Half-Price Knickers

9/11

2011-09-11T22:54:00.001+01:00

On Being Home

2010-03-07T22:30:00.004Z

Things I'm wearing that I haven't worn for 16 days:

1. My favorite black tank top
2. My wedding rings
3. Underpants

The Kindness of Strangers

2010-01-31T22:13:00.002Z

Most days, I think people suck. And service - customer service - does not exist.

Not today.

Today, I am tired. And when I say tired (these days) I mean tired. Really, really tired. In the British vernacular: shattered.

Today is one of the bad days. The iron pills are making no difference, the anti-flow pills are making no difference and the pain pills... well, let's just say they're the final part of the "making-no difference" trifecta . Sigh.

Dogs fed, I didn't have the energy to feed myself, so I succumbed to my baser instincts and ordered food in from the local takeaway.

My order was not complicated: wings and potato wedges.

Wings and potato wedges.

When the food arrived, the order wasn't right. I looked out my front door to see the driver still sitting in his car. I signaled and he came back. I told him that my order was wrong. I expected him to tell me to call the takeaway and let them sort it. Instead, to my great delight and surprise, he had me call the restaurant, he told them to organize a new order for my address and then told me not to mention that the original order was wrong and just keep the food he'd delivered. He drove off.

Less than 20 minutes later, the same driver reappeared with the wings I ordered and two orders of garlic bread (because he couldn't find more wedges). Awwww. He delivered it all with a smile and an apologetic shrug.

Just when I give up on people being nice to each other.

And on a day when I felt like this.

Awww...

The First Stamp in My Passport

2010-01-17T22:08:00.010Z

Ok, so it's not really the first stamp in my passport, but it is the first stamp since I got my resident's visa.

Since I'll be out of commission for a while (more on that later), I wanted a quick, something-just-for-me trip. So The Husband accompanied me to Pfaffenhofen, Germany to Mecca. Er, Wollmeise.

The lovely Elemmaciltur was there to greet us. He made us delicious coffee and offered us our fill of the chocolate bowl and then, after a brief chat, he stood back and let me shop! And, oh!, the shop...

It was lovely.

This is the blanket that Ravelers made for Claudia to celebrate the opening of the brick and mortar shop.

This is the wall of the 80/20 Twin skeins. I was told that twin is warmer and better not worn directly next to the skin.

This is the wall of 100% Merino Superwash.

More superwash, baskets of Lace and skeins of Fluffy to the right. The pile on the table is my pile of "rejects".

The basket on the far left has the coveted skeins of Spice Market lace!

I think even as a non-knitter, as long as you like color, it's a beautiful place to be and just look. There are two very generous sofas on which the non-knitting partner can park their tuchus and read or frown or grouse or chat, whatever. The Husband was quite good, I have to admit.

I was frighteningly restrained and only came way with one skein of lace and, um, a few skeins of 100% and twin for myself. I didn't spend all I had and some of what I spent was for other people. I never even got to the Nobody's Perfect wall...

I was very, very pleased with myself.

With an extra day the day before the shop opened, we walked part of the city - saw the Glockenspiel, the façade of the Residenz (masked with a canvas printed to look like the façade when it isn't being renovated), ate sausages and soup and drank glühwein in the city center while watching the ice skaters and went to the Mucha exhibit at the Hypo Kunsthalle. We even went to the (in)famous Hofbräuhaus, but (on recommendation) we ate at the Weisses Brauhaus.

It was fantastic.

If you ever get the opportunity, go. Trust me. Go.

Happy New Year!

2010-01-01T00:58:00.010Z

Best Wishes for a happy and prosperous 2010 !

Yeah, Socks!

2009-11-27T20:46:00.008Z

Today I finished my first pair of socks. Ever.

Other people knit socks all the time. They knit them like they're going out of style or, like, they're easy or something.

I watch people knit socks while I'm at SnB on a Thursday night and they knit on these tiny little needles - making the pattern up on the fly, changing the stitch count , subbing a different heel or toe because they don't like the heel or toe that the designer used for the sock their knitting.

Some of the people in this group do it without looking.

It's crazy, but good crazy. My kind of crazy.

Not only was this my first pair of socks, but it was my first Mystery knit and my first knit-a-long, all at the same time.

And now that I've finished my first pair of socks, I'm hooked and I'm trying to decide what pattern to knit next!

This one is the Through the Loops Mystery Sock 2009, knitted in madelinetosh tosh sock in the colourway "Shell" and knitted on KnitPicks Harmony 3.00 mm DPNs.

I knitted these week-by-week, per the Mystery Knit-a-long, with no modifications other than needle size to obtain gauge.

Remember, Remember the 5th of November

2009-11-05T23:42:00.011Z

It's Guy Fawkes Day here and much like The Horse Whisperer or gefilte fish, I wish it could be dis-invented.

I can't stand this night.

The fireworks. Oh, the fireworks. Bloody amateur fireworks, too. Amateur fireworks that drive my dogs crazy. Crazy.

As soon as the sun sets, the fireworks start with the popping and the banging and the whistling and the high-pitched whining and then - worse - the barking.

Oh, the barking.

I've tried everything - shushing the dogs; pretending the fireworks aren't happening; feeding them so that they associate the fireworks with good things; I even took Campulance's advice and took them out into the back garden and oohed and aahed at the pretty lights bursting in air, lying for their sakes, so that they could see that I wasn't afraid and that they needn't be afraid. Pshaw! Nothing worked.

I've given up now and am letting them run in and out of the back door, bark alternately at the sky and the skylight and shiver and quiver in fear, as they like. It's nearly midnight now and the fireworks will ease and, hopefully, end soon. They'll forget about the noises and the bad exploding lights, but I'll know it's coming next year.

It's coming.

I'm no fool, I have a plan. Next year, they'll have these to cover their ears.

Next year I'll remember the 5th of November and the three of us will Keep Calm and Carry On.

Look Who's 1!

2009-10-10T21:53:00.009+01:00

Today is Roxzilla's first birthday. It's hard to believe that we've only had her seven and a half months. I can hardly remember a time when she wasn't here.

Since it's her birthday, I'm letting her roughhouse with her brother, bark at the neighbor she hates and I let them both have roast beef and roast ham with their biscuits for dinner.

What did we get her for her birthday?

We got her spayed.

Happy Birthday, Rox!

Yep.

2009-10-08T22:48:00.002+01:00

It's fibroids. Again.

As If I Wasn't Jealous Enough Already

2009-09-23T22:24:00.013+01:00

It's not enough that some people get to live in New York, oh no, they get extraordinarily lovely events, too!

I logged onto the Purl Bee blog to see their post about the upcoming NYC Yarn Crawl happening in October!

Sooooooooooooooooo jealous.

Sigh. There are definitely some things I miss about living in the States.

And before you ask, yes, I would have gotten off my keister and gotten on a plane and gone to the East Coast for this.

