Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Bling I

I know you've been waiting with baited breath for a photo essay on my sparkly socksand annoyed with each delay. Or not. First, aliens got the camera, then I was lazy, then I was sad, and then, then I sat down for a photo shoot and realized that it is really hard to photograph your own feet. Or I should say, the socks on your feet. Well really, the socks on your feet in a way in which you look like you have legs and not logs attached to your ankles.

I love my sparkly peds, so I took about twenty-five pictures of them on my feet. Sometimes I was standing, sometimes I was sitting, sometimes I was in action, all times? All times I was either missing a foot, picking up pet hair, or photographing my ass, which though large, should not be so big as to block out my feet. I mean, really. I seem to have lost my knack for self-foot photography. Also, my floors are extremely furry, despite being cleaned two days ago.

When the pictures turned out to be dudly, I asked Dogbert to get in on the action. I mean, if there is fur on the sock, then you could at least presume it was from her and not poor housekeeping on my part, right? She was, how you say, not thrilled. I even formed the socks into a heart as a I♥U gesture, but she was still underwhelmed.

Not only was it hard to photograph the socks in a way that showed them off in their pretty form, it was also hard to photograph them in a way that showed off their bling.

The actual knitting of the socks was a lot more fun than the photographing. The yarn was pleasant to knit with and the sparkle factor tickled me the entire time I was working on them. I am simple, I s'pose, but still, knitting blingish yarn = fun!

Yarn: Berroco Sox Metallic in Curacao, #1350.
Needles: Addi Circs, size 2.5 mm (US 1)
Pattern: Standard toe-up ped, using this cast on and toe and this heel.
Time: Three(ish) weeks.
Care: Machine wash warm water. No bleach. Lay flat to dry.

Monday, June 29, 2009


So I am posting a plant update. Lame. I know. But. But, dudes, they are STILL ALIVE! The little herbs and tomatoes were all on their deathbeds, but then I went away for Girls Weekend and they made a comeback!

Look at that! They are all perky. Even the dead ass dill weed is somewhat perked up! The topsy turvy tomato doesn't look so hot, but if you look in the background, which you can't since my computer just mysteriously are the picture of the topsy turvy, WTF?, you'd see a turkey feather. A. TURKEY. FEATHER. Enough said. Anyway, I am amazed and awed! I am staying the hell away from them! And yes, I am using a lot of exclamation points, I am trying to convey excitement, and also to make myself feel excitement. You see, one of the other ladies that I bought these with, bought the EXACT SAME plants as me. Identical. In fact, we shared a cart and so it was random on who got what. Nonetheless, her plants? They are like a thousand feet taller. Unbelievable! Yes, I am ignoring the fact that my plants are even alive and instead being a big ole jealous baby.

Sunday, June 28, 2009

Capo dei capi

You know, I have complained repeatedly about Mother Nature coming to get me. Of course, part of that is because I like to complain BUT part of it is because she really is out to get me. And, for what it is worth, I really think she is stepped up her game. To wit:

I suppose in the picture it looks some what harmless, that big ole turkey feather strategically placed in front of LB's car door. But it is not. Oh no. This is like a mob warning. From the head of the turkey mafia. Cross us again, and the kid gets it! Seriously. They are letting me know they can get us at anytime ... being that the feather somehow appeared in our locked, with no turkey-sized cracks or holes, garage.

And these aren't any regular turkeys coming after us. No, these are the 'roided up enforcers. That feather is huge. It is a good eight inches. Here it is with my foot, my ten inch foot, for perspective.

I use to semi-joke that Crazy was going to kill me and take my baby. Now, the turkeys are my main threat. If they find my body somewhere, you can bet it was my feathered "friends."

Monday, June 22, 2009


On Thursday we had to euthanize our poor sweet kitty and it is fucking killing me.

I don't really like cats. Nonetheless, when we took my mom's dog to the vet fifteen years ago and the vet asked if we wanted a cat and we said no and then he brought out a pot-bellied, jumbo pawed, mini-tail and mini-head, kitten named Ugh. A. Lee, we fell in love. Turns out Ugh became Ernest, and we became smitten. For the last fifteen years Ern would greet my husband at the door and jump into his arms when he came home. He would sit on my lap while I knit or watched t.v. and he would fall asleep in my hair and migrate to my feet as the night progressed. He fell in love with LB and would let her pet him, smack him, kiss him, hug him, sit on him, and ride him like a horse. I thought that with the dog and the baby, he didn't get as much of our time, that he was a bit marginalized. But now that he's not around, I realize how much he was part of our day to day lives.

