HeHe! That Tickles!

I was tagged by Nicole for the Seven-Random-Things meme. Which is very good, because I have nothing interesting to report. I ripped out the Monkey and have maybe four rows of a toe done. I think I might make it into a chevron sock, but I’m not committing to anything yet. I’m not going anywhere this weekend and don’t plan on doing anything exciting. I’ve had a spate of weird interactions with mother nature (bird falling out of sky dead at my door, mouse crawling into my garage to die, chipmunk trying to attack my dog) which are interesting, but not really blogworthy, so ... here are Seven Random Things About Moi!

1) I don’t eat or drink anything blue. Blue foods and drinks skeeve me out. Blueberries and blue corn chips are not actually blue, so they don’t count and I eat them with pleasure (and also with ice cream and sour cream, respectively).

2) I’m very good at copying handwriting. When our boss was out of town and we needed his signature, I was the go-to gal. If I was ever going to become a master criminal, I would be a forger.

3) I don’t really like cats. Except my own (whom I love more than most people) and one or two others. I feel the same way about kids. Well, I think I will if I have my own.

4) I love to eavesdrop. It’s not even intentional. I think it might be because I was an only child. Sometimes I forget that I am eavesdropping and will comment on a conversation I overhear.

5) I love to color in coloring books.

6) I cry at everything and anything. If I’m sad, I’ll cry. If I’m laughing, I’ll cry. If you are crying, I’ll cry. If I eat something super spicy, I’ll cry. If there is someone six states away crying, I’ll cry.

7) I’ve never met a vegetable I don’t like. Brussel sprouts, okra, lima beans, spinach, rutabaga? Yum, yum, yum, yum and yum!

I seem to have a lot to say about food here. Can you tell it’s dinner time?

Chillin'

What do we have here? Why yes, that is my new personal office air conditioner. I have to tell you that this thing is ginormous. Every time I look at it I laugh. Even Mr. Cool giggles when he sees it which should tell you something because he is not a man prone to fits of giggles. Based solely on appearance, this is going to exceed any of my personal cooling needs. Even I, Senorita Overheat, don't get that hot. In fact, right now it's been on for mere minutes and I am a bit chilly. I had to put on some socks, my Queen Kahuna socks, to warm up the toesies. Not that this is bad. I now have the option to be cold and this is good. I don't want people to think it wasn't necessary and take Mr. Amana away. We're just getting to know each other. That would be horrible. Since it is so cool, I pulled out me wee little Monkey thinking that some strenuous knitting might get my blood flowing. But, eh, not so much.



There might be some subversive reason that the knitting didn't make me all warm and fuzzy. I have a confession to make. I'm just not in love with my monkey. In fact, I am thinking about taking George Michael's advice and setting my monkey free. Don't get me wrong, the pattern is fun to knit and I am liking the creative process. But the result? Pfiffle. I find that I like the monkey socks better when the are only mildly stretched. Just barely blocked out. Not totally stretched like they are on a foot. This monkey that I am working on is plenty big this go around, so it's not as if it has to stretch to within a millimeter of its life or anything. It's just that when I put him on ... not so much. It might be the stripeyness of the yarn. It might be something else. I dunno. So I fear that I am back to the drawing board when it comes to socks for my pal. But I'm not gonna sweat over it. Heh.

Holy Crap

Yet another fun memory for the "Why My Office Parties Often Require SWAT Team Intervention" scrap book. My boss just decked our dear departing LC. Hard. I mean Crazy totally hauled off and hit her. That sonic boom you heard about twenty minutes ago, the smack. I, sitting next LC when the assault occurred, think I am suffering from emotional distress.

Abunai!

I just wrote a post which was a psuedo-fictional letter to Vonage wherein I used the word fuck seventeen times. I ripped the customer service for making me call twice and wait over 25 minutes total, just to tell me that they don't know if I am telling the truth when I say I never opened an account so the fraud department has to investigate as to whether it should close an account I never opened. Hard to follow? Yah, I thought so too. Let's just say Vonage = asshole. Needless to say all seventeen fucks were warranted. I could probably even justify another five or six.

But I am not an angry person (ha!) so I decided to shelve the venom. For now. We'll have to wait to see what "the fraud department" does. In the meantime, I am preparing for a party. An office party. Yes my lovlies, it is one of those times when the moons align, the stars part, and the sun sprinkles its kisses ... it is time for an office par-tay. This party is to wish our Law Clerk sayonara. For the record, and for your Japanese language skills refresher, I initially typed konnichiwa which is wrong, wrong, wrong. Konnichiwa = Hello. Sayonara = Goodbye (long term). Since LC is never coming back, she is sayonara. If Vonage keeps up its crap customer service it will be sayonara too.

Nothing To See Here

There is absolutely no knitting content in this here post. I got exactly one set of the repeats done on one sock. I got exactly zero new yarn because some people were yarn commies and wouldn't go to the yarn store that was mere minutes from where they lived. Pinko bastards! They even like Jane Fonda. 'Nuff said!

