I swear, when it rains it pours. I either have not got one damn thing to say to you all, and I fear losing you forever, or I have so much to say you can't believe it. Funny how that works.
Yesterday was the day of my Lady Bits Checkup. I went to the doctor, and I saw a nurse practitioner, cause the doctor was somewhere else, I dunno. So, she was a lovely lady, and she was quick and thorough and chatty- that's what I like. I like to be told stories when I am wearing outfits made of paper- it helps to take my mind off the fact that I am buttass naked save for a paper vest and paper sheet thing.
So anyway, there I am on the table, and the lady is doing what the do during those appointments. I can see the top of her head, and she's talk talk talking away. Then I don't see her head anymore. I hear a crash, and as I start to half try to sit up (carefully, as my bottom was, well, out there) I see the Nurse sprawled out on the floor. Looking like those little cartoon birds are flying around her head like they do on Looney Tunes.
I was horrified. I mean, did she recoil at the sight of my...my flower? It's not the stuff adult films are made of, but I don't have vagina dentata or anything. Why did this happen? To me? While I am in stirrups and a paper suit?
It turned out that a bolt on the little stool she was using had been very loose for some time, and today it came unbolted. As she pushed back from the table, the part on which she had been sitting excused itself, and she hit the floor.
So, she was okay, I am okay, we each recouped approximately 5 shreds of dignity, and I thanked the heavens that we don't have to see each other for at least another 364 days.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
PSA: the Importance of Urban Dictionary in Political Movements
Heehee.
Doesn't the title of this post sound so scholarly? Academic? Not About Teabagging? Hold on, please allow me a moment to roll around on the floor.
All better.
Anyway, I don't really like for this blog to be about political things, or really have too much weight to it. I mean, in what universe would discussions on socialism and the like find a place in this blog? By the posts about my dog? Nestled in a post about a botched project? Yeah, that's what I thought. I know what I am good at, and it most certainly isn't sussing out the right and wrong of complex matters. Or matters more complex than say, ice cream flavors or knitting related injuries. But I have to say something.
To all the news people (except Jon Stewart and Rachel Maddow, they know what's up), the angered citizens, and nice old ladies out there, hear my cries:
TEA BAGGING DOES NOT MEAN WHAT YOU THINK IT MEANS. SERIOUSLY, IT DOESN'T.
As a point of clarification, I think that protesting is wonderful. If you don't like something, shout it from the mountaintops! From the mountains! To the oceans! To the...other things! Prairies? Those too! Get pissed, start bitching, and get all your friends who are pissed also to bitch with you. Things can change if you want them to. But there's one thing: you can shout all you like, but until the name of your little movement is not something that 13 year old boys whisper behind their hands- you don't stand a fucking chance, guys. Sorry.
As another point of clarification- the Big Bad They In Washington has really only done what you and I would do given the chance. It's called Oversight, and we Americans want it. But we don't wanna do it. We want someone else, the penultimate in trustworthiness, to watch our backs so we don't have to. What? I don't wanna do it. I'm too busy watching TV. The thing is that ultimately- We The People have ultimately reaped just what we've sown. We don't give a fuck until we can't afford to buy Cheap Plastic Crap at Wal-Mart. After that, it's time to put everyone under the microscope and proclaim politicians to be thieves and crooks. Can someone steal what you blindly hand over to them? The weren't born into their Senate and House seats, a king did not appoint them either. We did. We cast our ballots for them because the name sounded familiar, or worse- we couldn't be bothered to cast our ballot at all and trusted That Guy to do it for us. You know, the guy who blows his nose at the table in the restaurant, the lady driving the massive SUV while on her cell phone, yeah all those assholes got to write our tickets for so very long now and it's only really come to pass and now we want to teabag.
Well, if it were anatomically possible, I'd teabag the American People. But since I can't, I will laugh hysterically at the people on TV who have failed to consult with their teenage-or-older children, or UrbanDictionary.com to make sure they aren't naming themselves something so utterly and completely ridiculous that it is actually the distilled essence of the Problem With The Way Things Are Today.