It turns out, mourning a pet is similar to mourning a human family member in that the little things creep up on you. You're lying in bed and you hear a thump thump, you think, oh, it is Ernest coming up the stairs. Cue tears. You're at the store and checking out, all of a sudden you realize, you don't need plastic bags anymore since you don't have a litter box to change anymore. Cue tears. You go into the basement and leave the door open. You think SHIT as you turn around to shut the door because you don't want the cat to come down and get caught up in a mouse trap. Cue tears. When you've had your furbaby for fifteen years, they become people. They become your children. They become integral parts of your lives that you miss them like hell when they are gone.

I've been exalting his virtues, and though they were many and he was a sweet, sweet boy, he also would bite. Me. He would bite me an only me. Preferably when I was sound asleep. I like to think he was having kitty dreams and my ankle or foot or whatever, was some great menace he was chasing. This is somewhat more pleasant than thinking he was a sadistic bastard to me, and only me. Either way, I loved him lots and miss him lots.

Monday, June 15, 2009

Girls Weekend

Another year, another awesome Girls Weekend in Cape Cod.

Best quote: "I'm Sweden and you're out of here!" The weekend started with an apparently sober twenty-something man, saying this to his lover, while making a rock and roll hand gesture. I don't know what this means. None of us know what this means. And yet, it was appropriate at all times.

Best Text Message: justleaveheralonewerebusy

Dirtiest activity: Being a "Dirty Monkey"?? Nope! Strawberry picking. There was strawberry picking in which I picked one strawberry and was very pleased.

I then picked a second one which was dirty AND had a bug on it and I pretty much freaked the hell out. I also slightly freaked because I was getting dirt in between my toes because I wore flip flops. Note to self: Don't wear flip flops when walking in dirt. Nonetheless, because my cohorts were diligently picking away, and because a little girl of about two was diligently picking away next to us, and because I didn't want to be a pansy, I was shamed into picking some more. Eleven more total. Well, I guess twelve more total as I picked one, started to eat it ...

Second Best Quote: "You're stealing!" Someone IN OUR GROUP yelled at me while I was tasting the merchandise because to eat a strawberry prior to paying for said strawberry was stealing. Note, there was no sign, no warning, no nothing telling you to keep your greedy lips to yourself and DO NOT EAT THE STRAWBERRIES. No, there wasn't. Also, the little girl next to me was eating each one she picked and not a one went into her basket but did she get yelled at for stealing? No! Anyway, even though the strawberry wasn't very good, I finished eating it because if I am gonna be a thief, them dammit, I am gonna rip off as much as I can. Which, I guess, turned out to be one mediocre strawberry. I am no mastermind criminal. In any event, once I was away from the dirt and bugs and you know, NATURE, the picking was quite amusing to me as I had the largest box and the smallest haul.

Worst Question Asked to a Stranger: "Do you know what a head shop is?" Our waitress thought head shops dealt with a different type of head, as in giving ... well, never mind, you get the point, we didn't get kicked out and the food was delish, so the tea shoppe was a success despite the fact that no one, other than me, knew what a head shop was. For the record, a head shop is real and not something I made up. It is a place where you go to buy drug paraphernalia.

Moment of Redemption: After last year's resounding pottery disaster, which I pawned off as a hostess gift, I was determined to redeem myself at the paint your own pottery place. And, actually, I think I may have. I gooped on three layers of the paint so unbelievably thick that the mug was about a pound heavier than when it started. I hoped to avoid streakage, but with paint that thick and goopy you never know what will happen, so, fingers crossed.

There was a slight mishap when someone (KAY!!!!) got purple paint on my dry, perfect, piece of art, not when we were at the table and painting but when we were putting them up for glazing. I did an emergency repair, but you never know. So, in conclusion, if the mug sucks, it is all Kay's fault.

EXCEPT, HOLY FUK I SPELLED SWEDEN WRONG ON MY MUG AND NO ONE TOLD ME! I just saw that RIGHT NOW, as I was proof reading this post. Maybe I should have proof read my mug. DAMMIT. Now I am gonna have to give this away too.