Though there is no knitting to speak of, there are other things to talk about, I think. I mean, most of the trip cannot be recounted because what happens in Hotlanta stays in Hotlanta. But I am sure I can tell you something. Like about the funny boy who sat next to me on the flight out, "swinging richards," sleeping with Hannibal Lecter, and forty-two inch men. Oh, and the state of rectal health care in the greater Atlanta area. These are the things I can tell you about.

Since I just told you that I had a nice seat companion on my flight out (he was all cute and nervous about this meeting of a potential beau for the first time in real life and so we talked the entire flight and I neither knit nor read), let's start with food. Actually I could have stared at the liquor store because that was the very first stop we made. Surprise the Birthday Girl? Nah, lets get some booze first! We are GREAT friends. Or I could have started off with Henri (said with a french accent), BG's dog and by far the most cutest smartest dog in Georgia (so there Mr. Babies)!

Anywho, there is a great little Italian place, Sotto Sotto, that has some yummo food. They have a great scallop appetizer which everyone, even vegans, enjoy. There was other food that was yummy too. I think. Much wine was consumed at Sotto Sotto. Red wine. That was good. And didn't taste like trees like most red wine does. Much wine was also spilled by Shorty. *



So much so that our wine bill, excluding the food and the regular liquor, was $253. Let me say it again, $253, for the wine. Only. As a Boone' s Farm kind of girl this was a lot to me. But (did I mention?) it didn't taste like trees, so there you have it. There was some concern, the next day when it was too late to look into this, that we were charged for an extra bottle of wine. This could be because our English waiter was tired of being accosted by six drunk folks and repeatedly explaining that no, really, he was not Irish. NOT. FROM. IRELAND. But that's just my guess.

I sobered up after dinner, having spent all of my cash on our first stop. This was a wise decision as I could then recount the rest of the evening in minute detail the following day much to the mortification of my friends. Hi, I am the guest from out of town and your are making me the designated driver in your brand new huge pimp mobile car. You bet your ass I am going to make fun of you falling out of chairs and giving me a tour of the same room three times!

But I digress. After wine dinner, we went to a cigar bar where more employees were accosted. This time it was an owner. Not a regular old employee. We're kuh-lassy like that. He was in the middle of calling his bookie after seeing something very important on the ESPN Bottom Line when Shorty started caterwauling at him. Shorty swears it was singing. It was not. He also swears the owner was flirting with him. And I suppose he was, if saying, "Yah, I'd like to put a dime on the Braves" into his mobile phone while standing ten feet away and staring through a window at a television is considered flirting. In any event, the owner having been tonally accosted then decided to tell Joan that he didn't like her as much as he liked everyone else. His like for Joan fell somewhere between having his eyeball repeatedly pierced with rusty metal that had been lying in a roach and rodent infested crack house and sliding down a razor blade into a pool of alcohol.

It was sometime after this that the drunk boys thought it would be a brilliant idea to go to home. Home it seems was really a metaphor for Swinging Richards. So while BG and Joan chilled at the bar with the owner that did not like Joan, me and my three gay men went to a male strip club. A full on, full nekkid, no clothes on the dancers (do you get what I am telling you here?) strip club. It was truth in advertising. There were a lot of swinging richards. There was also more accosting of bar staff. I shall speak no more of this. I was traumatized. I may need therapy.

Considering the large amount of alcohol consumed by my peeps, I was pretty pleased that there was no blood shed (little did I know what was to come). Saturday was filled with bad noises, hangover food, protein smoothies, naps, hornet attacks, fun stories recounted by yours truly, and the stalking of Anderson Cooper.

As you may recall, I had suggested that we capture Anderson Cooper and love on him for a little bit while we were in Hotlanta. I had no idea that this would actually become a real item on the agenda. Opa, having been dragged into a world of salacious sin the night before, became somewhat fearless and decided to track down the poor Mr. Cooper at a book signing. The only things I can really say are that Opa was not arrested and he did manage to get the number of some other random boy at the bookstore.

While Opa was engaged in his activities, Joan was lying paralyzed on the couch. Apparently a hornet had taken up residence in Chez Henri. Joan later composed a song about The Battle of The Hornet, but I have been told not to publish said song as it is a violation of her copyright and she shall have me prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Bitch. It wasn't a very good song anyway so y'all are not missing out.

Saturday night was very low key though there was some interaction with a mid-operation transvestite (another fun item I suggested we could do that I had no idea would become fact). In a weird twist of something or other Mr. SPR and I, separated by thousands of miles, both fell asleep that night watching Casino Royale. Doesn't say much for the movie, huh?

Sunday morning I woke up to the dulcet tones of Hannibal Lecter whispering in my ear that he could smell ... stuff. A few seconds later Buffalo Bill asked if I was a size fourteen. I was not hallucinating. I was not dreaming. Turns out Shorty is a master of impersonation. It also turns out that fear for your life, or at least your skin, is a great way to jump start your morning. Once we verified that I was not having a heart attack and everyone else was awake, we made breakfast plans. The plans were to meet in two minutes. I was not allowed to shower but instead thrown out the door and shoved in the car.