Maybe I could convince to some of the wool shops in London...

(Note: Original artwork copyright of Melissa Soong)

I'm Not Martha

2009-09-09T21:32:00.013+01:00

I live every day of my life under the cloud of a conundrum: I don't like to clean, but I loathe clutter and dirt.

Though I like our house, it has been making me insane for the past three-plus years. We moved into a lovely, late-1920's semi-detached from a very modern townhouse. You know, one of those apartments with open-plan kitchen/dining/living areas with storage in every conceivable place including a kitchen pantry and a coat closet at the front door, an alcove specially meant for the flat screen tv (whether you had one or not), walk-in closets in both bedrooms, built-in storage along the upstairs hall (wall and base cabinets), laundry room, fitted furniture in the bathrooms... Let's just say that we don't have that kind of storage here.

We had some rather large pieces of art on the walls and a huge mirror that stood in our hall. One of the pieces of art is being partially hidden by the tv and the mirror is still crated in the garage. I have boxes of things that travelled via container ship from the States over three years ago that remain unpacked. Mind you, there are only a few, but a few is a few too many!

Yesterday I woke up and had had enough, er, I mean, I woke up inspired and made a start.

In two days I emptied all the crap out of two 75 litre plastic boxes that have been stored in the garage for at least a year and either rehomed (in our home), recycled or binned the items. I sent the husband off to the charity shop with several bags to donate while I went to the tip and dumped all of the larger items that could be recycled and bags of trash that couldn't. I donated bags of dog treats, toys, leads and bedding to the Dog's Trust and packed and posted a package that I've been meaning to post for three weeks. I even took 23 books to the secondhand book stall at the weekly market and sold them to the proprietor. And if you knew how I feel about books, you'd know what a big deal this is!

The sad thing? I don't think I can see a difference.

It's time to get ruthless.

Why Didn't Anybody Tell Me Sooner?

2009-08-25T18:01:00.010+01:00

Anyone who knows me, strike that, anyone who's met me (even ever-so-briefly probably) knows that I am arachnophobic.

And I mean arachnophobic. Not a little. A lot.

The tiniest of spiders, tarantulas... all the same in my book. I will throw away goods if I find an old web in them. I cannot sleep in a room that has a spider in it - especially if it's crawled under or behind something and I can't see it. Every September I consider moving out of our house.

I have been carjacked by a spider. I kid you not.

Last night, on my way up the stairs to go to bed, I froze, one foot in the air, after catching sight of one of the eight-legged evil little freaks, casually hanging out on the wall.

I called the husband.

He came to the top of the stairs and said, "What?!" I could only point. His response?

"It's not doing any harm."

Ohhhhhhhh! How silly of me? Has that been the secret all along?! Well, now that I know it's not doing any harm, I'm completely cured! Thank you, husband, for your wise words have opened my eyes to the truth of the world and I am now unfettered of my fear and can go through life blithely picking up and tongue-kissing spiders!

If only I'd known...

Suffice it to say, I made him come downstairs and get the damn spider.

He's Here!!

2009-08-14T11:25:00.005+01:00

In the wee, small hours of the English summer morning, a baby boy was born.

Actually, he was born in the not-so-wee, small hours of a Midwestern summer evening, but he's here and that's all that matters.

The Husband is a grandfather and I'm a granny-by-proxy. I'm so frickin' excited!

He was born at 8:13 p.m. on August 13th (very cool) and I'm dying to see a picture of him. His mother and his grandfather were both beautiful babies, so I can't imagine that he'll be any different!

I say it's time for a plane ticket and a visit, so we can get to the cuddling!

Oh the knitting I see in my future...

Welcome, little one!

Best Weekend Ever

2009-08-09T23:23:00.005+01:00

While my weekend was quite good, the pups had a great weekend.

On Friday, Himmelbjerget brought the heiland coo and the Polar-Dog to Bridge House Marina. Roxzilla and Retardo Montalban thought they'd quite fancy a walk, so they convinced us set off in the direction of Garstang and brave the wilds of the Lancaster Canal tow path.

The dogs ran and sniffed and snuffled and tried to steal everything they could think of - from cups of tea and sandwiches to moving worms in tackle boxes. Roxie and Tally strayed waaaaaaaay too close to the edge of the canal, but we discovered it was just a ruse to get into the narrow boats and see what they could steal from the people onboard, be it food or cuddles, I don't think they were bothered which!

They all got to trip over the aqueduct and taunt the golfers. They scared little kids and even aggravated two really sour people because (admittedly) they were taking up the entire width of the tow path. It took 20 seconds away from the lives of those people, but they were really bothered about it. The dogs weren't. They were busy and not paying a blind bit of attention. There were ducks, swans, other dogs, non-sour people and piles of horse poop to sniff. They seemed to say, "Time is too short to be bothered with people who didn't see the joy in it all" and off they went, never even noticing those silly, silly people.

After a short break in Garstang and a (relatively) quick walk back to the marina, Nino and Tally went home to watch Himmelbjerget eat some lunch (and possibly sneak a bit, as well). Milo and Roxie climbed on board our canal cruiser and headed out for a weekend of sailing. They ate snacks canal-side at the Water Witch in Lancaster, ate biscuits bay-side in Hest Bank and then acted like fools all along the coast (chasing other dogs, teasing a doberman pinscher who was afraid of small dogs, leaping in and out of puddles - turning Milo's coat green - and pretending to be springboks when the grass or sand dunes were too high). They had roast beef for breakfast, instead of the dry biscuits and holistic dog food they normally get, tried to eat their weight in schmackos and napped on the bed anytime they thought we weren't looking. They barked at everyone and everything on the tow path, cows and sheep in a few fields and some plastic-covererd hay bails (I never said they were smart).

By Sunday, ready for home and expecting rain, we turned the boat back towards Nateby and the marina. Back at the house, they jumped out of the car, had a quick lap of water, wee'd in the garden to ensure that the cat knew they were back and then sacked out on the carpet in the lounge, dead to the world, little legs and noses twitching.

Dear Diary, this weekend was the best weekend ever...

5

2009-07-18T18:51:00.010+01:00

Today is my 5th wedding anniversary.

When choosing anniversary presents, the husband and I use the traditional gift table as our inspiration. Usually, we try to be fairly inventive, interpreting the medium if necessary to make the gift fit. For year one, I bought him the newly published Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince and he got me plane tickets (paper); for our second I bought him designer denim that he wanted (cotton and remember, he's schmancy!) and so on and so on.

For the fifth wedding anniversary, the traditional gift is something made of wood. This year, I bought him a walnut and sycamore clock to put on the boat. Traditional, applicable, admittedly not very imaginative.

Here's where the interpretation bit kicks in. We went to Derek Woodman and he bought me this:

My very own little whizzer.

Thanks, hon!

