Month: June 2005 (Page 3 of 4)

Lady Eleanor from Scarf Style 

I’m really enjoying the entrelac & it’s 100% due to the Noro yarn. I just LOOOOVE the colors. The picture has the pinks a little brighter, the dark greens too dark, but all-in-all, you get the idea of how it looks. I’m knitting this on slightly smaller needles (8 or 9, vs. 10.5) so it’s not going to be the 27″ wide (I’m cool with that), but hopefully I’ll have enough yarn to get it long enough without having to stretch it. I bought the yarn from Wool Needlework – color #134. They have awesome prices, and they’re fast!

Get $5 coupon from Kristin for Adagio Teas, and after much delay, decide the Iced Tea Pot Set would be a perfect workday amenity, especially since summer has arrived.

Have it delivered to work. Wonder why it is not arriving.

Have it show up at home, finally, because of mistake on address & the zip code (that part was my fault); haul into work, where its usage was intended.

Be one of a select few to discover how to get hot water out of the water filtration system. Spill some on the floor to mark point of discovery. Burn your hand from the steam if you like, it’s purely optional.

While pitcher sits, full of ice, set brewpot on handy black trivet-like-thing that arrived with it. Proceed to write the word “Trash” on three sides of the cardboard box so they take it away this time.

Turn around and realize you have the trivet upside down and it is triggering the “open” mechanism on the bottom of the brewpot. You will know this because 1/2 the hot tea contents are now slowly winding around the surface of your desk, soaking all papers in its undulating berry-blast red-river path. AWESOME!

Note how refreshed and herbal your freshly-wiped-down desk seems.

Empty brewpot into pitcher and re-brew a little more tea, repeating most of the above. Do not make mistake with trivet again.

Marvel at one’s ability to get dressed in the morning and mentally thank your higher power that the computer was not harmed in the process of making iced tea. Because there’s only so much leeway you get as a new employee, no matter what or where.

Enjoy iced tea and wonder if it will be tomorrow, next month, or six months from now that this process is repeated, if ever.

Last Friday evening, we attended the wedding of my former co-worker. This girl never fails to crack me up, sometimes in amazement, because she can talk like no other person I’ve met. Ever. Kristin once said she liked to watch me, watching her. Probably because I got slackjawed. You know how you think you’re pretty good, if not plain good, at some things? I’m like that about talking, but I know when I’m in the presence of a professional.

All of that’s neither here nor there. It was a very nice wedding & party, and they were a gorgeous couple. The funny part was that the wedding was basically inaudible (except for Steph. I heard everything she said, clear as a bell.) I heard about every third word, and actually got into a fit of giggles with another former co-worker that seemed to come for no reason and every reason all at once. The minister performing the service? Sounded like he’d just finished up the voicework for the re-release of the Princess Bride. Remember that wedding scene? MAWWWAGE. and TWOO WUV. Now, I’m not saying this particular minister had a true speech impediment? But the way the sound reached me, it sure clanged those familiar bells and then the fact that James had to elbow me every time we were done with bowing our heads (I couldn’t hear the “All clear, raise your heads” command), it just got to me. And then when you can see other people in front of you, also doing the “huh? Can you hear any of this?” looks, it’s just a teetering moment on the edge where you hope you can stop the silent giggle-shaking before you make a scene that everyone CAN hear. (We were able to stop.)

But it’s still one of the most fun ways to laugh, where it feels like it could explode out of control, ripping through everything that’s proper and well-mannered, and you never know if in that next second, you’ll be on the floor, writhing & guffawing and crying from the pain in your stomach muscles & hoping you don’t wet your pants but you wouldn’t know because you can’t feel your legs anymore. I did that once, in high school (lost control laughing, not wet my pants.) We were at a drama competition, and watching another school do a choral reading. Unfortunately, they all walked in, looking mournful & sad, holding plastic daisies & singing “Where Have All The Flowers Gone.” I flat-out lost it. LOST IT. I got in so much trouble from our coach, it still makes me squint. But it was so over-the-top. I was lying down on our bleacher, trying to hide behind another student, while the giggles and laughter squeezed out of me like a balloon being stretched open horizontally at the opening, squeaking and honking, tears streaming out of my eyes.