Reality is too strange for me. I am going back to the Land of Domesticity, where things make sense.
Doesn't the title of this post sound so scholarly? Academic? Not About Teabagging? Hold on, please allow me a moment to roll around on the floor.
All better.
Anyway, I don't really like for this blog to be about political things, or really have too much weight to it. I mean, in what universe would discussions on socialism and the like find a place in this blog? By the posts about my dog? Nestled in a post about a botched project? Yeah, that's what I thought. I know what I am good at, and it most certainly isn't sussing out the right and wrong of complex matters. Or matters more complex than say, ice cream flavors or knitting related injuries. But I have to say something.
To all the news people (except Jon Stewart and Rachel Maddow, they know what's up), the angered citizens, and nice old ladies out there, hear my cries:
TEA BAGGING DOES NOT MEAN WHAT YOU THINK IT MEANS. SERIOUSLY, IT DOESN'T.
As a point of clarification, I think that protesting is wonderful. If you don't like something, shout it from the mountaintops! From the mountains! To the oceans! To the...other things! Prairies? Those too! Get pissed, start bitching, and get all your friends who are pissed also to bitch with you. Things can change if you want them to. But there's one thing: you can shout all you like, but until the name of your little movement is not something that 13 year old boys whisper behind their hands- you don't stand a fucking chance, guys. Sorry.
As another point of clarification- the Big Bad They In Washington has really only done what you and I would do given the chance. It's called Oversight, and we Americans want it. But we don't wanna do it. We want someone else, the penultimate in trustworthiness, to watch our backs so we don't have to. What? I don't wanna do it. I'm too busy watching TV. The thing is that ultimately- We The People have ultimately reaped just what we've sown. We don't give a fuck until we can't afford to buy Cheap Plastic Crap at Wal-Mart. After that, it's time to put everyone under the microscope and proclaim politicians to be thieves and crooks. Can someone steal what you blindly hand over to them? The weren't born into their Senate and House seats, a king did not appoint them either. We did. We cast our ballots for them because the name sounded familiar, or worse- we couldn't be bothered to cast our ballot at all and trusted That Guy to do it for us. You know, the guy who blows his nose at the table in the restaurant, the lady driving the massive SUV while on her cell phone, yeah all those assholes got to write our tickets for so very long now and it's only really come to pass and now we want to teabag.
Well, if it were anatomically possible, I'd teabag the American People. But since I can't, I will laugh hysterically at the people on TV who have failed to consult with their teenage-or-older children, or UrbanDictionary.com to make sure they aren't naming themselves something so utterly and completely ridiculous that it is actually the distilled essence of the Problem With The Way Things Are Today.
Reality is too strange for me. I am going back to the Land of Domesticity, where things make sense.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Charlie is 6 Today
Have you ever noticed how hard it is to take good pics of kitties? Just when they look all perfectly posed and handsome, they have to be weird and start romancing rocking chairs. It's so strange.
Today, Charlie turns 6 years old. He's eaten catnip and fried chicken. I thought about making him a hat but I knew better. I like my skin where it is, thankyouverymuch.
Did I ever tell you about when I got old Mr. Fatty Bear? I went to the SPCA after just having my heart broken by a Boy that I thought was Very Special. In retrospect, he really wasn't that special at all. Anyway, I went to the SPCA, determined to find someone to love me. I went hoping to find an adult female cat.
Instead, I found three black and white kittens, asleep on each other in their litter box. I took out the first one, a boy named Merlin, and took him to the Interview Room. Merlin sort of...sat there. He was okay, but not really very interesting. I looked at him. He looked at me. I put him back in his cage. Next was a little girl named Lilly. I put Lilly on the floor, and she scrambled to hide under the couch in the Interview Room. I looked at her. She looked at me. I put her back in the cage, and grabbed a tiny little guy named Joshua. Ahem. Joshua opened his eyes, leapt out of my arms, and climbed the little fake potted tree in the Interview Room. Then flung himself from there to the couch. Then from there he jumped from the back of the couch to my pants leg and climb up. Five minutes later, I was signing paperwork for him!
