put on his underwear. None of us want to think too hard about this."

"Mary gets along well with her colleagues" means "If Mary ever stopped bs'ing and did her job, maybe we could remember what we hired her for."

"Jim could work a bit on boundaries" means "Jim needs to stop staring at everyone's boobs before he gets smacked smartly across the puss."

"Alison has a strong sense of fair play" means "Alison is a whiny little git who could probably become president of the company if she spent a tenth of the time she spends complaining actually WORKING on something."

"Mike may not be a perfect fit for the culture of this corporation" means "Mike smells like a baboon, farts out loud in meetings, and picks his teeth with a ball point pen. We can't figure out how to get rid of him."

"Beth is not fully aware of her assets" means "Beth keeps bending over in skirts no wider than belts that barely cover her hoo-ha. We're all afraid to mention this to her, lest she sue for sexual harrassment."

"It would be difficult to list all of Evan's finer points" means "I can't think of anything good to say about this man, other than the fact that he goes home at the end of the day."

"I would like to see Meredith to improve her skills" means "I really wish Meredith HAD some skills. I don't know that anything would actually help, but if she was in class, she wouldn't be here."

"Keith is generous with resources" means "this guy has so many company pens at home that we may soon have to resort to crayons."

But I love you guys, and that's the truth no matter how I say it. I think I'm up to 117 squares (I need to do another count) and tomorrow I'll show you the beautiful ones I got from Lily in California. Lily, you are too cool for words.

Memo

2007-09-27T17:41:00.000-07:00

To: The Big Cheeses at XYZ Allergy Clinic (where I work)
Re: Suggestions

Dear Sirs:

It has come to my attention that the clinic wherein I spend 9 hours of each and every weekday is conspicuously missing a suggestion box. I can only conclude that this is a dreadful oversight on your part. Either that, or the places I've worked that DID have suggestions boxes have somehow gotten to you before I could. In any case, I know that I have a great many useful and creative ideas for improving my workplace no matter what the narrowminded folks at the nursing home thought (and I still think jell-o olympics was a great idea). For instance:

A chocolate bar. By which I don't mean a bar of chocolate but, rather, a bar like one you have for liquour, only with chocolate. You can't tell me none of you have ever longed for a hit of chocolate with 80% cacao. Gotta love that 80 proof stuff. Alternatively, perhaps
A chocolate fountain. It could be anywhere in the office, as long as sometime around 4:00 we could stave off the "please please PLEASE get me out of here" syndrome by dunking a chunk of pound cake in molten milk chocolate, oh yeah.
I think we would all benefit from a screaming room--a padded, soundproofed area where we could retreat when the 6th person in an hour has called to say that it is terribly urgent and they're very upset because they saw the doctor last week and they don't feel better. And no, they didn't bother to fill their prescriptions...why, is that important?
Similarly, while I agree that it is not generally acceptable to be rude to patients, there are times when anyone in the free world with two brain cells would feel impelled to expound on the moron-ness of some of these callers. There should be such a thing as "justifiable smartassedness", by which statute we can ask someone how they got themselves dressed today, given that they are no smarter than a lobotomized chicken and by the way, the underwear go on BENEATH the pants, just in case they didn't know. The guy who wanted us to test him for allergy to marijuana probably fits into that category. I hate to be pedantic but....maybe don't smoke it if it makes you cough? Call me crazy.
I understand that some of our patients rely heavily on the samples left by drug reps, and I further know that it is probably important to endure the constant stream of them going in and out of the office, unctuous as any car salesman. But, I wonder, would it hurt to require the drug companies to make all their reps handsome, shirtless young men from Australia? If that could happen, I'd probably quit accusing them of eating their own young when they hover around the office and get in the way and generally drive me batshit.
Rude patients should have to pay more. Sort of a "snottiness tax", if you will. For example, the patients who breeze in at 1:33 for a 1:15 appt and then, when the doctor agrees to see them after he finishes with the 1:30 (who was on time) demand to know why it has to take so long because don't we know they're in a HURRY? I think if a person is going to be that way, then a 15% surcharge for putting up with them is perfectly reasonable.
I think afternoon dodgeball would be great stress reliever. And it could make it more interesting for patients negotiating their way through the clinic if there were big, red, rubber balls whizzing by.
On slow days (such as today) we should be allowed to make up fake tests and see how many of them we can get the patients to do. "Okay Mr. Jones, it's very important that we find out how long you can keep this ping pong ball in the air by tipping your head back and blowing on it. You'll also need to make a sort of 'paa-aarp' sound while you do it." Or "Mrs. Smith, we can learn a lot more if you'll spin around in circles and buzz like an angry wasp. Oh, and flap your arms."
Patients should be taught the calming effects of knitting, and so will definitely need someone willing to spend time every day teaching them and knitting with them. It'd be tough, but I'm willing to do it. I'll take one for the team.
All staff should receive a monthly "screw this for a lark" token, which allows us to respond to the lengthy set of instructions by a doctor ("he'll need a CT scan and I want these prescriptions called in for him and then you can give him samples of these others and ask him if he's still taking this and then get him to sign a release and get his old records--he's pretty sure the doc he went to has a name starting with an 'm'...or maybe an 'n'--and then call the hospital and sit on hold for 20 minutes so you can find out that he's wrong and didn't actually have a ct scan there before and then can you make me some copies of this form?") by simply saying "Not a chance, White Coat." And not get in trouble.
"I have an eye problem--I just can't see coming in to work" should occasionally be considered a legitimate excuse.
The fact that I didn't throw a stapler at the triage guy's head when he asked me snidely what I was "babbling about now" should be counted on my review as "creative problem solving". The fact that I then called him a dick should not be held against me. He is one.

I know that change is difficult and takes time, but I am confident that you will see the wisdom in my ideas and do the right thing.

Faithfully

Ms. K

Okay, Where Was I?

2007-09-25T18:19:00.001-07:00

These days, that could mean anything from "what was I telling you about before the petty irritations of getting dressed and earning a living somehow popped their nasty little heads up AGAIN (I went to work YESTERDAY! What am I--a slave?)?" to "I have no idea why I came in here or what I wanted or what I was doing to lead me here but I hope I figure it out soon...and I hope it involved cookies." This aging thing sucks.

This time, I think it means the first one, the what was I telling you about thing. ANYHOW. First things first--the newest batch of squares:

I carefully named these photos in my files--the top one as "josquares" (from Jo in England) and the bottom as "patsquares" (from Pat in England)so I would remember which was which. What this most likely means is that I got it completely bassackwards, even with the envelopes in front of me (and three of them with tags on them) and if so, feel free to correct me. And come beat me viciously about the head and shoulders with a skein of cashmere. Bring it on--I deserve it. No really, I can take it.

Take a close look at the bottom picture. It didn't pick up as well as I'd hoped in the photo, but Pat (if indeed it was Pat) worked this really lovely leaf pattern into the corner of the square and I'm just dying to know how she did it. WAY cool.

Next things next: I've saved every envelope you guys have sent me squares in, so I spread them out on the floor and got Gracie to come pick a couple for me (the first two she touched won). She apparently feels that Dianne in VA should receive the batch of milk-chocolate topped toffee bars I made on Sunday and tossed in the freezer (a dozen headed your way, Sweetie) and that Sarah Burrows in Oxford should get the Koigu (I'll wing it your way, Love) that was, coincidentally, donated by Dianne. Gracie has a real need to find order in the universe, apparently. I'll get these wrapped and to the post office this weekend. Thanks you guys, and Dianne--if you're diabetic or allergic or hate cookies or whatever, sing out soon. We can figure something else out.

Speaking of Gracie (which I was), she and the other little beasts have invented some new games and activities to keep them occupied in the long fall/winter months. The first, played with great intensity last night, is called "Let's Make the Hairless Couch Monkey Scream". It's accomplished by locating a large, hooved spider (I have no idea what kind they are, but I swear by all my sock yarn that they're as big as my craving for wool and they seriously look like they have little hooves), and then chasing it around the living room. It is apparently quite important while playing this game that you don't accidentally kill the spider--if you do, the couch monkey won't scream. Much.

Another facet of this game is the importance of chasing the spider directly at the thumbed one, because she apparently thinks that it is carrying some sort of deadly weapon and will shriek in a satisfying fashion. The faster it runs, the more she screams. There is no fatigue factor, here. She will scream as loud with the 10th one as she does with the first. Sometimes louder, depending on whether or not you can get it to run across her foot.

Another enjoyable winter game was invented by Miss. This involves waiting until the couch monkey is firmly situated on the couch (her natural habitat, after all) with a huge blanket of squares on her lap which she is finishing. The first step is to go lay down on the blanket. Then, roll sideways until you appear to be nothing so much as a weeble gone bad and gaze up happily. Purr. The hairless one will attempt to shift you--don't go for it. Dig the claws firmly into the blanket. This will elicit horrified shrieks. (Cats are somewhat one-note when it comes to games. If it leads to food or screaming on the part of the thumbed ones, it's a good enough game.) Wait until the human gives up and starts petting you, muttering as she does about the cost of having a handknit blanket cleaned of cat hair. Then begin to knead happily and deeply. With all claws. When the screaming starts, you can either play "I don't have any idea what you're making all that noise for, but I love you" while rubbing head firmly against thumbed hand, or you can leap terrified from the lap with claws still stuck in the blankie. This last maneuver may even elicit gentle weeping.

Gussie is, of course, a simpler creature. She likes the heatvent game, wherein she somehow manages to contort her lithe, meezer self into a hairy rectangle the precise size and shape of the heatvent. She then lies on it through several furnace cycles, until the skin on her belly gets dry and she can shed maximum amounts of hair onto anything light colored or intended for someone else or both. Such as blankets. I love cats, I do.

Oh, and Ed is very fond of the squares game. This involves waiting until the houseape is carefully laying wooly squares on the floor in hopes of creating a pleasing arrangement, and then wandering casually by and snagging one of them to toss across the room. Or rolling in the middle of them and sending them flying. Or just batting them one at a time while my patience ticks down and then rubbing his nose firmly against my face at the exact moment that I would have shoved his handsome little rear end outside. Note the "would have". I'm such a pushover.

I'm going back to the wooly squares, and to lift Gussie off the heatvent before all the hair falls off of her and I can use her as a mobile dry erase board and have to hang a dry erase marker around her neck.

Oh, and no worries to those of you who mentioned trying to rush more squares in before the cut off. I still need 65 squares and am only too happy to take extras and try to make 3 more blankets for the families of the rescuers who were killed. Or for the homeless shelter. Or whatever. I won't cut you off, I promise. Bury me in squares. I'm totally good with that.

(By the way, did I mention how cool it is to join the squares, and know that I'm handling the very squares that you labored over? It's kind of like sitting together and making these blankets in a group. I'm weird like that. And in so many other ways....)

I Couldn't Wait....

2007-09-25T05:19:00.000-07:00

It's crazy o'clock in the morning and I don't have the time for a proper post...but I have the patience of a 3-year-old on Christmas Eve and had to stop and quickly show you this picture:

Mother Teresa once said that "it's not how much you do, but how much love you put into the doing". Whether you made one square or 40, you did this. I hope this makes you cry like it did me...I still can't look at it without getting teary!

At last count, 115 squares. 65 to go. For some reason, I have no doubt at all that we'll make it.

I'll write more tonight, with pics of the 5 newest squares (thanks Jo and Pat!) and the names of the recipients of the cookies and the koigu.

I'm starting to sound like one of those really irritating news shows, aren't I?--you know, the ones were Ms. Perpetually Chipper gazes smilingly into the camera and says something like "Are the salads in your supermarket harboring a deadly bacteria? We'll find out! But first, is your pet psychic? Here with the answer....."

Love you all. SO MUCH.

My Mother-in -Law is a Superhero...

2007-09-22T05:39:00.001-07:00

.......and other truths I've discovered recently.

Okay, so I haven't seen her exiting a phone booth in a pair of tights--but, then again, I haven't seen a full-length phone booth that closes up in at least 10 years and I'm pretty sure you could get arrested for changing into tights in one of those little half-booth things (especially given that it's the top half that's covered). I don't think she has a significant other who always manages to get kidnapped, an alter ego who looks precisely the same only with glasses, and I've never seen her flying over a city in underwear and a cape (which is probably just as well...I think that sort of behavior would concern me).

But there's this:

11 more squares she's whipped out. Remember the 21 she sent before that I showed you a picture of? That's not all of them, either. She sent another dozen or so prior to THAT. I should point out here that she also has a job--she's a nurse. See what I mean? A superhero for certain. If you get to Kansas and want to meet someone spectacular who will remind you of the innate goodness of the human spirit, just look for the woman with the flashing crochet hook (and not the flashing tights, cape, and/or underwear--she's not only pretty wonderful, she also has WAY better taste than that). Judy, I thank you yet again.

The same post brought these from Vivian in Greater Yarborough (am I the only one who sees that and wonders if there's a "Not so bad Yarborough" somewhere in England....?)

They are beautiful and soft and will make some families very happy. Look what else she sent--for one of YOU:

It's Colinette and I photographed it repeatedly to no avail--it still looks mud colored and I swear that it isn't. It's actually a lovely mix of muted greens that just about made me drool. Made in Wales, it made Vivian think of the mining towns there which she thought made it perfect. Vivian, I couldn't agree more. Thank you so very much.

Want to know what you all have accomplished so far?

110 squares.

No, really. I'm not joking. 110 (Lynn, I'm counting your big one as 4 because it takes the place of 4.). I counted twice because I couldn't believe we did that much that quickly. 70 more and we'll have all six blankets. I'll be putting as much together this weekend as I can and hope to have at least one completed blanket to show you by the end of it. If I ever again doubt that there is great goodness, great kindness, great love in the world, I need only look to you. I'll also be drawing a name or two this weekend for prizes. I'm thinking a skein of Koigu for one, a batch of something yummy for another. Stay tuned.

Other things (somewhat less lofty) that I've learned recently:

Using one's bare hand to entice the cat to play right before work (i.e., becoming a human cat toy) can lead to blood loss

One-eyed cats are faster than you might think

More precise, too

Also pointy on one end

Once at work, a finger with a deep scratch running alongside the nail and on down the inside of the pinky finger does not go well with the task of filling up the methyl alcohol burner from a huge and easily spilled jug

Jumping up and down while waving one hand frantically as though attempting to fly one-armed makes people look at you funny

I am not as bright as I look

The good people at WEBS have hatched a sinister plot to torment me. Given that I have not really seen many patterns that have completely charmed me for awhile, and given that I am now using any and all knitting time on the blankets and will be for awhile and so don't WANT to be charmed by any patterns, there can be no other explanation for the sweater that appears on the WEBS homepage (you'll see it if you click the above link--it's the brown sweater with the patterned sleeves) AND in the catalog viciously delivered to my home. This innocent looking sweater is now absolutely demanding to be allowed into my project queue.

The aforementioned evil sweater would also like to jump the queue and is attempting to convince me that I could start it before I finish anything else, it knows I'll get back to the other things, and really, wouldn't I love to wear it this winter? Ratbastard sweater.

There are catalogues that appear normal but are nevertheless somehow "sticky" and steadfastly refuse to be tossed into the recycle bin.

Just when you think you've seen everything, you can depend on someone to do something like come into the clinic concerned about the fact that when he goes into the sun or gets under a blanket.....he gets warm. People, I could not make this up if I tried.

There is something inexplicably charming about a 6-year-old girl with a lisp asking politely if we can test her for an allergy "to deerth and racoonth". I adore this child.

Drinking a full can of diet cream soda immediately before getting into the car to drive home in Friday traffic (I live only 12 minutes from work when there's no traffic...about a week and a half from work on Friday nights) can lead to wild thoughts about whether or not is is possible for a female to pee in a soda can. (Don't worry, I didn't try it. But it's amazing how reasonable it started to seem)

My top land speed record for the distance from car to bathroom once home is about .00007 seconds, assuming the way is clear of cats

Cats dislike being bowled over by a woman with a full bladder and a strange hopping gait

I am, again, not all that bright

I leave you with yet another rose picture, just because they're so darned pretty. I'm off to exercise and then start joining all those works of the heart. So many wonderful, huge hearts.