During breakfast Pookie was possessed by the spirit of Bat Boy. Everything he ate turned into the shape of a bat. I wanted to sell these mystical items on eBay. Right after I showered. I was denied. Instead we saw the grave of Margaret Mitchell (did you know she carried a dagger with a mother-of-pearl inlaid handle) and Cyclorama (home of the forty-two inch man. Oh, and FYI, should you silently laugh so hard that you snort during the Cyclorama, the snort sound will be carried and amplified by the wonderful acoustics). By this time I was ripe, but I was still not allowed to shower. Instead I was brought to a restaurant with a make your own Bloody Mary bar.

Eventually we returned to Chez Pookie where I had six minutes to shower and pack before we needed to leave for the airport. Miraculously I did shower and pack and made it to the car unscathed and in a most timely fashion. I took a deep breath thinking that I would now be able to chillax. Wrong. As we were driving to the airport a bus passed us.

The advertisement on the side told us to "Prevent Fecal Incontinence" and "Protect Your Perineum From Deterioration." What the fuk? What the hell are the people of Atlanta doing to their asses? Why is it so bad that they need to advertise for some special anal medical device ON THE SIDE OF A CITY BUS?

After reading that little gem, I thought we were getting out of town just in time (who knows what nefarious plans were being made for our butts?) I thought wrong. Atlanta, wanting to give us one more thing to remember it by, spit some glass out on the floor of the airport security metal detector and attacked Joan's foot. Fearing gangrene, and a lawsuit, the TSA personnel whisked Joan to a chair and administered first aid in the form of a spray bottle full of the stuff used to wipe down the x-ray machines and metal detectors. Antiseptic? Pushaw. Alcohol? Bahh. Soap and water? Are you kidding. Neosporin? For wimps. Squirt, squirt, wipe, wipe, done. After her wounds were "cleansed," Opa deftly bandaged her foot (sealing in the gangrene for legal purposes I'm sure) and we were on our way.

I really thought that the weekend was over after this. What more could there be? What more could happen? As I boarded my plane, I thought, "NOW I can sit back and relax." Turns out that I was premature in my planned relaxing. It was actually my turn to accost a stranger and make him a little scared of me.

My plane was full and there were only two seats open for stand-by passengers. They were the last two people to get on. One of them was this really familiar tall muscular looking guy. Since he had pants on, I wasn't quite sure where I had seen him. As he made his way to the back, where I was sitting, people would say stuff to him about baseball and the NY Yankees as he passed. He got into a seat in the row behind me and the guy there said something to him about the Yankees. He responded by saying that he was really just hoping that the Yanks could make a run for the Wild Card. He wasn't even hoping for a division win. I, being 1) an asshole, 2) nosey, and 3) an eavesdropper, turned around and said, "Wild card?! Dude. 1978. The Yanks were seventeen, 17!!!, seven-frigging-teen, games back in July and managed to win the World Series. Bah. Wild card, schmild card." Though his lips gave me a half smile, his eyes shined with holy terror. I carefully turned back around and sat down. But I did not stop being an asshole eavesdropper and this is how I found out that I had just verbally flogged an ESPN on-air reporter and not a swinging richard. Woopsie!

*Pookie's boyfriend wanted to have a blog alias of Pookie Davenport. I vetoed this. I think there was a suggestion of Kitty McKinley or something else equally asinine. As I am dictator here in SPRland (which is minutes north of JoanisaC'ville), I choose all aliases and said boyfriend shall be known as Shorty because 1) he has a VERY short small dog (nicknamed Mr. Babies but actually named Texas. Texas. Can you say overcompensation? Next thing ya know the dog will be driving a Corvette ...) and 2) the man wears lifts in his shoes. One night he is like, my height (around five foot nine) and the next night he is six foot two and a half. Riiiigggghhhhttt. Like I wouldn't have noticed him towering over me the night before ... I mean, yes, he was often laying down and passed out, but still.

Smell Ya Later!

Watch out Hotlanta, here I come! I am packed (clean undies? check! yarn for the plane? check! antacids? check!) and ready to rock. Or, knowing my friends, ready to roll. I suspect that by night's end, someone shall take a spill. We have had a record number of people falling into bushes and such or running into parked cars. Good times! Mind you I took the biggest fall resulting in two surgeries (and I was sober at the time), so I should not be mocking the my bush loving friends.

I plan to knit on the plane, though I do have a back up book "just in case." It might have a over muscled, half naked man pawing a scantily clad woman clutching her bosom on the front, and, if I was flying with my husband, he might not want to sit near me when I read it, but that's all good. I find opening a romance novel with a very lurid cover to be one of the best ways to scare off seat mates. No one wants to talk to the woman who might be reading "women's fiction" in public. Except for the skeezy men, and for them, I pull out the knitting. Either way you are guaranteed a silent flight. This only back fired on me once when the man next to me passed out leaning half on my shoulder and breathing his boozy breath on me. I was on my way to Vegas to get married and it wasn't my husband that was all boozy over my shoulder. Moving on.