Happy Anniversary! xx

The Bad Service Cafe

2009-07-11T21:42:00.012+01:00

One of the (many) differences between living in the hub of Silicon Valley and a tiny little town in the Northwest of England is the food. One of the differences between living in the U.S. and England period is service. Customer Service. Or, rather, the lack thereof.

Today, the husband and I needed lunch and we wanted food without the consequences (i.e., washing up, not calories) and we headed to the Mill on the road behind our house to the Bad Service Cafe.

The weather, though overcast, was nice enough for us to sit outside. The only table available was covered in cups and lettuce and other vestiges of the previous patrons' lunch. A "waitress" (and I use the term loosely) came to our table in a tank top with bra straps and her midriff showing, along with the top of her underpants above the band of a pair of calf-length, sloppily-worn black leggings. Oh, did I mention that her leggings were dirty?! Dirty. She took our order and shuffled away... without clearing the table.

A different "waitress" came - chewing something - and cleared the table... partially. She went away, but didn't come back.

A third girl came to tell us that the drink I requested wasn't available. I changed my order. To our surprise, before she walked away, she cleared the rest of the table... but she didn't clean it.

No. 2 came back to the table and delivered the husband's tea and was about to walk away when I asked her to clean the table. She said, "Sure," but the look she gave me said,"You're getting a sneezer instead of an iced coffee." She went away, got a cloth and came back to clean. She seemed stumped by the act of cleaning a table. I kept quiet. I was trying to limit the damage to the sneezer.

Once our food arrived, we were forgotten. We suddenly ceased to exist. We became ghosts, phantom visions, noises that requested extra napkins or more water, but insubstantial, unreal. Worse, we were outside and all of the outdoor tables at the Bad Service Cafe are conveniently located behind brick pillars. I truly believe that this is so that they can ignore us with impunity.

And today they were fairly on top of things. Normally, we're inside and the staff are all sitting at a table chatting while the customers sit, starving, watching them chat and dreaming about delicious sandwiches or puddings. They forget who ordered what (even asking when the there are only two people and they've ordered the same thing), they never know what drinks are available on any given day, and when you order Cheese and Onion Pie, you get Cheese and Onion Lake. I am not kidding. Ask Himmelbjerget or Pendle Stitches, if you don't believe me.

The problem? The food is good, really good. It's just that the service is bad - really, really bad.

Sigh.

We'll go back the next time we're in need of a quick fix. We always do.

Roxzilla

2009-06-14T22:19:00.004+01:00

What do you do after destroying Tokyo with your big pink bandage?

You take a nap, of course.

Swoon

2009-06-07T21:20:00.040+01:00

Brooklyn Tweed taught me cabling without a cable needle.

That's right, I said b r o o k l y n t w e e d taught me to cable without a cable needle!

Let me explain: Yesterday Himmelbjerget and I travelled to Coventry for the very first Ravelry Day UK.

We got up at oh-god-thirty in the morning and drove to the Midlands (into the most confusing City Centre ever; even the sat-nav couldn't figure out where we were supposed to be!) to the Coventry Central Hall and workshops and market stalls for the day.

Our first workshop was a complete and total dud. We went to the Liz Lovick "Introduction to Fair Isle" workshop. I paid actual money to sit in a room (in which two other workshops were being conducted simultaneously) for someone to tell me to "wing it," "fudge it" and "tug it." Seriously. I wish I could say it was dirtier than it sounds. It wasn't. Then she told us to go ahead and add in the second color. Uh, if I knew how to add in a second color, I wouldn't have taken the frickin' workshop. It was a ridiculous waste of my time.

In lieu of eating, the two of us hit the stalls. Oh, how I loved the Old Maiden Aunt booth! It was wonderful to see the colors of her homecoming collection in person. They were absolutely gorgeous. I limited myself to three skeins, but I did buy a project bag and a needle book from her that was made by an artist who has a studio near her. We also got to see a friend who was selling there, to stroke the cashmere and alpaca at the Knitting Goddess stall and I shelled out an absurd amount of money for one of the Toft Alpaca bag kits, but I simply couldn't resist. Sigh. I've already wound the skeins from the kit into center-pull cakes.

Back in the hall, we took seats in the back row of the auditorium for the Meg Swansen talk (it was billed as a talk with her and her sister Lloie, but I never saw or heard the sister during the talk). Meg read a passage from The Opinionated Knitter by her mother, Elizabeth Zimmerman, and then asked if there were any questions. About what, precisely? I scored well in verbal comprehension on the SATs, so I was good. She read a another passage that was equally self-explanatory and then opened the floor to questions for the second time. Himmelbjerget had made us lunches and at first I was conscious of the noise I was making munching on the deliciously crunchy gem lettuce in my sandwich. As soon as I realized what the "talk" was going to consist of, I thought, "screw that" and ate at my leisure. The girl next to me knitted and took notes on her knitting and the girl next to her surfed the web and her email on her iPhone. Apparently, it wasn't just us. Meg Swansen also kept referring to Elizabeth Zimmerman as Elizabeth and not 'mom' or 'mum' and I found it weirdly disturbing. Apparently it's done for professional reasons, but why bill yourself as Elizabeth Zimmerman's Daughter and then call her by her first name the entire time you're talking? It was just so odd.

To break the uncomfortable silence, audience members started asking questions - inane, desperate questions: "in a fire, what knitting would you take with you?" and "you told us about the sweater room, where do you keep your stash?" I wanted to channel that moment in National Treasure and shout, "Snorkel! See I can do it, too."

My last workshop of the day was the Jared Flood, aka BrooklynTweed, "Plan Your Own Aran" workshop. It was fantastic! He taught the group to cable without a cable needle and explained it in a clear and concise way - so much so that my brain made a click sound when it happened. He even crawled along the floor on his knees to be at our eye level to demo the technique. Awesome! Mind you, I'm surprised any of us learned a thing; we all sat there crushing on him a little bit. He's soooo sweet and genuine, you just can't seem to help it.

His was one of the very few workshops I've attended in which the instructor gave an assignment that could actually be completed during the workshop. He made sure that we could all see what was happening when he demo'd and he ensured that all of our questions were answered - no matter how many times he had to repeat himself. He was patient, articulate and a talented teacher. I geeked out and asked for his autograph. I left with both the feeling that I had the tools and information I needed to create my own Aran pattern and a big, fat, stupid grin on my face!

Despite the fact that my first workshop and the Meg Swansen talk were disappointing - and the fact that minister of the church was skulking about and reminded me of a creepy, serial killer-esque version of Where's Waldo - the day was an overall, overwhelming success for me.

It was great to see the wares from all of the wonderful vendors. Best of all, it it was fantastic to buy and to see people buying yarn from small, independent, British artists.

Good times.

Impressive

2009-06-04T23:58:00.008+01:00

For the second time in a little over four years, someone in the medical profession has described something about my current condition as "impressive."

Neither time has this been meant in a positive way.