Der Fladermous

2007-09-21T04:48:00.000-07:00

This post has nothing whatever to do with these roses, but I still have some pics of the roses in Portland so I figured I'd toss 'em in here and there. Then again, I was going to write more about those questions in life that you really know don't have any good answers, and one of those was "Do you smell that? What IS that?" The answer to that question in that format is rarely roses, or fresh-baked bread, or even ground coffee beans--but rather, that funny smell in the garbage disposal or the yogurt that got forgotten in the back of the fridge. Some other questions with predictably negative answers:

"This wasn't your favorite sweater, was it?"
"Was that your car illegally parked out there?" (it's the word "was" that guarantees a bad outcome here)
"Are you going to wear that?"
"What did you think you were doing?"
"Don't you already have a lot of yarn?"
"Do you know what's IN that?" when voiced by someone with very healthy eating habits, just as you're about to suck down a triple chocolate milkshake or something else with 8 jillion grams of sugar and enough fat to grease up a cadillac.
"What are you doing Saturday?" is a good question when asked by a friend, a great question when asked by the hottie down the hall, and a really, really bad question when asked by your boss who is holding a stack of work and it's Friday afternoon.
"Did you see what the cat did?" is somehow never followed by "he swept up the cat litter he kicked out of the box and then painted a small but perfect pastel rendering of our house" but rather "I don't have time to clean it up."
"What's it supposed to be?" just has no good place in a conversation--particularly when applied to anything you just made and are proudly showing off.
"Did you hear that?" is great when listening for loons by a peaceful lake, and really bad when the house is dark and still and you just watched "Friday the 13th".

You get the drift. The worst one I've heard personally in the last few weeks was this one, uttered by Mr. K at about 9:00pm as we were sitting in the hot tub in the pitch dark, looking at stars--ready for this one? "Hey, listen to that squeaking. Do you hear the bats?"

Do I hear the--did you say BATS????

This was shortly followed by another dumb question, specifically "Honey, what are you doing in the middle of the hot tub trying to completely submerge yourself?"

Okay, yes, I know that bats are interesting and cool and they eat mosquitoes and that's all great. But in the eyes of Ms. Knitingale, bats are cool primarily in theory, or on nature specials filmed on other continents where she is not. In person they are nothing more or less than winged mice which makes them no less creepy but significantly more mobile than their cheese-eating brethren. And really, the thought of mice flying blindly about the dark back yard (Mr. K blithely pointed out that they were squeaking because of the need to echolocate, since they can't see in the dark--proving that there are statements AND questions with bad outcomes) where I am unclothed and also unable to see is about as welcome to me as an invasion of moths just coming off a 7 day fast and in possession of a map of my yarn stash.

You can safely assume that the run from hot tub to bathrobe (which I had to feel for and which I put on reluctantly while imagining entirely too well what leathery wings against my back from a nestling bat would feel like) was both fast and panicked. And accompanied by the laughter of a husband who also wondered aloud if I was trying to find my "bat robe" and who should be sleeping with one eye open if he knows what's good for him.

Do I hear the bats, indeed.

Time to Play "Let's Try to Choke Blogger With Photos!"

2007-09-19T18:00:00.000-07:00

Okay, not really, and you'd think I'd learn. It is a known fact that the universe only listens to these kinds of things when you don't want them to really happen. I could say "Let's give Ms. Knitingale $1,000,000" until I turn blue and not one penny would turn up, but I'll bet now that I titled the post the way I did, the computer will explode on the fourth picture or something.

First, some answers:

Why yes, Jo in Ireland--you can DEFINITELY come along. In fact, how cool would it be if we could all get together and just hang out somewhere for a weekend? Bet we'd terrify the muggles.

And yes, Jo in England--I'd LOVE a lesson in spindling for the terrified! I've now managed to forget my spindle on two occasions when very lovely and talented people could have taught me. Fear of failure? Me? Nah...

And to whoever said it, I have no idea why cats feel the need to barf on carpet, but there you have it. I can just see the little wheels turning in their fuzzy heads: "hmmm...I feel a bit queasy...must have been that lizard with a mouse chaser. I'd better find me some carpet--something really nice and expensive." Mind you, the whole cat handbook is much like that. For instance, I'm sure many of you are aware of the chapter regarding the inversely proportional relationship between the amount of money you spend on something and the amount of pleasure the cat is allowed to glean from it. Toss a paper bag on the floor and the cat is entertained for hours. Spend $30 plus shipping on a clever cat toy shaped like a fish with little dangly things on it and the cat will stare at it disdainfully before turning its back and bathing in a most snooty fashion. If you really spend on it, the cat will be afraid of it.

Such is the law of cats, and such is the reason I am the owner of a painfully costly fish toy with danglies and crinkles and all manner of kitty temptations that Grace is fairly certain is Satan in sparkles. On the other hand, her collection of little plastic strips torn from milk jug lids is rather staggering. And, of course, she ADORES them.

But, having exhausted the possibilities of feline digestive pyrotechnics, I offer you.....yarn porn:

The pictures don't really do this justice, but it's a stunningly lovely 100% wool in shades of blue that remind me of the sea on a cloudy day, and each skein is a whopping 337 yards. Plenty for a sweater....and just $20. Total. How, you may ask? Well, though it may seem as though I must have provided some sort of terribly inappropriate favors to a yarn store owner, the truth is that Monica took me to the wooly grail I was mentioning before: a yard sale of nothing but high end yarn. Dudes. I'm not sure I didn't drool on half of it.

It took us awhile to get there, being as how someone in the Portland city planning department thinks it's terribly clever to make at least 40% of the streets run in fits and starts and not go all the way through. No matter--more time for chatting and giggling like morons. But the sale....oh. I think I need this lady to move into Redmond where I live, because she was apparently selling the stuff from her stash that she no longer wants. This suggests that her actual stash, her SURVIVING stash if you will, is about the size of Switzerland. I could use a neighbor like that, particularly when good sense has gotten the better of me by pointing out that I already have enough yarn to make a life-sized felted submarine and nowhere near enough lifetime left to knit it all unless my life expectancy has suddenly morphed to 336 years. At those times, I could just cruise by this woman's house and know immediately that I have yards and yards to go before reaching complete yarn insanity, and I feel that this would comfort me.

We also went to a charming store called Knit/Purl, where still more yarn demanded to be taken home:

Colinette Jitterbug is on the right, Shi Bui on the left. The plan is to make socks with black heels and toes and ribbing so that the Colinette will go a bit further. Naturally, I need more sock yarn like I need a crazed badger in my underwear, but they have no sales tax in Oregon (compared to the nearly 9% we pay here in Washington...and the governer has yet to send an itemized statement of exactly what he's DOING with all my hard-earned yarn money) and...well....you know. You've all been there--I know you know.

I'm quite astounded that that's all the yarn I bought, but I was helped by the fact that the store that was supposed to have acres of Blue Moon actually didn't have much at all, and the saleslady was kind of rude. Whoever you are rude saleslady, I salute you. And my bank account thanks you wholeheartedly.

On the homefront, I finally have some square pictures (as opposed to what? Rhomboids? No, pictures of squares--not square pictures...although they are...).

This startling display of industriousness (all 21 of them) was all from one person--none other than my own mother-in-law who absolutely went to town when she learned that she could crochet them (she likes crocheting much more than knitting...I don't hold that against her). Thank you so very much, Judy. I love you to pieces.

This box of squares--14 in all--came from a group of incredibly talented and generous knitters in Montana who call themselves the Yellowstone Unravellers. Their stated goal is to produce enough squares to make one whole blanket. Given that they're nearly halfway there, I don't doubt they'll make it. Ladies, let me know when you meet. I think I need to send you something yummy for one of your knitnights.

Ed likes them, too.

Paula in Iowa wowed me with these--doesn't the one in the middle of the bottom row just do things to your mind? I love it! Paula also has the distinction of making me laugh until I nearly hurt myself. There was a note in the box that said that she was sorry (no need), that she had tried to crochet the borders on them but she hates to crochet. No problem, Paula. They're already almost all done. Marti (who rocks like you wouldn't believe) helped me with a couple. Anyway, when I looked more deeply into the box, I was delighted to find a square with two sides bordered....still connected to the skein of black yarn, which was also in the box! I'm not sure why that tickles me so much, except I can't help but imagine poor Paula crocheting for as long as she could stand it and then saying "Well, screw this for a joke!" and tossing the whole shebang in the box! It was awesome, Paula, and I love you for it (among other things).

All right, I think I'm caught up. There are still more rose garden pictures but blogger hasn't begun to ooze black smoke yet, so I'll refrain from pushing my luck. Knit on, my dear friends. I so wish I could meet all of you.....

The Cat Puke Alarm Clock

2007-09-18T04:47:00.000-07:00

Okay, no--this entire post isn't about cat vomit. In fact, it's not really at ALL about cat vomit, but the nasty stuff IS the reason that I'm up early enough to post something, Gussie being the lovely animal that she is and further being inclined to seek me out and howl as though having her spleen removed with a grapefruit spoon on the rare occasions when she does upchuck. Which are always around 4:00am. I think that just adds to the wonderfulness of it all.

BUT. We got back later than anticipated Sunday night (dorking around had much to do with this) and I have Knit for Life on Monday nights and there is the dreadful annoyance of having to WORK for a living in between (some poet once referred to work as "the great toad that squats upon my life" and, while I like my work quite a bit, it does sort of get in the way of the important stuff like blogging and knitting), so only now can I tell you that I was in....

Portland. By the airport, as it happens...the one called PDX. Does that tell you who I got to spend the day with?

Yep, it's MonicaPDX (which my husband once misread while I was typing and wondered aloud who this "Monica POX" was I was writing to...and why she was named for a disease) of Animorphia fame and she is every bit as delightful and funny as you would think. She is at least as smart and insightful as you would think, and we had a splendid time. Mr. K was at a knife show most of the day (he makes knives for a hobby) so Monica and I had nothing to do at all but yarn crawl and chat and giggle and have a wonderful, wonderful time. I know--sounds awful, huh? = )

Because I have been set on "spaz" for some time now (I'm starting to think that particular knob is broken because I've not managed to find the "my shit is together" setting for some time), I forgot my spindle, did not bring her the yarn I was planning to, and gifted her with nothing more than some truffle brownies and, eventually, the recipe. She, on the other hand, had all of her stuff together and brought me:

I wish I had photographed it more successfully--it's a stunning blue stone with traces of green and she made it into a necklace for me and I love it love it love it. If you look at the picture of the two of us, you can kinda see how perfectly it hangs. She also brought me:

Is this not yarn kryptonite (so pretty you get weak when you look at it)? I keep stroking it, which Mr. K thinks may be some sort of offence in some areas of the country. When the miners blankets are done, this is going straight on the needles and becoming sock kryptonite. And, of course, I completely heart the cow tape measure. You pull its TAIL to measure with it which, of course, tickles me to death. I'm a simple creature.

Thank you again, Monica. You rock beyond words. We went all over the place and did some stash enhancing (thank goodness, since neither of us had any yarn) that I'll show you tomorrow. We also went to the International Rose Test Gardens which really defy both description and photographing--it's impossible to describe the impact of all those acres of roses--but I pretended to know my ass from a hole in the ground about photography and did get these to show you:

The color is true here--it really is orange and yellow splattered and looks like it was painted. Then this:

which just took my breath away in person. Kind of like Monica herself.

I have some blanket square photos, too, but I think blogger may just climb out of the computer and smack me a good one if I try to upload any more photos today. It was threatening a bit with these last two. I'll try to get those in tomorrow, too.

Now, I have to pry Gussie from my lap where she is happily purring (perhaps she is a blog fan and that's why she woke me up so early...and now she's happy because it worked and she has a new post to read? You can bet I'll be checking the screen for nose prints later) and exercise before going to work. But, in Gussie's honor, have you ever noticed that there are certain questions to which there are going to be no good answers? For instance, "What did I just step in?" is never followed by anything like "Mmm...warm massage lotion". I think there may be an entire post in the future on this very subject.

Road Work

2007-09-15T04:53:00.000-07:00

I've said before that if the road to hell is paved with good intentions, then I have personally created a multi-lane superhighway with an express lane, a high-occupancy vehicle lane, several overpasses, some roadside attractions, and enough leftover paving to have a sideroad to Peoria. And back. (I'm not at all sure why the road to Peoria would be paved with good intentions....perhaps the good people of Peoria are have a hot, swinging time I know nothing about. But anyway.)

In the last day or so, I've added a couple more exits to that superhighway, as well as a 30 mile, waist-high retaining wall. To wit:

Intention 1: I was going to post yesterday. It was going to be really funny--I had it all figured out. (Yeah, I know--it's easy to be funny when the proof isn't actually posted.) And I even recognized that I might get home late, so I planned to sneak over to the library at lunchtime and post from there--so good were my intentions (BIG truck load of concrete there). BUT, apparently people who come to a doctor's office seem to think that the things that brought them there--like life-threatening allergies and not being able to breathe from asthma--are more important than a knitting blog (I know, right?) and so I ended up working through exactly enough of my lunch hour to make it impossible to get to the library via any method but teleportation. It is so wrong that I don't have a teleporter.

Intention 2: I was then going to post last night after I got back from seeing the Yarn Harlot at Third Place Books. But the bookstore people, apparently also thinking that there are things more important than my blog (which is weird, because wouldn't you think a bookstore would ENCOURAGE reading?) decided that the way to handle the signing was to allow all the people who attended their knitting/book group (which I'd join in a heartbeat if the bookstore weren't 50 minutes away from my house) could get in the signing line first. Then, the people who bought Stephanie's latest book there could get in line second. Well, and third, fourth, and so on through about 8 million. Not that I would ever exaggerate. Not in a million, trillion years. Anway, since I am not in the knit group and since I was not getting my own copy of the book signed (it was a complex yarn and book deal in which I traded yarn to Marti to get my book signed when she went to sock camp and then Marianne mailed me her book to get signed at this event and I have no idea who's book Marianne will end up getting signed but I think this thing could take on a life of its own), this meant waiting in line knitting for a good while.

I have to say "a good while" because it was all knitters and so it was good. Really good, and I met some awesome people. But I got home late and since I had to get up early this morning (5:00 a.m. early--somewhere around "man, it's still freaking DARK outside on a Saturday!" early), ended up going straight to bed.

A little side ramp on that highway--I intended to get some good sleep, too. But there is much excitement in my life at present (I'll get to that) and sleep was somewhere out partying, possibly at the places my muse was frequenting there for a bit.

Intention 3: I was going to post pictures today that were taken last night amongst the throng of knitters and, of course, of the good lady herself. You will notice here a stunning absence of such photos. This is because I remembered a change of clothes (had to go straight from work and, while I imagine that no one would care if I turned up in scrubs, it does feel a tad self-conscious to walk around in big jammies with my name pinned to my left breast), remembered an extra bottle of water, remembered my knitting bag, remembered Marianne's book, remembered a little baggie of granola to nibble on, and even remembered the truffle brownies I made for the Harlot. Did I remember the camera? I did not. This was a shameful moment.

Intention 4: I intended to put up photos this morning of the many squares I've received since I wrote you last--my own dear mother-in-law (who really doesn't need the whole "in-law" thing on there--she's my other mom and I love her to pieces) sent me a box of 21 squares which, with her last package of about 10, means that she has singlehandedly made her own miners blanket (well, okay, she probably used both hands...but still) and Paula in Iowa sent me a box of six squares and the Yellowstone Unravellers sent me a box of 14 squares with a promise of more to come--and I even have taken pictures of all these wonders. Apparently I can perform a bit better when the items to be photographed and the item with which to photograph them are already in the same building. But it is, as mentioned, o'crap o'clock in the morning, Mr. K is still sleeping, and he was the one who used the camera last and I don't know exactly--or even inexactly--where he put it. (I suspect he was using it to take pictures of the knife he's been making which even I find absolutely beautiful--which is saying something coming from someone who usually prefers sharp things when they have loops of yarn on them.)

Still, at least those pictures do exist and you'll get them when I come back tomorrow. I figure sometime between here and there--especially since we'll have six hours in the car together--I should be able to pry the information about the camera's whereabouts out of him. I have brownes left...I may bribe him.

Intention 5: I intended to post the wonderfully funny stuff I thought of yesterday, this morning. But seeing as how I've now written a novella or so about the things I was GOING to do...well, let's just say it's not every writer who can fill an entry about nothing but what she didn't do. This is probably a good thing. Possibly a great thing. As it happens, though, I can remember what I was going to write, so you'll get that when I get back tomorrow, too.

