Freakin' Finally

Okay,

So, this is what I've been doing lately.

And yeah, that is commercially made rayon ribbon. I think it's pretty. It's not fun to work with, however, so, we'll probably never use it again.

So, just a holiday hint:

Stay on your meds. Please.

Not for you. I really don't care how you feel. For us.

Thanks.

We're Experiencing Some Technical Difficulties...Please Stand By

That sound you hear?

Blank Silence.

That's the sound of my digital camera not downloading pictures.

I have no freakin' idea why.

Whatever. I was going to post a shitload of stuff on Etsy, but now? Not so much.

I'll figure it out. And I have another video cord lying around here somewhere.

So, we'll talk about Craft Shows:

October Handmade Market @ Shuba's
Great room, lots of natural light. No customers.

Not one. And it wasn't just me. It was everyone. Nobody sold shit. It was lame.
I blame the neighbourhood.

November Handmade Market @ The empty Bottle
Rockin' as always.

Here's my favorite discussion with a 'customer'...I'll use that term, because 'clueless fuckwit' doesn't sound very nice. The interaction took place at Shuba's.

Clueless Fuckwit fondles my yarn for a while, and her equally clueless daughter of about 40 stands next to her.

CF: So, we pick the yarns out, and you knit it into something for us?

Me: No, people buy the yarn, and then they do stuff with it. You know, knit, crochet, whatever.

CF: So, you don't make it into anything?

Me: Nope, I just hand spin the yarn. You know, like on a spinning wheel.

CF gives me a narrow-eyed look. She holds up a hank of yarn.

CF: So it's almost 20 dollars just for the yarn? That's too much money!

I imagine the satisfaction I feel as I rip the yarn out of her gnarled hand and kick her fragile, brittle bones to dust. I slap on a fake smile.

Me: We'll these are very special. Mostly rare breed, or locally shorn sheep.

I offer another fake, bright smile, willing them to just move on to the next table and torture her.

CF: At most kitting shops they knit it for you!

Okay, so she was old. And, things have changed. I decide to cut her a break.

Me: That used to be true. For a small price, many Yarn Stores (notice my clever phrasing) did have some knitters that, for a small price, would knit a custom item. That's really not so true anymore.

CF: I don't believe that!

Me: Well....

I pause here. She is leaning over my table, lower jaw jutting out, sort of looking like a nasty, elderly bulldog. I hate her. I could continue this exchange, which, really isn't pissing me off, but she would get madder and madder, until her wraith-like body started twitching. She -could- have some sort of stroke. Am I up for this? I take a deep breath.

Me: You know, there's a yarn shop right around the corner. You should go talk to them about it.
I'm probably wrong.

CF snorts, tossing down the yarn.

CF: You don't know anything about knitting.

Okay, so I do feel bad about sending this woman to a LYS. But they were kinda bitchy when I was there...

Blogger ate my brilliant post.

Fuck.

Out Damned Spot, Out.

My hands are stained with wine.
My bra is stained with wine.
My sweater was stained with wine.

Just another big night out?

I think not.

I was making custom wine blends for the Hospitality Mines with the Boss in California.

The Stats:
In two days:

I hand-corked 810 bottles of wine.

I drank 5 glasses of wine.

I had 4 Amazing Meals. (breakfast is breakfast everywhere you go)

I got no knitting done.

I drank 6 beers.

I handled over 120 gallons of wine.

I watched two cute guys stomp grapes.

I watched 10 tons of grapes get made into wine.

I had over 5 gallons of wine spilled on me.

I met one great dog.

I stayed in one amazing house.

My hands will never be clean. They are stained with wine.

I will be used, and I'll like it

So, I have been teeter-tottering about this California thing.

Sure it's great that I go. It's awesome. I'm thrilled, really.

But why? Why after almost 5 years of screaming indifference, or sometimes outright hostility, is The Wine One being nice to me? Really, really nice. Almost kind.

It freaks me out. I'm uncomfortable with it.

However, I've decided that it doesn't matter why this situation has turned around, it just has, and as long as I'm not dirt to be scraped of Himself's shoes, I should sit back and enjoy the ride.

Yarnwise, I'm in high gear. I've been spinning every second that I can to make yarn for the upcomming craft fair. At Shuba's. On Sunday. noon to 4pm.

I'm pretty excited. Keep your fingers crossed for me, and stop by and say hi!

Go big, or go home

So, in The Knit/Spin Blogosphere this was a Big Weekend.

Why?

Rhinebeck.

Rhinebeck, is the New York Sheep and Wool Festival, and it's a Big Deal.

You -must- make a Rhinebeck sweater, and perhaps some Rhinebeck socks to wear at Rhinebeck. I think it's because this is a cool weather festival, unlike the spring/summer ones.

You must take part in blogger meet ups, and cool little games, and meet other knitters, and well, become A Part Of the Action.

Sometimes this stuff pisses me off a little.

I mean, people brag about how much they bought. They show you all sorts of yarn and wool you didn't even know that you needed. They talk about their shame. But they don't mean it.

It's like calling your girlfriend and talking about how great the body was on that guy that you banged when you were drunk.

"I didn't even know his name when I woke up. I'm so ashamed"

"Really? Were you careful?"

"Yeah..."

"And?"

"He was fucking hot. And, um, though I don't know his name, I've got the imprint of his chin on my inner thigh...you know what I mean?"

Envious sigh from friend. "Yeah.....Bitch."


That, in a nutshell is what Rhinebeck is like for me. I didn't bang some stranger last night. I'm just hearing it second hand. So. Blog on about the wool, and the sheep, and your new sweater.

I'll admit it. I'm green. That's what envy does.

So onto other, happier things.

I bought an entire fleece.

From here http://www.cormo.us

If you look under 2006 Fleece, there is a sample of my wool.

It's got the romantic name of 562. I know, there's all these names, like Karma and Hippie and stuff, I go for the most unromantic name ever. However it's Hogget.

A Hogget fleece is a fleece that was shorn when the sheep just past lambdom...thus the ends of the fleece are lamb's wool (which is super duper soft). Cormo are a cross breed of Merino and um, they are supposedly the cat's meow when it comes to spinning.

Three pounds of dirty fleece are on the way.

I have a feeling I'll be washing that bitch in stages. I don't want to risk using the washing machine method because Merino and related breeds felt easily. So, while I could have used the washing machine for that Romney, all bets are off for 562.

Oh, and yes, my arm is getting better, in little ways, every day.

New Yarns, upcomming Craft Fair, and Fiber time

Okay, so I had a great time with Sarah, who came over and did some fibery stuff the other day.

We spun, and fondled fiber, and she crocheted. The picture is the finished yarn that I was spinning...I'm calling it 'Grape Jelly' and it's super soft, shiny and delovely. It's in the shop.

Sarah took some hand spun to make into a sample.

People who love fiber are cool.

My right hand (whom I call Mr. Burns), won't let me knit all that well yet. The funky way my hand now sits on my arm is probably at fault...that, and the fact that I can't really bend it, and I have no strength in it. But. No Cast. Groovy.

I'm now experimenting with some royal purple for her, to pay her in trade.

There are some new yarns up in the shop. I am doing the Handmade Market on the 29th of October, right before I fly to California. Cali. Wine. Groovy. Beckmen Vineyards. Hitching Post. Santa Inez. Groovy.

Wine. Yum. -insert Homer Simpson sound of food happiness here-

The new job type thing that I'm doing for the Hospitality Mines is fun. I am the voice of all wine education, which is cool. I just go in, talk about wine, and leave. Pretty fucking ideal, I have to say. I can't beleive that I'm getting paid just to do that.

Cheese world is edging up onto crunch time, and we've had some amazing wine sales...we're already ahead of where we were last season...

So, off to teach about wine.

The other day

Mailperson:Blah, blah, unimportant gripe, blah.

Phang, the hairless one, takes this oportunity to dart out the open door, onto the steps.

Me:Phang! Get in here.

(to mailperson)

Me:Sorry about that. We don't have outside cats.

Mailperson:Oh, I'm sorry that your kitty is sick. That's why she can't go outside, right?

Me: Um...sure.

Phang is freaky looking, but really...sick? I just didn't have it in me to explain genetics right then.

So far, she's been misidentified as a dog of some sort, been so icky that the cable guy screamed...well, it was more like a scared moan, and now she looks like she's sick.

neat.

Wow, maybe I shouldn't say this, but things don't suck right now.

Really, I don't have to expound too much, do I?
I just got a call from He Who Runs The Wine...He's taking me to Santa Barbara to make wine for the hospitality mines.

Back the truck up, shut the front door, it's true.

I lurve the area, and I love wine.

My job just got really amazing.

New Yarns

Yarns on Etsy, or "Will I suck?"

So,

Now that the hospitality mines have finally let loose their grasp, and the Cheese World doesn't need every second of my spare time, I'm commiting some time to the yarn.

And the comic book.(Yes, I'm turning one of our screenplays into a comic book. I should say
-we- (my writing partner and I and a very talented young man who is an amazing artist) are making a comic book.


I've got to say...I heart my new yarns. Very much. And, I heart the time I give to them. I just washed up some Romney and it's drying in a white, fluffy cloud.

A little side note about the Romney...
It was full of poo. And, since I had bought the raw Romney at Susan's Fiber Shop in Wisconsin last weekend, a word of warning.

Susan's is -dirty-.

I mean, when you go to The Fold, it's clean. Sure, there's fuzz everywhere, and hey, I wear a decent amount of black, so like, I understant when I walk out of The Fold looking like a lint brush. But I don't have to scrub my fingernails.

Susan's is on a farm, so I totally get the sheep smell. And she sells wool from her own sheep in the shop, both washed and raw, so a little 'sheepy' smell is expected. But, man what about the dust, and the grime, and the poor organization? It's fucking awful.