After months of being exhausted by the slightest bit of physical effort, intermittently falling asleep for hours on the sofa in the middle of the afternoon and compulsively chewing crushed ice (I can go through three bags in a week), I was diagnosed with severe anemia.

Yippee.

At least I know what's wrong and can now put a treatment course into place. I was given a prescription for iron pills today (and warned about the lovely side effect) and was told that my particular kind of anemia was from blood loss and, thus, can't be fixed by more B12 or folic acid. Rats. I was hoping for a homeopathic remedy.

The upside of getting more iron is that I'll be able to walk up flights of stairs without becoming short of breath. Woo-hoo!

The downside is that I'll no longer have an excuse for my afternoon nap. Bummer.

Pieces of Eight

2009-05-28T22:12:00.019+01:00

KraftyKoala tagged me with possibly the hardest meme I've ever done. I actually had to consider the topics and think about my answers. I think I took less time writing the exam essay that determined whether I would skip remedial English at University.

So here they are, my pieces of eight:

8 things I am looking forward to…..

My step-daughter having her son in August!!!
Ravelry Day UK!
Having a clean boat - the mess keeps me up at night.
Terminator Salvation. 'Nuff said.
Roxie learning to sit and stay.
Reading 50 books in one year.
More arts trails in Scotland.
Warm weather.

8 things I did yesterday…….

Got a bruise from having my blood drawn.
Took two naps.
Talked to my sister in California.
Soaked in the bath while reading "Knots and Crosses".
Bought £20 worth of treats. Nooooo, they're not spoiled...
Noticed that Roxie's "bits" are swollen. My puppy's first season.
Picked up my new toaster. I got the red one!
Made Milo stop humping Roxie's head... and the cat.

8 things I wish I could do…….

Sew! Like KraftyKoala, I have a machine, but lack the skills.
Play my cello well.
Have a Monica Geller-clean house. Oh, if only...
Keep chickens and bees.
Rid myself of my arachnophobia.
Take great photos. Minder has been a fabulous mentor.
Bake! I'd love to be able to make pie crust from scratch.
Still hit a High C. I was able to do it in my youth.

8 shows I watch……

The Big Bang Theory - I laugh so loudly that I frighten the dogs.
Grey's Anatomy - Especially worth it if you need a good cry.
Next Top Model - America's, Britain's, Canada's, whoever's!
Nothing to Declare - I'm hopelessly addicted to the stupidity.
Two and a Half Men - Best Ever? "Old Flame with a New Wick"
As Time Goes By - I know it's old, but I love it.
CSI - I only like the one in Vegas, the original and the best!
Ideal - Graham Duff is my hero.

I don't actually have eight bloggers to tag, so I tagged these six:
Pendle Stitches
Minder
Snake Surly
Brown Berry
MonkeyFeet
Meir Cats

And here are the rules in case you need them!

Mention the name of the person who tagged you.
Do the lists of 8.
Tag 8 bloggers of your choice.
Let them know that they have been tagged!

Play along if you like, even if you weren't tagged.

Have fun, kids!

Are You Spring-Flinging?!

2009-05-26T09:48:00.010+01:00

This past weekend was a Bank Holiday weekend and Himmelbjerget "dragged" me to the Borders and Southwest coast of Scotland for two-days of visiting artists' studios and driving along the glorious, picturesque coast. And by "dragged" I mean she asked and I jumped at the chance!

Despite the rain, Saturday was lovely and I got to see the artist that was number one on my list - Amanda Simmons. She's a glass artist who lives and works in the small village of Corsock, near Castle Douglas. I bought one small vessel from her range of pieces that are cameo engraved on a diamond wheel lathe, but managed to resist one of her large platters that I really, really wanted. I was the very picture of restraint. I may not be so well-behaved if I get to go to Origin in London in October.

But the best day was Sunday.

On Sunday, we had beautiful weather and were rewarded with spectacular views on our drive along the coast. We ventured out to Port William to the studio of printmaker and painter Lisa Hooper. Oh my word! As well as getting to watch her demonstrate her newest technique of doing batik on paper (beautiful!) and viewing her wonderful prints and artwork (displayed along the walls of her gorgeous home), we had tea and homemade pastries in her kitchen served up by volunteers who'd made the cakes and the jam to spread on our freshly baked scones and gave us a tour of the garden and showed us the bee hives and chatted and entertained us before sending us, sated and happy, on our way back to England clutching our linocuts, notebooks and cards.

Were we Spring-Flinging? Yep.

Will we be next year? Yep.

Roxie Jessica Parker

2009-05-05T23:18:00.004+01:00

My puppy is definitely a girly-girl.

She wears a pink diamante collar, she plays with a little pink rhino squeaky toy and right now she's laying on her belly on her little cushion watching Sex and the City.

Who knew that racy talk and Manolo Blahniks were her thing?!

That's my girl...

Absolutely Fabulous

2009-04-30T23:07:00.006+01:00

Something terrific happened to me.

A couple of months ago, one of the women in my knitting group contacted The Knitter magazine and suggested our group for their gallery page. They were keen to feature us, apparently, and we submitted a shortlist of projects to be featured.

My AbFab throw by Colinette was one of the five accepted.

In this month's issue, on newsstands now, there is a photo of me and one of the throw I knitted. Amazing.

All of the projects look wonderful; the photographs really do the items justice.

It's such an honor to be chosen and to be featured alongside these fabulous knitters and exceptional women.

Well done, ladies. Well done.

Like Babette

2009-04-26T22:03:00.007+01:00

Friday was Himmelbjerget's birthday and we were invited to celebrate with her and feast.

And feast we did.

I'm furious with myself for not bringing a camera and taking pictures of the gorgeous meal we had (and I mean gorgeous in both the American and the English sense).

Our first course was a delicious beetroot and apple soup, served with blinis, smoked salmon and soured cream. Yum! For mains, we had the most beautiful open-faced sandwiches, my favorite being the amazing Danish Blue cheese and Pear on artisan Rye. Sha-mon! It was all I could do not to pull the plate of sandwiches to me and tip the entire thing into my mouth. We finished off with Himmelberjet's meal with a decidedly moreish coffee-infused ganache-filled gateau. So, so lovely.

And all of this was eaten off of her wonderful Bing & Grondahl "Seagull" patterned dinnerware (apparently some it over one hundred years old!!).

Delicious food, much laughter, good friends and reasons to celebrate. Who could ask for more?

Happy Birthday, X!

You Must Read This

2009-03-17T23:22:00.005Z

I happened upon a lovely blog the other day (in fact, the photo introducing this post is hers).

I found it just as she was giving away some wonderful old baking tins. The next time I checked in she had a fabulous contest where her readers had to guess what three truly gorgeous and wild pieces of antique silverware were - spectacular.

Today, she wrote what is probably the most beautiful and poignant post I've ever read. Ever.

You just have to read it for yourself.

And the Nominees Are...

2009-03-15T09:58:00.015Z

I've been nominated for a Sisterhood award.