You may be wondering where I'm going (assuming you don't know me personally and haven't already driven you nuts with my happy bouncing) but alas, you will have to wait for that, too. It's a surprise. But I swear I'll take pictures and tell you all about it. Some clues:

I'm going with Mr. K to an event of his that happens to be in the same city as someone I've been wanting to meet.

You know her, at least in the same way that I do.

It is not Marianne, whom I've met once and who, sadly, cannot fly across the country to join us. But the person is someone she'd enjoy meeting, too.

We'll be yarn crawling (yeah, like THAT narrows it down).

I'm not flying or taking a train anywhere--so it's somewhere I can get to by car and be back tomorrow. I do have to leave the state, though.

If I bring my drop spindle, she swears she'll teach me to spin. I pity her for the torment this will likely visit upon her...but not so much that I won't take her up on it.

I'm off to exercise at this ungodly hour, and then hit the road. It's well worth it--WELL worth it. Just wait till you see--I know you'll agree. And don't worry. I'll bribe the camera out of him in plenty of time to take pictures of.....?

Wanted: Search Party Volunteers

2007-09-11T19:35:00.001-07:00

The ideal candidate will be patient, intelligent, creative, and more than a little fiber-inclined. The quarry? Ms. Knitingale's writing muse who, as has been previously noted, is more than a little bit of a bitch. She is, as my mother would have said, a brass-plated four-door bitch (I'm not sure what that is, but it rolls off the tongue) unless she has inspired me to write something really funny or touching or profound, in which case she is a glorious being and should have chocolate and wool laid at her feet (not together).

At the moment, she is the first one. The brass plated one. She is demonstrating that by remaining stubbornly hidden, in spite of all the tortured staring I have done at the computer (which is not nearly as helpful or productive as it ought to be). I have also tried tortured pacing, tortured gazing out the window, and tortured sleeplessness. She is apparently nowhere near Torture, USA. Go figure.

Even worse, she has taken with her my sense of humor (I'm suddenly not the least bit funny) and even my sense of the absurd. Well, okay, maybe not that. I live in America, after all, with a man as president who bears a striking resemblance to a monkey but is less capable of independent thought. I'd have to be dead not to have a sense of the absurd.

So I'm looking for some help locating the wily bitch and then sending her unceremoniously home. The sense of humor will, I think, find her way back on her own. I suspect she's just fallen in with bad company. And Missy Muse is definitely bad company...even when she's feeling generous she has a fondness for offering up that generousity at 3:00 am and then yanking it away if I dare to suggest a later hour: "Okay, if you don't want it....."

Obviously, I have no starting point for you--if I knew where she was, I'd have found her. But I can tell you where she isn't:

She is not at the bottom of the bag of gummi bears I found stashed in the cupboard (I know--I looked really hard)
She is not at any of the local yarn stores (I looked at some of them twice, just to be sure)
She is not at the Bath And Bodyworks store, checking out the current sale
I tried unravelling some thrift store sweaters...she wasn't in any of them, either. I checked several.
She is not in the hot tub, and hasn't been any night this week (I'll keep looking, of course--I'm no quitter)
She is not on the Knitpicks website, or the WEBS website, or the Little Knits website, or even Etsy or Woolgirl.
She could well be in the middle of my ironing pile--so could Jimmy Hoffa, the lost Dutchman, and Amelia Earhart. I recommend a guide and some sort of signalling device to anyone wishing to look there.
She could not be found anywhere on Ed's furry little bod, although I did nuzzle his wonderfully spotted tummy quite carefully so as not to miss her.
She is not at Starbucks--either in the espresso machine or the blender they use for Frappacinos.
She is not in any of the brightly colored catalogues sent to me by vicious uniform houses who should KNOW that I am a weak willed scrub whore and yet still insist on telling me what I can buy for the low, low price of just $12.99 plus shipping.
She could be in the back of my closet, under the couch, or in the kitchen junk drawer. Sad, if true, because I will likely be 107 before I locate her. My only consolation is that she'll be just as old as I am...and still a bitch.

If you see her, drop me a line. I'll come get her once I start missing her enough to forget what a miserable cow she really is. A favorite poet of mine once described her muse as being the one good eye she had to see things with. Fair enough. If you see my good eye, smack her one for me. Then keep her safe until I can get there. It should take me about 60 seconds. I hate her like you wouldn't believe...but I sure do love her.

As Promised.....

2007-09-09T16:26:00.001-07:00

Lynn's fabulous L-O-V-E square, now correctly oriented (not that I would ever judge the orientation of another.....)

and six lovely squares from Renny in Virginia where I believe they must make the women extra special, seeing as how Dianne hails from those parts as well.

I have been edging squares, naturally (although I'm not sure how I'd edge them unnaturally....unless I was standing on my head in a rocking chair using a wire whisk instead of a crochet hook...that'd be pretty unnatural), but also preparing for the Harlot's visit to Seattle this Friday at 6:30. This involves the following:

1. Decide what kind of brownies to make--I brought her brownies last time, and she autographed her most recent book to me as "the brownie queen"...so I really have to live up to that title.
2. Consider and reject several possibilities before settling on the truffle brownies I invented a few years ago.
3. Wonder briefly if Steph could get approval from a cardiologist to eat them, seeing as how just looking at them is enough to slam shut the arteries of some. Remember that she's a vegetarian, and figure she's probably earned some extra chocolate points in amongst all those veggies.
4. Mix up brownie batter.
5. Spill little driblets of the stuff on every possible surface.
6. Forget that dishwasher is running until suddenly realize that have steamed up entire abdomen by leaning over the dishwasher to stir.
7. Wonder briefly if it would work to steam the wrinkles I'm getting by my eyes; decide that even spectacular results aren't worth sticking face in dishwasher. Probably.
8. Spread batter in pan; obsess briefly about getting it perfectly even before remembering that she won't see the whole batch--and if she did, she probably wouldn't throw things at me if they weren't perfectly even, anyway. Smooth them out one more time.
9. Toss brownies in oven, sit down to edge squares and watch football.
10. Watch Seahawks play....well, BADLY. Whimper.
11. Become mesmerized by lousy playing until suddenly remember brownies.
12. Leap from couch in a maniacal fashion, causing husband, cat, and knitting acoutrements to scatter like stoned partygoers when the cops show up.
13. Run to kitchen and yank brownies from the oven (WITH oven mitt--I'm crazed, but I ain't that crazed) while murmering little brownie charms so as to stave off the burn fairy.
14. Decide that they're all right; return to living room.
15. Pick up knitting, dodge angry cat, smile happily at perplexed husband who, by now, should be fully aware that I frequently act as if I am one step away from a room with soft walls and no longer look surprised about it. That would be the gentlemanly thing to do, anyway.
16. Realize that distress over team has caused me to edge an entire square with the thing face down.
17. Swear
18. De-edge square, while considering that people have been sued for far less. "But, your honor--if they'd played like they had the faintest inkling what a football is or what they're supposed to do with it, my priceless blanket wouldn't have gotten screwed up!" Only in America.
19. Watch team inexplicably, and against all odds, pull ahead.
20. Set knitting aside again, go into kitchen and heat butter and cream for truffle layer of brownies. Think about including the name and number of a good cardiologist with these, just in case.
21. Spread truffle on brownies, lick spoon.
22. Lick pan
23. Lick spoon some more.
24. Notice chocolate hardening in hair.
25. Swear again.
26. Pick little chocolate flecks out of hair.
27. Move knitting out to husbands shop at his request so that we can watch the game together.
28. Cheer on beleaguered team, who are back in my good graces in spite of the fact that they look as bewildered to be winning as I am to have them winning.
29. Go back inside, melt down white chocolate to spread over truffle layer.
30. Spread chocolate, remember what happened with the truffle layer, and carefully tuck hair behind ears.
31. Lick spoon.
32. Notice drizzle of white chocolate down front of favorite coral lace-up tee shirt.
33. Give up on swearing--it only seems to be egging the fates on.
34. Cut brownes into squares. Without incident.
35. Worry--what could the brownie gods be waiting to spring on me?
36. Run to make sure that the sugar wasn't really salt.
37. Run to make sure flour wasn't really cornstarch or gravy mix or some other nasty thing.
38. Run to make sure white chocolate wasn't really Ivory soap.
39. Decide that all is well...and wonder when I'm going to realize that I've somehow a)crocheted all the edges backwards, b)crocheted two squares together with one upside down, and/or c)failed to notice the large family of moths building a village in the midst of all the wooly wonderfulness. (No, they didn't...but I figured SOMETHING must have gone wrong.)
40. Put brownies in freezer. Next step: figure out how to talk to Stephanie without foot in mouth....or, more accurately, WITH foot in mouth since that is surely where it will be if last time is any indication.

At least I'm prepared to leave her with the memory of chocolate. Maybe that will help override the dorkiness?

Nipfaced, and the Search for the Wooly Grail

2007-09-08T19:31:00.000-07:00

This is my cat:

This is my cat on drugs:

Here are some of the interim steps:

I know, it's a bad catmommy that will get her cat nipfaced and then take photos of her to post on the internet. I'm sure KPC (Kitty Protective Services) will be knocking on my door sometime very soon with a stern warning. I'll tell you one thing, though--this cat's a cheap date. I sprinkled some catnip on this giant pet pillow in the hopes of encouraging Ed to sleep on it instead of attacking and attempting to strangle every area rug in the house in the process of making "a comfy spot" and he sort of sniffed it, sniffed it some more, walked away. Miss Thing, though? Drunk off her ass in about half a minute, and she stayed that way all afternoon.

Since we're the sort of trailer trash who actually would corrupt an innocent animal for a Kodak moment (okay, no trailer anymore...but someone commenting here pointed out that you really can't take the trailer out of the girl, and I think this an excellent point...definitely worth stitching on a $4.99 pillow from Walmart in bright orange acrylic yarn), we spent the morning prior to compromising our cat's dignity by driving around and looking for garage sales.

You folks in other parts of the world will have to clue me in as whether this is a peculiarly American phenomenon, or if it makes perfect sense to you to drive around looking for people to give money to so that they'll give you their junk that they don't want anymore--because they were just waiting for some dumbass to pay to take it away so they don't have to haul it to the dump. I can't explain the fascination with them, except that in the back of my tiny mind, there amongst the dust bunnies and the cobwebs, lingers the fantasy that I will walk into someone's garage and find a mammoth box of wool and cashmere and alpaca and llama--and the person manning the sale will just want to get rid of it and say cheerily "oh, I reckon you could have the whole box for $10". I realize this is about as likely as me driving by a yarn store without stopping, but a girl has to have dreams.

That said, I mentioned this fantasy to Mr. K (I read somewhere that men like it when you tell them your fantasies....it didn't seem to do much for him, though) and even as I spoke, I realized the fatal flaw in the plan. Specifically, anyone fiber-obsessed enough to acquire a stash of that size and quality isn't likely to sell it off in a garage sale. I've only ever really found any nice yarn at an estate sale, and it wasn't a mammoth box of cashmere so much as a few balls of reasonably nice wool attached to a started sweater the size of a wooly hula hoop.

Turns out that not everyone has the ability to just "eyeball" the number of stitches to cast on for a sweater. (Either that or the lady was actually knitting covers for tanker trucks--I swear, I held that started sweater and spread my hands to their fullest extension and still couldn't quite get it to full size. I'm 5'8 inches tall and your arm span is supposed to be the same as your heighth....so by my reckoning this sweater was shaping up to be about 70 inches in diameter.)

Still, I wander through stacks of warped tupperware and grimy stuffed animals and hairy Christmas ornaments (they say only cockroaches will survive at the end of the world--I disagree. That angel hair stuff will be here looooong after the cockroaches) and mismatched shoes and trashy romance novels and fake flowers and doilies (I'm not sure why every garage sale has doilies--I never see anyone buy or make them, but they appear in garage sales as if by magic...maybe they come with the permit?) and puzzles missing 3 pieces and clothes so far out of date that they're a year or two away from coming back into style and I keep thinking this will be the day the treasure will appear. This stupid, happy-go-lucky certainty that the barn stuffed with manure must contain a pony is, by the way, the reason I do not gamble.

All of which leads me to this snippet of overheard conversation at a sale in Issaquah, where a youngish man was digging through boxes of stuff in search of his own version of the wooly grail, and he suddenly called out to his son: "Hey, Sam. Come over here--remember the other day when I was telling you about records? This is what they look like!"

Yeah, Sam--that was back when no one owned a computer because it filled a large room and you actually had to wait an hour for a baked potato and dinosaurs roamed the earth. Could I feel any older?

Tomorrow I promise some more photos of squares, including another one of Lynn's megasquare which, as it turns out, spells L-O-V-E if you're not a dork and actually turn it around the right way. Sorry about that, Lynn. I must have had an extra helping of stupid with my cereal. It's beautiful, and I love you for it.

I Wanted to be Funny

2007-09-07T18:52:00.000-07:00

I have been trying now for about 25 minutes to write something funny or witty or clever or even profound. Truth is, though, you all continue to leave me speechless. I am struck dumb by your continued generousity and kindness. You don't know the miners, you've never met me--but you keep knitting and and mailing and offering kind words and I love you all so much I can't stand it. I'm humbled by all of you, seriously. Today's mail brought these from Dianne inVirginia:

Dianne, I love that stipey thing you've got going with the purple and black. The sharp-eyed among you have already spotted the Koigu sitting there above the squares. Dianne kindly donated it as a prize for someone when I start drawing names (likely this weekend). And she sent me some black yarn for edging and some lovely gifts and I am so very pleased and grateful that you thought of me. I keep wanting to see Virginia--if I get there, I will call upon you and give you the hug you have coming in person.

Yesterday's mail brought all of these:

and this from Lynn in Texas:

I'm loving the megasquare like you can't believe. I don't know quite you you did it, but I love it. I'll be doing a lot of edging and sewing this weekend, so I should have some photos of real progress by Sunday. My newest idea is to have the blankets ready for Christmas gifts. It seems to me that the first holiday without your loved one must be painful in a way I can't imagine. And I know that the story is already gone from the news the way these things do, and I would think that would mean a great deal of aloneness at such a family-oriented time. That also gives us all time to knit and me time to edge and join all six blankies. Eight if I get enough squares (so as to include the families of the rescuers).

When I was a little girl, I used to sometimes go with my mom to visit my dad while he worked out of town. He puts up steel buildings for a living, and he does so all over the place so I stayed in a lot of wonderful little towns. One was Kellogg, Idaho which was the home of a huge mining disaster many years ago in the Sunshine Silver Mine. I remember standing there looking at the memorial and asking my parents over and over again if it was really true, if all those men really died and how it could possibly be fair. It wasn't, of course, and it isn't.

Every night now when Mr. K comes home I hold him extra close because I realize more than ever how lucky I am that he CAN come home. I never say good-bye to him in the morning without reminding him to come home safely to me and I always leave with a pang. I can't begin to imagine the pain of losing a beloved someone in that way, and it is this thought that keeps me knitting. And edging. And stitching. And then you guys send me more stuff and I think that there are no better people in the world than you, and I knit and edge and stitch together even harder and faster--so I can be worthy of all the good people working with me and through me.

I wanted to be funny today. Instead, I'm just grateful. Gifted by the friendship of all of you, privileged to be able to call you friends even though we've never officially met. Touched by the extraordinary love you all keep sending along. It's a bottomless well, I think. I'm in awe.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you. You'll get tired of hearing that before this is all over...but I'll never get tired of saying it.

Full Circle

2007-09-05T18:58:00.000-07:00

It is my way to run around frantically in the morning before leaving for work, after announcing to anyone who will listen that there is no WAY I will possibly make it to work on time and I'm going to be terribly late and get fired and go home in disgrace and I'll have to sit in the yard and eat worms. Okay, so no one will ever want to purchase a book entitled "The Way of Knitingale", but you stick with what works. In any case, I was starting my day today in much that manner when some interesting truths came to me. It went like this.