James hit that point at the wedding, actually. He had the car keys, and was bored out of his gourd. Our group of co-workers (half of whom don’t work there anymore) were gathered for pictures & we were laughing about the idea of that photo being on the company intranet in their little “daily picture” slot…. I look over, and JWo is crying, laughing. Turns out, he could see the people standing outside smoking, and we were parked near that doorway, and he started hitting the little “beep” on the car remote that indicates it’s locked. The people would turn, startled & look at the car. Apparently, he’d been doing this for about 10 minutes, waiting until they’d resume talking & smoking & then doing some rapid-fire beeps. I had no idea what he was doing but just seeing him laughing & wiping tears from his eyes made ME start laughing, and once I found out what he’d been doing, I laughed harder. My soulmate.

May all of you laugh like that at least once this week. It’s good for the soul. And stomach muscles (not to mention a whole lot easier than those pesky ab crunches.)

I’m going to just say this & not go on another rant, like yesterday’s: I wasn’t surprised at all that Michael was found not guilty. I thought mayyyybe on one or two of the lesser charges, he miiiight be? But I figured he would get off scot-free. And looky-looky, the American justice system once again proves that if you have money, you can overcome most obstacles that would bury you or me.

I will admit that I wasn’t gung-ho with the idea of him going to prison, because I expected he’d be dead within a week, essentially, and while I don’t know what the truth is, I know he has some serious issues, and he needs help. SERIOUS HELP. And parents who continue to send their kids there for weekend sleepovers and parties? Need to also get some help. And that’s all I’ve got to say ’bout this.

I’ve had it with temper tantrums and the pretense that Hollywood stars deserve all this privacy and no cameras and no consequences, blah blah blah. Russell Crowe? Needs some anger management, he’s no different than the dude down at the Ford plant who blows up because he’s drinking too much lately & he’s worried about paying his bills and he pops some smart ass in the nose on the wrong day at the wrong time. But Russell will have different consequences – either paying off the hotel concierge, or paying a very expensive lawyer to plead down charges to something as inane as “littering”. The Ford plant dude will have consequences. One of the snotty Olsen twins was just photographed flipping off the paparazzi. Now that’s the image Wal-Mart and their saccharine-sweet teen flicks want to sustain. You know what? I think my breaking point came when I started reading about all the FREE SHIT these people get, just for being a)pretty, b)rich, c)connected or d)lucky. We’re not talking free Downy samples or a little Dixie cup of new Splenda-sweetened Diet Coke, like you or I get when we go to SuperTarget. We’re talking BLING fuckin’ BLING, iPods and shit that you and I have to think and weigh and measure and wonder if we’ll ever shell out the money for – some things we’ll never buy – I don’t need thousand-dollar sunglasses, my ass can easily break the cheap ones from Target, with less angst to boot. We’re the ones who fund their lifestyles, by paying for the movies, music, watching the television shows, buying the products within, worn and seen. Where’s my gift basket? Russell? Mary-Kate? Tom? Just pick up the phone, I’ll give you my address, you can send me one of your 17 iPods.

In the meantime? I’m not going to feel an ounce of sympathy for your wilted life in the spotlight. You have a shitton of money, you can go buy yourself an island and chill, complete with some B-grade actor hired to bring you fruity drinks. Meanwhile, I’ll be trucking around Kansas City, living my non-diamond-encrusted-life, scooping my margaritas out of a bucket in the freezer. And that’s ok, quite frankly. The behavior half y’all exhibit tells me the person you become isn’t necessarily the person I want to be. Just quit yer bitchin’ & bad behavior.

I probably need to stop watching VH1’s “Fabulous Life of….”

Last night at the wedding reception, I made a blunder. A Gaffe. A Hilarity of Grand proportions, one I will live with FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE, according to my husband. Because that is the only thing that is fair, given that I jump on anyone else’s goof, funny, error and make it into a taffy pull of humor.

First off, two guys we didn’t know sat at our table. As easy as it is for me to glibly talk with strangers, sometimes it just requires good old fashioned work. So I’m running through all the blind date questions I can barely remember. “Where did you go to school?” “Where are you from?” “What is your deepest darkest fear and how can I exploit it to my advantage?” (Wait, that’s one I save.) And so I was talking about going to Grinnell, and the one guy’s from Iowa, and he knew of Grinnell & its reputation, and that it is the least-Iowan kind of school, despite being smack in the middle of the cornfields.