Obviously he underwent a name change. He's much more of a Charlie than a Joshua. I mean really, with that big goofy moustache, where the hell did Joshua come from? Had I known then what I know now I would have named him Headache, since he's pure pain and discomfort. And fuzzy and sweet and silly and handsome. He was my first pet in my Adult Life, the first one that has relied solely on me for everything. I am impressed we have made it this far. 
Today, Charlie turns 6 years old. He's eaten catnip and fried chicken. I thought about making him a hat but I knew better. I like my skin where it is, thankyouverymuch.
Did I ever tell you about when I got old Mr. Fatty Bear? I went to the SPCA after just having my heart broken by a Boy that I thought was Very Special. In retrospect, he really wasn't that special at all. Anyway, I went to the SPCA, determined to find someone to love me. I went hoping to find an adult female cat.
Instead, I found three black and white kittens, asleep on each other in their litter box. I took out the first one, a boy named Merlin, and took him to the Interview Room. Merlin sort of...sat there. He was okay, but not really very interesting. I looked at him. He looked at me. I put him back in his cage. Next was a little girl named Lilly. I put Lilly on the floor, and she scrambled to hide under the couch in the Interview Room. I looked at her. She looked at me. I put her back in the cage, and grabbed a tiny little guy named Joshua. Ahem. Joshua opened his eyes, leapt out of my arms, and climbed the little fake potted tree in the Interview Room. Then flung himself from there to the couch. Then from there he jumped from the back of the couch to my pants leg and climb up. Five minutes later, I was signing paperwork for him!
Obviously he underwent a name change. He's much more of a Charlie than a Joshua. I mean really, with that big goofy moustache, where the hell did Joshua come from? Had I known then what I know now I would have named him Headache, since he's pure pain and discomfort. And fuzzy and sweet and silly and handsome. He was my first pet in my Adult Life, the first one that has relied solely on me for everything. I am impressed we have made it this far. 
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Sock Virginity: A Thing of The Past
My computer fan really seems to be on the verge of dying this time. As such, this has to be very fast- I finished my first socks and I love them.
Pattern: Silver's Sock class
Yarn: Knit Picks Felici, in Aquarium
Needles: US2
They took forever, but I am officially hooked on socks. Love them. And I love that there was no "when the hell will I ever use THIS" in the back of my mind with these. So hooked am I that I cast on for some Monkeys today. Did you notice that the socks aren't identical? They are very quietly mismatched. I love it.
Happy April to everyone!
Friday, March 27, 2009
Let's Do the Time Warp Again!
Well, hello there stranger. Long time, no see.
I've been busy this week. That whole thing about March going out like a lamb, what does that mean? That's a temperature thing, right? It is mighty pleasant here, but only lamb-like (lamby, lambish, lambitous...we'll stick with lamb-like) if lambs are awfully busy little creatures.
Maya is doing better again. We have to go soon and have blood work done and buy more pills. Ya know, I don't want to though. I don't want her on pills anymore. I don't know that they are the right thing anymore. I mean if they were totally what is working for her, then she wouldn't have any days where she pees her pants, right? The other day I came home to find her pressed against the door to her crate, and her crate was filled with pee. It was such a copious amount of pee that I could only conclude that she tinkled because she couldn't hold it anymore. And I believe this is caused by the pills, since I know that I have told you that a very convenient side effect of them is dry mouth, increased water intake, and increased water output. Also, BF will be arriving in just a few weeks. He is bringing Lilly, Maya's new sister, with him. I think that the company of other dogs is better to her than pills, judging by how she behaved when we were visiting my mother. It's just so hard to say, ya know? The path to mental wellness is so tricky- there are meds, therapies, meds and therapies, meds that aren't the right meds, adjusting to meds, and so on. Adding in the fact that she can't talk further complicates things. Sigh.