One of the many little tasks with which I fill up my mornings is the brewing of a large cup of tea. I always believe I will have time to drink this in a civilized fashion, perhaps while reading the paper and glancing fondly over at my beloved Mr. K. Then I have a good laugh and go dump the water out of the travel mug that's been soaking overnight in the sink because I didn't get to the civilized and fond glances thing yesterday, either (in my defense, neither did Mr. K, so I would have had to glance fondly at the cat who tends to think I'm weird when I do that). I had arranged my stuff for work neatly on the counter to take with me (read: I had tossed my knitting bag on the counter in such a way that the yarn slopped out of it and got covered in bread crumbs from Mr. K's sandwich, forgot my cell phone and had to make two trips upstairs--one to forget what I wanted, and one to get the cell phone--lovingly set the new red purse on the chair where nothing bad could happen to it, and tipped my water bottle onto the hardwood while swearing like a trucker and trying to mop it up by sliding a dishtowel around with my foot. In other words, and average morning.) and I was about to pour the tea into the mug. Which was when I had my first moment of realization:

I was wearing brand new, white, brushed cotton scrub pants. Brand new. Soft and comfy, with a drawstring waist. Carefully matched with a white long-sleeved tee, and a scrub top in blues and greens and white. Lots and lots of white.

And a big travel mug of tea. Which has a lid with a lip on it to help prevent spillage and all...but c'mon. Is there a more tempting invitation to the universe than new white scrub pants and a big mug of tea in the car on the way to work with no time to go home and change? I think not. Which is when I had my second moment of realization: I could change the outcome of this.

I put my stuff neatly in the car (read: tossed it in randomly and was somehow surprised later to find grapes from my lunchbag under the seat planning a future in the raisin business), went back, and dug a dishtowel out of the drawer. I then got in the car, laid the dishtowel across my lap, and drove to work and drank my tea, thus guaranteeing that nothing would spill. I could have shaken it like a tamborine and nothing would have spilled, because the universe doesn't find it amusing in the least to mess with the prepared. It ruins everything. Now, if I'd not brought the towel, I'd have dropped the entire cup in my lap, the lid would have popped off, and I would have spent the whole day working with a light tan crotch and lap. Such are the vagaries of fate. When I got to work, that was when I had the third and last moment of realization:

I was sitting in my car, wearing what might as well be jammies and a bib, drinking from a tippy cup. I had come full circle.

When I looked around, I merely confirmed my suspicions--behind the seat was a bag of hard candy, to keep me from becoming cranky and whiny on long car trips. I had a shiny red purse, one shoe was untied, my hair needed to be brushed, and the cd I was listening to was one I've listened to so often that it's a good thing I don't carpool with anyone because they'd kill me. The evidence is clear. I've become 2 years old again. Only now I can drive and not nearly as many people can tell me no.

hmmm.......

Guess Who Won?

2007-09-04T18:40:00.000-07:00

I had some time to kill before Knit for Life last night, so I decided to do a little window shopping. And, as everyone with a child--either inner or outer--knows, "window shopping" refers to the art of wandering around a store pretending that you aren't going to buy anything, and then your child harasses you until you do and you pretend it was a well-thought out decision. That's what it means in my world, in any case. (It may be for the best that I don't have any flesh and blood children.)

While I was window shopping, I just happened to end up in the handbag section, where there just happened to be a sale on (this time it was JC Penney--I think the stores are conspiring against me...I'm sure the fact that it was Labor Day and every store in the country was having a sale was mere coincidence). The conversation went sort of like this:

Mature, outer adult me: "Aren't they lovely? Now, we're just looking. We really don't need a bag right now."

Spoiled brat inner child: "Yes, I do. I NEED a bag. I REALLY REALLY need one! One of these!!"

Me: "Oh, dear. Not that one. That's much too loud and garish. Besides, you have a perfectly good bag."

Inner brat: "I don't LIKE my bag. It's icky. I want this pretty one."

Me: "It most certainly is not icky, and you liked it just fine before. But okay. We can consider a new purse. But let's start with these lovely, classic bags over here."

Inner brat: "Don't WANT a classic bag. I want THIS ONE!!"

Me: "Shhhh! Stop wailing like that! That's no way to get what you want! And I'm sorry, but young ladies do not carry handbags made of red, faux crocodile. It's cheap and tacky. Here, try this lovely chocolate leather bag. It has lots of pockets and a sensible shoulder strap."

Inner brat: "I HATE that leather purse! And it's not chocolate--chocolate is good. I want this one. Don't care what young ladies do. I want it!"

Me: (somewhat desperately) "Look, it's not at all what a mature woman would carry! It's....it's...RED, for heaven's sake! Okay, I'll tell you what. If you really must have red, how about this lovely leather satchel in a sort of burgandy. It's kind of red."

Inner brat: "IT IS NOT!!!! It's NOT red and I don't like it and you're icky and I hate you!! I want the red purse!"

Me: "But a red purse won't go with anything! And it's not even very big. Where will you put everything? For pete's sake--put it down!"

Inner Brat: "I WON'T put it down. IWON'TIWON'TIWON'T!!! And you can't make me!!"

Me: (now attempting to wrestle the purse from her grasping little hands) "But look--it's not even real anything. Feel how nice and soft the real leather purses are."

Inner Brat: "Don't care. Don't want the icky old leather."

Me: "Well...but I'll bet it's ridiculously expensive, and I won't pay that kind of money for dead urethane hide, do you hear me?"

Inner Brat: "It's on sale. It's 50% off. Look how smooth and shiny it is. Here, just kind of pet it."

Me: ".......oh, man. I hate you. I really hate you."

Inner Brat: "I get the purse, though--right?"

Which is how I came to be the owner of this completely fabulous and probably horrid red faux croc handbag, which I love even as I hate myself for loving it. For the record, I'm not at all sure whether I wanted a red, faux croc handbag, or just wanted to be the sort of woman who would carry a red, faux croc handbag and get away with it. Luckily, I'm now equipped to experiment and find out. (the photo makes it look kind of brown..it's not. It's really very red.)

By the way, anyone willing to let my inner child vacation at their house? Just for a couple of weeks? I fear it's the only way I'll get to purchase anything that wouldn't attract a magpie from 16 miles away in a heavy storm. All I can say is, thank all that's wool that the little snot hasn't discovered shoes.

In happier news, look what the mail brought me from Peggy in Georgia, Karen in Utah, and someone else in Utah who didn't give her name (but who has my eternal thanks just the same):

I'm so delighted with all of them. And look what else came, this from Jean in Cornwall:

It says "knit on with compassion and hope, through all chaos", and she sent it because she thought it summed us all up nicely. Well said, Jean. You are absolutely right. I'm off to knit on. And feel the love and compassion and hope of all of you as I do.

Irony: Not Just for Unwrinkling Clothes-ies

2007-09-02T19:25:00.001-07:00

It is unlikely that I am truly my mother's daughter--rather, I am almost certainly a changeling, swapped out in the nursery when my mother wasn't looking. Her real child is probably enjoying a life with Imelda Marcos. I say this because of the horror that crossed my mother's face when she realized I did not share her love of accessories. Indeed, I'd rather wax the driveway with my tongue than go shoe-shopping, a truth that may well have cost my mother a portion of her sanity.

My mother, you see, collects purses and shoes and jewelry and sweaters and scarves and quite possibly a number of other things I've never heard of in a way that puts even my yarn collecting to shame (which is saying something). I, on the other hand, will wear a pair of shoes until I can feel the date on a penny while standing on it with the shoes on, or until they explode off of my feet in protest. Whichever comes first. I once carried a pair of beloved but absolutely beat-to-crap shoes into a shoe store and announced that I wanted to purchase another pair of precisely these shoes. The salesman looked as if he rather wished he had a nuclear waste suit handy, and he did not touch the shoes as he explained--in the same tones one uses to explain why a 3-year-old child's goldfish had to take a toilet ride--that they did not make this sort of shoe anymore. Indeed, he did not EVER remember seeing a shoe like this, and perhaps I should consider something more....current. I didn't tell my mother about this. I feared she might faint dead away, strike her head on her giant jewelry chest, which would then tip over into the dresser, whereupon 230 sweaters would fall down on her and smother her. You think I'm kidding, but she counted once--and she really did have 230 sweaters at that point.

My handbag issue is just as severe. Unlike my mother who used to change out handbags according to her shoes, her coats, the seasons, her mood, and quite possibly the price of hot sauce down at the Walmart (they say "the Walmart" where she lives--see my earlier post on trailer trash), I have carried the same sensible brown purse for about 3 years--which is when I purchased it at Value Village for about $6.99 + tax. I have not changed it to match my shoes--I figure they can get along or not but it's none of my concern. I have not worried about whether it "worked" with the current fashion season (it's a purse, for the love of wool--it can't POSSIBLY have feelings of not belonging) and my mood, where handbags are concerned, really only ranges from "Crap, I forgot my purse" to "Crap, I slammed my purse handle in the car door" to "I know my keys are SOMEWHERE in here beneath all this crap."

Having said all that, I am occasionally struck by a stray something or other--a momen of odd girliness that causes me to do things like purchase lip gloss, put product in my hair and, sometimes, actually be enchanted by handbags. I don't know if it's a full moon thing, or what--but I will go from "yeah, all my stuff fits in it and whose going to notice if the handle is held on with a safety pin?" to "oh, look at the little pockets! And the zippers! And all this other stuff that I'll never use but looks really cool!" I'll even take the damned things off the shelf and sort of pose with them--hold them casually against my body while I glance down to see if I look anywhere in the neighborhood of chic (actually, the freeway of my life doesn't exit in that particular neighborhood, but hope springs eternal). All of which is to say that:

Last night Mr. K and I stopped at Fred Meyer and all their purses were 40 - 60% off and something goofy and pink and frilly inside of me squealed with delight and the next thing I knew I was pressing my face against smooth leather and holding purses against me like a moron. What can you do?

A quick note here: you probably picked up on the Fred Meyer thing. I may have a goofy squealy girl in me, giddly burying herself in trendy handbags, but even she isn't dumb enough to pay hundreds of dollars for them. In fact, a price tag over about $20 is all it really takes to send her packing. She's hopeful, but she's really not all that persistent.

And it was like this that Mr. K found me some moments later. I was feverishly comparing the merits of a round sort of bag that would match nothing I owned and hold about 1/4 of my stuff, and a giant shiny studded thing that would really require a much larger knowledge of dominatrix sorts of things than I have in order to successfully pull it off. My eyes were bright and shiny, I'm sure. When he came up to me, I started holding up bags and pointing out the wonderfulness of this vs the chicness of that (proof that my brain was addled by polyurethane fumes--that I thought for a moment to share this wealth of information with my beloved husband who once used a plastic bag from Victoria's Secret as a lunch bag because it was the first one he grabbed) and I even went so far as to ask him what he thought of this one or that one (fumes again) and that's when he said it--the phrase that actually makes me start to believe that men may in fact be alien. He creased his brow a little as he said it, too--"But, you have a purse. What's wrong with the one you have?"

And of course, when I'm not breathing in dead urethanes, I probably have the same sort of thought on the subject. But at that moment, I thought it the most ludicrous statement in the world--quite possibly heretical. And ironic, too (you were wondering where the irony came in, weren't you?). Ironic because of this photo:

See those 9 pairs of shoes by our front door? The 9 pairs of shoes that are almost all variations of running shoes? The 9 pairs of shoes that mostly all look brand new and barely worn? Yeah, 7 of them belong to Mr. K. And that's not half of his shoe collection.

Oh, the irony.

I did not, after all, purchase a purse (if only because I really couldn't come up with an answer to the "what's wrong with the one you have?" question). Neither did I purchase a three-pack of panties (a weakness of mine....I've heard of people who do the laundry when they run out of clean panties, but I can't wait that long because if I do, the clothes I put in the hamper will all be out of style by the time they come out of the dryer--I have a LOT of panties), a new bra, or a hair care product that is little more than a promise in a bottle for the frizzy among us who, nevertheless, dare to dream. But I'm remembering this the next time he wants to go shoe shopping.

Today's miner blanket update--I've started edging squares that need it, and have actually sewn some together. See what you think:

I'm still knitting them, too, but really wanted to start putting some together. Aren't they pretty? Aren't you guys wonderful?

If I Was a Horse, They'd Shoot Me

2007-08-31T18:33:00.000-07:00

My doctors call it "cervical facet syndrome". I work in the medical field and therefore have extensive knowledge of important medical facts so I feel safe in saying that this probably translates to "your neck is really effed up and we don't particularly know why it did that and it sucks to be you." Or something like that. Anyway, I spent a chunk of yesterday letting a medical type person slide a little thin needle into the joint between my 2nd and 3rd cervical vertabra and fill it full of medicine guaranteed to hurt like hell and make me dizzy and off-balance so I look drunk and have the headache as if I was drunk but didn't actually get to sit with my friends in a bar and throw down beverages with dangerous sounding names. Modern medicine is a miracle, isn't it?

Okay, yes, it will help the pain once it absorbs and I quit running into things. And yes, it will help my popularity if I quit whining. But the upshot is that I laid around a lot when I got home after the shish-kebabing (oddly, they prefer I refer to it as facet injections...but I think I can safely say I know how chicken satay feels at this point) and therefore had time for all sorts of weird thoughts. For instance:

Have you ever noticed how much the media lies to you? Not the serious stuff--that's fodder for a different sort of post. I mean the stuff like in the movies where the hot young couple showers together and it's all steamy and soapy and romantic and it just looks so wonderful and tempting. But they never show the truth of each of you standing with about 1/4 of your body actually in the warm water, your tushie freezing, soap drying on the part of you that you can't get far enough under the water to rinse, and one or both of you getting an elbow in the eye while the other one tries to wash their hair in the scant teaspoon of hot water that's made it to their head.

The movies also like to show the busy career woman, returning home at the end of a long day in a perfect suit with undamaged nylons, clicking across the entryway in high heels while she opens the mail with a perfectly glossed fingernail. Her hair is perfect, and her make-up is unsmudged. When I finally straggle in the door, I usually find that my scrub pants have managed to get a knot in the drawstring so that I have to dance frantically while trying to untie them before I pee myself, my hair looks like I was dragged through a hedge backwards, the mail has spilled out of my armloads of crap and, if I'm really lucky, it's landed on some rodent body-part that the cats left for me. If I gird my loins and pick it up anyway, it will be a flyer telling me that I can save money on hearing aids this month at ACME Hearing Aids, Inc. The woman in the movie will curl up prettily on the couch while nibbling on a salad and sipping at wine. I will suck down a few gummi bears and try to convince myself that I really can make something appetizing from a half a cup of freezer-burned corn and a box of pizza rolls. The only wine in the place will be me, whining because once again the house failed to self clean while I was gone.

In one famous movie, a man blindfolded his girlfriend and led her to the fridge and drizzled all kinds of sexy food on her and fed her things and it was terribly erotic. At my house, it would probably be a bit more pedestrian. For one thing, the time it would take to warm up the honey and get the crystals out of it so it could actually be drizzled or poured would likely kill the mood. For another, it just isn't all that sexy to have to stop and sniff inside containers to see if the food inside has reached any sort of toxic state. And for a third, I just don't have a lot of sexy food. It's hard to look hot with a bag of granola and a sugar free pudding cup. And don't forget those pizza rolls.

In the movies, the heroine always cries very prettily--one perfect tear sliding down her expertly made up cheek. She is more beautiful than ever and the hero cannot resist her. If I cry, I acquire a clown nose, I make graceless, hiccuping noises, and I'm likely to leave snot on the perfectly tailored suit sleeve of the hero. And I'll look like an albino rabbit after a night in a smoke-filled room for about 7 hours.

Bathtubs in movies are always huge--more than large enough to accomodate a stretched out and lovely woman with stragically placed bubbles that last for hours. There are candles and flowers and a glass of wine. Her hair is piled loosely on her head and, when she takes it down, it will tumble down her back in a waterfull of soft curls. In my world, every indoor bathtub I've ever gotten into has left me the choice of warm feet or warm upper body but not both. The bubble bath lasts about 5 minutes before dissolving into a greasy bathtub ring that defies every drop of elbow grease I can summon, my hair is yanked back in a hot pink scrunchie that makes me look like an aging Cabbage Patch doll, and the one time I tried the candle thing, the cat knocked it into the bathwater and nicely doused my leg with liquid wax into the bargain (yes, you can get a free legwax at Chez Knitingale, but you can't be picky about which three inches of leg).

New moms in the movies are made up and have lovely hair and look prettily tired. New moms in real life are generally dressed in spit up, look like they've gone two rounds with a brick wall, and have no idea what time it is. Children in movies are precocious and clever and always say innocently witty things. Children in real life test their mother's patience the same way you test spaghetti--by throwing it viciously against a wall one strand at a time. They do lovely things like announce the new name they learned for their genitalia while you're waiting in line at the bank, become "boneless" and fall whining to the ground when they don't want to do what you want them to anymore, and turn that cunningly planned outfit into a walking disaster within five minutes of putting it on in a perfectly clean, dry room.