Three of us land with in minutes of each other (good plane karma!) and are being chauffeured to the birthday girl's new loft by our fourth. I suggested the three of us sit in the back seat and make Pookie were a suit and glasses and act the part of a real chauffeur but this idea was vetoed. Obviously I am going to have to remind my friends how to hoop it up. We're surprising our birthday girl and then have plans for drinks, food, and um, more drinks. There is a rumor going round that there might be bowling. So may I suggest to all the citizens of Atlanta that you avoid all bowling alleys for the next two days. Just to be safe. Me = 72 all time high score. Me = person who really has bowled in the alley next to mine, not on purpose.

Since it looks like we might have some free time between birthday events, I am trying to convince people to go on a yarn crawl. Thus far my plans have failed rather spectacularly. I've tried logic and the promise of fun. Surprisingly my argument of "Hello, you're gay boys and everyone knows that gay boys love yarn" was not persuasive. Neither was my, "You tried to auction me off like a hooker when we were in N'awlins. You owe me!" argument. Oddly enough, I'm having better luck trying to convince my peeps that we should track down Anderson Copper and love on him.

I should return on Sunday night. I expect I will have a higher blood alcohol level, some funny stories, and some funnier pictures. I hope to have some new yarn and at least one of the monkey socks done.

No Progress, Yet

I decided to take all y'all's (shout out to my southern roots!) advice and go up a needle size to US 2/3mm needles on the Messrs. Monkey. This will work for my current yarn because it is a bit thicker, but not so much for the Lorna Laces I picked out for my sock pal. Because I can't just leave things alone, and because I know I can't go up a needle size on my sock pal's pair, I also mucked with the pattern, adding a few stitches here and there. All of this would have been quite brilliant, if I had been completely sober when I started knitting all of my fancy new adjustments.


But you see, a friend was celebrating her birthday/big work project completion and I wanted to take her out for some wine (yah, and let's take a moment to note that I am a cheap hag who rolls two celebrations into one ... boo! bad me!). I arrived a little early and so I had a wee bit of wine while I waited and ripped out the too small sock, and then I had a wee bit more when she arrived, and then, next thing you know, my mad crazy math skillz were mad crazy gone. Some might argue that I have no mad crazy math skillz to lose, and to them I say, shut it!


It is almost embarrassing to admit that after three hours of SnB (and a latte and a liter bottle of water), I was finally able to, wait for it ... cast on the right number of stitches and get one, yes one, whole row of ribbing done! Am I a rockstar or what?

Monkey See, Monkey Do, Monkey Poo!

So I planned to join the masses (just call me a sheep ... bahhh bahhh) and make my Sockapalooza pal some monkey socks. I kind of felt bad about this, since it seems that this is what every one else is doing and it makes me a bit unoriginal. But I really liked them, and since everyone else likes them, it raises the odds that my pal will too. So there. It seemed like a good idea. Famous last words.

In any event, I decided to make a test pair to ensure that I knew what the hell I was doing. I went through my stash and picked out the yarn that my SP9 pal sent me awhile back.* The yarn was in one big hank and needed to be divided into two neat balls, so I whipped out my scale and got to calculating.




A little schmizzle zizzle and bam, two (almost) perfectly divided balls.** My pictures are kinda dark, but I think that you might still be able to notice that the table that I am using has a top that is about one square foot. Now before you laugh your self right off of your stool at my teeny tiny table, you should know that that I am a midget. No, I'm not. Just kidding. But the table still worked perfectly. I now have two swifts and two ball winders (this set being my my aunt's, found in the boxes from Miami) and this swift is small and dainty and it fit on the table with the scale and ball winder just peachily. Maybe I had to hold the table steady with my feet to prevent it from keeling over, maybe I had to pull the yarn out a bit from the swift and ball winder as I wound it so there was more drag (or less, or whatever, I'm not sure what the magic finger technique does to make the yarn ball better, but it works), maybe I had to fish my pen off of the floor several times because it was just too damn big for the space, but in the end, it all worked out.


I did the ribbing and a few pattern repeats on my double pointed needles and was really liking the monkey. I found, as I always do, that the double pointed needles were a bit unwieldy and were slowing me down so I decided to switch over to two circular needles. I had a safe needle transfer and did another row or two and was really pleased with how fast I this little monkey was coming along. There was a some color pooling that I would have preferred to not have, but overall I was pleased. But "pleased" always bites me in the arse. This is where things start to go down hill. Fast.



Pleased (ha!) with my progress and finished my third set of pattern repeats/rows, I decided to try the monkey on. Eeek! Nope! Not gonna happen. This little monkey won't go over my heel (well, without lube or heel lipo). Now being that this was my test pair and for me, this was problematic. Being that my sock pal's foot is bigger than mine and this was the size I planned on knitting her, this was catastrophic. Say it with me, GODDAMMIT! So now I am back to the drawing board. I haven't heard about anyone having size issues or read about anyone upsizing the little shits, so now I am going to have to look into it. Or, I am going to have to find another pattern. Again, dammit!