That, and I felt a little hosed with my Romney.
There were some poorly skirted spots in my wool...which I didn't see when I was going through the bag, which was on the floor of the shop. When I asked for a pound of it, the girl who was working that day stuff a bag full of wool (fine) held it up (fine), and weighed it (fine).

It wasn't until I got home, opened up the ziplock, and spread it out to wash that I noticed the entire center of my bag was a big mass of poo. I feel like she tucked it in the middle so that I wouldn't see it.

Look, I know that there's going to be some sheep shit in raw wool, but it was excessive, and with the sneaking suspicion that I was mislead, and the dirty shop, I probably won't ever make a trip to Susan's Fiber again.

Anyway...

I have a new online shop at Etsy! I'll post yarn and I'll probably post spinning batts as well.

visit if you want

www.mutantcatsyarn.etsy.com

I'll be adding stuff, like a cool logo, and making my profile much more...uh, concise, very soon.

Yarn sold

you must support this yarn shop

Chix with stix in River Forrest.

Why?

www.chixwithstixknitting.com



They bought my yarn!


They are my LYS, and, frankly, they rock.


Pictures of new yarns to come, and the Handmade market information, once I've confirmed a table.

Where was I, and other small humiliations

Okay,

I broke my arm. bad.

nuff said.

However, I am beginning to get on track with the yarn thing.

I've taken my first order.

It's due friday.

I'll post once they've paid.

2 hott 2 nit

It is, really.

It's 2 hott 2 spinn as well.

I sit, drenched in sweat, wearing only underpants as I write this.
Frightened, yet?

The air conditioner is on.

And it's still this hot.

When I walked into this room it felt cooler than the rooms around it. That's because it is. But it's still soooo hot that here I sit, sweating.

I plyed some yarn to day, but the idea of actually holding wool in my hands, while I move a treadle with my foot, scares me. It's why I can't function.

Help me.

I'm melting.

Big Mystery Pt. 2

So, what would I have done differently?

And how do I deal with my regret?

I don't hold on to my regret. I don't tresure it. I hate it. I never want to be old, and looking back, and filled with it, either.

I try to make sure that whatever I did, when faced with the same situation, I do differently the next time.

I figure that hey, I sucked the last time, if I suck this time, at least I tried something different.

I feel like I owed that little girl, the one who's 9 now, more.
I feel like I helped her mother down the path to self-destruction, by standing by and 'helping' when she fucked up.

It haunts me that years ago, I didn't look into her eyes, say

"You're killing yourself and I can't keep watching. Clean up or Get Out"

Instead, I looked into those big brown pools of manipulative pain, heard the suicide threats, and kept 'helping'.

I didn't want her to die.
I didn't want her to be mad, cut herself off from me, and fade into that large, black night.
I thought I could help save her.

My regrets are mixed with a weird sort of anger that I let myself be played. I let myself think that I could save someone who had absolutely no plans to save herself.

She worshipped at the altar of good looking corpses, and dead poets.
She lived for the feeling of not feeling at all.
Her demons were enormous, all encompassing, and something I cannot even imagine.
She had been degraded in horrible ways by the time she was 12. At 13 her mom and her did coke together. She was using herion and tricking by the time she was 15.

Her photos are still all over the internet. She has weird stalker-fans who want to know where she is.
I google her name to see if she's dead yet.

I wonder.
I wonder that had we not been such a soft landing, always there, always willing to give shelter both physically and emotionally...

Would she have hit a different bottom, earlier?
Would she have not lived in such a fucked up way, for so long? Would that have given her the strenght to save herself? Get some help?

Would she have checked herself into a psych ward that day I took her in, if I hadn't caved, and promised that we would take her to get help? I should have told the doctor that she was doing meth. I should have thought about the then 2 year old.

I shouldn't have blamed it on the people she was with.
I should have let her deal with the doctors. I should have insisted that she stay.

Would she know her own daughter now?

When she swore that she was cleaned up, and then I watched her do the line of coke, I should have walked away right then.

I should have thrown her out when she appeared, dirty and sad with a story about her boyfriend (really, her pimp) kicking her out. I begged her to get a job.

She didn't.

I begged her to get counsling.

Really, that was laughable at that point. She was such a host of problems at that point, where would have a doctor started? With her childhood? Her drug problem? Her prostitution? Her shattered marriage? (Her husband had taken her back at this point, 'for the baby' 5 times. Each time, the time together was shorter and shorter...the memories less good. The anger worse. He was still willing to take her back at this point. She was still young enough so that she had a good cover story for her lack of 'real' job experience. She was savable, I thought)


She said that she didn't need it.
Her husband finally threw down the gauntlet. Get help, -any- help, of -any- kind, just to show him that she knew there were problems. At the time, I bought that he was an asshole. In retrospect, he deserved my respect and support.
She flew to New York 3 days later, and stayed with her sister.

2 months later, she showed up on my doorstep, complaining that she had lost all her cash (junkies lose massive amounts of cash. I've never figured out if it's a cover for how much their habit costs, or if they are just so fucked up that they drop cash, don't notice people stealing...)and complaining that her planned overdose the night before didn't work. She was still alive.

I should have stood firm. I caved.

I wish I could have saved her. I regret not being able to. I wonder if anyone could have?

In the year that has passed since we last spoke, I think about her often. Because of another young, beautiful damaged woman.

A young woman who I think, really has a chance. A young woman who I can see a way out for. a young woman who desperately needs professional help. who I think, could lead a life that would not be a short, quick, road to hell.

I wish that things were simple. I wish that nobody ever would get hurt. I regret hurting people, through my supposed good actions. I regret working against a child's best interest because of my own, self-aggrandising, hope that she would, get help on her own time.

She only calls in the middle of the night. There is never a place where she lives. She chose that.

I regret the part I played in it.

I regret not being better.

I regret.

The Big Mysteries

I've been having a series of rather difficult conversations with a friend.

Last night, I realised that sometimes it might seem like I think I have all the answers. Nothing could be further from the truth.
I simply seem to have all the questions.

We were discussing a problem to which there are no right answers, and the concept of regret. My friend has very few regrets, but those he has, haunt him.

I've always been one to live in the present,
judge people by what they do,
try and do right, despite, not because of what others do.

That could pretty much be my credo.

What do I regret?

I regret not saying the truth when I knew it. I regret getting played. I regret things I didn't do more than things I've done.

When a friend was caught in the most awful downward spiral, I thought that to support her insanity and self-destruction was, in the long run, the right thing to do. I never told her the truth. That she was the only one hurting herself.

Years later, one night, she came to my house.
Her hands were covered in mild chemical burns. She hadn't slept in days, and a beautiful woman (who was always exceedingly vain) sat on my porch smelling like shit, with dirty/stained clothing on.

"I'm trying to burn off my fingerprints, so that nobody can find me"

We washed her clothes.

"I'm just going to run out for a minute"

She left, in little more than a bathrobe to go buy more crack.

"I just need to fix my hair"

She smoked the crack in my bathroom.

I understand when deception becomes the norm. I understand when someone has manipulated everyone, and can no longer even be honest with themselves. I understand when you go along with the manipulation (Hey, at least I -know- when I'm getting taken for a ride, right?) just to make the other person feel better.

When she told me -anything- I had doubt, but it was easier to beleive than fight about the little lies, right?

I'm big on personal responsibility. I really think it's key. However, this person was never held responsible for her own actions in my eyes. I just figured that someone who had basically been raised by wolves on the mean streets of Chicago, living off her good looks, and the kindness/perversion of strangers, didn't have that in her.

Her daughter will be 9 this year.

Luka won't remember her mommy holding her in her arms, looking up at me with absolute wonder and saying, "I just feel at peace when I hold her in my arms. I love her sooooooo much".

I thought that having a child would save her. That she'd pick up the peices of her life, make that kid her first priority, and live for her kid.

She hasn't.

The look in her eyes when she held Luka, that look said, "I'll do anything for my baby." I believed that look, completely.

I got taken.

I got taken for over ten years. I got taken in by the little lies and the big ones.

I called her pimp at one point and begged him to buy her a ticket to Denver, so that she could see her kid, and clean up. I figured that she couldn't buy drugs with no money and no car.

She said that it was what she needed to do. That it was the only way.

She was back in Chicago in three days, sucking strangers dicks for drug money, surfing couch to couch, with a crack pipe wrapped in plastic wrap shoved up her vagina, and stories about how her former husband didn't want her anymore.

That was a lie. Matt always talked about how much he loved her. He has never found another woman. Sure, he dates, but I think this whole life has been haunted by this beautiful, fucked-up wraith.

She felt regret at how things had worked out, but she never acted on it.

She never made the small steps needed to get him to trust her. She said it was insulting, demeaning even.

She was/is demanding. She would show up on our doorstep, saying how much she missed us. I sometimes wonder if she ever ment it. Her eyes said she did, but was that only an act?

She disappeared one night, amid shame, paranoia, and a general sense that she would burn us, just to save herself. I think that was the truth. I think that it was all the truth.
I think she ment everything. I think she ment nothing.

She calls late at night, always. Never a number to call her back on, just a payphone, or some stranger's home. I'm sure they're passed out in the bedroom, while she who never sleeps combs their house and hides things.

She steals.

She cries.

Once, I answered the phone. I knew instantly it was her. The timing was right.

I asked her if she was clean.

"Kind of"

I told her that wasn't good enough. I wished her luck. Told her I would see her later, when she was clean.

I hung up.

I cried.

I still never told her the truth.

Drumcarder of my dreams.

Oh, and one last thing.

This http://susansfibershop.com/pat_green.htm





I lust over the 'deb's delicate deluxe', but would be happy with the 'Deluxe'...fur drum, of course.

Send all your money to the Professor.

Uh, How 'bout August?