Oh, and no one ever goes shopping in the movies without purchasing a baguette. I don't know why this is, but watch next time--see if there isn't one of them sticking out the top of an unwrinkled paper bag (I guess movie people don't drop the grocery bag in the parking lot and roll half the oranges under the car, either).

See, weird thoughts. I'm going to go lay on some ice for my neck and a heating pad for my back. In theory, it should rain somewhere around my shoulder blades when that cool front reaches the warm one.

I'm going to start crocheting edging on the squares and maybe sewing some together this weekend. There will be miner's blankets. I won't look like Michelle Pfeiffer while I'm doing it...but there you are. Another Hollywood lie.

Photos and Owner's Manuals

2007-08-29T18:30:00.000-07:00

This is what compassion looks like:There are 16 squares there, plus I have one on the needles (a slipped garter pattern that is lovely and also as slow to knit as if I'd dipped my needles in honey before I started), so only 163.5 to go. And, if that number sounds too daunting, consider this: each blanket will have 3o squares...so one of them is more than halfway done. How much do you guys rock? (It's a lot, in case you weren't sure on that one.)

This, on the other hand, is what boredom must look like:

These are Mr. K's feet, propped up on the office chair. I have no idea whatsoever why he took not one, but two photos of his feet (they're pretty much alike--I figured that if you've seen one, you've seen 'em both), but it was on the media card when I went to download the photos. I've always wondered what men do when they're alone in their manly places (shop, home office). I figured it had to do with scratching or something...but it seems to have more to do with feet. Or photos. Or photos of feet. Am I the only one who thinks men should have come with some sort of owner's manual?

I know, men say that women should come with manuals, but I don't know why. It's not like they ever read the manuals anyway. In my experience, they sort of start with "Oh, I don't need that thing", progress through "What the hell...?" and finally snatch the thing up in an irritated fashion so that they can point out "look at the dumbass way they said to put this together." At this point, it's no good pointing out that, dumbass or no, the one pictured in the manual at least stands upright/has wheels on opposite corners of the downward facing side/has fewer than half the bolts and screws leftover/is not making any sort of strange and threatening noise/has not fallen on and crushed a cat/looks in some vague way like the thing it was supposed to be. If you do, the man will simply wave his hand and point out that "it's supposed to look like this and manuals are for sissies." (For the record, this is not a good time to point out that a sissy with uncrushed cats, a pile of leftover screws that could fit in one hand, and a wheeled device that can actually roll is probably a happy person and may not mind being a sissy. This observation is strangely unwelcome to most men.) Apparently, it is important not to be told how you're screwing something up until it's actually screwed up. A full experience, and all that.

I, for one, would dearly love a book that started thusly:

"Congratulations on your purchase of a model 1961A Man. With proper care and maintanence, your man should give you many years of enjoyment. Some things to consider:

Care and Feeding: Men require a steady diet of things you purchased for yourself and were looking forward to, things you don't have in the house, things that will give them gas, and things that will dirty the largest number of pots, pans and dishes. If none of these things are available, large slabs of red meat may be substituted, or startlingly unhealthy fare from establishments that sell food of the 'Call your Cardiologist Before Consuming' type (such as the new dipping pizza from Pizza Hut, that comes with marinara, garlic sauce, and ranch dressing--because four pounds of bread and cheese with greasy meat was WAY too healthy and really needed a good slug of salad dressing to dunk it in).

Your man will not require clean clothes most of the time and, if he does, he has a built-in clean-clothes detector, also known as the 'sniff the pits of the shirt and if you don't pass out it's okay to wear' feature. Additionally, he is quite likely to become attached to his clothing. Even if his underwear is a strange and disturbing shade of gray, is so thin you could read through it, has elastic so worn out that the leg and waist openings are all roughly the same tired size, or are just so damned old that they consist primarily of a waistband and an idea, DO NOT THROW THEM OUT. Doing so will overload the circuits of your man and it is not guaranteed that he can be repaired. Do not attempt to substitute new underwear, as the man can be severely traumatized by the sensation of clean, soft cloth against his body. Major systems failure is not out of the question.

Your new man will require only about 50% of the bed. Unfortunately, it will be the center 50%. You will need to find a way to sleep in the 25% on either side of him. If you can sleep with an elbow in your face, even better. Likewise, he will require the same center 50% of the blanket, but only in the winter. In the summer, he can be relied upon to pile it generously on top of you, causing you to wake up gasping in a puddle of sweat the size of Lake Erie.

Your man comes equipped with one or more remote controls. They do not operate him, but everything with which he comes into contact. Do not attempt to remove the remote control from his hand. Doing so will lead to a serious short that will cause him to stare blankly at the TV until the remote is replaced. This particular model will need to channel surf during every commercial break, but only long enough to cause you to miss an essential portion of the show you were watching when he forgets what channel it was on and can't get back to it. It is tempting to hide the remote at this time; if you do so, be prepared for your man to assume a fetal position and whimper quietly until it is returned.

The 1961A man comes with many skills and talents. He was not, however, programmed with the ability to bridge the gap between sink and dishwasher. For all intents and purposes, this gap is a black hole to your man, terrifying to him on a primal level. Do not attempt to force your man across that hole. It will not be pretty.

The man in general has very good eyesight, especially for things like tool stores, gnat-sized damage done by any of the cats to any piece of furniture, anything at all done to any vehicle that he drives, and the last cookie in the house. There are a number of gaps in his vision, however--specifically crumbs, toothpaste globs in the sink, whiskers on any bathroom surface, shoes in the middle of the floor, half-empty milk glasses in the living room, and the calendar where the birthdays of his relativese are posted. He is physically incapable of seeing any of these objects and there is no place in his field of vision where that improves. You will need to allow for this."

Hmmm...this could be promising. Any other suggestions? What needs to be in the "Man Owners Manual"? At least you know we'll read it.

Happy knitting, and look again at that picture of compassion. That's all you. You're making this possible.

Things You Can Learn at the Fair

2007-08-26T07:42:00.001-07:00

Mr. K and I took a small break yesterday to go a local fair--a smaller one, in that we only had to wait in traffic about 25 minutes and could see the fairgrounds from our parking space. Our state has a larger fair where neither of these things would be remotely possible--to avoid slamming our heads repeatedly into the dashboard in frustration, we avoid that fair.

In any case, fairs can be terribly educational if you seek the opportunities, and I was able to experience the following learning moments:

Our fairs have decided recently to ban trans fats from fair food. Now it's perfectly healthy to eat a mound of curly fries as big as a size 10.5 shoe box, 12 onion rings the size of frisbees, fried dough spread with a softball-sized wad of butter and lovingly sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar and, for the fearless, a deep fried Snickers bar.
Those of us who prefer to keep our arteries at least slightly open and pliable may choose from cotton candy in terrifying colors, or water. Oh, and you can also get an apple...if you want to scrape the caramel made of cream and butter and sugar off.
Children love most of the above mentioned foods. They also love the giant, spinny rides that toss them about like rag dolls. The combination should come with a warning label, a barf bag, and a 12-foot clearance zone.
Cows have a pregnancy about as long as humans. However, their infants can stand within moments of birth, come find food when they want it (both breast milk and solids), and do not require changing or potty training. This seems patently unfair.
A petite 12-year-old girl showing a largish jersey cow, should be certain ahead of time that either the cow is cooperative, or the judge is patient...and that she herself has no objection to being led around the ring on the cow's timetable.
Sneakers are more comfortable for walking through several barns and other assorted buildings; boots are more likely to keep pants hems out of cow and horse dung. It's a toss up--non-mutilated toes or crap-free hems. (I voted for the craplessness....my toes were unimpressed)
People look at you funny if you press your face for too long against the case with the cake competition winners. Especially if you drool down the glass.
If you can imagine doing it, there is a competition for it. Including the layering of soup ingredients in a glass jar. Also trail mix--you can take home a blue ribbon for putting pretzels, m&m's, raisins, and cheerios in a jar with a lid. I sometimes wonder if we've lowered our standards for skill and excellence in this country....just a tad.
The sheep barn is a bad place for a knitter who does not live on a farm and whose husband is not the slightest bit interested in making it so she does.
Mr. K is not remotely swayed by the argument that goats eat wild blackberry bushes (terribly invasive plants in this neck of the woods) and could, if the correct breed, also provide cashmere--a win for everyone.
Men do not always see perfect logic when it is presented to them.
Men are also perfectly capable of holding one of the free kittens at the feed store near the parking lot without actually taking it home. I think this terribly odd.
Men do not necessarily see sheep as "yarn on the hoof" no matter how clearly it is pointed out to them. Neither do they see them as "an investment in years of hobby time and warm garments".
Karaoke anywhere is a dreadful invention. Karaoke at a state fair where everyone is hopped up on sugar and easily convinced of their country-and-western prowess is just plain mean.
It is possible to convince people to buy nearly anything if you demonstrate it at the fair and throw in a free one for the first 20 buyers. They'll be all the way home before they realize they didn't actually need one, let alone two.
Demonstrators of such treasures are not receptive to questions like "But, if it'll last forever....why do I need two of them?"
As long as there are fairs, there will always be an endless supply of cheap jewelry, rubber shoes in mind-altering colors, hats with fake dreadlocks hanging out the back, sheepskin car seat covers, and clothes made of cheap cotton that will absolutely positively fit the nearest barbie doll after one washing. And people to purchase them.
Children will always think it's a great deal to spend $23 "winning" an ugly stuffed animal they wouldn't have given $5 of their hard-earned allowance for.

I do love the fair, though. I make fun, but you notice I'm there every single year for the privilege of petting horses with feet the size of dinner plates (we have Clydesdales at our fairs) and oohing and aahing at the cows and bunnies and sheep and so on. Oh, and so I can look at the knitting and claim, once again, that I will definitely enter next year because I can knit as well as most of these entrants. I won't do it...but I'll say it.

Speaking of knitting:

Current total miners blanket square count: 5 1/3. Still needed: 174 2/3. I'm going to buy some more yarn today. And rent some movies to knit by.

A Picture Worth a Million Words

2007-08-24T18:42:00.000-07:00

Look what was waiting in my mailbox today:

Yep. An envelope full of love and support and caring from Jean in Surrey. It is soft and lovely and, if you look at the color pattern, it almost brings to mind the English countryside--the blues above the greens and all. And it is most assuredly a gift from Jean's heart, and I am grateful and touched beyond belief. Jean, you are a star.

Now, with the 3 and a half that I've got (Jean, you put me to shame with how fast you turned this out--and you're even knitting on smaller needles than I am!), that makes.....175.5 squares to go. Totally manageable. I don't even have to put my head between my knees to keep from fainting when I look at the number. Which is odd because, as I believe I've mentioned, I couldn't organize a booze-up in a saloon that just got a whiskey delivery so you'd think I'd be unglued. But, as amazing and brilliant and talented as I know you all to be, I suspect even that is just the tip of the iceberg. I don't doubt that we'll make this happen. Not for a minute.

Judy, I'm beyond thrilled that your knitting group wants to make squares, too. I started this whole thing before the untimely and tragic deaths of three rescuers, but I had thought that if I received enough squares, I would try to put together blankets for those families as well. For now, I'm playing it by ear, but I'd love to be able to do it. Mr. K says he figures any day now he'll come home and find a giant UPS truck backed up to the porch with mountains of wool showering down out of the back.

And there's a problem with this because.....?

Kathleen, thank you for offering the stitch markers--I'd be thrilled with that, too. Only thing is....I'm supposed to be offering prizes to you guys. I think expecting you to make your own prizes smacks of the same sort of chutzpah that allows my cats to knead energetically on my bladder at 3:00am and then look surprised and duck when I wake up and try to pet them. That said, if you want to share your talent and help in that way, I will humbly thank you and accept....and I'll even make sure you don't win back your own gift!

I must go back to the needles and get some more squares made. But before I do, I offer this photo of Gracie--I THOUGHT someone had been adjusting the pedals on the bike for shorter legs!

Moose Burps

2007-08-23T05:04:00.001-07:00

Well, and other stuff, too. Business first: I don't think I can say thank you enough for all the wonderful comments and all the knitting you folks are doing for the blanket project. I've never taken on anything this big before, but, like I told someone recently, I have access to great goodness and generousity. This is a huge gift.

To the person who asked if there was anything else that she could do to help--you're such a sweetheart! If you lived near me, be assured I'd be drafting you for the stitching together. As it is, though, the support and the squares are perfect. Absolutely perfect.

To the wonderful person who offered hand-dyed yarn as a giveaway for my drawing.....I'm speechless. What a tremendous offer. If you want to donate for that purpose, I'd be thrilled. And thank you again and again and again. Oh, and Mr. K said that I should perhaps put people's names in the drawings once for every square they donate. That way, the people who send the most squares have the best chance of getting a prize out of the deal. Consider it done.

Amy is still knitting, and has purchased her first two skeins of Cascade 220. Unfortunately, she bought it at a larger store where no one was able to wind it for her, or even tell her it needed to be wound. Oops. She is now the proud owner of a largish lavender knot with knitting on one end. I offered to wind the other ball for her, but she's determined to figure it out for herself. This conversation all took place at lunchtime, as we were sitting in the waiting room with several muggle co-workers. I forget, sometimes, that we seem a bit alien to muggles....when I realized what had happened, I picked up the other hank, untwisted it to show her how to open it into a simple skein for winding, and then quickly twisted it back into the figure 8 hank. Then I looked up to see half a dozen people staring at me, as one of them begged "Do that again!"

Okay, so about these moose burps. I swear to all that's woolen (and you know I take that seriously) that I'm not making this up. An article came out of Norway with this as an opening line:

"A grown moose belches out methane gas equivalent to 2,100 kilograms (4,630 pounds) of carbon dioxide a year, contributing to global warming, Norwegian researchers said Wednesday. " It goes on to say that there are about 140,000 moose roaming Norway's forests, which apparently results in an estimated 294,000,000 kilograms of CO2 per year.

That's a lot of moose burps. What I wanna know is:

Someone apparently decided to make a serious study....of moose burps. Who in the world.....? I'm trying to picture a young scholar, trying to finish school in a hurry in order to save the world from belching moose...and you know, I'm having a tough time with that.
How does one go about making a study of moose burps? Did this aforementioned scholar just follow them around for a long while and listen really hard? Did he finally get tired of it and start leaving out buckets of beer in the hope of getting them all belching? How exactly did this work?
Most likely the scientist in question had a grant for this. Can you just see the grant application? "I would like to consider the impact of moose burps on global warming by following them around for a year and listening to them burp. I'll need money for beer."
I would think this person might have used recording equipment, since you can't be present for every single moose burp when there are over 100,000 moose (which does beg the question about how many burp at one time....and what the global impact might be of...say...50,000 of them all burping at once. I was wondering where all these hurricanes were coming from...). So, does that mean that some scientist somewhere has a whole collection of tapes of moose belches? I'll bet he hosts some interesting parties. "Oh, wait until you hear this one--you'll notice it's a bit deeper and more rumbling than the last 74,000. This particular moose drank most of the beer."

What really startled me, though, was halfway through the article where a professor at a university there is quoted as saying that "this is no reason to kill the moose."

????

Was this an option? Was someone really thinking that burping should be a capital offense for a moose? Man, they're tough in Norway. I'd better tell my husband. I don't think he'd be safe over there.

Happy knitting, all. I'll post pictures of squares as they come in, and start keeping a count on the sidebar of how many I have (assuming I can make blogger do what I want it to do, instead of what I tell it to do....a big if). In the interim, be careful if you go to Norway. Watch out for slightly crazed looking scientists with recording equipment. Oh, and don't drink the beer.

p.s. Please don't send me hate mail from Norway--I know Norway is a wonderful country and I would love to visit, honest. And I won't burp.

I Have Won Another One to the Wooly Side

2007-08-21T18:18:00.000-07:00

This lovely young lady:

is Amy. I work with her, and she is every bit as charming and lovely as she appears--more so, if the truth be known. Note the dimple you could sharpen a pencil in. I am deeply envious of that dimple. She pretty much always seems to exude as much joy as she does in this photo, which I think is an awesome quality, and which almost makes me feel badly for what I've done to her. Almost.