I am still loving The Gentle Art of Domesticity. So, so much, in fact. i love it to bits. Every night I read a little- just a little. I stare at the pictures, i read and re-read the passages that appeal to me. Just the other night I caught myself closing it ever so slowly and then hugging it to my chest before setting it down. How funny is that? i just really like the book- originally i was drawn in by the talk of things I like, and the pretty pictures. But now the thing i love most about it was my original biggest fear of the book. i was afraid that it would make me feel like Martha Stewart makes me feel- slovenly, inadequate, and piss poor at making things pretty. This book does quite the opposite. Unlike Martha, the author fully acknowledges that sometimes someone may (gasp!) not have an unlimited amount of hours to spend on somesticity and The Gentle Arts (i just love that they are called The Gentle Arts.). Really what matters is doing what you can, when you can, within your own personal means, so that you fill your home with things that make you and your loved ones happy- the finer things in life, which are coincidentally the most simple. Anyway, it's a glorious book and it's added even more joy to the things I like doing. Not so much joy that I actually finish something, but that's okay. Maybe there's a section later on finishing things.
I love knitting socks, and I expect to show you a whole pair of them by the end of the weekend. that I finished. Won't that be something?
Also, somehow it turns out that I have a big vacation in the works after all. Originally BF and I were going to take a trip. Then we decided that it was a Bad Idea. then I changed our minds by getting each of us some tickets to see Phish at The Gorge in August. This will be the culmination of our trip in which we go to San Francisco, Washington, CA, two days of wandering up the coast, then George, Washington, then finally Seattle and then home. I'm so excited. Apparently I lived in California for a year when i was little, but I don't really remember. So, this will be my first REAL trip to the West Coast, and it has really become something to look forward to. Hey Other Southerners: out There, In The West, even in summer at night time they wear jackets and stuff! In August! Can you imagine? The thought of that alone will get me through the month of July, when it becomes sweltering hot. Have I mentioned that I am excited? Also, is it wrong that as soon as I started to arrange this trip, I thought right away of all the time I would have for knitting? And that this presented me with a place to take my knitting needle case? It may not Make The Most Sense Financially, but you know what? You can't take it with you. Did I tell you i am excited?
Finally, I suggest wholeheartedly that you rent Milk if you have not done so thus far. It is a beautiful movie. I loved every second of it, and I cried and cried at the end.
Well, I hope you have a fantastic weekend! Practice the Gentle Arts. Or the Martial Arts. And Crafts.
I've been busy this week. That whole thing about March going out like a lamb, what does that mean? That's a temperature thing, right? It is mighty pleasant here, but only lamb-like (lamby, lambish, lambitous...we'll stick with lamb-like) if lambs are awfully busy little creatures.
Maya is doing better again. We have to go soon and have blood work done and buy more pills. Ya know, I don't want to though. I don't want her on pills anymore. I don't know that they are the right thing anymore. I mean if they were totally what is working for her, then she wouldn't have any days where she pees her pants, right? The other day I came home to find her pressed against the door to her crate, and her crate was filled with pee. It was such a copious amount of pee that I could only conclude that she tinkled because she couldn't hold it anymore. And I believe this is caused by the pills, since I know that I have told you that a very convenient side effect of them is dry mouth, increased water intake, and increased water output. Also, BF will be arriving in just a few weeks. He is bringing Lilly, Maya's new sister, with him. I think that the company of other dogs is better to her than pills, judging by how she behaved when we were visiting my mother. It's just so hard to say, ya know? The path to mental wellness is so tricky- there are meds, therapies, meds and therapies, meds that aren't the right meds, adjusting to meds, and so on. Adding in the fact that she can't talk further complicates things. Sigh.