I find myself saying that this summer. Seemingly, in August, I will have tons of social obligations that will be mucho fun. The ACS happens next week. I'm actually looking forward to it, because, on Sunday and Monday, we will go to many fun wine producers, and we will drink:)

In August, however....

Let's see:

Dan and Telina will arrive (yeah, I'm thrilled...I can't wait)
Dan and Telina have a friend in town from Napa who's going to stay with us and go to Lalapalooza...fun.
Marrissa will be in town for Lalapalooza.

Stitches West is in August (Stiches West is like a nationwide conference for kitters. They have classes and stuff. They also have fiber and spinning tools.)

There is a fiber fair in Michigan that I would love to go to.

There might be time to camp/visit friends in Wisconsin, which means that I could go to Freene Creek Farm, and Susan's Fiber Shop, and fondle fiber, and look at a drum carder.

It's my birthday in August. August 23, to be exact.


I have said to more people than I can count,

"We'll do it in August"

We're going to go back to work on the house in August.

Um, I think I'm busy.

Baby Lucifer

Well, on from my most recent spate a health issues.

I'm fine. A shot of antibiotics, an ultrasound, and a couple of other things later, it's been proven that I will not die.

On to some of the cool things that I wish I could take pictures of:

yesterday, when we came home, there was a Cardinal and two goldfinches eating the sunflowers in the backyard.

I just finished the 'Morell Family Yarn'. I turned it into a cool super-coil, two ply that is curly and soft.

I dyed. A lot. Some great tencel and merino that looks like silk.

I still can't spin silk worth dog crap, but it's getting there.

I want, no, need, no, desire a drum carder.

The professor's fiber languishes in a cupboard. I have not started spinning for his sweater. I sort of think that I should finish his first sweater, what do you think? Yeah, that's what I thought.

The standstill on the house continues. I am lazy, and the good doctor is busy...up to his eyeballs in classes. Soon, they will be over. I'm voting for the back of the house to be 'finished', cause it looks like trash. However, when there is no work on the house, there is no stress over the work. Neat.

I go to Portland, to the ACS, soon. Wish me luck! I am only taking a sock to knit on the plane. That's it. No more. Why? Well, because Portland has an amazing yarn shop, that sells fiber. And wheels.

Is it wrong? Sure it is.

That's why I like it.

Midwest

Happy Birthday, Shane

Well,
One of the people in my life has had a birthday, and since I can't be there with him to cut some cake and tell him how glad I am that he's in my life, this post is dedicated to you, baby.

Over the course of your life you've:

traveled
lived
loved
made some horrible mistakes


Over the course of your adulthood you've:
made some kick-ass art
made some kick-ass kids
met some really cool people

During the time that I've known you, you've:
Dressed up like a clown and threatened bar customers with a chainsaw.
Caused me great concern when your back was injured.
Had some big health scares
Pissed me off (remember the poker game?)
Fathered the most amazing child I've ever known.

During the last year you've:
Moved. Far away. Damnit.
Made some big, hard choices. I have to say, I admire you. I'm sure it's not easy, but you have found new strength this last year.
Gone in a new direction with your art. Bravo. Old dogs can learn new tricks.

Happy Birthday, Shane. We all love you, and miss you.

What is it exactly?

Well, since I broke the digital camera, I'm back to good, ol' fashioned no-photo blogging for a while.

I haven't spun a darn bit since I returned from vacation. Part of it was I was burned out, part of it is that it was too darned hot, and part of it was just that I'm a lazy bum who got sick and just didn't feel good.

I'm looking at my wheel right now, and wondering
"Could I make enough money off spinning to quit my job?"

Not just spinning, mind you. Dyeing too, and maybe even using a drum carder to blend fibers into custom batts.

Frankly, I'm going to buy these spinning toys anyway. 'Cause it's like an obsession, and, I, like, love it, so what's to be lost by putting up an Etsy page, and making a commitment that this fall I'll do as many craft shows as I possibly can?

I'm not talking about quitting wine, god no. I'm just talking about not having to go to the hospitality mines every week. I would have to set up an online shop, and I would have to get wholesale orders from yarnshops. That's a jump from hobby spinning.

However, I look at all the stuff that's for sale, both uber-novelty, and not, and I think..."I can do that"

It's something that I've been playing with, in my mind over the past couple of weeks.

There's no other way but to try. I think that right this minute there is a significant demand for handspun...there has been a knitting revolution out there, so if I decided to go ahead and get a wholesale tax number, and started ordering wholesale undyed fiber, instead of paying retail, decided to link this blog up to a couple of rings, decided to really, really commit to the idea of the craft fair thing this fall (fall/late summer is a great time to sell yarn to knitters...they smell the oncomming cold, and they want to prepare.) If I decided to buy more raw fleece and process it myself, there might be a profit margin.

It's an interesting question I'm pondering.

What I learned on my Summer Vacation

The thing that my family taught me was:

Playing Poker is cool.

It is, really. You get chips, and you get to tip the dealer, and um, they bring you free drinks, and you get to chat and laugh...so much cooler than those machines.

My cousin Zach talked me into trying it, and now, well...I lurve it. The next time I find myself in gamblin' country, I'll be playing 4 card poker.


The thing that divides my family is:

Guns, Homosexuals, and Race.

That's more than one issue? Really? 'Cause it really seems to be one big ol' jumble to us.

The thing that sucked most was:

My camera got broken. Sob.

The odd thing about my family reunion:

I found out I am now related to an honest to god wine magnate.

Really, I'd love to post pictures, but...see above suckiness.

Wine of the Week (er, month? whatever.)

2003 Montpezant "Palombieres"
Coteaux du Languedoc, France

This is fucking good juice. Not expensive, either. A simple (I'm guessing, here) blend of Grenache and Syrah from a fairly small producer. Cow standing in a field of blackberries with a basket of coffee and vanilla next to said cow.
Yum.

A week's worth of family

So, on Wednesday, I will climb onto a plane, and fly back to my hometown. A hometown that, seriously, I don't love so much.

A hometown where two drugged out 'punks' tried to kill a homeless man while he slept in his truck in a Safeway parking lot.
Interestingly, he actually killed one of the kids. He was hurt really badly during the attack, but when he was fighting them off, he knifed one of the kids, and he ended up dying. The courts, of course, said 'self defense', which is probably one of the few things I've ever agreed with that's been handed down by the South Dakota court system.
Weirdly enough, if you google 'South Dakota Serial Killers', you will find that a whole slew of homeless, mostly of Native decent have turned up dead in Rapid City. Mostly during the time that I lived there. Oddly enough, I remember hearing nothing about it on the news.

A hometown where people protest the Planned Parenthood clinic. Fuckers.

A hometown where I was almost arrested on obscenity charges.

A hometown where my first marriage collapsed under the weight of our collective stupidity and carelessness.

Wow! Sounds like fun, you say.

Yeah, I have to say, that I hate my hometown. However, I lurve my family. My brother, my Mom, and the assorted eleventy bazillion cousins, uncles, great aunts and assorted third and fourth, once-removed people that will be there.

Because I'm very closely related to my Mom, I even get to sleep in the house, not, like in a tent out in the yard. Fancy, very Fancy.

So, today, I'm going to see what's what, and maybe, if I'm lucky ship some wine home, and figure out how the fuck I'm going to get Wheelie on the plane.

I'll ignore how much I'm going to miss the Professor, and the cats, and the bird, and the turtle.

I'll ignore the little things that make me crazy...like how nobody recycles, and how most folks don't really even think about the environment.
How, very often rural folks think hugely different things about Katrina, and the survivors, than us blue state folks. (It is scary to think that a huge portion of the U.S. population beleives that 'most Katrina survivors are better off now than they were before the tragedy'.)

And mostly, I'll reacquaint myself with people who really haven't seen me since I was 9 at the youngest, or 18 (gaaah) at the oldest.

Frightening, isn't it?

Wish me luck while I'm there, and keep your fingers crossed that I don't offend anyone.

Lobby 

More fluff 

Fluff 

Um, sure I'm high

Okay, so in the past week I've decided two things:

I should knit socks.

I need one of these
Jesus, I'm out of control.

I would show you pictures of the piles of fipping fiber stacked window-high in my front room, but I'm ashamed. I have something like way to much stacked in that room.

I know the llama weighs about 8 pounds, and then the fleece...that was 5 pounds, oh, and then...let's just say that speaking about fiber in weight really downplays the issue. Let's just say that you pick up your heaviest "winter in Chicago sweater"

That bad boy weighs maybe a pound and a half. Fiber is not that heavy.

Let's just say I have a feeling that I'm sneaking up onto twenty pounds of fiber.
That doesn't count the yarn. The yarn that is on every surface that you can think of upstairs. The yarn that's tucked into the cupboard where we keep coffee cups. The fiber and yarn that I turned into a cute little art still life in the living room. Could this be a sign that perhaps I've taken this thing too far?
No, really.
Shut up.

I'm about to order three pounds of really wonderful fiber for a sweater for The Professor, too, but that's not indicative of a problem.
No, really.
Shut up.

I'm also trying to figure out how I'm going to get Wheelie to my family reunion in South Dakota, too. Because. I. Can't. Stop.

I know that some of you have said "Why can't you just knit?"
You'll be surrounded by family, and you've even said you love that side of the family, and they're really funny, and one of them even married a vineyard owner,
and really, you'll be having such a good time, you won't even have time to spin.
or
It's ridiculous to drag your hobby with you on vacation. Wouldn't this be a good time to think about other things?
Like the huge speach that you're going to give in Portland, Oregon in July? Or how you need to find a new job soon? Shouldn't you face some of these upcomming issues instead of just diving into a pile or wool, or yarn, even, and ignoring these issues? Isn't that a little dysfunctional?
or
Honey, put down the wool. It was fun for a little while, but it's gone too far. This isn't funny anymore. You have tools like hand carders, and a diz, and a niddy noddy, and you worry about if your orifice needs oil, but shouldn't you think about the really important stuff? Like Zombie attacks?
No, really.
Shut up.