* Speaking of Secret Pals, my SP9 pal never sent me her 'reveal' or the last package she said she was sending. I know that she was preggers so it may be she had no time, but if she still reads me, please send me a hi and tell me who you are! I'd like to know.

** My second ball is slightly heavier and I seemed to have gained overall yarn weight. This is the second time this phenomena has happened. If you have x.x grams in one hank and divide it into two balls, I would think that when all is said and done you should still only have x.x grams when you add the two balls together. Is there some sort of weird energy transfer going on that I am to dumb to figure out? It is weird I tell you. Weird!

Fun

Remember the best play ground toy ever that has no name that I know? Well, I went back to partake of the unnamed equipment's fun and this time I had my camera.

It looks kind of innocuous yes? But it is so much more than the sum of it's meager parts. You must approach it carefully and coo it into submission. Once the beast is soothed, you gently mount the black disc. I find it best when you start at a squat and then gently stand up. Once you are standing you pat the pole, say a prayer (or an "Oh Shit" for us atheists) and lean to the side. Whammo! You're off. Gravity swings you around and hopefully some sort of muscle (stomach? back? leg?) will enable you to get the momentum and keep going around. Otherwise, you reach the halfway point and are flung back towards where you started and end up going only 180 of the 360 potential degrees. Even when you don't make it all the way around, it's great fun.

I find that a swing on the swing set is a great way to cool down afterward. Dogbert, however, disagreed. As Boo and I were swinging, she sat in the back seat of the car sending death rays our way.

No Beach For You

I'd like to tell you that the Joisey shore was wonderful. But it wasn't. No, the damn thing was closed ... for bomb removal. For real! Yah! What the hell is that all about? Apparently when they rebuilt/replenished the beach, they did it with old munitions. The whole thing is odd. I mean, do we have bombs along our entire coast? And also, I don't understand why the devices didn't detonate when they were drug up to shore to rebuild the beach. Anywho.

Even with out the ocean beachfront closed, we still had a nice time. Especially Dogert, who still managed to go for a swim ... in the bay. Which was not a pre-approved swim. She may have just taken a running leap and dove in head first. I may have stared at her in horror for a few minutes before ordering her out. Then I may have laughed. I might not be the best dog mom in the world. But, I am the best sock knitter in my family. Which I can say with the utmost sincerity as I am the only sock knitter in my family!

And, being my sock knitting self, I finished my Queen Kahuna socks while we were in Joisey. Kind of befitting, yes? The shore ... the beach ... Kahuna ... never mind. It works in my head. I had to use the directions to finish the second sock being that my memory, not so good. So it slowed me down a bit. That and the fact that I summarized the directions on a handy dandy post-it note which was only seventy percent legible. But they were still a quick knit, heck, they're only a footie/ped/ankle sock, there isn't much to 'em.



My favorite brother-in-law watched me knit and was horrified that it took me a WHOLE WEEK to knit a sock. I explained that if I didn't have a job, I could probably do a pair in a few days, but that was equally horrifying to him. He actually said, "Doesn't a real sock take only minutes to make." I think I blanched. I know I felt faint. He quickly said that he didn't mean that my socks were not real. That obviously my hand knit sock was real. "Just, you know." Yah, I know. But it was too late. He may be my favorite, but he's not getting any hand knit socks!

Which might not be a bad thing because I had an issue, an embarrassing issue, an issue that makes me feel a little dirty. I had a return of the ladders. On both socks! I don't know why. I used all of the tricks. But they appeared anyway. I haven't had a ladder in quite some time. I'm hoping this was just a fluke. The yarn, upset because I call it dirty-looking, decided to mess with me. Something other than I suck.



I asked Boo to come outside and take some pictures of my socks for me before we left (while everyone laughed at my request), thinking that the change of scenery in my sock pictures might be nice. My MiL has all sorts of pretty flowers and stuff in the back yard but the shadows turned out to be killers. Also, my family is a bit whack. The minute a camera is out, everyone wants to play and ham it up.


Needless to say, the sock picture taking quickly disintegrated into a picture free for all with cameras and cell phones and such. Which turned out to be amusing because in all of the pictures, I'm clutching my socks. So even though I was mocked (yah Favorite, I'm talking to you!) for taking pictures of my socks, everyone else took pictures of my socks too!


Which in a way is a kind of sweet revenge for having my ass handed to me at Rummy 500. You might have killed me at cards with your wonky scoring and strange rules that make NO SENSE because DUDE! This is rummy, not UNO, I don't need to tell you if I only have one card left. And I can pick up the one card at the end of the pile without using it right then. And if you laid down three of a kind, I can lay down the fourth. And ... I could go on, but I'll spare you. Just know that the Joisey rules for rummy suck balls. And if you are a rummy champ in normal circles, you won't be in those Joisey ones. Oh, and wine won't help make the rules more clear. Neither will a toasted almond ice cream bar. Nothing makes these rules not suck. But I digress. Where was I? Ahh yes, my revenge, ha! All of the pictures, the nice "family" pictures, have my socks in them. Front and center. Wah haha!