I am still loving The Gentle Art of Domesticity. So, so much, in fact. i love it to bits. Every night I read a little- just a little. I stare at the pictures, i read and re-read the passages that appeal to me. Just the other night I caught myself closing it ever so slowly and then hugging it to my chest before setting it down. How funny is that? i just really like the book- originally i was drawn in by the talk of things I like, and the pretty pictures. But now the thing i love most about it was my original biggest fear of the book. i was afraid that it would make me feel like Martha Stewart makes me feel- slovenly, inadequate, and piss poor at making things pretty. This book does quite the opposite. Unlike Martha, the author fully acknowledges that sometimes someone may (gasp!) not have an unlimited amount of hours to spend on somesticity and The Gentle Arts (i just love that they are called The Gentle Arts.). Really what matters is doing what you can, when you can, within your own personal means, so that you fill your home with things that make you and your loved ones happy- the finer things in life, which are coincidentally the most simple. Anyway, it's a glorious book and it's added even more joy to the things I like doing. Not so much joy that I actually finish something, but that's okay. Maybe there's a section later on finishing things.
I love knitting socks, and I expect to show you a whole pair of them by the end of the weekend. that I finished. Won't that be something?
Also, somehow it turns out that I have a big vacation in the works after all. Originally BF and I were going to take a trip. Then we decided that it was a Bad Idea. then I changed our minds by getting each of us some tickets to see Phish at The Gorge in August. This will be the culmination of our trip in which we go to San Francisco, Washington, CA, two days of wandering up the coast, then George, Washington, then finally Seattle and then home. I'm so excited. Apparently I lived in California for a year when i was little, but I don't really remember. So, this will be my first REAL trip to the West Coast, and it has really become something to look forward to. Hey Other Southerners: out There, In The West, even in summer at night time they wear jackets and stuff! In August! Can you imagine? The thought of that alone will get me through the month of July, when it becomes sweltering hot. Have I mentioned that I am excited? Also, is it wrong that as soon as I started to arrange this trip, I thought right away of all the time I would have for knitting? And that this presented me with a place to take my knitting needle case? It may not Make The Most Sense Financially, but you know what? You can't take it with you. Did I tell you i am excited?
Finally, I suggest wholeheartedly that you rent Milk if you have not done so thus far. It is a beautiful movie. I loved every second of it, and I cried and cried at the end.
Well, I hope you have a fantastic weekend! Practice the Gentle Arts. Or the Martial Arts. And Crafts.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
The Gentle Fart of Domesticity
I'd like to tell you a story. Gather round, children.
It's barely lunch, and there is already a story to tell. This morning started way too early. BF is on a business trip, and so he thought that I too might like to get up at 8:15am to chit chat. As this was a horrible error in judgement, I was too aggravated to go back to sleep at 8:30 when he finally let me off the phone with promises of blueberry pancakes once he moves here. Anyway, I got up, watched some tv, hung out with the dog, and decided that I should go get an uber coffee drink at Starbucks, and maybe wander around Barnes & Noble. Whoever thought to team the two up is an Evil Genius.
So I get my coffee and I wind up purchasing two books with the money I earned (but have not received yet) by cleaning a newly vacated apartment owned by some clients at work. Aren't I clever? I was going to blow it all on yarn, but these books called to me. I bought Weekend Sewing by Heather Ross. It's splendid. It's not intimidating, has cute projects, all easily (or so it would seem) completed and all were things that I totally wanted to make. Love. I looked at sooooo many books that I had my eye on because of the blogosphere hype of them all, and they sort of left me feeling kind of meh. But this one, oh this one had me wanting to run home and sew all sorts of things. I like that- I think that's the mark of a good, no, great book. There's a difference is a book that's nice to look at and makes me say "oh, that's a nice...thing" and one that makes me say "I LOVE that, that, that, and that and I need them in my life and feel inspired to make it so." That's how I feel about Heather Ross' book. It's neato.