I was knitting during my lunch break the other day and she asked me what I was making. (See? I can't be held responsible for natural curiousity, now can I?) So I told her about the blankie project and, true to form, Amy didn't even hesitate before saying: "I want to make a square!" followed shortly by "I want to learn to knit!", which should probably come before the square, I admit. But you have to love her enthusiasm.

So, at lunch yesterday I met her in the waiting room (we close at lunch time--honestly, we didn't go out and shove patients off the chairs or anything) and cast some stitches on with half a ball of yarn I had in my bag (here little girl, come try it--the first one's free....) and showed her how to make a knit stitch. I worked for a minute on my own square, looked up and--she was at the end of the row. Just like that. The girl was born to it. I taught her how to cast on so she could practice at home--that took her just about as long. Today she came in with about 3 inches of garter stitch, at least 6 inches wide with perfect tension and only one hole. The girl is clearly a knitting prodigy...and it's worse than that.

Amy not only knit like crazy last night, is not only planning a foray to the LYS this Saturday, has not only commandeered one of my stitch pattern books (with my blessing--one must offer temptations to win the soul of an undiscovered knitter), has not only planned a project for tonight, her second day of being a discovered knitter, she said she got ready for work this morning, realized she didn't have to leave right away and so.....yup. She sat down to knit.

Oh, she's ours now. I'm excited--I think if I bring about two more over to the dark side, I'll finally get that toaster. 10 more and I get a patio umbrella and a set of matching plastic tumblers. In fairness, I did warn her that the LYS might start sucking down a startling amount of her paycheck. You can't say I didn't tell her.

Speaking of the blankie project, which I sort of was, please take note in the sidebar of the absolutely wonderful button that Monica pdx made for me, and that Marianne kindly put into my blog because I am a dumbass and can only make the computer do what I tell it to--not what I actually want it to. These two ladies completely rock my world, in more ways than I can tell you. If you look close at the button, you'll note that it has a map of Utah, and that the background is knit stitches. Also that there is copper on it, because copper is Utah's state mineral. I totally love it. Please, all of you helping out on this project, feel free to put it on your own blog (just make sure to save it to your own server). I'd love for you to have it.

Further speaking of the blankie project, I am alternating between joyous bursts of complete confidence that this thing will go like gangbusters and that I'll be happily stitching together one of about a gazillion lovely squares that magically arrived in my mailbox while little cartoon birdies sing in the windowsills a la Snow White(we'll forget for the moment the fact that even cartoon birdies would probably be taking a big risk coming that close to Ed--in this fantasy he's a vegetarian with no fondness for frogs or lizards or still-living snakes, which really is a fantasy), and staring in horrified wonder at the three squares I've managed to turn out while imagining how long it's going to take me to make the necessary 172 squares after only receiving 8. Not that I doubt you guys in the slightest--rather, I doubt my own ability to organize even a sexual encounter in a brothel, much less a worldwide knitalong, so these moments of terror are probably somewhat inevitable. This is what I've done thus far (besides chewing my nails to the quick, waking up in a cold sweat when I realize how many people I could disappoint, and willing my hands to knit FASTER, FOR WOOL'S SAKE!!:

You can't tell, but the one on the bottom (which needs blocking really badly) is a pattern of knits and purls that forms rows of hearts. I'm hoping to put one in each blanket to represent all the heart that went into them. The others are different patterns for texture--one garter diagonals against a stockinette background, and the other a moss stitch variant. No. 4 is in progress.

Now, it occured to me to offer some small thanks by having a drawing or two with the names of everyone who sends me at least one square. Problem is, I don't spin or dye wool, and I don't make stitch markers...so what to give people? Got it--the lucky winners get a batch of Ms. K's finest baked goodies, from scratch, mailed to their home. You even get to choose your favorite from caramel brownies, cookie-dough brownies, white chocolate macadamia bars, and chocolate raspberry bars. If you don't like any of those, name your favorite. I can probably find a way to do it, and without even getting chocolate on the yarn. Much. (I make no promises, however, about little wool fuzzies in the chocolate, however.)

Happy knitting to all, and thank you about a million more times. You're making my dream come completely true...it doesn't get better than that.

Wow.....

2007-08-17T17:59:00.001-07:00

I used to be able to speak eloquently...now I'm just blown away by the love and generousity of all of you. Thank you isn't enough...but it's a start. There are no words to tell you how much I appreciate all of you participating in the miner's blankets with me (see the previous post if you missed it). I called a newspaper in Utah today to see if I could find out where to send the finished blankies; I got the number for city hall, and I ended up talking with a reporter who wants to write about the project in the paper. This thing is bigger than I am, that's for sure.

To answer the questions: Any worsted weight yarn. Any at all. I agree that washable is most logical, but I don't want anyone to have to make any special--and possibly expensive purchases.

I don't have a deadline at present, because I really don't have a sense yet of who all will participate. So if you want to participate, please do. Don't fret about deadlines. I'll keep you all posted as to the progress. If I get too many squares, well, that's the best problem I could hope to have. I'll just make more blankets for the familes of the rescuers.

In a perfect world, I'd love it if people could put a black border (perhaps single crochet?)around their squares, the better to quickly stitch them together with black yarn and have a unified look. If you can't or don't want to, though, no worries. I'll make it work.

You can send the squares to:
Miner Blanket Project
7714 230th Ave NE
Redmond, WA 98053

Any color. Any pattern. Any design. If it's 10 inches in worsted weight, it's perfect. And if you could jot a few words on a piece of paper and pin it to your square, so much the better. You can put your name on it or not, as you choose...but I was thinking how amazing it would feel to receive those blankets and read the loving, caring words of all the people who worked to make it. I would leave the notes pinned to the squares, so the recipients could associate the square with the words.

And I love you people more than I could ever say. I'm off to knit some squares. I'm thinking of a heart pattern I have, in the hopes of putting at least one heart square in every blanket. It seems like all the hearts involved in this--HUGE ones--should be represented.

Did I mention how amazing you are? And did I say thank you?

You are. And thank you again.

I Have an Idea to Run Past You....

2007-08-16T19:54:00.000-07:00

I get these ideas sometimes. Occasionally they're not too bad, often they're crap. For instance, putting expensive plants in the deer buffet cleverly disguised as a bed by my driveway--crap. Making a scrub top that resembles nothing so much as a disco ball--definite crap. Attempting to make a sugar free cake sweetened with fruit juice--well, let's just say it smelled like vomit and leave it at that, shall we?

Today, though, I have a wonderful idea. It has to do with knitting (a good sign) and a bunch of scared families, and half a dozen men trapped at least half a mile under the earth possibly dead, possibly alive, certainly in a terrible situation. I'm talking, of course, about the miners in Utah who have been trapped now for over a week and a half after a collapse blocked their escape. At this point, it's possible that the collapse itself killed them, and it's possible that they're still alive, and everything in between is also quite possible. For some reason, this story haunts me and moves me and tugs at me and won't let me sleep. It's like a little mouse pulling on my sleeve, and I find myself pouring over the internet every day, looking for stories, a glimmer of hope, something. Instead, I find things like the story about the children of one of the miners sleeping on the floor in the school gym every single day since the cave-in, because he doesn't want to sleep in comfort if his father can't. My heart spasms with that one. Or the pictures of the town with handmade signs up all over the place, offering the families support and comfort.

I racked my brains, people, I really did. And I finally got this idea: what if, just--you know--what if a whole bunch of knitters (I know a few of those) were interested in knitting 10 inch squares in any pattern, in any worsted weight wool? And what if, having done this thing, these knitters were to send them to me to stitch together into warm, loving blankets made by caring strangers for people in pain and fear? And what if these blankets were mailed off to Utah, and maybe offered a smidge of comfort to any one of those suffering people? I honestly think the world would be a fraction better in that moment....which is probably why the mouse is tugging even harder at my sleeve and whispering "yes! yes! Do it!!!"

What do you guys think? I'd need a fair few squares. There's only six families, but I'm wanting biggish blankets--how comforting is it to snuggle in a lap robe? I was thinking 6 squares by 5--so 30 squares per blanket for a grand total of 180 squares. I'd make a bunch, too, of course. Oh, and I hope to convince the knitters to add notes pinned to their squares--just words of support and care, nothing fancy. Names only if you want to.

Anyone game? Please let me know. I don't know why this is so important to me....but I've learned to just listen and then go along for the ride in these situations. The mouse is usually right.

Call of the Wild

2007-08-14T18:35:00.000-07:00

Wild Thing Number One:

It is apparently BFS season again already. I know this because I came downstairs the other morning, all innocence, to find a spider the size of Wisconsin in my sink. A BFS, if you will. He was perched on the side of the sink, balanced delicately on his enormous hooves and thinking that perhaps I wouldn't notice the eight legs my porcelain had mysteriously sprouted overnight. Mr. K offered this helpful observation: "Oh, it's just a little wolf spider (LITTLE? Dude. This thing is little the way the national deficit is but a trifle. Please.). He probably came up through the drain." CAME UP THROUGH THE DRAIN?????? Which means, of course, that I now have to shower and wash my hair with one eye open at all times, staring ceaselessly at the drain in the floor so as not to suddenly be startled by the sound of hoofbeats as the things stampede into the bathroom and up my leg.

Then again, Mr. K could be wrong. Given the size of the multi-legged bastard (the BFS, not Mr. K who is two-legged and not a bastard at all), it's quite possible he just walked up to the front door, picked the lock, and let himself in. Probably drank all the beer and watched late night TV, too.

Wild Thing Number Two:

I advised the outdoor kitties, Ed among them:

(that's a little beefcake for you, Monica) that it is not only acceptable but actually desirable to keep the rodent population down to some sort of manageable number such that they do not form organized nations with a governing council and a common currency under the house. I did NOT advise them that I would like a live and quite healthy snake to be waiting for me in the garage when I got home. (Since the garage door was closed all day, and since the cat flap is a few inches off the concrete, I feel confident in saying that he had a bit of feline help getting in). He was no more impressed than I was with the situation,or so I gather by his rather desperate attempts to convince me that he was simply a wide crack in the garage floor...that was slowly trying to disappear underneath the car. Is it possible for my cats to like things that aren't creepy crawly? Even better--things that aren't (or weren't recently) alive? I'd be okay with finding dead chocolate pudding or wounded cupcakes in the garage.

Wild Thing Number Three:
Capri pants made entirely out of knitted, mitered squares are probably nature's way of telling us to lay off the sauce while knitting. Or, if you can't lay off the sauce, at least take pictures so we can all giggle in horrified awe. To wit:

This was in the 25th anniversary edition of Vogue Knitting. As if it weren't enough (and I believe that it is), there is this jacket that COULD be lovely, but for.....

.....but for the addition of little knitted mudflaps all around the bottom. 'Cause, you know, that's what I want to wear around my ass: a garment that will make people think of a multi-ton semi-truck. But only if I can spend hundreds of dollars and untold hours making it.

There was also this peculiar garment:

which I think may be a long sleeved bra....with a train. Well, okay--a train for each boob. Look close--the bright blue part that comes down to her thighs isn't part of it. It's just sleeves, boob covers, and two trains. Or sleeves and two trains that function as boob covers, or sleeves and two boob covers designed for the woman who wears a bra size 38Long. Again, friends shouldn't let friends knit drunk.

But, having been dreadfully critical, I confess to being absolutely in LOVE with this:

I suspect that it is YEARS too young for me, and that it would make me appear to be about as womanly and curvy as a 10 year old boy (or a frightened garage snake)...and yet, I love it.

That may very well be the fourth wild thing--Ms. K's good taste, now roaming free range and nowhere remotely within my reach. What can I say? I've been traumatized recently by snakes and hooved spiders. It's my excuse, and I'm sticking to it.

Smoking Pork Butt

2007-08-11T19:55:00.000-07:00

I was just cruising around the information superhighway (remember when the internet was called that? I was so computer clueless, I was pretty sure I was driving that particular highway in a 79 Pinto with one brown door) looking for a chocolate truffle cookie recipe I thought I remembered seeing (given the questionable state of my middle aged mind, that could mean anything from "Jasco uniform was having a sale on CHOCOLATE-colored scrubs" to "Oh, look--you can buy that old Star Trek episode, The Trouble with TRUFFLES....er, Tribbles" to "I can't think of anything to blog about...but a TRUFFLE would sure be good right now". Happily, this time it actually meant that I'd seen a recipe for chocolate truffle cookies..but, Dudes. It was a crap shoot.).

Anyway, I came across a website that allowed people to write in and ask a real chef their cooking/baking questions. The questions were all arranged by title, and one of them--I swear--was "Smoking Pork Butt--Help!". It's a measure of my domestic incompetence that my first thought was, of course, "Well, put him OUT, for heaven's sake!". My next one was "I wonder what class of fire extinguisher you use for a smoking pig..." which is probably only a measure of my truly odd mind. We won't even go into what the next thought, "And how did they only manage to set his ass on fire?" means about my culinary skills OR my level of normalcy.

Fortunately for me, I read in the newspaper last night that there is a Baptist college in the deep south that is now offering a degree in Homemaking. Now, lest any of you begin to bristle here, let me say right up front that I believe homemaking to be a valuable and important job, I have deep admiration for those who do it well, and if you keep bristling like that, your hair will stay that way. But here's the thing: the degree is only available to women. Ms. Knitingale was a bit.....surprised. If you understand "surprised" to mean that a flaming pig's ass turning up in the kitchen at that exact moment would not have been any more of a shock.

On the one hand, it's great that they finally acknowledge that there is a wealth of knowledge necessary to run a home well, and that it's a worthy skill. But these people openly say that they offer this degree because women belong in the home, are supposed to provide all these services to the men, and other assorted ass. Flaming or otherwise. Bah. Ms. Knitingale feels certain that she would likely be tossed out of these classes.

For instance, one of the classes is Interior Design. Apparently it is terribly important that the man come home to a lovely home carefully and prettily designed by his wife who has nothing better to do all day once she's done with the laundry, the cleaning, the cooking and the rearing of the children. For whom, by the way, she is supposed to design and sew clothing (another of the classes is in precisely those skills). I think they would not appreciate my insightful comment that "I found two pillowcases in roughly the same color family.. and the curtains in the kitchen match each other. What--that's not enough? Now other crap has to go together, too?"

I think I might also do poorly in the class about planning and presentation of lovely meals, especially when commenting "So now he's too good to eat cold take-out pizza over the sink like the rest of us?" or "Why would I need to cook him dinner? There have to be four different kinds of Pop-Tarts in the cupboard."

There are no Knitingale children, but I am reliably informed that the smaller ones do not particularly care for holding still for long periods, certainly not long enough to pin cunningly designed clothing pieces on them prior to stitching them up cheerily in a beautifully designed living room, most likely while wearing a dress and high heels. In fact, I am also reliably informed that children tend to be sticky and damp much of the time and that stuff dribbles out of them....which makes the whole "home design" idea seem a tad impractical right from the get go. A friend of mine with several children once told me that the only interior designer that made any sense to her while her wee ones were still wee, was either the guy who invented Scotchguard or the guy who invented Hefty bags. Either way, she was excited when she could find the carpet under all the toys and really didn't know if things matched each other or the arrangement "flowed" until the last child graduated high school. By that time, she was really too tired to care.

I also noticed that there where certain gaps in the curriculum. For instance, there was nothing in there about communication or anything else to do with the marital relationship, nothing about money management (apparently that isn't a woman's job in those parts), nothing about simple home repair. Nothing about mixing drinks, either, which is a shame because I feel that many graduates of this program will end up wishing they knew how.

There are a number of "Ms. Knitingale Homemaking Tips", many of which I believe would successfully get me bannned from the entire STATE in which the college resides. Like:

Buying carpet the exact color of cat vomit will save you a great deal of heartache and expense over the years. Also, they will be talking about you for YEARS down at Carpet Depot.
Cookie dough is your friend. Especially for breakfast. A case can be made for it containing a number of wholesome ingredients in much the same way that a case can be made for purchasing 17 balls of to-die-for cashmere when you already have enough yarn to slipcover Romania.
Nudism as a lifestyle sounds offputting...until you think about laundry day. Then, you gotta admit, it has it's perks. Okay, so my boobs don't have anything in the perk department anymore and maybe that's a good argument for keeping them covered....
Pet hair on everything just makes life softer and warmer.