Oh, I laugh and laugh

So, yesterday this was what I got in my email:

edits have been made to protect the guilty

"Minion,
>
> Do you have any restrictions next week? The Manager that was really good, but is leaving us, will be gone as of Saturday
> the 10th. Can you work
> everyday, including Monday as we are doing some "deep cleaning" No
> really,
> what's your deal?
>
> Love, The Two Overlords"


Oh, yes, I laugh and laugh, because these fuckers have had over a month to find a new manager. And they haven't.

Nor have they discussed me taking more hours. I think, juding by this email, that they might have assumed some stuff, but there was no discussion.

This was the answer:

"Overlords
Um, no that's not workable, because I am visiting the old man and Her this week.
I will be out of town until Wednesday sometime, probably the evening.

Minion"

What I really want to say is

Fuck you. You haven't found a replacement, and you assume that I'm going to do it? If I were you,I would stop making assumptions, 'cause I'm not the one holding my balls in my hand, am I?

Perhaps you could have one of those 'sit downs' that you're so fond of, and actually try asking me how available I could be to the company.
That's a new idea, but by gosh, I think it just might work.

So, tonight, I will return to the hospitality mines, and work, and we'll see how this is all going to play out.

Cool, huh? 

Tulips! 

Got Voodoo? 

My Husband Lurves Me

So, on Wednesday, The Professor made the ultimate sacrifice to prove his lurve for me.

What could that be? Diamond rings? Mink Coats?

God, no. He got into the car (he hates driving), and drove me to the middle of nowhere, to The Fold, which is in Maringo, Il, so that I could take a spinning lesson.

What the fuck is The Fold?

It's like heaven for fiber addicts.

It's a spinning/knitting shop. It's the same place where I bought Wheelie.

Okay, so back to how awsome Dr. Al is. After a two hour drive, with a stop at a Dairy Mart, for hamburgers...Great small-town stuff...little kids with dirty faces eating ice cream, and everybody sitting outside at picnic tables talking to each other, we got to The Fold. It's not like Dr. Al can just head to Starbucks and read, 'cause, yo', this shit is sort of remote. So he just sat outside patiently.

Because he loves me.

Pretty awsome, huh?

So, I sit down with Toni, who owns the shop, who is incredible. Super nice, not mean, very unjudgemental, and a lovely person.

And she tells me I'm doing everything pretty much right. She says that my form is fine, that my yarn is good, and that, in general, besides Wheelie's mystery noise, things look good.

She gives me a couple of tips, and tells me to fill my bobbin more carefully, and gives me free shit! (a WPI gauge/Diz...which only means something to spinners)

She compliments the roving I'm spinning with. I tell her I dyed it.
She tells me it's pretty. I leave it for her. Why?

She's like a goddess, and she liked my shit.

I have never seen another live human being spin before. It was great. I wish I could go to a guild, or find another spinner in the area, who is cool, but I don't think there are any.

Maybe someday.

This week, I dyed. I've made tons of pretty colors, and, at some point, I'll move everything dye-related upstairs, to the old kitchen. All my finished yarns from this round of dye-related insantity will be named after H.P. Lovecraft monsters.

Yum 

This weekend

I sold yarn!
Saturday, I sold everything but 3 skeins!

The photo that I posted, in the center, there is a yellow/red/green combo that I've secretly named 'Stupid Clown'. It was my least favorite yarn...first to go.

And,I got to trade yarn for cool shit, like jewelry...

It was fun. I ordered good dye. I'm looking forward to making more.
People liked my shit. I felt validated by other knitters. It was awsome.

this is my life 

Full o' Anxiety and uber-personal Fug

Lately, between some personal stuff, and 'the company', I've been filled with a huge amount of anxiety. Heart-pounding, bursting into tears, please-don't-make-me-go-there-anxiety and general ickiness.

And, honestly, I think it's the company's fault. It's not the job, it's the politics surrounding the job.

It's not that I'm unhappy when I'm actually at work, it's the work meetings, the email, the things around my job that suck the life out of me.

That, and, frankly, I won't be going to a sheep-type-wool-festival thingy that I have been planning on going to for a few months now.

And, frankly, I'm not going because one of my bosses, someone who is 'more important', wants to go on a ten-day vacation. And, so, I'm fucked.

The boiling anger I feel as I write this is overwhelming.

It's such a small thing, that weekend that I want, and yet, when it's taken away, it becomes impossible for me to wish the boss, and the girlfriend of the boss well on their vacation, and then, that causes problems for me and Dr. Al, 'cause the girlfriend of the boss is his good friend, and a friend of mine as well. And, like I should at least be able to say, "Have a good time!", but I can't because my throat becomes clogged with resentment.

What I really want to say is,

"Thanks for fucking me. I hope you get scabies!"

or

"Really, have a good time...don't let my wishes for your everlasting unhappiness screw anything up!"

or, last, and possibly most honest.

"Hey, I resent you, 'cause it seems that your happiness is more important than mine! I'll get over it, but I feel like you owe me an apology, even though you have no idea I feel this way, 'cause I'm emotionally dysfunctional!"

I hate that. I hate that when I try to express this stuff to Dr. Al, it gets all clogged up in other issues, and that in general, I just want to whine like a two year old,and yell, and stomp my feet,

"It's not fair! Everybody else gets to have a good time...and I can't because of...."

What? That's not super-annoying?

Uh, yeah. And I don't think it's cool, so I'm trying to keep a lid on this shit, and not dwell on it, and frankly pretend that, like I'm not resenting it

EVERY SECOND OF EVERY DAY SINCE I'VE HEARD ABOUT IT.

yup. every second.

It's the background to everything I've done since about, oh...Saturday.
And, even though it seems like I've just been hanging out, and going to my other job, and reading books and knitting, and like, hanging out having quality time with Dr. Al, it's the voice, the whisper of my discontent.

So, I'm trying to knit. And I'm trying to spin, 'cause next Saturday, I'm supposedly going to go to the alternative crafts fair and sell yarn, and I'm trying to just put one foot in front of the other, but honestly, it feels like this is the straw that broke the camel's back.

I'm trying to see the cool black tulips in the backyard, and I'm trying to think about little things that used to give me pleasure, and I'm trying to listen when my friends talk, and be effective whilst I work, and I'm trying to do all those things, but honestly? I'm faking it.

The upside of faking it is that I know that this will pass. These bad feelings and general angst will be over, and this will be a distant memory, but all those things,
our garden, our friends, my knitting and spinning, my jobs, those will all still be there, because most of this bullshit will pass...bullshit is transitory, I tell myself, just keep putting one foot in front of the other, and you will walk out the other side.

but seriously, universe?

Fug you.

Happy Global Warming Spring!

We are having an ungodly mild spring in Chicago. The tulips are in full bloom, the iris that I planted have come and gone, we're waiting on the blue flag iris(a later bloom) the croci have shot their load, and the huge, purple ornamental onions that I planted (they look like globes of purple coolness), two are ready to bloom.

I say what the fuck? Last year, nothing was up yet, because it was still too cold.

The plants all say 'Dude, we're fucking -on- this summer. Bring it.'

The fucking peonies are going to blossom in the next few weeks. Last year, it was late June.

I have food-ready rhubarb already.

We planted a honeysuckle bush this spring that has already sprung into bloom. WTF? Seriously.

I expect snow in July. Really. This is just really fucked up.

This is going to be a long, hot summer, and I hope that it's not going to be a scanty on the rain supply as last year, but I don't think my hope is going to change the fact that our climate is changing.

It's a spooky reminder right in my own back yard that we, have fucked the planet up, and that things are just going to get weirder.

I hope we run out of oil soon.


Next Saturday, I'm taking my yarn to the Empty Bottle for the alternative crafts fair. I have soooo little yarn. It's going to be interesting to see if I can kick my lazy ass into gear and produce between here and next Saturday.

Dr. Al is taking students to Mammoth Cave next week, so perhaps with nobody to bother me, I mean, distract me, I can get some serious face time in with wheelie.

Wish me luck.

Wisconsin Death Trip

Uh, where do I start?

Mostly, where do I start without being unethical?

Let's just say that I had huge amounts of time wasted by Foxxy, who is now living with the transvestite decepticon.

Let's just say things were not as bad as I thought, on one level, and much worse on another level.

Let's just say that if I ever start killin' whores, I'll know which one to start with.

On to better stuff.

Northern Wisconsin is much, much prettier than I thought.
Slab City has one bar, which is named 'The Morgue'.
Needless to say, I now really, really, want to live in Slab City.

Oh, and I now want to raise sheep and alpaca and llama in northern Wisconsin.

I have fallen, and how to wash a llama

I'll admit that when She left, it threw me for a loop. Along with the fact that things have not gone swimmingly for the old man, at their undisclosed location, and that I've been a teensy bit pre-occupied at work.

All this adds up to no blog.

I hate when people will blog "Things were bad, no blogging" or "Life. Gah."

Let's just say that I slipped into a bit of a depression, that I was really worried, and that I'm not utterly happy with the way I handle stress.

I'm turning over a new leaf.

Now, on to the fun part.

How to wash a llama.

The backstory is thus:

Dr. Al's teaching assistant was listening to him talk about how I spin, and she said, "We have llamas."

Dr. Al said "Give us the llama wool."

She said, "Okay."

So we have two llama fleeces, right? and I'm like a little freaked out, 'cause like you should wash and pick this stuff, right?

Well people on the internets have lots and lots of opinions. Some think that you shouldn't have to wash your llama. Some people say that you should wash your llama.
To get slightly technical here, sheep have lanolin in their wool. Lanolin is used in hand lotion, and if you leave it in the fleece, you are "Spinning in the grease."

If you make yarn in this way, you will get a sweater that repels water (Good if you are an Irish fisherman).