Then. Oh, then I found a book I have coveted from afar but never actually held in my grubby little hands. It's The Gentle Art of Domesticity. It's beautiful. What little I have read has been sweet, thoughtful, accompanied by gorgeous photos, and just generally enthralls me. I had already planned to leave it out on the coffee table with my other Coffee Table Books (Spirit Dancer and Bitter With Baggage Seeks Same- what can I say, I am a varied and complex young lady.) So I pull up at the house with visions of cleaning a little, opening the doors and windows, planting some foxglove seeds, perhaps a little NPR, and practicing the art of domesticity, ever so gently.
Then I walked in the house and smelled shit.
Yup, Someone could not stand the thought of me having fun without her and shit her pants. Er, crate. Then i let her out of her crate, to discover that she stepped on turds with her back feet. They made these sort of Turd Hooves that thankfully didn't get on the carpet (mostly) while I chased her around the apartment. By the time I caught her she was so frazzled, I had to carry her to the bathroom. Now at this point, i will say that there is an upside to the fact that I frequently have to wash her own bodily...whatEVERS off her. That is that this dog delights in baths and has perfected her own Gentle Art of taking them. She waits for her collar to come off. Once it does, she hops in the tub on her own. She stays at the back end of it waiting for the water to be the right temp before walking into it (the tub drains sort of slowly. I bet there's two dogs worth of fur down there.) and then she stands very still while you lather her up, except for maybe giving you a kiss or eleven while you are on eye level. that's about the point where it's useless staying mad at her. So then when it's rinsing time, she puts her front paws up on the edge of the tub, so that you can make sure you get all the soap off her, please and thank you. Then she steps back down and lifts one leg at a time so that you can rinse those as well. Turn off the water and she will shake off once, hop out of the tub (more slowly and carefully than hopping in- wouldn't want to slip, now would we.) and waits to be towel dried. Again, with the Show Pony style leg lifting. She gives one thank you kiss, and then heads out to resume laying on the couch. How this civilized little doggie still insists on crapping herself, I will never know.
So yeah, this sort of sums up my life, and the constant fuckery that accompanies my attempts at crafty goodness and a lovely surrounding. I have the grandest intentions of perhaps ogling my hostas (still not over the wonder that is a plant that dies and then just decides to come back without a seance or anything. Amazing.), cleaning, working on the great kitchen makeover, knitting a few more rows of the second sock, and reading my books over and over and over again. But does that happen? Nope, not till the dog's Turd Hooves are removed, and the remaining little shit nuggets in her crate are ever-so carefully removed, the surrounding area cleaned, the room aired out, and disinfectant sprayed. Hey, we share a bedroom, Maya and I. i don't want Eau de Dookie in my room. Aromatherapy, it is not. Actually, I have started having a Pavlovian response to it almost and my blood begins to boil immediately upon smelling it. So yeah- cute tunics, vegan muffins, neatly stored balls of yarn, the quiet and thoughtful feathering of one's nest- not happening here at the Stupid house. Nope, but the gentle art of poop cleaning is in full fucking swing today, friends!
Oh and in the way of Confessional Sunday, unless you count books (which I do NOT; books are our friends and they are always allowed to be purchased and loved- AWAYS!) I am guilt free this week, and last week. I am also sadly Finished Object free, but hey- see above.
It's barely lunch, and there is already a story to tell. This morning started way too early. BF is on a business trip, and so he thought that I too might like to get up at 8:15am to chit chat. As this was a horrible error in judgement, I was too aggravated to go back to sleep at 8:30 when he finally let me off the phone with promises of blueberry pancakes once he moves here. Anyway, I got up, watched some tv, hung out with the dog, and decided that I should go get an uber coffee drink at Starbucks, and maybe wander around Barnes & Noble. Whoever thought to team the two up is an Evil Genius.