I'm going to run out to the mailbox now--I want to see if the college has sent me a request to speak as a guest lecturer for their Homemaking program. After that, I'll be looking for flying, flaming pigs.

In Case There Was Any Doubt...

2007-08-09T19:38:00.000-07:00

I was running late for work this morning. This is not unusual--not because I sleep late, but because I get up early and then am possessed by unruly and unmanageable notion that I can do 1200 things before I have to leave ("I know--I'll wax the driveway! It'll only take a minute...then I can fix the hem on those pants, knit little cozies for the cats to sleep in, and arrange all the spices alphabetically"--it's worth pointing out that I am significantly bubblier in the morning than at any other time and, certainly than anyone has a right to be), and then all of a sudden I had to leave 10 minutes ago.

Today I was frantically trying to fit 20 minutes worth of things I HAD to do in the 30 seconds I'd left in which to do them, and I needed to remember the following things:

Wear pants
Bring purse
Bring keys
Bring lunch
Bring check from insurance company for doctor
Bring water bottle
Bring travel mug of tea
Wear pants (it's worth repeating this one, as it's written right into the rule book at work that we must wear both halves of a set of scrubs)

What I actually ended up with was:
I did wear pants (thankfully)
I brought my purse, but only after nearly leaving without it
I brought my keys because the car wouldn't start without them
I brought my water bottle after snagging it by the handle and whapping myself upside the head with it--and it's always half frozen
I remembered the tea, but spilled half of it in the garage
I did not bring the check for the doctor
I brought my lunch bag, but did not actually put any lunch in it.

BUT

I did bring my knitting bag. I didn't have time to knit today, and I knew I wouldn't have time to knit today and I couldn't eat the yarn inside or the pattern and I really needed lunch and more tea and not to have whapped myself upside the head with my half-frozen water bottle but....

I brought the knitting bag.

It's official. Knitting has become more important than food. I'm not a well woman.

A Veritable Tower of Restraint

2007-08-07T18:53:00.000-07:00

Oh, stop giggling! I'm not totally lacking in self-control, even if I am quite severely lacking in the desire to exercise it. This time, though, I really did demonstrate admirable restraint. The fact that it may not last is surely not relevent. See, I walked to Ben Franklin on my lunch hour yesterday (did I mention that location is one thing I love about my job?) in order to buy one of these:

By the way, the Tangled Yoke Cardigan is buring a hole in my knitting bag through which all previously started projects are bound to fall so that I might begin to knit it. I don't see how this can possibly be my fault. Anyway.

I got to the store and found that there was some Anny Blatt angora yarn on sale. Not just on sale. ON SALE. Regularly $21.75 for a 116 yard ball; now $5 for that same 116 yards of bunny goodness. They had pink and black and rich bluey purple and all manner of wonderful colors and still, this is all that followed me home:

Yes, I'm all right and no, I wasn't knocked unconcsious in the yarn store, or felled by a stray water buffalo or coated in locusts at an inopportune moment or even thrown out of the store for petting all the fuzz off the really soft yarns before I could complete my purchase. I just...wasn't quite sure what I would make with that much angora, and I ended up buying what I thought would work for a pair of really wonderful bunny mittens. Since then, I've shaken myself briskly and had a good laugh over the notion that I would actually need to have a plan in order to buy practically free angora and I'm hoping there's still some left when I go back tomorrow. But it does create a few issues in terms of what to make.

I thought about a sweater, naturally--imagine all that soft bunniness next to the skin all day. Mmmmm. (Okay, stop imagining it--you're drooling on the keyboard.) Probem is, angora in my past has proven itself to be nothing so much as a delicate flower, inclined to pill and felt at the merest hint of a stern expression, never mind a cross word, and I'm worried that I would either wear it once and have a felted, pilly bookmark for life, or be afraid to wear it at all.

A cardigan? Well...maybe. But again, it's kind of delicate. I worry that the harsh outside air molecules might bully it, hurt its feelings, generally cause problems. I worry even more that I absolutely hate handwashing and blocking with a passion and garments worn as outerwear seem to have a nasty tendency of needing that sort of thing occasionally.

Scarf? Too done, too easy--and not something I actually ever wear. I know, a knitter who shuns scarves. Don't think it's not a burden.

I pondered (in a moment of insanity brought on by the stroking of angora in a warm room) an angora bra--just briefly. Okay, so quit looking at me like that. There was a whole section in IK on knitted lingerie not that long ago so, while I might be insane, I at least have company (worse, I have company with the power to publish. The mind boggles.). Thing is, I believe that my employers would have a problem with my petting my own boobs all day, even if I did point out the bunny wonder of the garment covering them, so that's right out.

Vest? I don't wear vests at all...I think I was tramatized by the Annie Hall era of clothing, where everyone who was anyone wore layers and layers of menswear, with a mans vest pulled over a long shirt over skinny leggings. It wasn't a good thing. It really wasn't a good thing on me--I was overweight back then, and layers of clothes really did nothing for me at all. I looked like a chubby little man. A cranky, chubby little man, because the other kids made fun of me. No. No vests.

Hats? Ditto. (the "don't wear 'em" part, not the Annie Hall thing.) I hate having hat hair, even if it's angora hat hair. It's quite enough to have weirdly wavey hair at this stage of my life when it always used to be straight...add in standing straight out in the manner of one recently electrocuted and, well. You see how this mightn't end well.

But the darned angora is calling me in a hairy little siren song, and it seems that the pair of mittens or gloves I have loosely in mind just isn't going to feed that particular beast. What to do? A hundred pairs of mittens doesn't seem practical...any ideas out there? Anyone? I mean, besides send it all to you? (nice try, though.)

Don't worry if you can't think of anything, either. I may just spread it all out on the bed and roll around on it....and that would be okay.

Speaking of rolling around, Miss spent some time rolling around in the nip yesterday:

I was kind enough to brush all the bits of nip and grass off her before I took this so that she at least looks slightly respectable, if stoned. If you're wondering about the one eye, it is in fact half brown and half green. This does contribute a bit to her looking like she's completely wasted....but in this case, she really was.

Knit on, friends, and don't forget to help me figure I'm going to make with the angora that I'll buy with or without justification anyway. Not that I know myself well or anything.

A New Winner

2007-08-05T16:18:00.000-07:00

I have often thought of myself as the Queen of Ridiculous. After all, I have a scrub top with the Power Puff Girls on it, I have a one-eyed cat named Gracie who licks peanut butter off my finger (and occasionally tries to bite it in the apparent hope that I will bleed still MORE of the delicious stuff), I frequently (and unintentionally) wear my panties inside out and I have a riding lawn mower that I have christened the Exxon Valdez due to its oil spitting tendencies. Ridiculous. But I have been dethroned. I have found the ultimate ruler of all of the Ridiculous, a level of ridiculous so very high that I am forced to turn in my scepter and bow down to my betters. It started like this:

Mr. K and I have been talking about my eventual reapplication to nursing school. (See, you just knew nursing school had to be involved, didn't you? But wait. They've really outshone their previous efforts.) And, in an uncharacteristic fit of something I've heard termed planning ahead (strange concept, but I'm game) I opted to check the website today to make sure that none of the requirements had changed. Not to be paranoid, but I'm fairly certain that the nursing school application committee, when not reading applications, is holed up with a generous supply of vodka, pens, and paper, working on ways to thwart would-be nursing students. I'm pretty sure there's giggling involved.

Anyway, I figured there might be another class added to the prereqs or something, and I have time now to take the class before the application deadline. Clever, no?

No. Because there is a new requirement but it's this: the three recommendation forms I submitted from doctors with whom I've worked closely will no longer be sufficient. I still need three recommendations, but now at least two of them must be from members of the nursing school faculty. Let me repeat that: in order to get into nursing school, I must have letters of recommendation from people who teach classes that I am not allowed to take unless and until I am accepted into nursing school. Clear? Oh, and they have to rate me in specific areas, such as my leadership abilities, my judgement, my skill at creating and supporting cultural diversity (no, even Ms. K could not make this nonsense up--it's all true), and my self-confidence, among other things. The website did not offer any helpful suggestions as to how I might obtain these recommendations from people who do not know me; neither did it offer a place where I might leave my own suggestions regarding this matter. Just as well. It would have involved some anatomical impossibilities.

So, to celebrate what I am coming to think of as Asshole Day, I've come up with a list of appropriate ways to pay homage to this instance of brilliant thinking. For instance:

From now on, I will only see movies that have been reviewed by people who have never seen them.

I will only eat at restaurants that have been recommended to me by people who have not eaten there.

Allergic to dairy products? Then you're just the person I need to help me choose the best ice cream store in the greater Seattle area.

If you're tone deaf, I have a job for you. Please help me choose some music to buy that you think I'd like.

I'll be asking some vegetarian friends to help me choose between barbecued pork recipes, the Seahawks quarterback to recommend a good manicurist, and a friend of mine who doesn't drive to help me choose my next car. If I knew any non-english speakers, I'd hire them to read my school material for me as well. It would all make about as much sense.

You can help, too. I'm looking for someone to select yarn for me. However, you may not actually see the yarns you're selecting from. You may not feel them, or smell them, or handle them in any way. You may see the label, but be warned that there is no way to be certain that what is on the label is even true. Since they all want to get picked, it's possible that some acrylic could sneak in there and claim to be lambswool. Since you can't touch them, how would you know? There are people out there who have seen all the yarns, and have seen my stash, and know exactly what I like and what I'm knitting next. You may not speak with them. If they offer their opinion, it will be discarded. So, what will it be? Unidentified yarn sample number one? The one that claims to be cashmere? The one that sounds as if it might be blue based on the possibly-false label?

No, I'm not bitter and pissy and thoroughly fed up with all this. Thing is, I don't WANT to be pissy. I love what I do. Nothing feeds me like connecting with a person in a meaningful way, like giving someone that small comfort or support or encouragement or understanding or whatever it is that changes their day for a second or a minute or an hour. None of that, however, will sway the minds of people who place more value than anything on the opinions of people who know nothing about me.

I used to joke that I wouldn't be surprised to find the school requiring a swimsuit competition for nursing school admission. I never thought it would get to the point where that actually sounded marginally better.

All right. I'm off my rant. You may return to your knitting.

But, hey. Thanks for listening. I feel better already.

"It Was Someone Called Abby Normal"

2007-08-03T17:12:00.000-07:00

Anyone name that movie quote? Anyone?

TO: CEO
ACME Brains, Inc.

Dear Sir:

When I ordered a new brain from your fine company, it was with the hope and understanding that what I received would actually be better than the mush I was currently using. I am disappointed to say that this has not proven to be the case.

I've heard that cars built on Fridays or Mondays tend to be the ones with the most problems, because of employees calling in sick or taking a vacation day to make a 3 day weekend, or showing up hungover, or whatever. This suggests to me that the brain you provided me with was in fact constructed on a Monday, after a three day weekend. With a major holiday in it. During a blizzard. And a hurricane. And every bar in town was giving away free beer. For instance, I don't think a quality brain should result in my repeatedly coming home to find I've been wearing my underwear inside-out all day long. True, it's better than wearing them on the outside...but I think we can all agree that there are higher standards to be set than "puts underwear on first".

I also think that a good brain should have a good autopilot system. If I'm going to trust it to do things for me while I zone out, fantasize about Johnny Depp, or invent new knitting patterns in my head, it really ought to do it correctly--not have me put the serving spoon away in the pencil holder, toss my cell phone in the trash while carefully tucking an empty food wrapper into my purse, or place my knitting bag on the table to take to work about 4 minutes before leaving without it.

Additionally, I know that brains get into "grooves", where they try to apply what's gone before, but really. Just because I always knock on the doors of the exam rooms every time I go in to do anything at all with a patient, does not mean that I want to knock on EVERY door at work, including the one into the storage room, the medicine samples closet, and the one that opens into the waiting room so I can call back patients. Seriously--you should have seen the looks on people's faces. I think they were all trying to figure out who should get up and answer it.

It's terribly embarrassing to have to try to function with what is clearly an inferior brain. When you call a person and they answer the phone, they tend to expect the caller to remember whom they called and why. Generally, "Hello?" when used as a telephone salutation, is not answered with "Ummmm...who did I call?" And then "That's right, I WAS calling you......now, I don't suppose you know what I wanted?"

I also distinctly remember asking for the "remember names" feature, and it is very definitively missing. And tricks like "now, remind me how you spell your name?" only work so far. Just ask the puzzled patient who responded "S - U - S - A - N. I don't think it's unusual...."

I expected to be able to know right from left without feeling for the scar on my left thumb, subtract simple numbers without muttering "...17 - 9 equals 8, had to borrow, 2 becomes 1, 11 - 6 equals 5...." and so on, take the meat out of the freezer on any one of the six occasions I said I was going to, go downstairs to TAKE the meat out of the freezer and not come back up 5 minutes later with a piece of granola bar and the vague feeling that I was supposed to have done something, remember where I bought that awesome, low-fat Kettlecorn BEFORE visiting 9 of the 10 possible options, locate the absolutely perfect sock pattern when I want it and not after I've given up and made something else, and not do things like fax the admin office to tell them I forgot to clock in....when I in fact didn't forget at all. There's only so many times you can do that last one before they start wondering if you should be alone with patients.

I'm enjoying the knitting feature quite a bit, although it does seem to have gotten somewhat stuck in "start" mode. That one, and the yarn buying one as well. Is there a trick I didn't see in the handbook as to how to program it to complete things, and use up the yarn already purchased? It would also be great if it had a catalogue of recipes you can make from frozen meat. It should manage to save valuable information such as "Dr. S just pulled out that drawer and didn't close it" instead of tossing it out until the moment my shin makes contact with that same drawer, or "Mr. K rarely empties his Pepsi cans" before I get the bright idea of tucking one under my arm sideways as I carry it and all the newspapers to the recycle bin (where I put the mop bucket would have come in handy about then, too).

Overall, I am very disappointed with the quality of my brain. If I could remember where I put the phone number--or my phone, for that matter--I'd give you such an earful.

Indignantly,
Ms. K

Lead Me Not Into Temptation, I Can Find It For Myself

2007-07-31T18:03:00.000-07:00

Dear Yarn Company (you know who you are):

Thank you so much for the (road to hell) catalog that you sent me, along with notification of your giant, end of summer sale. While I'm certain that you are (rubbing your hands gleefully at the thought of the money that will flow your way from my pathetic, unresisting hands) pure in intent, I feel that I need to inform you of my little malady.

There was a time when yarn was, to me, simply yarn. It was pretty enough but I noticed it peripherally at best, and then only if I happened to walk by that section in K-Mart (read my post on trailer trash, and this will become clearer to you). Around the time that I was feverishly unravelling a pink mohair thrift store sweater while riding an exercise bike, and CERTAINLY while I was attempting to pull the mohair out of the gears of the bike, I realized that that innocent time was gone. I could no longer take or leave the yarn. I had become powerless over my addiction.

What I think you do not understand is that words like "Elsebeth Lavold Angora, $3.99 a skein" is to me what the words "free beer" are in that aforementioned trailer park. Likewise the phrases "up to 70% off", "limited time only" and "closeout". I am weak, and I'm not afraid to admit it.

It gets worse, though. See, you and I both know that I have no use whatsoever for 2700 yards of safety-cone-orange yarn in mismatched dyelots. However, offer it for $2.57 a skein, and the idea of a knitted safety vest with gently graduating shades of orange will suddenly seem logical--even appealing to me. I don't have a baby, and I don't have any friends with babies, but put the baby yarn on sale and just watch me stock up on enough yarn to outfit every kid in the cabbage patch. Twice.

I would need to adopt a family of barefoot centipedes in order to make my shamefully huge sock yarn collection seem logical...but I see you have some sock yarns on sale and I'm starting to wonder if the centipedes have any cold-footed cousins. I dislike boucle yarn, but show me a sale on Artful Yarns Legends for $4.79 a ball, and I can see myself in a boucle sweater...even if all you have left are two balls in lime, three in cat puke color, and one that was dropped in the toilet.

It's a sickness, I'm telling you. Lately they're saying that they may make video game addiction a legitimate diagnosis; I say I could take one of those pasty, puny, couch potato teenagers without even trying--but just let him try to come between me and my discount angora blend.