This is my first blogging award and I am spectacularly pleased and flattered to be nominated. I have to tell you that I feel much the same way the person who nominated me does about this last year: my life has changed dramatically - for the better - and I'm living more the kind of life I was expecting to live when we moved to a tiny little town in the northwest of England.

I haven't talked about it much, but it's been both a trying and an amazing twelve months and I'd complain, but the bad has only served to emphasize how good the good has been.

Sooooo.... On to the awards. The rules of the Sisterhood award are:

- Place the award logo on your blog
- Nominate 10 other blogs which show "Attitude and/or Gratitude"
- Link to the nominee [in] your blog post
- Comment on their blog that you have nominated them
- Share the love and link to the person who nominated you

I don't have 10 women to nominate, but I do have these women (and their blogs, in no particular order) to nominate:

Joli House - These two prolific and talented knitters are also really lovely, sweet, inviting people. I am always in awe of the beauty of their projects and I suffer from pure, unadulterated envy of Minder's photographic talent. She has inspired me to "forget" about the auto setting on my digiital SLR and learn to use it properly.

Himmelbjerget - Stuff the fact that Pendle Stitches already nominated her, I'm doing it again. To know here is to be mighty, mightily, heartily inspired. She's generous, kind and thoughtful; helpful, insightful and very, very funny. There are at least a dozen other reasons that I can cite, but it will have to suffice to say that in small ways, everyday, she inspires me and I am glad to be able to call her 'friend.'

Yarn Snob - Okay, so I don't actually know her. We "met" when we did a yarn transaction through Ravelry. She was lovely to message and seemed friendly and sweet. Then I saw her project page and I instantly hated her. And then loved her. And then hated her, and then, ultimately, loved her. Good god, stop the gorgeousness!! No, wait, don't. Don't stop. The world needs the gorgeousness.

Brownberry - I love the way she talks about her family and the world and the things that mean something to her. I love the way she stops by to comment on my blog and comments on you commenting on her blog. Again, this is a woman that I have not met in person and yet I cannot help feeling connected to her. Funny thing, the Internet.

Mimsie - Not only does her knitting prowess rule, but her day-to-day blog often leaves me in stitches. I adore the way her voice comes through in her posts and I like the fact that she blogs about being an ex-pat without it becoming an "us vs. them" blog (actually, I admire that in any ex-pat blog that can do it). I have to admit that I also like her blog because we come from the same place (even went to the same high school) and it's good - however transient - to have a connection with the place I come from.

And lastly, but absolutely not least, the lovely Pendle Stitches herself (who nominated me) - a gracious and genteel hostess (though that's as far as the gentility goes, which is a good thing), fabulous stitcher and friend extraordinaire. I admire anyone who can admit, out loud, that that Barton Grange lemon cheesecake is better than theirs (it's better than everybody's).

Ladies, thank you for letting me share your virtual and real lives.

Cheers!

Yarn Embargo

2009-02-28T19:59:00.011Z

The husband is home for a few short weeks between assignments.

We decided to take this unexpected opportunity to make some long-overdue changes to the house.

For various reasons, it's a rather dovetailed process; one room has to be finished and cleared so that the next can be started.

It's also a process best served by having the rooms organized to move, rather than moved and then organized since I'd like the next room to be started almost immediately.

So today, while the husband looked after the fur-babies, I spent three-plus hours in our makeshift bedroom and finally finished stashing (though not photographing) my two drawers of yarn onto Ravelry.

Two drawers.

Two drawers of yarn may not seem like much, but, in stashing them, I discovered just how much yarn I have simply sitting in a drawer. Just sitting there! I also realized that I have a relatively large number of projects queued that I haven't started and that made me realize that I've been knitting for 3 and a half years and I have all of 19 projects to show for it and - I'll be honest with you - I really haven't knit many more projects than that because there are only three completed projects (the Hateful Sweater, krafty koala's Woolfest bunting and a fun-fur scarf) that aren't listed on my Projects page.

What in the hell have I been doing?! That is entirely too much yarn for the amount of knitting that I do or, rather, have done. Entirely too much.

So I made a decision: I am not allowed to purchase any more yarn for the foreseeable future. I need to knit projects from my queue and I need to use the yarn I have. If yarn comes my way by some other means, I will not hesitate to abscond with it, but my purchasing days (at least for awhile) are at an end.

I don't know how I'm going to do it...

More Good News and Bad News

2009-02-28T09:10:00.006Z

The bad news: the jeans I was wearing smell like wee.

The good news: It wasn't my wee.

Well, not all of it.

It belonged to our loverly new puppy. Yes, folks, she's finally here.

Introducing Milo's little sister, Roxie:

Let the girly "sqeeee" noises begin. You may opt for the more manly "awww" if that makes you feel more comfortable.

Believe it or not, they are not only the same breed, but they are of the same parentage. Yup, same mom, same dad. Crazy, huh?

She's 20 weeks old and much shyer than Milo was when we got him, but she's already napped with the cat and tried to eat her weight in kibble at every meal.

Good times.

Licenced to Drive

2009-02-10T22:37:00.005Z

After several long months and one very nerve-wracking drive, I am licenced to drive on a full UK driving licence (not a mere provisional one!).

It's about bloody time.

P.S.
I know that's not me and it's not a UK licence, but the picture was just too good to pass up.

44

2009-01-20T16:50:00.008Z

From today he will no longer be the president-elect. No longer will we have to ask ourselves whether change is possible and whether or not we are ready for the future.

The future is here. Change and progress happen today.

Today Barack Hussein Obama becomes the 44th president of the United States of America.

I haven't been able to say this for eight years, but today I can say it. Finally, I can say it, "He is my president."

Climbing Trees

2009-01-04T22:12:00.011Z

Today I went looking for Milo.

Mind you, he was in our back garden and he was supposed to be out doing his business, so I wasn't expecting anything out of the ordinary.

Maybe he'd finished and maybe he hadn't, but whatever he'd done he was doing something else now... he was climbing a tree.

That's right, my bloody dog was climbing a tree.

A frickin' tree!

He was about a quarter of the way up, just as cool as you please, looking over the fence into our neighbor's garden.

Crazy-ass dog.

Unfortunately, I freaked and called his name instead of running indoors and grabbing the camera, so there's no photo. Just the one of him doing what he's doing now.

Good grief.

Happy New Year!

2009-01-01T00:02:00.004Z

Best Wishes for 2009.

Cheers!

I Think I'll Start Carrying Scooby Snacks

2008-12-05T22:26:00.020Z

My Christmas shopping is all but done.

As of yesterday, I had one present left to buy (one left to make, but that's another story for another time) and I went into the town centre to get it.

The gift I was purchasing was for my nephew and he likes stuff from a particular shop, a shop that I don't particularly like. It's not the goods, it's the weird vibe I've gotten whenever I've been in there - something strange about the woman behind the counter, something I could never put my finger on.