So I get my coffee and I wind up purchasing two books with the money I earned (but have not received yet) by cleaning a newly vacated apartment owned by some clients at work. Aren't I clever? I was going to blow it all on yarn, but these books called to me. I bought Weekend Sewing by Heather Ross. It's splendid. It's not intimidating, has cute projects, all easily (or so it would seem) completed and all were things that I totally wanted to make. Love. I looked at sooooo many books that I had my eye on because of the blogosphere hype of them all, and they sort of left me feeling kind of meh. But this one, oh this one had me wanting to run home and sew all sorts of things. I like that- I think that's the mark of a good, no, great book. There's a difference is a book that's nice to look at and makes me say "oh, that's a nice...thing" and one that makes me say "I LOVE that, that, that, and that and I need them in my life and feel inspired to make it so." That's how I feel about Heather Ross' book. It's neato.
Then. Oh, then I found a book I have coveted from afar but never actually held in my grubby little hands. It's The Gentle Art of Domesticity. It's beautiful. What little I have read has been sweet, thoughtful, accompanied by gorgeous photos, and just generally enthralls me. I had already planned to leave it out on the coffee table with my other Coffee Table Books (Spirit Dancer and Bitter With Baggage Seeks Same- what can I say, I am a varied and complex young lady.) So I pull up at the house with visions of cleaning a little, opening the doors and windows, planting some foxglove seeds, perhaps a little NPR, and practicing the art of domesticity, ever so gently.
Then I walked in the house and smelled shit.
Yup, Someone could not stand the thought of me having fun without her and shit her pants. Er, crate. Then i let her out of her crate, to discover that she stepped on turds with her back feet. They made these sort of Turd Hooves that thankfully didn't get on the carpet (mostly) while I chased her around the apartment. By the time I caught her she was so frazzled, I had to carry her to the bathroom. Now at this point, i will say that there is an upside to the fact that I frequently have to wash her own bodily...whatEVERS off her. That is that this dog delights in baths and has perfected her own Gentle Art of taking them. She waits for her collar to come off. Once it does, she hops in the tub on her own. She stays at the back end of it waiting for the water to be the right temp before walking into it (the tub drains sort of slowly. I bet there's two dogs worth of fur down there.) and then she stands very still while you lather her up, except for maybe giving you a kiss or eleven while you are on eye level. that's about the point where it's useless staying mad at her. So then when it's rinsing time, she puts her front paws up on the edge of the tub, so that you can make sure you get all the soap off her, please and thank you. Then she steps back down and lifts one leg at a time so that you can rinse those as well. Turn off the water and she will shake off once, hop out of the tub (more slowly and carefully than hopping in- wouldn't want to slip, now would we.) and waits to be towel dried. Again, with the Show Pony style leg lifting. She gives one thank you kiss, and then heads out to resume laying on the couch. How this civilized little doggie still insists on crapping herself, I will never know.
So yeah, this sort of sums up my life, and the constant fuckery that accompanies my attempts at crafty goodness and a lovely surrounding. I have the grandest intentions of perhaps ogling my hostas (still not over the wonder that is a plant that dies and then just decides to come back without a seance or anything. Amazing.), cleaning, working on the great kitchen makeover, knitting a few more rows of the second sock, and reading my books over and over and over again. But does that happen? Nope, not till the dog's Turd Hooves are removed, and the remaining little shit nuggets in her crate are ever-so carefully removed, the surrounding area cleaned, the room aired out, and disinfectant sprayed. Hey, we share a bedroom, Maya and I. i don't want Eau de Dookie in my room. Aromatherapy, it is not. Actually, I have started having a Pavlovian response to it almost and my blood begins to boil immediately upon smelling it. So yeah- cute tunics, vegan muffins, neatly stored balls of yarn, the quiet and thoughtful feathering of one's nest- not happening here at the Stupid house. Nope, but the gentle art of poop cleaning is in full fucking swing today, friends!
Oh and in the way of Confessional Sunday, unless you count books (which I do NOT; books are our friends and they are always allowed to be purchased and loved- AWAYS!) I am guilt free this week, and last week. I am also sadly Finished Object free, but hey- see above.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Unraveled
Oh man.
I am starting to wonder if it is Spring Fever, or if my spring break did me more harm than good. Maybe it's allergies. Global Warming? Maybe?