Yarn: Opal, Rodeo, Farbe 1154, Partie 3, 1/2 a skein
Needles: Addi Circs, size 2.5 mm (US 1)
Pattern: Queen Kahuna
Time: 11 days.
Care: Machine wash, dry flat.

Crafty Ho'

So you know how I am working on my Queen Kahuna socks? Well these suckers require that you use markers. Multiple markers. Which is great. Yeah markers. Except the majority of my markers just don't cut it for small needles. They are too fat or too heavy. I had a few tiny skinny plastic ones that worked alright, but they vanished. Turned to antimatter they did! I went to buy some more, but two, yes two, stores were out of the size I needed. And then genius struck. Sort of.



I think I might have seen something similar somewhere. And if I ripped this off from you, sorry! But, too bad. I really am pleased with myself. So I'm not getting rid of these fun stitch markers which may or may not be some type of trademark/ copyright/intellectual property violation.




I now have pretty, small needle size appropriate, stitch markers. They are light, pretty, and don't get tangled on the yarn. What more could you ask for? Well, actually you could ask for more colored beads, because I didn't have a wide selection and that made me kinda sad. Nonetheless, I still am sporting a grin that would fool the average person into think that I really invented something smart and impressive.

Slacker

For the past week or so, my shawl has been waiting to be blogged about. Patiently waiting. Just like it patiently waited for me to finish it. For a year. I'm renaming (renaming? I think I should say naming since it didn't have a name other than that shawl I started last fall) the shawl Patience. As in, it had patience and didn't form into an unknottable knot or open itself up to destruction by moth or some other horrid fate. No, the shawl has been patient with me and now I will give it it's due.

It is quite embarrassing that it has taken me so long. First the knitting itself. I mean it was garter stitch. Could it have been more simple? I think not. Then the blocking and the photographing, oy! Part of the reason I haven't blogged about the shawl is vanity. Plain and simple. I haven't taken any good pictures of the shawl. I had Boo take a few of me when I dragged it off the blocking wires but I was hot and sweaty and (as you can see) the pictures do neither the shawl nor me any favors. Hell, I look like an albino Buddha! A humped-back albino Buddha. Note to self: don't tie shawl around neck. Also, throw away that white shirt. And, am I flicking off the photographer or is my middle finger oddly stiff?



As a last ditch effort, I even tried to get the dog in on the photographic action, but she was not receptive. Bitch.



I kept thinking I would take more pictures after, you know, I bathed. But then the thought of bathing, let alone taking pictures after doing all of that scrubbing, well it was overwhelming. Instead I decided to have a beer and wallow in my filth. So the shawl pictures sat in my camera (next to the pictures of the dog pooping because, hey, I am one classy dame) waiting to the see the light of day. Which is, apparently today. Ironic since it is dark and raining out and there is no light to be seen.

The shawl blocked out pretty big. It could have been blocked out more to be a little more open and hole-y and, um, big, but my blocking board, also known as my guest bed, is only so big. I blocked that puppy as much as I could so the final dimensions are basically that of a queen size bed.



I am hoping to breakout the shawl this weekend in Joisey. I'm not sure what our plans are, but I am sure that I can work this in somehow. Beach cover-up, dinner wrap, or evening wear. One way or another, I will whip it out. And maybe, just maybe, I will wash my stink off and get a decent picture.

In the end, despite the fact that I took a pause on the knitting of this, I really like it. It was one hundred percent brainless knitting. The yarn worked smoothly and was knot free. This was my first endeavor with wooden circs and they were fine. The cord had to be dekinked in boiling water and with the hottest setting on my blow dryer. But the dekinking seemed to worked and stay. I liked the knitting process. I like the shawl. And I love the fringy tassels. They were only moderately fussy. And since I am a huge fan of the tassel, totally worth it.



Yarn: Farmhouse Silk Blend, Color: Sedona, 2 skeins
Needles: Wooden Circ, size 5
Pattern: None - Make/increase one stitch at the beginning of every row.
Final Dimensions: A big triangle, roughly 74" across x 42" down.
Time: Forever. Originally started on 08/08/06 but had to rip it out and start all over. Restarted 08/23/06. Finished 04/2007.
Care: Hand Wash Cool, Flat to Dry.

I Know Where I'm Going

Last night at SnB I was asked where in Atlanta I was going. Having Pookie refer to his 'hood as the Gayborhood, I replied, "The gay part?" Turns out I was right! No need to put that question mark at the end. But, it also turns out that his part of town in not actually called Gayborhood Atlanta. I know! Can you believe it? It is called Midtown Atlanta. So let it be known to one and to all that, according to Pookie, knower of all things Hotlanta, Midtown is where the affluent gay boys (and presumably girls) live and Buckhead is where the affluent straight boys (and presumably girls) live.

Also, you'll be happy to note, that not only do I now know I am going to be surrounded my some hot man on man love, I know what our plan is. People we have a plan! Actually we have multiple plans (as opposed to multiple orgasms which may or may not be occurring but are not, as of yet, on the group itinerary).