Until yesterday.

She's married to a nutter.

After purchasing said gift, in an effort to extricate myself from the verbal clutches of the guy who owns the shop, I kept moving slowly towards the front door, desperately hoping he'd get the message that I desperately wished to leave.

He did not.

Or rather he did, but he couldn't let me leave.

He had something to tell me. I could see it all over his face.

In the middle of a different subject, he couldn't hold it in any longer and finally blurted out, "I had a black girlfriend."

[Me: uncomfortable silence]

He added, "You know, before I married his mother (indicating to his equally verbose son)." Then, "I used to help plait her hair."

What the fuck?! How do you respond to that? What did he want, a friggin' cookie?!

What I wanted to say that I was, "Good for YOU, honey!" or "On behalf of all Black women all over the world, let me say thank you for stopping at that one." But mostly I wanted to say, "If you touch me or my hair, you'll take back a nub."

Instead I said, "Mmm. Well, I gotta go."

If only I'd know it was coming, I'd have put a treat in my pocket for him before I left the house.

Maybe I should start carrying them around, you know, just in case.

Shut UP!!

2008-11-13T23:02:00.006Z

I still cannot believe it.

Something fantastic happened to me today.

Let me start at the beginning...

I found Passementerie while on Etsy one day. I absolutely loved Courtney's designs and her aesthetic and I succumbed and purchased a pair of her stunning earrings.

Passementerie is, sadly, no longer on Etsy.

Happily, there is a website.

My purchase put me on her mailing list.

Her mailing list led me to her blog.

On her blog, the day after an electrifying and historic U.S. election, the lovely Passementerie decided to have a giveaway in honor of the day.

I am the lucky recipient.

That's right, I said that I am the unbelievably fortunate woman who will receive these!

I still cannot believe it.

Careful, my dears. She'll do a payment plan...

Changes

2008-11-05T01:05:00.009Z

It's the early hours of the morning here.

I am a long way from home tonight, living in my adopted country, watching the most important U.S. election that I will probably experience in my lifetime.

Polls are closing on the East Coast and people in the Midwest and people on the West Coast are still voting.

My fingers are crossed.

My heart is in my mouth.

Forget that he's Black, forget what this will mean for history. Think only of what this election - what Barack Obama - will do for us (U.S.) as a country.

Change.

Change us, change our perception of what can and cannot be done, change the landscape of hope and determination for generations of people, change our global image, change the notion that we can't change.

Yes. We. Can.

I believe that.

Got My Mojo Working

2008-06-12T23:51:00.034+01:00

For months now - and I mean months - I haven't been doing any knitting at all. At all. Meir Cats, et al asked me what I was working on and I was ashamed that I had no response to give, nothing to tell her or to show for nearly three years' worth of knitting experience and drawers full of yarn - bamboo, alpaca, laceweight, dk, sock club exclusives, limited edition colorways of artisan yarns, handspun, hand-dyed... it's all there, upstairs, tucked neatly away in the white, 6-drawer Swedish haven in which I store my myriad skeins of coveted fiber.

But there those skeins have remained, unwound and (seemingly) unloved. For months. Months.

I had projects stacked up in my own mental queue, but just couldn't find the motivation to work on or finish any of them.

Something changed.

I don't know if it was the weather (spring-y and bright, lifting some of my winter depression) or the new Stitch 'n Bitch I've been going to in Preston. Maybe the stars are aligned in more favorable positions or maybe I drank a magic potion when I thought I was drinking mere instant coffee. I don't know. And I'm not really certain that I care.

All I know is that in the past few weeks, rather than continuing to suffer through my creative drought, I've finished this:

This is my version of the Yarn Harlot's One Row Handspun scarf. I didn't have any handspun yarn, so I used Malabrigo Merino Worsted in Bobby Blue. This scarf was languishing in a pile, forlornly waiting for fringe before I rescued it, cut the fringe at S 'n B and added it that very night.
I am delighted with it. It's cozy and warm and long enough to wrap, but not so long that it gets in my way when I move around. I've worn it around the house a few times, just because I can. As pleased as I am to see the sun, I can already see myself smiling my way through a cold winter day wearing the color of a bright May sky wrapped deliciously around my neck.

Then I finished this:

A slightly smaller version of Leigh Radford's felted clutch from One Skein. This lovely bag had been sitting, sadly, gaped open at the bottom of a bag of knitting projects, waiting for seams and button embellishment.

It got this instead:

I think it's prefect.

The brooch is made by a group called Projekt, a skill development and job reaction program in an informal settlement (township) in Capetown, South Africa. The brooches are made with 1 mm and smaller crochet hooks and fine cotton. I bought it at Fibre + Clay in Knutsford. As you walk in the door, these are displayed on a dressmaker's dummy in a glorious array of color. This one instantly caught my eye and I could see it on the bag before I'd even purchased it.

Lovely.

He Doesn't Even Know She's Gone

2008-06-10T23:02:00.010+01:00

Today, Milo and I had our last session with our trainer, whom we've been seeing for the past seven months.

She taught us everything we know about sit, wait, lie down, "hi daddy" and not chasing sheep.

She never scolded when Milo wee'd on the training room floor, occasionally let him play with her dog and she gave us the ball Milo likes best and the squeaker toy that gets his attention when he's wandered off too far.

It was her idea to castrate him and, still, he loved her to bits.

Every Tuesday morning, we would turn into the drive and Milo would go completely nuts in the back of the car. Between the sounds of the sheep, the crunch of the gravel and (what I'm guessing was) a decidedly doggy smell, he knew exactly where we were and he couldn't wait to get out.

When I finally released him from his captivity, he would run directly to her and launch himself in the air, knowing (instinctively, I'd like to think) that she would catch him.

From the very first day, he did exactly what she told him to do. Any work we did with her holding on to his lead never went quite as well as it could have (he was so comfortable with her that he wasn't all that fussed about me walking away). We would always resort to tying him to something else if we wanted to make progress.

Me? I thought she was brilliant. I liked her from the very first day that I spoke to her on the phone. After our session, I always came home more confident than when I left. She made me feel that I could have the well-behaved pup that I longed to have and showed me how to achieve that goal.

Milo is a naturally sweet dog, but he is a better behaved dog because of her.

I appreciated our talks and I appreciated the laughter. I'll miss that.

Today was our last day and I don't know what we're going to do without her.

Thank you - for your time and your patience, for your wisdom and your encouragement. Thank you for showing me the potential in my little doggy... and in myself.

Enjoy the wine and enjoy Spain.

Adios.

Tear-Shaped Happiness

2008-06-06T19:49:00.025+01:00

I went to bed last night with the a sore tummy and the tell-tale beginnings of what I knew would prove to be a few days of... let's call it "discomfort."

I awoke this morning feeling much the same way and thought, "Hrumph, what an inauspicious start to my weekend." Okay, what I really thought was, "Feh!"