Always eager to trumpet my alma mater, I lean forward and say, “Yes! It is! They bring in all sorts of people, I once had dinner with Rosa Parks!”

And I can tell from everyone’s IMMEDIATE reaction that I have fucked it up. Because I usually have to explain who NOT ROSA PARKS, BUT GWENDOLYN BROOKS is when I say I had dinner with her when I was a junior in college. Keep in mind, I’ve only had two beers & a plate of food, this isn’t a gin-induced transgression. My mind is now flying as fast as a child’s flipbook cartoon. Rosa. Rosa. Sammy Sosa. Rosa Parks. Oh Shit. Bus. Seat. Rosa Parks. Who did I really have dinner with. Not Rosa. No Bus Seat. HELL.

So then I had to come clean, and of course, Gwendolyn Brooks, despite being a Pulitzer-prize winning POET, born in Kansas and from Chicago, a poet I believed everyone had read in 10th grade English, her most famous one, “We Real Cool”, but not quite as cool as keepin’ your seat on the bus during the civil rights movement, because that is ROSA PARKS Jennifer, and may you never, ever forget it again.

To honor Ms. Brooks, I give you her poem. Written in the 1950’s – the words are still profound. It was an honor to meet her.

We Real Cool

THE POOL PLAYERS.
SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

I take this post inspiration from the latest Berroco “Knit Bits” email newsletter. The madness is going to have to stop. “What madness?” you naively ask. Well, that’s a broad question, sweetie, and there are far too many starting places in the exciting, popular world of knitting. Our friends at Berroco are always eager to push the envelope and develop edgy, “out-there” designs to keep the young, hip, and unstable under their spell. For instance, and it’s just me talkin’ here, but we don’t need to crochet moccassins, unless we’re starring in a re-enactment of Custer’s Last Stand, and even then? I just don’t think it’s worth the time. Nor do we need to knit ourselves swimsuits, even if you’re sporting the newest Hollywood Cokehead body that seems to be all the rage.

Last, but not least? The poncho. The poncho. I am not completely anti-poncho, nor am I anti-lefty, but I think we’ve got enough poncho patterns out there to satisfy the masses. Undaunted, our high-fashion knitware designers soldier on and present us with a poncho that is described as “a very wearable poncho.”

IF YOU LIVE IN A PINEAPPLE UNDER THE SEA! And even Sir Spongebob would pick a more cheerful color.

The only positive thing I can say?

At least it’s not a man-cho.

NO. VERBOTEN. CUIDADO. NO NO NO. Even if you’re gay. This violates everything we have tried to accomplish as knitters, feminists, tastemakers and designers. Only Juan Valdez can wear garments like this, and his might be a ruana. And anyway, he picks coffee and his only friend is a DONKEY, so would you take fashion advice from The Juan? NO! NO! The poncho madness must stop! STOP! This one’s courtesy of Lion Brand, and it should be set on fire. I’m not sure I’d wait long enough for him to take it off, either. OY. And I just noticed, his pants have zippers on the upper thighs. You would be snagged to kingdom come with pants like that and a Homespun poncho. Snaggy AND Trashy. Wait, isn’t that the new Paris Hilton reality show? Thank god SHE hasn’t taken up knitting. It probably involves too much of that “counting” thing, anyway.

OK. No more ranting. I’m leaving for the day. I love summer hours! (See? I can be positive!)

I have cranked on the baby stuff these past couple of weeks, making some baby booties for a woman at work, and finishing Anouk from knitty.com for my good friend’s daughter. I’m actually referred to as “Auntie Jen”, and I’m so honored by that; she’s just precious & I hope I can be as good of an Aunt to her as my Auntie Karen’s always been to me.

The baby booties were knit in Paton’s Kroy sock yarn, doubled. The pattern is the “Textured Booties” – super duper easy – from “Fifty Baby Bootees to Knit”, by Zoe Mellnor, and these are great for quick, fast presents. There are many elaborate booties in the book, and I’ve made the duck feet booties as well, so if you haven’t seen the book, it’s worth a flip through, if only to coo and ooh over all the CUTENESS!