If you choose not to spin in the grease, you must scour your fleece, to get rid of the lanolin. Lanolin can fuck up your pipes and your septic system, so be careful.
Scouring your fleece is a long project, needing orvus paste, and lots of hot water.

Fun, huh? Welcome to my new hobby.

Llama don't have lanolin in their fur. They have a completely different structure, and llamas have a top coat (long, course hairs called guard hairs), and a downy undercoat which is soft and yummy.

Llama, like alpaca lacks 'crimp'. In essence, good sheep wool has a little 'curl' which makes it easy to spin and gives in memory, or 'spronginess'(sure motherfucker, spronginess is not a made up word. It's a technical term. So shut up.)

The llama that we got were also work animals, they carry backpacks on long camping trips, so those llamas weren't wearing little coats to keep shit out of their fur.

So, these llamas, see needed to be washed.

I'm not claiming that my way is the right way, but if anybody out there has llama that is so dirty that they want to wash it, here you go.

1. Open the garbage bag that the llama is in. This is the scariest part.
My llama was 'skirted', which pretty much means that they had cut off the part filled with llama poo.

2. Pick through said llama. I tried to leave the llama in the biggest pieces I could.
Give each piece a good shake. Little bits of hay, and llama skank will fall out. There were a couple of good-sized chunks of llama poo.

You can compost all this stuff!

If there were any parts that were felted together, or if there were short 'second cuts', this is where I got rid of them.

At this point I suppose I could have sorted the guard hair from the soft down, but I didn't. More on my choice later.

At this point, I lost about a quarter of my llama. Not a huge loss, as a matter of fact.

3. Fill your extra bathtub with hot water.

4. Drop the llama in to the hot water, and give a couple of good sized squirts of dishwashing liquid.

Do not put llama in bathtub, then fill with hot water. Why? The agitation of the water hitting the fur might felt it. Felting is no bueno.

5. Carefully push llama under water. Do not move the fur around in the water too much.

Treat this shit like pastry, yo. Handle as little as possible.

6. Let llama sit. It will release a huge amount of a substance that I call 'llama skank'.

7. Move llama towards the top of the tub. Drain tub, and rinse out as much llama skank as you can.

8. Refill tub. Repeat steps 6-8 until there is very little llama skank.

9. Remove llama. Press out water between towels. Gently.

10. Spread llama out to dry. There are some people who suggest using an old screen door for this. I want an old screen door now. I spread mine out on the floor, on top of a sheet, and then covered llama with the other half of the sheet. Because of the three mutant cats.

11. Flip the sheet, so that llama can dry on both sides.

Do it again with the other llama.

So, I've been carding the llama together with hand-dyed wool top. One llama is a pretty carmel color, and the other is white. I'm going to dye the white llama.

I've made to skeins of llama/wool so far, and I'm going to keep them as singles, they have long color repeats so that they are self-striping.

Faux-no, is it were. (if you don't knit, you don't know about the Japanese company that makes self-striping yarn. Trust me, yo. This shit is the bomb. It's a cult)

I'm also thinking that it's time to invest in some more, and better dyes. Viva helped me with that.

I want true yellows, and oranges.

I want vibrant, pretty purples.

I want firehouse red.

Um, hell yeah.

So, I'm driving to a undisclosed location to see the old man on Sunday night. Dr. Al is staying here, and Bruce is driving.

I'll miss Dr. Al a whole bunch. I wish he could come, but frankly, this shit can't wait, and once I get it done, I'll feel soooooo much better.

Ain't no sunshine when she's gone...

She left this week.

I am heartbroken.

Dear Restaurant Customer:

I know I am supposed to address you as a guest, as per our policy.

However, a couple of evenings ago, you crossed a line, and now, to me, you are simply a 'customer'.

These are simple guidelines for dining out. By your disregard of these guidelies, you have made your own night much more difficult.

Please review before you return to our establishment.

Do not lie and say you have a reservation, if you do not.

It is rude to lie, and frankly, we know when you are lying.
"Sir, when did you make this reservation?"
"Uh, a couple of days ago".

"Can you remember who you spoke to?"
"No"
"Man, woman?"

At this point you are squirming, but you refuse to admit that this is all a falsehood. You press forward.

"Uh, it was a woman? Maybe it was you?"

Not likely, Fuckface.

I really want to take the man aside, look deep into his eyes and say,
"Dude, none of this happened, did it?"

The end result? We say we're sorry, buy you a glass of cheap bubbly, and shove your ass into the worst seat in the house. Your wait for your "reservation" 1.5 hours. Exactly how long it would have taken had you put your name on the waitlist.

If you made a reservation for 6 people, please have six people show up at the restaurant at the appointed time.
Not twelve, not four. Six. If you have more than six, we cannot seat you when you want to be seated, 'cause, like, we didn't know that there were going to be twelve people, and at 9pm on a Friday night, we don't exactly have tables sitting empty. You'll wait. Up to, or longer than, two hours.

Please, when we say we can't take a reservation for ten people, that means that we can't take a reservation for ten. Don't then, make a reservation for six people, call your friend, have him make a reservation for four people, and then think, "We'll just pull our tables together."

Or, if you choose to do this, don't be shocked, and upset when it doesn't work.


Do not claim allergies that you don't have. Maybe this is a good idea at Cheesecake Factory, but we're pros at my fine establishement. You don't like nuts? Tell us.
Say you're allergic to nuts, and will die if you come in contact with them?
Out of concern, we'll tell you it's not safe to eat anything in our kitchen.
We're serious.

You say, "Well, as long as I don't eat any nuts.."

"Sir, we chop vetables with the same knives as we crush nuts with. Those oils are transferred to everything. We use the same pans for everything. If your allergy is as serious as you say, you shouldn't eat here."

You squirm. You cave. We know you are a liar who just doesn't like almonds.
You could have just said that.


Please leave within 20 minutes of closing time.

Lingering long after all others have left the restauraunt is not cool.
Sitting in an empty room does not make it 'fun' or 'exclusive'.
It makes you an asshat who is keeping me, and several other people from going home.
Going home to play with their kids, or feed their cats, or knit,or drink themselves to death...whatever. You are holding them hostage.

When we say, "We're calling last call, can I get you anything to drink before we close the bar?", please, don't think that what we're saying is, "Hang out for as long as you want, oh, and if you want another drink in a half-hour, you can totally have it."

That's not what we're saying. We're saying, "Get the fuck out."

Please don't walk in a half-hour after our kitchen closed and want us to reopen the kitchen just for you.

Please don't say:

"What about cheese? Just some cheese?"

No.

"I see people in the kitchen, I bet you they wouldn't mind making me a pizza. Go back and ask them."

No.

How 'bout this. How bout you ask Willie, who hasn't had a cigarette in four hours, and who's blood-alcohol level is dangerously low, who just at this moment is down on his hands and knees scrubbing behind the stove, that he should drop everything to make -you- a pizza. I dare you.

"I sure wish I could have an order of fries"
This will be said loudly, with a sideways glance at me, like I'm the nazi who's keeping you from your frites.

No.

Fuck you. McDonald's has a drive-thru.

Please don't pound on the window at 2am, freaking out because you can't find the valet. He might have gone home. Why would the valet hang out in the cold and the dark, on the street waiting for you? He leaves when we close. Just because you left our fine establishment, and then went barhopping, -WITHOUT TELLING THE VALET-, he should stand in the freezing rain and wait for you?
Oh, dear customer, I laugh and laugh.

Thank you, and come again.

I'm Pro-Choice, and I'm from South Dakota

The South Dakota state legislature is full of asshats. Asshats, who honestly believe that women shouldn't have the right to choose. Asshats who hate ecology, despise the idea of evolution, and love the bible and guns.

I was raised, for most of my life in Rapid City, South Dakota. I feel I have the perspective to make these perjorative statements.

Last summer when we took a road trip to So.Dak., I was both horrified, and slightly amused by several billboards.

One stated:

Did you forget something?

Your Fetus?

Which, honestly made for 200 miles of:

"Oh shit, dude, I left the fetus on top of the car. I just forgot about it."

The other, which was on the Nebraska border, stated:

vegetarians, you are not welcome in South Dakota.
Then, there was a list of all the ways that South Dakotans make their living off killing animals.

The last which made an impression was a picture of a chicken with a boot to it's ass, with a statement along the lines of
"My animals, and I'll abuse them if I want."

I'm not a vegetarian, but even I found these offensive.

If you live in a blue state, it's easy to think "Well, they just don't know any better."

uh, yeah they do. They just fucking hate you, you liberal shitbag. I mean, really hate you.

They hate me. They hated me when I lived there, and when I go back to visit, they hate me then, too.

We stand so far divided on so many issues as a nation, and shit like this doesn't help.

Gun Control. I like it. I personally don't like guns. I don't think it's a bad idea to have a couple of days to check out a potential gun buyer for restraining orders, past convictions, and the like. It's not that I don't think you shouldn't have a gun if you want one, hell, have as many as you like, just wait for a couple of days whist we make sure you're not set on killing your girlfriend with it. Is that too much to ask?

South Dakotans say "Yeah, it is."

Sustainable, organic farming. I think it's a good idea. I think it's the only thing that will save small, family-owned agriculture.

South Dakotans say, "Fuck that."

I'm pro-choice. I don't think gay people are evil. I have no particular hatred of anybody based on skin color. Uh, kids, red states don't like any of this shit.

Today, there is a strike, and a march by illegal aliens who don't want to be criminalized for seeking a better life. Support them. In Chicago 40,000 people will be marching through the loop, and frankly, they are marching for you.
Our laws become ever more Draconian.

Freaks like the Minutemen (the racist militia, not the cool punk band) wholly support these new laws.

One minuteman supporter in all her Anglo/Aryan glory spoke about the march today, saying, "They want to remake American."