I was prepared to feel sorry for myself for at least 72 hours.

It's evening now and I'm feeling much, much better.

Is it because of the Paramol and Nurofen cocktail I've been using all day to nurse my pain? Nope.

Is it the fact that my Amy Butler Nolita knitting bag arrived by Parcel Force (at a ridiculously early hour) this morning? Uh-uh.

It's because of these:
(a lá Carrie Bradshaw) Ooh... Hello, Lover!

These lovely little darlings are my very own custom-made, one-of-a-kind earrings from the immensely talented and beautifully-natured Jennifer Morris.

Here's another view:
Aren't they gorgeous? I mean really, really gorgeous?!

I've been wearing them all day.

I am wearing them now.

They swing and sway gently as I move and, despite the size of the beads, are surprisingly light. I can hardly tell I'm wearing them.

They make me smile every time I catch my reflection.

Thank you, Jennifer, for making me so happy that I almost don't need the tablets.

You know, almost...

The One Where I Keep My Mouth Shut

2008-05-23T16:29:00.010+01:00

At Morrisons:

Me: Can you please tell me where I can find the ice?

Store Clerk: Frozen ice?

Me (pauses for one beat, waits for it to sink in, when it doesn't): Yes.

You are so proud of me.

That took an immense amount of control for me not to fall out laughing, right there, in the store, with everyone watching.

To the poor boy who helped me, it's okay, sweetie, I've had that day.

Calamity Mane

2008-05-21T21:31:00.006+01:00

After an anxious, lengthy wait, my Ravelry invitation arrived on the 17th of October. I was - in California-ese - stoked!

Precisely 30 days after my invite showed up in my inbox (and four usernames later), I logged in for the first time. I'll be honest with you, it was exhilarating.

The number of people involved with this site is staggering; the variation of projects, the ease of usability... all marvelous.

And then I found it: the bitching.

I'd added someone - someone whose blog and design sense I admire - as a friend and happened to look over at the groups to which she belonged, looking to see if there was a group that I might also want to join.

One group's logo intrigued me - a Harry Potter graphic with "WTF?" poorly superimposed over it - so I clicked.

Wrong thing to do. The first thing I noticed was a forum discussion titled, "HOLLER IF YOU'D RATHER BE READING DICKENS." Ignoring the ridiculous and aimless use of capitals, I clicked the link. Again, wrong thing to do. It was a group of grownups having a three-page discussion about how reading the classics and reading Harry Potter was mutually exclusive. Most of the people involved in the discussion admitted to reading very little, if any, of the series. Argh!

I'm a big believer that an uninformed opinion is one not worth expressing.

Not only was this group disgusted by the overall fact that adults were reading books that were intended for children, but the pervasive feeling seemed to be that we - adult Harry Potter readers and fanatics, a group to which I vociferously and proudly claim membership - don't know good literature when we read it.

I chose to look somewhere else on the site. Idiotically, I looked at the forums. The first discussion I found was a group of women bitching about how they weren't interested in knitting Clapotis. Now it was my turn to say WTF?! Is this how we're going to spend our time - talking about the fact that someone else's design and effort isn't valuable because we don't favor knitting it? Seriously?

I hope that no person in the "Dickens" discussion group has watched Finding Nemo, Ratatouille or The Incredibles as an adult and enjoyed it - with or without their niece, nephew, little brother/sister, six-year-old, godchild, whomever. There had better not be one single song not aimed at their current demographic that they enjoy. Fine, yes, perhaps the writing of the HP books was not on the same level as Fitzgerald, but that doesn't automatically mean that the storyline wasn't compelling or intriguing - at least to some. By the way, some of us don't like Fitzgerald or Thackery or Dickens (I winced through every last page of This Side of Paradise and found the use of the voice of the author in Vanity Fair an intrusive and unnecessary device. I thought the character of Oliver was one of a whining, twee, weak little boy and didn't enjoy the read nearly as much as that of A Tale of Two Cities). I do hope that this group will remember that Shakespeare was family entertainment when his plays were written, not some badge of highbrow honor.

Per their discussion, I guess that Roald Dahl and Chris Van Allsburgh didn't/don't know what they're doing and that the parents who read those books to their children and enjoyed them are mentally inferior to this group of, apparently, exclusively Oxford-educated knitters.

I can't wait to see the follow-up to the "I hate Clapotis" discussion where each participant suggests a new pattern that is more challenging than Clapotis and that teaches a skill that this new pattern epitomizes and can demonstrate. I can't wait! One woman actually commented that she couldn't see herself doing all that knitting to purposely drop stitches. Really? Well, you better vet that Vogue knitting book carefully then, sweetheart, because I think they slipped some drop-stitch patterns in there. The dirty bastards.

Honestly, if you don't want to knit Clapotis, don't, but don't disparage the people who do like the pattern and do want to knit it.

For the ladies of the HP discussion, come back to me when you've read the books - ALL of them, cover to cover - and then you can comment. And the ladies of the Clapotis discussion, I'll talk to you when you've designed and published a well-loved pattern on Knitty.

I know, I know... free speech and all that rot. You know what I say? Screw you and the natural-fiber-only, it's-fulled-not-felted, I-only-use-bamboo-needles horse you rode in on.

We're supposed to be a community.

Some of us enjoy a little historical fiction and some of us choose Political treatise as our book of choice, some of us like a little bit of Judith Krantz. Some of us will only knit with natural fibers and some of us don't mind a bit of acrylic. Some of us are Zimmerman-esque in our love of the garter stitch and some of us need to use mathematical formulas in our patterns to make knitting the project worthwhile.

But none of us, none of us, is any better than any other person. It's all valuable in the scheme of things. Perhaps we could direct all this time and energy into something useful, like being advocates for knowledge and growth.

I have to go now. I've already finished the Harry Potter books, but I need to go borrow back the Clapotis I knitted for my SIL, take pictures of it and post them on Ravelry.

Bite me.

Counting Sheep

2008-05-11T23:53:00.010+01:00

Spring – now that it’s nearing summer – has sprung here in the Northwest of England. Yesterday was a glorious day and today, today, the weather was even better. Warm, sunny, gentle enough breeze… a perfect day for boating on the canal.

My BIL had some jobs to do on his boat, so my SIL, my dog and I went to the Lancaster Canal to join him, watch the light lollop across the water, have bacon butties and cups of coffee in the bright, afternoon sun while ducklings trailed their mothers and the good-weather worshipers walked the tow path.

Sandwiches made and the cabin sweltering from the heat of the day and the gas grill, we decided to go out onto the canal to get a bit of the deeply-craved breeze flowing through the boat.

We found a sweet little spot with some shade and a spectacular view. With sheep bleating in the field below us and room on the tow path for us to put out chairs and have a quiet sit on the bank, we moored.

I put Milo on the tow path for a little run and then – stupidly as it turned out – went back into the cabin to help with the chairs.