O, People Who Read This Blog, hear my cries! Or rather, read them! For I have lost my mind. Really this time.
I can't find a certain prescription medication that is rather important. Well, it would be more important if A Certain Someone did not live 700 miles away, but still. It's just gone! How does that happen? I also was literally 4 miles from a yarn store in a totally different town (and looked it up online and it looked great) and didn't go! I didn't even go in! Part of it was because I didn't want to leave the dog in the car and have her fret over me while I shopped for Stuff I Don't Need (again, I dispute the validity of that word), but the rest of me was just sort of uninterested. I have more than I know what to do with as it is, and plenty of other projects to attend to (like the two day assembly of the Scadanavian Furnishing (is it right for that to be singular? seems strange. anyway). I finally bought journals that I wanted to try out, and was ready to begin the practice of devoting some time to journalling (which I know Ricë would have been proud of) and now I can't find them. How will I make lists and get it all back together? I can't go back to using napkins and empty envelopes. I can't. I can't. I can't. Please don't make me.
Everything is so out of hand right now that I have had no choice but to do what The Old Saying says: when the going gets tough, the tough pretend it isn't happening and knit socks instead. So I have. i've almost finished with the first sock, and it's been magical. Boring, but magical. I think it would be more fun if I had trusted my abilities a bit more, and not started out with something in plain stockinette. But I will tell you this: I have tried that sock on, and although it is not finished, I can tell you that the one foot lucky enough to enjoy that sock rejoiced. There are few things more simple and wonderful than handknit socks. I am sure of it, and so is my right foot (although the toes on that foot remain skeptical). I can't wait to let the other foot in on this.
Am I the only one? I have a black belt in Procrastination, and I am using every bit of my skills this week. I find myself staring at the tiny little beginnings of the return of my hostas for way too long, forcing the dog to linger under the camellia trees with me for longer than either of us need to, and just generally pretending that there is nothing else that I need to be doing.
For shame.
I am starting to wonder if it is Spring Fever, or if my spring break did me more harm than good. Maybe it's allergies. Global Warming? Maybe?
O, People Who Read This Blog, hear my cries! Or rather, read them! For I have lost my mind. Really this time.
I can't find a certain prescription medication that is rather important. Well, it would be more important if A Certain Someone did not live 700 miles away, but still. It's just gone! How does that happen? I also was literally 4 miles from a yarn store in a totally different town (and looked it up online and it looked great) and didn't go! I didn't even go in! Part of it was because I didn't want to leave the dog in the car and have her fret over me while I shopped for Stuff I Don't Need (again, I dispute the validity of that word), but the rest of me was just sort of uninterested. I have more than I know what to do with as it is, and plenty of other projects to attend to (like the two day assembly of the Scadanavian Furnishing (is it right for that to be singular? seems strange. anyway). I finally bought journals that I wanted to try out, and was ready to begin the practice of devoting some time to journalling (which I know Ricë would have been proud of) and now I can't find them. How will I make lists and get it all back together? I can't go back to using napkins and empty envelopes. I can't. I can't. I can't. Please don't make me.
Everything is so out of hand right now that I have had no choice but to do what The Old Saying says: when the going gets tough, the tough pretend it isn't happening and knit socks instead. So I have. i've almost finished with the first sock, and it's been magical. Boring, but magical. I think it would be more fun if I had trusted my abilities a bit more, and not started out with something in plain stockinette. But I will tell you this: I have tried that sock on, and although it is not finished, I can tell you that the one foot lucky enough to enjoy that sock rejoiced. There are few things more simple and wonderful than handknit socks. I am sure of it, and so is my right foot (although the toes on that foot remain skeptical). I can't wait to let the other foot in on this.
Am I the only one? I have a black belt in Procrastination, and I am using every bit of my skills this week. I find myself staring at the tiny little beginnings of the return of my hostas for way too long, forcing the dog to linger under the camellia trees with me for longer than either of us need to, and just generally pretending that there is nothing else that I need to be doing.
For shame.
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