In any case, I have one favor to ask you: I will send you a photo of my yarn stash, now not only accumulated to beyond life expectancy, but well beyond the life expectancy of elephants, blue whales, sea turtles, and even twinkies. Please circulate the photo to all yarn companies. You won't even need to send along a note--it will become apparent that I should be immediately cut off. No responsible yarn company would let me knit in this condition--much less sell me more yarn.

If you cannot do that, then please send me the following:

5 skeins of the Kimono Ribbon in the pink/sage/cream colorway
20 balls of Filature di Crosa Baby Kid Extra in assorted colors
Several of the yarn grab bags
A carpenter and architect to help design and construct the new yarn room on my house
A winning lottery ticket so that I no longer need waste valuable knitting time working
Three extra sets of arms so I can knit four garments simultaneously
Some new foam to fill in my assprint on the couch where I like to knit
400 hours worth of books on tape to listen to while knitting so that I can pretend to be improving my mind (feel free to put trashy novels in covers describing them as some sort of "important" literature)
A maid and a cook to further free up my knitting time
A washer and dryer that will actually fold the clothes and put them away
100 cold, naked people (preferably friendly and fond of knitwear)
Some sort of cure for the need to sleep

Thank you so much for your attention to this matter. I remain

Your addicted knitter
Ms. K

p.s. You're all bastards.
p.p.s. Can I through some of the Nashua Painted Forest onto that order?

Toes Go In First

2007-07-29T19:44:00.000-07:00

When I was a child I remember seeing a cartoon where a man of questionable intelligence had his shoes labelled TGIF--for Toes Go In First. I thought it hysterical at the time....now I'm starting to wonder if that wasn't an eerie glimpse into the future of my country. For you see, I was making a pasta dish this evening, using some pre-packaged fresh pasta and I happened to glance at the directions in order to be certain of the cooking time. It was then that I saw the following: "Directions: Bring 4 quarts of water to a boil in a large saucepan (I guess there goes my idea of cooking it in a teacup). Remove pasta from package....." and so on. I admit that there is such a thing as boil-in-bag food, but this was a plastic BOX. And the frightening thing is the realization that this had to be put on the label because someone somewhere tried to cook the damned pasta in a plastic box and couldn't figure out what went wrong. See what I mean? Scary stuff. These are the people who share the road with me each morning when I go to work, after all.

It made me wonder what I'm going to see next. For instance:

Underwear: Place one leg in each of the smaller holes. Do not attempt to place them in the holes simultaneously. Pull up until crotch of garment is as close as possible to anatomical crotch. STOP PULLING UP.

Fork: Pierce desired food with pointy end. Place carefully in mouth. Do not pierce tongue. Stop pushing into mouth if you begin to gag.

Disposable Diapers: Place on rounded end of baby with permanent vertical smile and no eyes. Fasten securely. Change when damp or smelling foul.

Couch: Place rump on cushions. Lean back. Do not attempt to cook while using.

Toothpaste: Dispense small amount onto brush designed for the cleaning of teeth. Rub back and forth on teeth only. Do not brush eyes or nostrils. Do not attempt while driving. Do not use to marinate lamb.

Telephone: Pick up receiver. Say hello. Wait for response.

Rake: Place pointed bits against the ground. Pull towards you with gentle pressure. Stop if you feel a sharp pain in your foot. Lift rake off foot, place against ground, and try again. If pain returns or blood appears, stop using rake at once and try to find someone with two brain cells to help you.

Knife: Place pointed end against food to be cut. Push or saw carefully. Do not store in couch cushions or toy box.

Keys: Insert in lock. Turn. Open door. Repeat as necessary.

Shower: Turn handle until water comes out of shower head (big silver thing up above your head). Step under it. If a burning feeling in the skin is observed, step out and turn knob until water is no longer scalding.

Milk: Pour into glass. Bring glass to lips. Tip glass up while opening mouth. Swallow. Repeat. Do not mix with bleach, hair dye, nuclear waste, algae, or ground glass.

Pen: Place against paper. Move hand to make lines. Do not shove into ear.

Paper Bag: Open bag and stand it on a flat surface. Place items inside bag. Pick up bag and carry to desired location. Do not use to transport live fish, battery acid, tuna casserole (unless in a dish), flaming swords, electric eels, used hypodermic needles, barbed wire, or carpenter ants.

Coffeepot: Pour hot coffee into mug. Do not drink directly from coffeepot. Do not pour coffee into lap as this will cause painful burning of crotch.

Mixer: Place in food to be mixed. Press "on" button. Move mixer around until food all looks the same. Do not attempt to lick beaters until machine is turned back off. Do not use to style hair.

Socks: Toes go in first, one sock per foot. Placement of both socks on one foot may result in sweating of one foot and chilling of the other. Putting heels or knees into socks first may result in damage to the sock.

Buttonhole: Push through buttonhole directly opposite button on the same garment. Do not button skirt to sweater, as this may result in partial nudity when neither garment is properly closed. Manufacturer not responsible for indecent exposure arrests.

Pom-Pom: Wave around while yelling enthusiastically. Do not set on fire. Do not dip in sauerkraut. Do not stitch several together and use as a bra.

Car radio: Push "on" button. Listen to music. Sway, sing, or bop around as desired. Musicians and disc jockeys are not really in car--do not attempt to convince them to perform only songs that you like or try to get them to sing it your way.

Scissors: For most people, just put them down and walk slowly away from them.

I told Gussie about all this....she says she's not a bit surprised, as she always knew cats were far superior. As far as she's concerned, the cat food bag reads: "Find human. Meow non-stop for as long as necessary to get them to feed you. Under no circumstances appear grateful in any way."

In addition to bemoaning the state of future America, I did get some knitting done but it looks the same as it did in the last pictures only a bit bigger so I opted not to put more pictures up just yet. I also did some sewing and produced this scrub top of my own design:

The picture was taken at an odd angle--I promise the pockets aren't crooked even though they appear to be. The trim is ribbon in sparkly turquoise and light blue, and the top is pale blue although it appears nearly white in the photo (my camera apparently doesn't have clear enough instructions). I'll be putting a label in it, of course:

Place over head and put one arm into each sleeve. If choking sensation occurs, check to be sure that v-neck is in front. Do not wear without pants. Do not allow breasts to hang out of v-neck. Do not rub with tuna and walk through alley full of cats. If it repeatedly bursts into flame, stop wearing it.

Free Range Mind

2007-07-28T07:31:00.000-07:00

It dawned on me when reading your comments--besides that you all are the coolest people I know--that it probably seems like I am visited on a terribly regular basis by the bad-day fairy. Not true--although it IS true that my face was attacked by an evil-minded virus bent on ugliness and I DID iron my fingers and the deer absolutely munched down on my coral bells (the apples on one of our apple trees, too, but I don't mind that so much--we have lots. You just always have to remember to check the apples at the Knitingale house for deer spit .), I really didn't have all that bad a week. It's just that "I'm enjoying my job, I have a great hubby, and we sat in the hot tub every night this week" just doesn't have the same humor potential as ironing one's fingers. I figured I ought to own up to that, lest you think a black cloud the size of Romania was hovering over the Knitingale house.

There is, however, a largish cloud hovering over the clinic where I work, or perhaps the f*&%-up fairy has a fondness for their electrical equipment, because the second refrigerator since I've been there went crazy yesterday and froze a bunch of the antigen. Since our shotroom gives allergy shots with that antigen all day long every day, and since freezing it ruins it, this was a problem. The guy who works in the shotroom spent all day going through it and identifying what had to be replaced; I volunteered to stay after work and help him mix down new stuff. The strongest mixes didn't freeze, so we could inject it into bottles of diluent to make new mixes of the weaker stuff. We went through all 150 bottles of diluent bottles we had in stock going alphabetically through the shot patients.....and got through the L's. Amazingly, writing labels for 150 bottles, drawing up thick antigen, injecting it into a bottle, drawing up some of that and injecting it into the next bottle, and so on for 2 and a half hours is actually not as fascinating as it sounds, which means the Knitingale mind got to wander freely for that time period. I know--me, with a free-range mind for 150 minutes. It's worrisome. But, if you have the courage to read on, I offer you:

News From the Mother Goose Morning News Show (don't ask....the path to this bit of weirdness is very convoluted indeed--but it's far more entertaining than a description of the assorted antigen stains on my new pink scrub pants):

"The Bear family today reported coming home today to what was apparently a home invasion in progress. The perpetrator, seemingly exhausted from her food theft and vandalism, had fallen asleep in one of the beds but fled the scene upon awakening to the sight of the Bear family gathered around her. She had been muttering something in her sleep about hard chairs and soft beds.

Mrs. Bear had this to say: 'I don't mind so much about the porridge--although, if she was hungry, I wish she'd just asked. But my son's chair is in pieces and that was a family heirloom!' The chair in question was hand carved from maple and was, it seems, too small for the bottom of the vandal. Police have no solid leads at this time, but believe it to be the work of the criminal known only as 'Goldilocks', due to her flowing mane of blonde curly hair. She is suspected in a number of home invasions, including one with a boy believed to be her brother in which they stole candy off the outside of a home while the owner was present, and then pushed her into her own oven. The owner, a practicing witch, survived the incident but was quite shaken. She installed hurricane fencing the next day.

'Goldilocks' is said to be about 4'9" tall, with blonde hair and a fondness for sweets. She seems to prefer to work alone, but may be in the company of a small boy. If you know anything about this criminal, you are asked to contact the Mother Goose Police department.

In other news today, the giant has reported another theft of his golden-egg-laying goose, right after spotting a strange new plant in his garden. He states that a boy appeared to be using the plant to gain access to the giant's home where he went on a robbery spree, stuffing thousands of dollars worth of gold coins into his satchel and escaping down the plant with the goose under his arm. The police received an anonymous tip from someone living next door to a man named 'Jack'--the caller has observed Jack jumping over candlesticks nightly and believes that he may have been practicing for the leap from the plant necessary to access the giant's gold. Jack has not been seen since the theft took place, and the neighber believes he may have fled the country.

Picketers surrounded the home of Snow White today, bearing signs and shouting slogans related to what they perceive to be her lack of moral character. One picketer said this: 'She lives there with seven little men! It ain't right, I'll tell you that. I don't even want to let my children walk by this house! What am I supposed to tell them?' Snow White insists that she is employed by the men, and only serves as a live in housekeeper, but neighbors aren't so sure, reporting seeing dancing and hearing music at all hours in the little house. Some of you may recall that Miss White entered our city under a cloud of suspicion, when her stepmother mysteriously died immediately after Snow awoke from a persistent vegetative state. There were rumors that the vegetative state was the result of poisoning by the stepmother and that this provided motive for the murder, but no evidence was ever found that definitively implicated Miss White.

Humpty Dumpty is recovering in Mother Goose Memorial Hospital this morning, after tumbling 7 feet from his garden wall. Hospital spokespeople report that Mr. Dumpty suffered multiple fractures and is listed in fragile condition. No word yet as to what might have led to the fall.

Finally, in lighter news today, Princess Sophia is said to have found a frog today that spoke to her and asked her to kiss him in order to turn him into a handsome prince. The Princess declined the offer, but kept the frog as a pet, pointing out that 'this kingdom is lousy with princes--but a talking frog? Now THAT'S cool.'"

I know...it's scary where my mind wanders to, isn't it? I'd try to explain it, but one of our heads would probably explode.

Happy knitting to one and all. It's the weekend, and I'm going to try to sneak in some time with the needles myself--but no ironing. Definitely, no ironing.

Mr. K Can't Figure Out How I Ironed My Fingers

2007-07-25T18:10:00.001-07:00

I told him it was a virus. He didn't believe me. Personally, I think that's a very suspicious attitude to have and I think he'll feel quite badly when he realizes I was telling the truth all along. See, it all started like this:

Monday, when I went to work, I looked more or less normal. Or, at least, as normal as I ever look (a clause the phrase "I looked normal" that carries no small amount of weight, given that I am currently wearing a scrub top with children's crayon drawings all over it, including one of a camel labelled "two lump camel" which I find nearly unbearably hilarious). I continued to look like whatever I usually am pretty much all day. And I went to Knit for Life. And I drove home. (I know--wildly exciting day, eh?) On the way home, I noticed a sore spot at the corner of my mouth. It felt like I might be getting a pimple. Nothing more. By the time I got home it had revealed itself to be a nasty, throbbing, pulsating cold sore the size of George Bush's ego, which had gone from zero to "I look completely hideous" in about 12 minutes. I don't think that's fair.

Cold sores are, in my humble opinion, nature's way of saying "You don't need to go out in public anyway, do you? I mean, you have a computer." But I have to work for a living (still no luck getting that job as yarn tester--another thing I don't understand. I'd be TERRIFIC at it.) so I went to work yesterday and hoped against hope that NO ONE WOULD NOTICE. Because, you know, how would anyone ever notice a giant red neon sign at the corner of your mouth saying "I'm infested with dread disease!", right?

I tried looking away from people all the time...but for some reason it seems that trying to do pin-prick skin testing of 24 substances on an arm while looking away does not inspire enormous confidence in the owner of the arm in question. Picky, picky, picky. I thought of wearing a bandaid and saying I cut myself shaving.....while sighing sadly about some strange, made up hormonal condition. I decided that would be no less embarrassing, though, so I gave that one up. Then I thought of saying something mysterious and cryptic like "Well, the circus will have to pay my medical bills for this injury, that's all there is to it. I told them it was crazy to use a piranha, but would they listen? Nooooo." or "Nothing like fire walking--at least, right up until you trip." or "Did you know that snakes don't like to be kissed on the lips? How come no one told me?" or "Don't ever drink tea right out of the kettle. Even if you're really, REALLY craving tea." Sadly, most of those things would imply that I was an adventurous spirit and, since I look about as adventurous as a pat of butter, that was unlikely to convince anyone that I was anything other than quite delusional. Mind you, people tend to stay away from delusional people, so maybe they'd stay far enough back to not see the hideous lesion that used to be my lip.

I thought of wearing a veil and telling people I was trying out a culture a week until I found one that really flattered me; I thought briefly of learning to walk backwards and hoping people would warn me before I ran into anything. I thought of bandaging my whole face for awhile and claiming that I'd had plastic surgery...but I figured they'd expect some type of improvement once I removed the bandages....so that won't work. All in all, I thought long and hard about this thing and came up with oodles of solutions, all of them absolute crap.

Finally, I decided in a moment of Pollyanna-ism that made even me a little nauseaus that I would find something wonderful to wear to work today that would be so interesting and lovely that no one would notice the enormous supturating wound on my face. Turns out, though, that the one I wanted to wear needed ironing.

I should point out here that this "interesting outfit" idea came before I realized that the only thing I could wear that would distract anyone from the leperous looking hole in my lip was perhaps nothing at all....except a bag over my head. And honestly, if they didn't air condition the office so enthusiastically, I'd probably have tried it.

So, even knowing that ironing and I get along about as well as flying insects and large trucks, I hauled out the iron again (it's been a banner week for the iron--I've since had to put it away for a rest) and went to work on the perfect "don't look at my face, please" outfit (or next to perfect, right after pasties, a thong, and a bag). Since we know I love ironing almost as much as I love trimming my eyelashes with an electric hedge trimmer, I opted to turn on CSI in order to have something to look at. Turns out I should have looked occasionally at my hands--I certainly did once I ironed over two fingers. Pity I didn't look just a tad sooner.

So see? It was a virus that caused me to iron my fingers. Absolutely incontrovertible. And you know, I think a week that includes facial lesions and ironed fingers and a local deer inhaling half of a new coral bells plant as if it were the relish tray at Thanksgiving dinner and the turkey was going to be another two hours--

Well, that week ought to include copious amounts of chocolate. Truckloads.

It's not all bad news, though. Hiding out in the house as much as possible so as to avoid frightening the children does afford one some knitting time. Witness, the back of the blue birthday sweater:

and then the birth of the Celtic Jo sock:

This yarn is soft as a kitten, by the way. Jo, can you be a love and tell me what it is? Honestly, it's the most wonderful stuff.

Oh, and I also found out where kitties come from. I know, you thought it had something to do with a mommy and daddy kitty, didn't you? Not so--they apparently grow right out of the ground:

Ed's at the front, then Tippy behind him, and way further back near the top of the photo is Miss.

I'm off to go find a paper bag. And maybe some pasties. Then I will attempt to knit with the unburned fingers. Does anyone know where I can GET a truckload of chocolate?