Worst Spelling Error: Sweden. On my commemorative mug. Suck.

Common Photographic Theme: My boobs can't be contained.


Seriously. In every group shot, and some alone ones, at least one of my boobs is making a run for it. Ridiculous.

Weirdest "Best Piece of Advice You've Ever Received" per the game Loaded Questions: Just pick something to go with it.

Most unique "Place you'd like to be born" per the game Loaded Questions: Mars.

Number of random animals we saw up close and personal: Two!


Most Overprice Food: Gourmet cupcakes. Don't get me wrong. They taste good. But no matter how good they taste, $17+ for 6 cupcakes is robbery.

Shopkeeper: That will be $17.85. Me: What? Oh no, I only got the half dozen on the left, the ones on the right are hers. Shopkeeper: Yes, I know. Yours are $17.85. For reals? Even better is that when I sent a picture of the oreo one to my husband telling him I had gotten him a very special treat, he replied, "It looks like dog poop." Great. $3 dog poop. Awesome. Since I had paid a small fortune for the cupcakes, and because I had heard that everyone who bought the fru fru cupcakes had mushed them on their way home, I treated mine like royalty and packed them in my bag in a way guaranteed to prevent smushage. And it worked. The dog poop cupcake and his five pals made it home safely.

Number of times I forgot to knit in public on KIP day: All but two. Twenty gazillion places and I forgot to knit at all of them but two.

Proclamation: No matter what (like say moving to Kentucky), we are doing a girls weekend at the Cape every year.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Happy Dance

Praise Zeus! The camera has been found. A tithing was due the finder which I paid gladly because DUDE, MY CAMERA IS BACK (and its anus seems fine, thank you sweet gentle aliens). Before I photograph my two pairs of socks of sparkle, I want to get rid of the stuff already on the camera. In no particular order ...

First, I knit these socks. Rather I started them. Both of them. I got them both to this point:

Then I decided that I didn't like them. Or rather, I found the chart to be a pain in the ass and the socks were a little too big and so I started to rip. But then I remembered how put out I was when I saw that I ditched these guys so close to being done, that I stopped ripping, shoved them in a bag, and tucked them away. There is still a slight chance that I will finish them. Well, smaller than slight. Minuscule. But it is a chance.


Lady Bean likes playing under my desk while I am on the computer.

She doesn't seem to mind that she is taller than the space provided. It hurts my back just looking at her. It hurts my pride to see a big wad of dog hair next to her under there. We are dirty, dirty people.


We had more turkeys.

I hate turkeys.


LB was sick. As in brains (or infection, why must I be so DQ?) leaking out of her ear, only able to sleep sitting up on my chest, miserable sick. So for the twenty-four hours that it took for the miracle drugs to kick in, I was a glorified pillow.

A glorified pillow that knit (and had some massively frizzy hair, though that could be from the fact that I went from the shower to the Emergency Pediatrician's office in like two minutes and used not one single iota of hair product. Or make-up. Apparently I had a back up plan of scaring the doctor into treating her immediately).


Last, I planted herbs. This is from the day they were planted.

Proof that they were in fact alive at the outset, even if they aren't anymore.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Enough Already

This whole camera abduction is bordering on the ridiculous. Seriously. I finished yet another pair of sparkly peds of which I cannot blog about since I STILL don't have my camera! I also cannot show you that yes, herbs can be killed in a matter of days, even herbs that are "unkillable weeds." Dill weed I am talking to you, you dying piece of crap! Do I really need to buy another camera, again? This would camera number four. In like, less than four years. The only person I know with less luck with cameras is Joan. And her luck only runs bad when she is drinking. I haven't been drinking. Hell,  I lost the damn thing in my own house  it was abducted by aliens in my own house. And it's not like I don't have a million other things I would like to buy ... various articles of clothing, several cute pairs of shoes, a fancy schmancy stroller, which, with the extra seat attachment and all the accoutrements, costs as much as a cheap used car, a private yoga instructor, and a not-so-cheap used car. Obviously being 'retired' makes buying non-essential things impossible, or at least fiscally stupid, so I've restrained myself thus far. But the camera thing, it isn't an issue of desire, a camera is a need. But then it becomes, do I need another crappy point and shoot, or do I need a nice camera? Being that the camera lasts about six minutes in these parts, crappy point and shoot is the smart, though very boring, thing to get.