Uh, yeah. And I want that American, not the one we have.

Piles of wool? Check.

My Lendrum wheel is the shit. As I grow to understand the physics and science behind what I'm doing, I'm blown away. Fiber lenghth, crimp, twist. s-twist, z-twist, niddy noddy. Mother of all, maidenhead, orifice hook, footman. It all sounds like phrases you'd hear at a local S&M night.

By the way, Shane, I was absolutely fucking serious about that whole sheep offer. I'll buy the sheep, you can have the milk, and breeder's fees, and all you have to do is feed that fucker. I'll pay for sheering. I keep the wool.

I'm surfing Local Harvest for fleeces to buy. Everyone knows that it's fleece season, right? Right. Oh, and if you google Local Harvest, you'll see tons and tons of cool stuff that local farms have for sale. Support your local farms. They need you. You need them.

Okay, so on to other shit.

If you work for unreasonable assholes (see Dion Antic Post), and you don't like it, quit.
And even if you just feel like you are working for unreasonable assholes, quit. Don't stay, and bring everybody down with your complaints. It's the service industry.
Nobody makes you stay. Hate it? Leave. You'll find another job within the week. If you don't, well, maybe the problem isn't your employer.

Maybe it's you.

That said, don't shit on me at work.
Don't 'dare' me to do something. Don't get shitty with me when I ask for an explaination about why your entire station was a cluster fuck all Saturday night.
Oh, and I didn't ask it like that. What I actually said was,
"The kitchen said that there were some problems with your tickets. What was going on last night? Could you show me how you are ordering things?"

Don't think that I'll feel sorry for you 'cause you don't like to work Sundays. Nobody does. It's your turn. Be a fucking man. Stop whining like a little sissy bitch. You have a penis. You own the fucking patriarchy. Shut up.

Don't play "Fuck you, I'll talk to you like your dirt, and try and avoid the real question, and if you don't like it, send me home." Fine.

I'll do it.

Not only that, I'll sleep fine, 'cause I know that you got what you wanted. I know that you'll go home, grab a drink, and feel okay about what you did.

Honestly, you've been a horror show lately. And even though I think that you are smart, and funny, being late every fucking day is shitty.
I know customers love you. I also know that you can't turn a two top in under 3 hours, and that you almost got into a physical confrontation with a guest about a shitty tip. A shitty tip that you really deserved, imho.

Don't ask the question, "What am I supposed to do when the train stops in a tunnel and makes me fifteen minutes late?"

Uh, dude. This has happened four days out of five. May I suggest the novel idea of leaving fifteen minutes earlier?

So that's my week in shorthand.

My Kingdom for a digital camera

I would pretty much kill for a digital camera.

I would like to snap photos of pretty yarn, pictures of our backyard, or pretty much anything else, so that the people who read this, but who never post a comment (Dan), could see what we're up to, since they're so far away.


That said, I re-arranged the upstairs this weekend. Alan now has an office/studio type space where the living room used to be, and the little room at the top of the stairs has become the spinning/television room.

Why? Because we have very different styles of working.

Like right now.

I am supposed to be working on a class for le cheese shop, so I have the laptop on the couch, the t.v. on, and all my books, cigarettes, and coffee spread out around me. This is how I work. Very often the television is on, and I'm not watching it...very common, or like right now, there is music on...and a movie playing on the vcr, with the sound turned off. I need stimulation, otherwise, nothing happens.
Henry, Portrait of a Serial Killer is good to work by, with The Clash providing a soundtrack.
I've always worked better call scrunched up into a ball, with my legs tucked under me, in low light. As a kid all I heard was "You're going to ruin your eyes reading in the dark." "Sit up straight."


Alan is a desk guy. He likes to sit at a desk, and type (freak).
So, now he has a desk, in a room that he can actually use. We need a comfy couple of chairs in that room, but other than that, we're set.

So, since the back room has great light, I thought he would actually use the desk/table that we have upstairs if we set it up right, and the wubby and the little couch (which is exactly the right height for me to sit at while I spin...all other chairs are too high, and I spin unevently when I sit in them), and my wool are in the little room.

I'm pretty happy, because I've been sort of avoiding doing anything to the upstairs, because we've done zero rehab work up here. Sort of a 'Don't look at the Elephant' deal. However, in my quest to live imperfectly ('cause the other choice is to not live at all), I'm trying to do stuff even though the final product will be imperfect.

So, imperfect as the upstairs is, we're living in all the rooms.

Five fucking seventeen

Yeah, it's just a little past 5 am. See, I cannot just come home and go to bed, no matter how tired I am. Funny, no? I got home just under two hours ago, and my goal is to be asleep before 6 am. I will wake up around noon. I will probably go to bed around 2 am Sunday morning. Nope, even though I love sleep, I don't sleep much.

No.

I must lay on the couch. I must surf the internets. I must talk to the husband. No matter what.

When I was little, I was not a napper. Nap time was the horrible time when I was forced to lay down, and not sleep. Sometimes my mind will just not shut off.
Most times, I can, if I am on the edge of exhaustion, go to bed without too much talking to Alan. Sometimes, I lie in bed and read until I fall asleep with my face all smooshed up on the book. That is how my glasses get scratched.

Right now, I'm just killing time until the white noise in my brain takes over.

Insomniacs, Unite! Take Over.

Roads less taken...no Fug

Really, not so much Fug this week.

I'm tired. Really, really tired. And I am sore.

It's a good tired, but it's there. I really need to grout the bathroom, and start to think about the house again. We took a short rest from the house stuff, 'cause seriously, it was starting to becomming a serious stressor on the marriage. So, we took a little break, and things have become a ton better. But I can feel the call of a pretty bathroom, and I know that I want to move into the downstairs bedroom for the summer.

Why? I don't know, it just seems like it would be fun to sleep in all the rooms of the house.

I want to paint the downstairs bedroom a deep, deep red, and do something funky to the bed down there.

I also want to find a bead curtain with the virgin mary on it. I saw one years ago in a shop in New Orleans. I didn't have a place for it then, I think it was too much money, as well.

I want to put that sucker between the living room and the downstairs bedroom. I want to buy some new curtains for the downstairs, and I also want to finish the entry way.

Baby steps, though. So tomorrow I grout! I will soak the paper backing off the tiles, and grout. I will not obsess over the tiling job. I will not think that there is too much space between tiles. I will respect, and like the job that Alan put so much time into.

I know that I have control issues. I know that my OCD-like tendency stuff is destructive. So, I'm going to let go.

Then, we can call the people who resurface bathtubs, and we'll have them come in and fix the tub all pretty.

I might actually re-grout the floor as well. Then, with a sigh of relief, we can pretty much call that bad boy finished, and move on to the entry way.

I am proud, and impressed by all the work that Alan's done. And a little sad that I'm such a slacker.

I really want to work on the outside of the house this summer. I would like to think about the garden, and the front porch. I would like to think seriously about the windows, 'cause we can't do another winter like this one.

I can't wait to drag the wheel out onto the back porch, and do some spinning...I would love to see what is going to come up this spring. I would like to start a compost bin. I would like to cut and stack wood for the fire pit. I would love to figure out some rain barrels.

I want to plant some climbing vines on the west side of the house, 'cause that fucking side of the house gets so much sun it's painful in the summer.
But mostly, without sounding like some sort of hippy, I want to be more mindful and happy while I do this work.

Alan is really good at that, for the most part. He seems to inherently like the process, and isn't so concerned about everything being perfect. He can just sit back and enjoy. He's also better at habits than I am...he just gets into a groove, and then just does things.

I admire that.

Spring is almost here.

I'm coming, Dan and Telina

So, if there was a sentence that summed up what I want to do in California this time:

I'm here to drink some wine, and buy some fiber, and at some point, we're going to run out of wine.

Okay, so last time we visited T. and D., the first night was a silly, silly night of cheese eating, wine drinking, and in one person's case, late-night trailer puking.

We will not let that happen. This time we will be grown ups. This time we will not go into a freak-show, wine geek, show and tell, that slowly de-evolves into lots of drunken "I love you's" and "I really, really miss you. Hippie"

We will not smoke medical marijuanna. Ever. Again.

We will not drink 19 bottles of wine in one night.

We will not be super damaged, and we will eat and drink ourselves silly. In moderation and stuff. There will be morning beers. I learned this magic at the funeral in Wyoming, and I'll tell you, there's nothing like a crisp morning beer, with the fog rolling in off the mountains...er... off the bay.

We will not yell at our husband for bringing beach sand into the tent...er...guest house.

You hear me Dan? I know you read this fucker, you're just scared to comment, like the government doesn't already have you on the radar, buddy.

We will eat at super-secrect, Chef Caputo suggested Dim Sum places. We will order the Chicken Feet, and goddamnit, we will like it.

This is a bullshit manifesto based on nothing but all that makes me happy, and you will comply.


Or, uh, we'll just do it like we did the last time.

Plans...to take over the world

Or not.

Really, I'm not sure if I want to take over the world, I just want to go to California, and see Telina and Dan.

Alan and I are planning to take a little trip to California over Spring Break, and visit his family.
We won't be staying with his Mom and Dad for two reasons (well, more than that, but these are the big two).

Flesh eating bacteria. Yeah. You saw it here first. Alan's parents have been complaining about 'spider bites' for some time now. Turns out, they were boils
(ewwwww), and they are caused by flesh eating bacteria. Yeah, I'll pass on sleeping, eating or bathing in a house that has that teensy little problem.

The house is cold, damp, and I don't ever feel like having sex there.

So, we'll be staying in a hotel. I love hotels. Fancy sheets, and a thousand channels of cable television.

My biggest conundrum is that I'm going to have to leave my wheel behind. Or not. I'm already figuring out how I can bring the wheel, er make sure I get my fix, on our little vacation.