Anouk is made with Cascade Pima Tencel, in exactly the colors called for in the pattern. Nobody in town sells this yarn, so I ordered it from Webs. The only thing I didn’t do? Reverse the intarsia pattern on the pockets. Because if knitting with cotton makes me cranky, knitting colorwork makes my barely-there eyebrows furrow. The upside of this yarn is that it’s like a cotton version of cashmere, it’s really that soft. Everyone who’s touched it has been surprised! And then they don’t stop touching it. So if you were thinking of making a summery tee or shell or something out of cotton, you might want to consider this yarn, it’s $5 a ball & if you spend levels of money at Webs, you get a percentage off. No, I don’t get any commission. DAMMIT JEN.

Enough already, let’s get to the pictures!

Textured bootees! 

Precious Anouk. 

We had big, blustery, tornado-threatening storms in Kansas City last night. No matter which tv station you turned to, everyone’s version of the Doppler featured RED, in vast quantities. Loads of rain. After most of it passed through, we let the dogs out before going to bed, and James walked around, noting all the bits of oak branches that had blown down. Then, he stopped & said, “Hand me that dustpan in there.” I handed him our bright red, heavy metal dustpan. He proceeds to squash a slug. EEEWWWWW. But hey, I’m not a fan of slugs, and even though I’d rather kill them kindly with a shallow pan of beer, when one is stupid enough to slither right in front of the front door, it’s going to have to tackle the killer who is the JWo.

So, we got to bed late, I’m up at 6:30, sleepy, contemplating going back to bed after I let the dogs out. Polly LOVE LOVE LOVES to get the paper. You can get her wound up inside just by saying, “Paper?” So she comes trotting up and I missed grabbing it from her mouth & it fell on the doormat. No biggie, let’s all get back in the house, no treats today for getting the paper, because I studied that Skinner dude back in my first psychology lab, and treats given randomly for learned behavior actually encourage more of the behavior than regular, expected treats. Ok! And there’s a mini psych lesson for you on this Thursday. So I take the plastic wrapper off the paper, squashing the end of it on my stomach, and toss the plastic, sort the paper & head to the bathroom with the funnies. I read all the funnies, (love me that Bucky Katz!) and just as I’m about to poooossibly go right back and sleep another half an hour, I suddenly feel that my nightgown feels all wet on my thigh.
Huh? I haven’t wet the bed in 32 years. I reach down to pull it up & examine? And my hand brings me a GIANT FUCKING BLACK SLUG that had apparently been on the bottom of the paper bag, and he spent those five minutes with me, smearing his slow steady way across my nightshirt until he hit my thigh.

I screamed.

JWo, Killer of the Slugs, did not even wake up. The slug is now on the bathroom floor, because along with screaming, there was flinging, and mind racing, and much of the flipping out.

Now, I don’t know about you, but this slug encounter now had me more awake than 13 cups of coffee. And while I guess slugs are part of the universe to break down matter and all? I cannot deal with them on my body. Pardon me while I stop to itch all the hair that has stood up on my head while I’ve re-lived this experience.

So, I’m not fond of smushing anything with a dustpan, and besides, it was three rooms away. Not that the slug was traveling anywhere at a high rate of speed, but he had made his way across a couple of tiles while I tried to collect myself. So I did what any other woman would do: Enormous wad of toilet paper, to shield the hand from feeling too much, and a darting grab, and a flush, and voila! Slug No More. In more water than he can enjoy. eeeeeesh.

I had to strip down & take a hot shower immediately, of course. It had touched my skin in two places! I tried just washing my hands, but then I saw the slimy slug trail all across the front of my nightshirt, and I flipped out again. I have a whole new level of admiration for my girlfriend Sheila, who lives in Seattle, and has told me how she’ll go on slug patrol, picking them off plants, etc. – and they’re BIG out there. I just can’t handle bugs, inverterbrates, spiders, whatever the hell category, if they’re bigger than, say, a quarter. Things that are as big or bigger than one of my fingers? Sweet lord in heaven, step back, because I’m gonna yelp.

All I can say is, slugs better not be the new bat for me, plaguing me with reoccurring terror. I will start packin’ kosher salt, and I’m not afraid to use it.

Me: “Do you ever spend time trying to remember WHY you are so irritated, when you’ve forgotten why you’re mad?”

Kristin: “Coooonstantly. Just ask Justin.”

Me: “Well that’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m mad, and I can’t remember why.”

Kristin: “I remember why.”

And that is why she’s the awesomest ever to work with. HIGH FIVES!