So Noted

I leave myself notes. The notes are sometimes helpful, like, "I owe Rebecca $5." or "E-mail Kay's birthday pictures." (Which I will, I promise, I just don't have my camera with me. But I won't forget. I wrote it down.) But sometimes, the notes, not so helpful, or um, sensical, like "tangle red," "Lisa Anner Aver Bach," "Geiko Charo add Blumenthal 2 much time," "#54 = good." What the hell?

Often my notes seem like they should be helpful. I'll leave myself notes of song lyrics so that I can track down the song, which seems useful but is not because the lyrics I hear, not the lyrics that were sung. Other times, my notes seem like they should be fun, but again, they are not. I left myself a note of some sort of knitting pattern with four different rounds. Great right? Wrong. I have no idea what it is or where it is from. I'm not sure if I was copying someone else, making up my own thing, or leaving myself a note of what I already had done. Maybe it is plagiarism. Maybe it is an invention. I dunno.

I do know that I wanted to blog about nasty feet. I left myself a note that said, "blog about [illegible] nasty feet. Dirty pig!" I'm not sure whose feet I saw, or where I saw them, but apparently they were bad, bad enough that I thought I needed to share my very definite thoughts on foot care. Because yes, I DO have very definite thoughts on foot care.

Once upon a time, I was a nail technician. Licensed and insured. 100% certified. And though I always thought people with nasty feet should not bare them in the light of day (it is called socks and shoes people!), I did not become militant until I was forced to touch other people's feet. Since moving to Connecticut, I've seen more skeevy gefilte feet and I thought I had become immune (and somewhat smug about my own superior foot care). But sometime in the last month, someone showed me his or her cloven hoof and I was not immune and I was NOT happy. So not happy that I felt the need to write it down and remind myself to mock the nasty little fuker. If only I could remember who the nasty little fuker was ... damn you brain, think! Alas, the subject of my scorn is lost to me, but the scorn, it isn't. Whoever you are, you know you have nasty feet and you should be embarrassed. Shame on you!

Destroyer

My uncle has a little white poodle named Precious. When he and my aunt named the dog, I just about lost it I was laughing so hard. Think about this for a moment. Think Silence of the Lambs. You with me?




Well, they might not have been down with the movie, but the name, it is sort of apropos. This dog is a mess. I knew he had a favorite toy - a bunny rabbit - which he had chewed to shit, so being the nice person that I am, I brought him a replacement down. As you can see here, the top one, nice and pretty, the bottom one, bald and shitty.







Well Mr. Cutey-Patooty-Puppy-Dog grabs a hold and starts to play in his cute, I'm a little small dog way. Nothing seems to out of whack. He's playing. He has a tuft of bunny fur on his chin. But nothing crazy. I (foolishly) think it is all cute and sweet the way he shakes his head and carries on.










But you know what they say, it is all fun and games until someone loses and eye ... or a tail, an ear, part of a leg, and some stuffing.







In one day that dog had the new toy almost as broken in as the old one. Precious my arse!

Holy Yarn Batman!

So I'm home. I like being home. I get to love on the husband and animals. But Miami, it was awesome. And hot. Very, very hot. I kinda miss it (except for the hot part).



On Sunday, I got to catch a baseball game at my alma mater. We won by like 100. Typically when I go to a Hurricane sporting event that is not football, we lose. By a lot. But not this time. I was so excited by the win that I tried to get a picture of me and the Miami Maniac. It turns out that his huge fuzzy head took up the entire space. Or I suck as a photographer. I shall choose to believe it was his big head that was the culprit. You see that sliver of a person on the right? Yah that's me! I look good huh?



I also took a picture of the sock I was working on. I had it in my purse and thought, hmm, let us give this knitting in public a try at the game. But the minute the wool hit my fingers, I started to melt. I decided a picture would be better. The sock picture though, it is a bit of a dud (too) because the guy at the plate ready to hit? On the other team. Yeah me.



Lest I mislead you, my trip wasn't all sunshine and baseball. Oh no. There was sunshine and yarn. A whole bunch of yarn. My uncle and I destashed my aunt's stash and HOLY SHIT! She had bags and bags and bags (and bags - to the infinity power) of yarn. I didn't even go through all of the bags. I'd just take a peak and put it in the yarn-to-be-shipped pile. When we finally got all of the bags out and lined them up, my uncle looked at me and said, "Hmmm. I think I need to go charge the battery on the Bronco. This will never fit in my trunk."



Turns out he was right. It was a good thing he charged that battery because we ended up needing all of the space. There is one bag that had suede ribbon and a fur coat. But the rest ... yarn. Lots and lots of yarn. Some of the yarn was in UFO form and there are maybe ten partially completed sweaters. Most of it though, just balls of fun waiting to be stitched.



Once we got to the pack and ship place, we started to carry it all in and box it up. Multiple people asked if I had, or was opening, a store. I scared them with the large amounts of yarn. It took a little over an hour for three people to unload the car and two people to pack the boxes. In the end I had nine big boxes. I'm not sure what I am going to do when it all gets here. I may have to take a guest room and convert it into a yarn room.