Sunday, June 07, 2009


I feel like my brain is slowly turning to Swiss cheese. It used to be a nice blue cheese, moldy in places, but still solid. Now the mold has given way to big ole holes. I thought about recounting a funny tale so that I could show myself that my brain does in fact fire on all six cylinders, okay, who are we kidding, all four. But I can't think of a funny thing. I mean, yes, Lady Bean does funny things but they are only funny to me. The lie down game, which sounds suspiciously pervy, is hysterical, to me and her, but you, you would sit there scratching your head, going uh, okay. So, that leaves me here. Jamming out to Lionel Ritchie. When is the last time you jammed out to Lionel Ritchie? Exactly. Swiss fucking cheese I tell you.

Wednesday, June 03, 2009


Oh Internet, I have knit the mostly lovely sparkly blue socks. Rumor has it the Yarn Harlot also knit sparkly blue socks that are scrumptious and probably a gazillion times nicer than my stockinette peds, but I care not! My socks are fabu and I want to hold them and kiss them and love them forever. I love this yarn and its sparkly glory to the point that I want to buy it in every color. Mind you that this is something I would totally do, if I had, you know, a job, or disposable income. I am the girl who goes to Webs for X and can't find it. I also can't find Y or Z, but I can find one of my favorite sock yarns. So I buy it, and by it, I mean the exact same yarn, in the exact same color (and probably dyelot) that I have already used to make socks because, oh, how those socks make me smile and one day they will die and I will need to replace them so I must have the yarn. Me = idiosyncratic (so sayeth the polite people, others might just say I am a nutjob).

Anywho, this blue sparkly yarn is like that other yarn. Instant love. I have worn my sparkle peds once and enjoyed them thoroughly. I suspect that my love runs so deep because of the bling factor. I love me some bling. And, I can honestly (as if I would lie, pushaw) say that I have not had blinged out socks before. I cannot, however, photograph them because my camera has been abducted by aliens. I hope its anus is okay. When ever it returns, I will take pictures and share the sparkly love. Normally I would wait to tell you about a finished object, even one as lovely as The Sparkletastics, until I could provide you with photographic evidence. I am changing my own policy though because I still have not blogged about Ellie. Who? I KNOW. Lady Eleanor. The shawl that goes on forever and I could actually use as a horse blanket. The shawl that is so bulky on, it adds about 30lbs. The shawl that my husband has used as a blanket. The shawl that was finished in February, or was it January, and has yet to be mentioned on this here blog o' mine. Mind you, Ellie won't be blogged about anytime soon as it is about three gazillion degrees too warm out to put her on. Also, she makes me look huge. I am thinking that I will wait until it is cooler, and I have a HUGE pregnant belly for which to blame the additional girth, to blog about her. Assuming the aliens return my camera.

Monday, June 01, 2009


When we bought our house we knew it was a fixer. We also knew that the kitchen was one of the top five worst kitchens in the state and in the top twenty-five for the country. Nevertheless, we loved the neighborhood and so we bought the ugly duckling with grand plans of a new kitchen, new bathrooms and an addition. Unfortunately, it turns out that the ugly duckling isn't just ugly, but she also has osteoporosis. Which is my flowery way of saying that she doesn't have good bones. Every single project we have taken on from changing the mirror in the bathroom (and finding a John Malkovich hole behind the old mirror) to swapping out an outdoor light fixture (and learning that none of the wiring was up to current code, or even the 1960's code from when the house was built) has cost us 1000% more than we thought it would, or had budgeted for, and means that we that we won't be redoing our kitchen anytime soon. But is also makes us pragmatic. Not a dime is going into a kitchen that one day (oh please one day) is getting the ole heave ho. For example, when the shelves inside a cabinet came crashing down (bam, bam, bam), did I decide to get new cabinets? Nope, I just stacked my pans in higher stacks and called it a day (well a mutherfuking shitty day, but a day nonetheless). That being said, I believe my pragmatism has rounded the corner and landed squarely in the middle of white-trashville. To wit:

When a drawer pull fell the hell off for no apparent reason, and then wouldn't screw back on because it is apparently stripped (which, seriously, what the fuk? How often was this thing screwed and unscrewed so that it could even have gotten stripped in the first place??), I found a hook in our workbench and voila! Drawer pull. The sad part is, no matter how trashy the hook is, it is almost more attractive than our original drawer pull.