Maybe I could just knit with some of the yarn? Ha, I say, Ha. Knitting is fun, sure, more fun that a hooker and a bucket of KFC, but not as fun as spinning.
Right now, at least.

I have a plan to spin up enough yarn to knit into a sweater this summer. Two pounds of wool. That's a lot of yarn. It's sort of my informal challenge to myself. I'm not sure if there's anything in my stash that I want to wear...so maybe I should look for roving...

We'll be going to Napa Valley, and there is one great spinning shop in San Fran, and at least one out in Napa. Wine and wool, nothin' rocks better than that. Oh, and Dan and Telina! That's even better. Oh, and seeing lil' kids who are related to me. That's cool, too.

Maybe I'll knit. I still have to finish the cursed mittens. Oh, and I've got a couple of hanks of new yarn that I made that I should take out for a spin. No pun intended.

Wine of the Week:

2003 Runquist Syrah
Paso Robles, California

Um, yeah. This is tricksy, seductive little wine. When you first open the bottle, you think, whatever...it's just a fruit bomb. Sure, a perfectly balanced fruit bomb, that has a finish that lasts, and lasts, and lasts, but shit, it's a fruit bomb. Then the magic happens. Pepper, and coffee, and leather, oh my! Not a fruit bomb. The slightly grippy tannins suggest that you could keep this around for a couple of years, if you wanted to, but why wait?

All introspective and shit

So yesterday I vented. Perhaps I shouldn't have, but I did. There are so many bad things in the world, and sometimes, they bother me.

And yet, today, listening to Waylon Jennings and the Clash, with the sunlight reflecting off my old wood floors, sitting upstairs with some coffee, things might not be that bad.

Sure, my house is colder than a witch's tit. Sure, Phang, the hairless one is curled up directly on one of our radiators trying to keep warm, and sure, in less than one hour I have to be bathed, spit shined, and happy to teach some stranger and her friends about wine (but, hey, they bought me at an auction for AIDS research, so it's like drinking for a cause, right?)

Alan is creating small, Cathulu creatures out of sculpy, and then sticking wool onto them. My wheel is in the corner, at rest. I have lots and lots of books, and wool, and good friends that I love. There is wine in the cellar (some of it made by us), Bud in the fridge, and food on the shelves.

All of this is good, and unexpected. I didn't dream that we would be the only white people in a high-crime neighborhood, homeowners, and that I would find a career (not a job) in wine. Ten years ago, I knew fuck-all about wine. (Some would argue that I still know fuck-all)
I always thought that we would be living in Wicker Park in a run-down loft for ever, and ever. We even have furniture that didn't come from the alley now.

Weird. Late night slut-bartender to wine professional. Ten years ago, I didn't even drink wine.
Now, it's what I do for a living. It feeds my soul.
Two years ago, I was miserable. Overworked, and on the fast track to burn out.
I let other people define who I was, and what I should do. I surrounded myself with people who were really nothing more than vampires, addicts, and in one very special episode of 'Jan's Life' a really self-involved hairdresser who nearly destroyed my faith in humanity with her 'friendship'.

Fuck them. I'm really, really happy now.

It's cold out. Now.
But the bulbs that I planted last fall will bloom, and the strawberry plants are holding on. Maybe this year we'll get fruit.

The good, the bad, and the ugly

...is one of my favorite movies. Really. There's just something sooooo badass about sweaty dangerous men, out in the middle of 'the west' doing dangerous, criminal things. In the movies.
In real life, not so much. My life is so not filled with criminals and dynamite. My life is filled with a spinning wheel. Seriously. I'm not kidding. Since Alan is the best husband ever, he and I went on a field trip to Maringo, Ill. on Saturday, and picked out a wheel. It's a sweet little wheel, and frankly, I can't stop touching it. I'm obsessed. I've been trying new techniques, learning, learning, learning. And when I'm done, I have yarn. Some of which doesn't suck. I also bought a buttload of fiber to turn into yarn. Which is awesome. I'm a sucker for colored balls and batts of pretty hair. That's what this has all come to. So, that's the good.
The bad? The death of my Mom's sister, and the funeral. The trip to Riverton, Wyoming sort of fucked up my schedual, and left me feeling absolutely tired and drained. There was a silver lining however. That side of the family is awesome. Seriously funny, intelligent, People who Drink.
Sure, men are men. They have guns, and women cook. And I had to hear "I just couldn't live in a big city" about a thousand times.
"Uh, yeah you could...and frankly, I could live in a small town. I just choose to live in a big city. Don't sell yourself short."
So, it was good to reunite with a side of my family that I had been rather estranged from.
My favorite moment was when I was accused of secretly being the author of "Brokeback Mountain." What could be better?
I did come back from that sucker seriously stressed out, though. Mostly work related, but there was a little stress about what happens if my Mom dies? How can I keep her alive forever? I'm not sure that I could take her dying. Facing that eventuality saddens me beyond belief. So, that's the bad.
The ugly? My friend Shane's life. Without going into details, his life is in shreds right now. There's not a whole shitload I can do to help, either. He's in a place where no matter what decisions he makes, his life is going to change drastically, and it's going to be a painful, screwed up time for he and Izzy.
Having a child means that every single decision that you make has to be weighed by your concern for that child. (You hear me, Katie? Every fucking choice. Every single thing you do has to be good for you kid. Not just 1 out of 5. 1 out of 5 makes you a shitty parent. 2 out of five? No prize to you. 4 out of 5? Still not good enough. 5 out of 5. Hear me.)
Word.
I'm not sure what choices I would have to make if I had a kid. I'm sure I'd be plagued with self-doubt constantly, and I'm sure I'd find plenty of reasons to worry, and fret. But what pisses me off so much about this situation is that this isn't the little shit. This is big, life-destroying behavior, that has happened over and over. And it's not good for Izzy. Period. End of story.
The choices that have been made by both parents consistently ignores the big picture, and focuses on little details.
Yeah, ballet classes are a great idea. If your rent is paid. And you aren't struggling with a bigger fucking problem. I'm angry. There is a beautiful child in the middle of this shitstorm. She didn't ask to be born.
I'm angry with the world, because it's such a shitty place. I'm angry because it's a world that forces people to make choices that suck.
I'm angry with people who consistently delude themselves.
I'm just fucking angry, and sad. So sad. Because at the end of the day, it's really none of my business what happens, and my job is to support my friend, whatever choices he makes. And I will.
I promise.

Fug You? Not so much

Okay, since ebola put me to bed for four days, there's not so much Fug You.

Really, if I see nobody but Alan, and my cats, there's just nobody to hate.

So, Fuck you, ebola-like stomache flu virus thingy.

On a somewhat hatey and "fug you" note, if you go to shamelessrestaurants.com, and click on "other cities", go to the Chicago forums.You can see a very long, pretty darn funny, flame-filled thread on my old boss Dion Antic, of Food and Drink (Iggy's, Harry's Velvet Room, ect.)

It's so nice to know that other people hate, too. And hate much more than I do.

Of course it's not so recent for me, so the hate has probably faded...but I'm not so sure that I ever hated Dion like some of these people. Feared him, at some point, then, was just sorta sad that he wasn't as cool as his PR, then well, sure, I had absolute contempt for him, but, really, who doesn't?

Sure, Dion is a sad little man, but he always paid me. Most bar/club owners are egomaniac, coke-sniffing freaks who fuck their more-attractive employees. I am thankful I got into fine dining and left the bars behind.

Dion is no better or worse than most, but damn, the posts that he posted on himself are truely a look into the black hole where his soul used to be. I wonder what it's like to be that empty?

Next week is filling up, work-wise.

I think I'm speaking at some sort of cheese thing for 'the company' on Monday, then there's class on Tuesday, I'm helping a friend re-vamp a restaurant's wine list on Thursday(or, if that doesn't happen, I'm going to go to a spinning guild meeting. Then I'm sure the company has me for the weekend.

I would really love to have a Saturday off. There, I've said it.

I want a whole Saturday to do shit with Alan. I want to get up, and go thrift shopping. Then, maybe look for some sort of 'Stash Storage'. Yarn stash, not anything else, degenerates. Then, lunch. Come back, maybe work on the house for a couple of hours, then take a shower, and go out to dinner, or see a band, or maybe hang out with a couple of friends at a bar, have a couple of drinks, or even see a movie.

Or, I'd like to drive out to Maringo, Illinois, and go to the spinner/wool paradise out there.
Or, drive out to Janesville, see the llamas, buy some wool, and try out a spinning wheel, then lunch, (see above to end of perfect Saturday) you know, fun stuff.

What I don't want to do is be at a restaurant, as an employee, for one weekend night. Or, beholden to work at somebody's private party.

Knitting wise, I'm done with the front of Izzy's sweater, and i'm about 3 inches into the back. It's a quick knit, and I think it's going to be done within two weeks.
Alan's sweater: I'm almost done with the body, then onto the sleeves, then the turtle neck. I'm thinking that this might be done by the end of February.

Wine of the week:

2003 Granger "Cuvee Speciale"
Julienas, France

If you find this, buy and drink. It's fucking amazing. Complex, full bodied, earthy, fruity...it's got everything. It's a rock out with your cock out kind of geek wine. I bought a case. If you're lucky, you'll get to drink this with me.

Sick, Sick, Sick

That's what I am. Sick.

Right now, I'm cowering on the couch upstairs, shivering. My eyes hurt. My neck hurts, and my head hurts.

I slept all day yesterday. Woke up at 11 am today. Had juice. Went back to sleep and woke up again about a half hour ago (2pm)

I would like to clean, or organize, or knit or do anything...but I can't.

I'm pathetic. Please send ice cream.

Fridays are for "Fug You"

I think that Fridays are for bitching. My week has been uneventful, for the most part, but I think that there are certain things that need to be addressed every once in a while.

Mainly the list of stupid people that I run into.