At this point the sheer quantity of yarn is a bit overwhelming and I haven't been hit by the melancholy my-aunt-should-be-knitting-this-I-hate-you-cancer stage. I suspect that will come. But for now, I am just looking forward to opening each box and each bag to see what really is inside.


After we shipped everything off we felt pretty good about ourselves. We returned home and decided to put together my uncle's stereo. As we were putting away the the turn table component box, I noticed some other boxes tucked up high in a corner. Boxes labeled "alpaca" and "wool." I said, "Umm. Huh. I think we may have missed something." Needless to say, that is when the delirious laughter started. We never did check those boxes. We decided to wait until my next trip. Instead we cleaned up and went out for dinner and a nice frozen concoction.


Now I'm home and planning for my next mini-vacation. I got a lot of sock knitting done on my plane flights so I have to start thinking about what is next on the needles. Since we are driving to Joisey to see the MiL for Mother's Day, I will have tons of car knitting time. Maybe I'll work on the Kangaroo Duo sweater. Nah. Who am I kidding?

AC/DC

I've been alternating between panicked anticipation and lackadaisical procrastination. I received the information for my Sockapalooza Pal a couple of days ago and she seems way laid back. Not picky at all. In fact, she is pretty much open to anything, doesn't have any real preference, though she likes bright colors. For a normal person this is awesome. Total creative freedom. For me, one who is just the tiniest bit neurotic (in the same way that the Titanic was a tiny boat), this causes me to vacillate between frantic web surfing/pattern and yarn researching/review reading and oh, napping. Not that I napped today. Today was a no-nap day. Which means I was burning a swath through the internet.

This is really a fun thing and good stress and I am so looking forward to the whole Sockapalloza experience. I just need to chill. And make a decision or five. I like me some Monkey. But I also like me some Broadripple. Do I try to knit some socks in a yarn that is not wool? What is bright? Neon flouresent? So many choices. My pal is blogless! Which means I can't blogstalk her and her tastes. But blogless is not bad, in fact, it is totally a good thing if she finds my taste to be shitarific.

I'm sure it will all turn out fine. Which is why I am going to work on my Queen Kahuna socks during my flight to Miami. My flight leaves at a sensible 8:00 a.m. (which is totally cool and unusual for me, the girl who traditionally wakes up at 3:00 a.m. to make 6:00 a.m. flights), so I should be cognizant enough to knit. I hope.

Weirdness

I have a certain amount of weirdness in my life. Sometimes it ebbs, sometimes if flows. But always, there is some. This morning I arrived at work and almost hit the wall as I was backing into my parking spot. My craparoni parking skills are not the weirdness, this is:



Doesn't seem too odd? Take a closer look (you can click on the pictures to make them bigger).



This man was mindlessly swinging his machete into the bushes across the street. At 7:45 a.m. Had there been any sort of vehicle out front with a lawn care decal or a even a leaf blower, I would think that this was a somewhat unorthodox way to trim the bushes. But there was nothing around that would indicate that this guy was a yard and tree specialist. I think he just liked his knife.

So I quietly left Senor Machete (after taking pictures on the sly), and found this:



What the hell? I didn't think we had birds downtown. Let alone birds that would coo on my windowsill. I suspect Mr. Machete may have ran them off and they came here for safe harbor. It was a bad decision. I chased them off. We don't handle immigration cases. Also, cooing = annoying.

Alive

Let this be proof that I can in fact be around plant life and not kill it. Not only did I not kill this with my very essence, I some how caused it to bloom. It hasn't bloomed in all the years it has been in my office. Until now. Behold. I am magic. (But I am no photographer because my office, it has electricity and this thing called light, despite evidence to the contrary.)

Houston, We Have A Pilikia

Since I am still avoiding the Kangaroo Sweater (and foolishly harboring the delusion that the knitting gnomes are going to come along any second now and finish it for me ... Note to self: knitting a sweater on size four needles = dumb, dumb, dumb!), I needed something new and exciting to work on.

Say hello aloha to my Queen Kahuna socks.



What? Why are you cringing? Laughing? Snorting? Is something wrong? Oh, yes! The horns. Yah baby! My socks are horny! Actually, I have no idea why my socks are horned either. Apparently South Park Republicans don't know how to follow directions properly. Needless to say, that was merely a rough draft. One of like, five.

I ended up reverting back to my regular cast on, but kept the Queen Kahuna fan toe. There is still a little horniness, but it is only slightly horny (say 300 versus Debbie Does Dallas). If I fuss with the inside of the sock, I can kind of get rid of the horns. So it is a horniness I can live with, for myself, I mean, I wouldn't give this horny sock to someone else. That would be hewa!

Good To Know

ME: (Kissing sleeping husband on cheek as I leave for work) Love you.
HIM: Mmmm. You don't smell.
ME: ?? Umm, thanks Boo.
HIM: (yelling) Really. YOU DO NOT SMELL!