Kid on the Diversey Bus:

If you are rapping, loudly, you need to go fuck yourself. Double this if

a) you are white. Score!

b) you are wearing a really stoopid looking fake-fur parka and a belt buckle that lights up to present the message of your choice. I noticed that yours read "Whitey" No shit. Double score!

c)you rhyme "Chi-town" and "my town". You are not dope. You are not "the voice of the mean streets". Dude, considering where I got on the bus, you most likely got on at Diversey and Harlem. Not a rough place.

Kid on the Diversey Bus, shut the fuck up. Forever. You are only embarassing yourself.


Guy who asked me for change in Lakeview.

You are wearing really nice clothes. Your shoes were spotless.

Fuck you.


The lady who needed to talk about 'white people' on the North Avenue Bus (see a pattern?)

I'm right here. I could correct many of your mistaken ideas, but since you seem to know everything about *all* white people, I'll just keep quiet. I'll just say, I'm surprised to find out that all white people :

Don't give correct change in some sort of global conspiracy.
Sell good stereos to each other, and only sell the broken shit to people of color.
Work to keep your son out of a university.

(This was not all...there was much, much more. These were just the highlights)

I mean, how do I have time to knit and have sex with Alan, what with oppressing you?

Lady on the Bus, shut the fuck up. Perhaps the fact that you've devoted all this time to conspiracy plots ment that you perhaps put your son's edumacation on the back burner?

My boss(es). Just in general, 'cause if you didn't do something to piss me off by friday, you'll sure as hell do something this weekend. Don't even pretend.

The emoliscious duo. If, you have a new apartment, and you have a car between the two of you, and you have a couple of days off, get your shit outta my house. It's almost a week since you dissappeared into the night. No call? No "Hey, we're thinking that on X day we'll be over to take some stuff, return the key, ect?"

Rude. Unacceptable.

Get your rotting food out of my refrigerator. Get your half-eaten crackers off my counter. Get your shoes out of my entry way...or, at least give me time frame. Cause, see I want the molding coffee cup that's in the bedroom back in the kitchen, and since the guest room belongs to you, and I don't want to invade your privacy (or, wade through the three feet of shit that is piled all over that room), I can't have it until you tie up loose ends.

Even when I was your age, I was soooooooo much more responsible. See, when I left my room a complete and utter mess, I was paying rent. Then, my mess was paid for. My roomates couldn't say shit about it. There's the rub.


So, emo kids, get your shit together. You are both nice kids. I still think you are both nice, smart funny kids, but I think you lied when you said you were clean and neat. Totally lied.

Fridays are soooooo for Fug You

See, I'm old. I'm uptight. I have issues.

Hot Pink Yarn

One day, I shall have a digital camera, and I shall display pictures, but alas, no time soon.

Until then, let me talk about hot pink yarn, or, more to the point, the four year old that picked out the hot pink yarn.

Yesterday, my friend Izzy (four years old) and I went to buy all the things that you need to make a sweater. A sweater for Izzy. And, since Izzy is four, I figured she should have maximum control over said sweater, because, uh...if she didn't, she wouldn't ever wear the fucking thing.

So, Izzy and discussed color over the phone. "Pink. Or, Pink and Green. With a cat and a Rainbow?" I told Izzy that maybe the cat and rainbow are beyond my skill level. Okay, what I really said was, "We need to work from a pattern. Do you know what a pattern is? "

"No."

"It's the instructions. Like the rules to Candyland."

"I don't like rules."

"I know, honey. That's why you cheat."

She giggled. "I know. I cheat."

If we all had that much self-awareness, we'd be better off as a species.

So, Izzy and I went off to the yarn store. Izzy was perfectly well-behaved, and sweet, as she always is with me. I've got 'special friend clout', which means, for the most part, Izzy doesn't ever really misbehave around me. It's something that, if I were a parent, would really piss me off. But, I digress.

So, we looked at patterns. One thing I noticed is that Izzy would choose patterns based on the little kids in the pictures. She picked the ones that looked happy, or were doing something "fun." She didn't really choose based on color of sweater (which surprised me...I thought we'd have to talk about how "we can make the sweater in any color, hot stuff, 'cuz that's different".

Instead, we talked out how the kids in the pictures looked rich, and how it's good to have lots of money. (A concept which, btw, fucking horrified me).

I, of course, said that the kids in the pictures looked happy, not rich. And while having enough money to pay the rent and keep yourself in macaroni and cheese is good, being rich is not necessarily a good thing. How lots of rich people are unhappy, and lots of rich kids don't have mommy and daddy who spend time with them, and how Izzy is really lucky to have parents who love her and spend time with her, and how that's way more important than being rich.

"And you."

"What, honey?"

"You spend time with me too, so that means that I'm lucky, right. Cause I have friends, like Dave, and you, who spend time with me?"

Amen.

So, we picked a turtleneck sweater, which is done on number nine needles in a 1x1 rib, which might drive me insane. There might be some tiny changes made to that pattern. I'm just sayin'.

Then, we picked the yarn.

That kid has awsome taste in fiber. She breezed right past the Cascade 22o (an inexpensive wool yarn), and headed right towards the 'good stuff'. She's a yarn snob in the making. God, I don't know if I'll ever feel prouder of her.

She fondled the yarn like a pro. Picked it up, and rubbed her little cheek against it, and said "This is really soft."

I could have cried. In her hands was my favorite yarn. Malibrigio. 100 percent merino wool, soft as a baby's ass, and lovely to knit with. No machine washable yarn for this kid. No acrylics.
Sure, the name is "Barbie Rose", and to me, it's fucking pink. Too pink, but what the fuck, she's four, and aren't we all allowed to love pink at four?

We went back to Izzy's house after lunch. I taught her the knitting poem.

Open the door.

Put on a scarf

Take the cat out

Before the cat barfs.

And she wrapped the yarn over my needles at the appropriate time.

The kid's a natural.


In many ways, the best time I've had in a long time.

These are the days...

Let's be frank, 2005 wasn't all 'highlights'.

There were some real bummers, as well.

The husband getting robbed at gunpoint in front of our house.

A couple of good friends have been going through some very hard times. (I love you Shane)

The plumber had to come out a couple of times (He always costs lots and lots of money).

Lessons Learned?

None really. Sometimes people go through shit. Sometimes you can't fix the leak by yourself. Sometimes some kid decides to rob whitey.

Note to the shithead who robbed Alan: Fuck you. You only got three dollars. So fuck you very much, and your stupid cultural bias that all white people are rich.

Abortion in Yarn

So uh, yeah...what did I knit in the few short months that my obsession has started?
Let's see...in order of knitting.

Keyhole scarf and matching hat for my mom (still not sent), and frankly, they are so ugly, that they might not be sent. See, this was my very first thing I knit, and I did fall into the trap of novelty yarn.

I sorta hate these things, and, frankly, think that I can do much, much better now.

Lesson Learned? Novelty yarn is not my friend.

Stripy scarf for my husband (the sexiest evolutionary biologist at UIC). Though the quality of the finished product (weave in ends? Huh? Whatever, I'll just knot these bad boys.) leaves something to be desired, he loves it, and wears it all the time. So, it's not that bad, is it?

Lesson Learned? My husband Rocks.

Big-ass furry fucking poncho-thing. Uh, yeah, I didn't really understand about gauge yet, so I just picked the biggest, chunky angora I could, then used a strand of mohair. Then just knitted away on size fifteen needles.

Does it shed? Like a Persian cat in July, baby. Uh yeah, and it was huge, and so I felted it. Uh, now it looks like something any old caveman would just casually toss on to go kill a mamoth.
I do wear it though, since the house in the ghetto gets cold, since it has no insulation, and that makes it chilly.

Lesson Learned? Gauge swatches are your friend. Use them. Also furry yarn sheds like a motherfucker.

Cleaves, from knitty.com

Okay, so the gauge thing sunk in. And, I bought beautiful Manos to make it with, and I really like the sleeves part, it's just that the cowl is really freakin' big, and I don't think the pattern really was well thought out, and I am now thinking that it's time to frog the cowl, re-size the cowl part, and re-knit it.

Lesson learned? If the model for something is standing all weird and twisty, think twice.

Mittens for Dan.

No pattern, just me thinking that I could do it. Bad. Bad. Me need pattern, and DPN's. They are an abortion in yarn. I am re-making them.

Lesson Learned? Directions and patterns are not the enemy.

Purse for Telina. Pretty, little, felted. Cute. No pattern, but I Understand the concept of the felted purse, and can sorta just get along. Not sent yet, 'cause of the abortion in yarn, and Dan and Telina live together like Dirty Hippies in a RV with tons of cats.

Lesson Learned? Felted purses are sooooo freakin' easy.

Scarf for Little Hateful. Feather and Fan lace pattern. Good yarn. Soft merino. Soft as a high-priced hooker's ass. Light blue. It turned out better than I could ever imagine. She loves it. I loved it. Her mom even liked it. Wow.

Lesson Learned? If you think very carefully about what you are about to knit, and the moon is in just the right place, and those voodoo candles you light aren't a scam, things will all work out.

The Lorna's Laces scarf. I bought worsted yarn, which I thought was very cute. I was going to knit a very cute little vest from Loop-D-Loop (yes, Teva, I bought your freakin' book).
Uh, except the nice lady at the yarn store totally lied to me when she said that the mohair and the Laces looked cute together. Totally lied. 'Cause when I knitted a swatch (see gauge lesson, above) they looked like shit together. So then I thought, scarf, and I'll do the feather and fan thing, 'cause that's cute, but now that I'm, like three feet into this fucker, I still think that it looks like four pounds of shit in a three pound bag.

Lesson learned?

Cute yarn in skein does not=Cute yarn knitted up.

So, here in the little house in the ghetto, lots of things were learned from knitting.

Oh, and yeah, someday, I'll begin to post pictures.