Big mistake. HUGE mistake.

In the seconds that it took me to walk into the cabin, take the chairs off my BIL and walk back out into the sun, Milo was gone.

I called. I called again. I looked up the tow path. I looked down the tow path. There was no sign of him, so I called again, again.

I looked back up the tow path and the woman in the boat in front of us pointed to the field below me. I smiled in thanks, but was inwardly thinking, “Right, you nutter.” She was far from being a nutter. When I turned my attentions to the field, there he was, my small dog, running flat out, chasing an enormous flock of sheep.

An enormous flock of sheep.

He was chasing them and barking like a fool. He wasn’t barking at them from the edge of the flock – oh, no – he was in the middle of them, running in all directions, trying to chase each and every sheep, all at once.

Shoeless, I hopped off the boat, shouting for my SIL to come help. She flew out of the cabin, over the edge of the boat and onto to the tow path, lighting out ahead of me while I tried – in vain – to recall my swiftly-moving, completely engrossed, flock-chasing dog. My BIL quickly followed my SIL, running past her, over a bridge and into the farmer’s field to catch him.

Now that Milo had chased all of the sheep into a neighboring field and had sniffed the various and new interesting things he’d found, he (suddenly) was able to hear me calling his name and came running back up the hill to the tow path – as though nothing had ever happened – with my BIL following closely behind. He handed Milo over the fence to me and climbed over after him, catching his pants in a very delicate place on the barbed-wire fence in the process. I tried to help, but in the end simply told my SIL, “You’re going to have to put your hand there.”

That was hours ago and I can laugh about it now.

Milo? Poor chap, he's exhausted.

He’s having a nap.

Thank You

2008-02-29T23:28:00.006Z

This is a belated and much-too-quick "Thank You" to everyone who made my 40th birthday such a wonderful day and the party a rousing success!

I felt loved and honored to have you all there.

"My friends are my estate."
- Emily Dickinson

The One Where I Have Ear Surgery

2008-01-27T17:37:00.003Z

Four years ago, I had surgery to remove a cyst (that I'd had since birth) from my left ear.

I had it again last week.

The first time I had some goober of a plastic surgeon who looked like John Travolta, if he'd eaten John Travolta, was overly jovial and smiled his greasy little smile - a lot - and I distrusted him instantly. He had two practices - one for insurance patients in downtown San Jose and one for private patients in Palo Alto.

If only I'd known...

Apparently the "insurance" patients didn't get the same level of care as the private patients. Oh, god, at least I hope that's true. Oh, dear... Those people payed a lot of money for him to screw up their surgeries.

My surgery was a disaster. I was told, "Once it's gone, it's gone." He didn't mention that after the surgery it wasn't gone.

In the years that followed, I twice had to have someone slice open my ear as an emergency measure to relieve the pressure on the nerves in my face. One of those times I got Demerol and lost an entire day, one of those times I did not. At least once, the husband threatened to open my ear using some rubbing alcohol and a packet of razor blades. He wasn't kidding. On that occasion, I stayed up all night with a hot compress on my ear until the pus, fluid and other unidentifiable humors forced their way out through my skin and I was saved from a third impromptu surgery.

Whenever I caught cold or flu, I was terrified that I would be subjected to the pain and aggravation of that ear. I ended up with a two-year supply of Augmentin that went with me everywhere (passport, check; toothbrush, check; Augmentin, check) and with which I became so skilled in dosing myself, that I was no longer required to check in with my doc when I felt that my ear was flaring up and suspected I needed it. Sad.

This surgery is supposed to remedy all of that.

This time, my surgery was done on the NHS, where I was instructed to call the morning of my surgery to ensure that there was a bed for me (seriously) and where I was placed in a ward where the average age of my fellow patients was, roughly, Methuselah.

At the moment my ear looks like they Frankenstein'd me with parts from Alfred E. Neuman and it's as though I am hearing through an ear that's on top of my ear. My throat feels like I was intubated with with a 2-x-4 that had extra-large splinters and a grove of nails that had been cultivated for their particular brand of rusty dullness. For some bizarre reason, I'm terribly congested.

And yet, strangely, I have higher hopes for this surgery than I did for the one I had in the U.S.

I'm recovering, though I'm grumpy due to a lack of sleep (the congestion combined with sleeping on my right side are keeping me awake) and I'm looking forward to being able to tilt my head back without it feeling so heavy that it may fall off.

I'll keep you posted.

Good wishes and gifts of Häagen-Dazs vanilla bean ice cream are always welcome!

It's Half-Term and I Hate Everyone

2007-10-23T22:49:00.002+01:00

Okay, maybe not everyone, but everyone who should be wearing a school uniform and sitting in Geography classes, but is, instead, roaming the streets like the feral animals they've become in a mere two days.

You see, it's half-term this week and that means that the nation's juvenile riff-raff is out of school, running wild and existing in places where they shouldn't exist.

There are lots of programs on television at the moment about the sorry state of the educational system here. Why can't Gavin read? Because he's never in f@#$ing school, that's why! Apparently, it's too much for British schoolchildren to attend school for more than eight weeks at a time, so they are given half-term breaks three times a year, along with the usual holiday breaks for Christmas, Easter and Summer. Good grief.

Perhaps if the children here went to school for more than two months at a time, they'd get out of school before the last week in July. At any rate, they'd be in school this week, instead of in my way, which is where they are now.

Today was Stitch 'n Bitch and our meeting place wasn't its normal haven, but the temporary evening haunt of a group of hormonally-challenged, teenaged, gum-snapping, trendy shitbags.

Yeah, I said it. Gum-snapping, trendy shitbags.

It had been a long day as a friend and I had already gone to (and left) Oswaldtwistle, where we attended our monthly beginner's patchwork class. Two competing high-maintenance pains-in-my-ass, one certifiable loon and an hour's drive later, all I wanted was a croissant and a hot chocolate and to put the finishing touches on a scarf that I have been knitting for what seems like two years.

It wasn't to be. My fate was to wait in a line - pardon me, a queue - behind a, frankly, indistinct gaggle of pubescent girls wearing too much make-up and wardrobed in a decidedly finite array of styles. They looked like quasi-animated Bratz dolls, except with skin the color of burnt sienna and the texture of chalk, thanks to too much fake tan and heavy-handed makeup applications. One of them looked like a Seville orange with Chrissie Hynde's hair tacked on; her smoky eyes - meant to evoke sultry adulthood - made her look like she'd tripped and fallen into coal dust. They were clumped together in a cloud of combating perfumes and lip gloss shades and clad in ridiculously similar (if not exactly the same) outfits. All while eying up immature, boy-band wannabes - complete with highlights that would make a circa 1982 George Michael proud - who were sitting in the back of the cafe, quacking their inane opinions at max volume.

I will be soooo happy when half-term is over.

But I'll only be happy for two months: the Christmas holidays are just around the corner.

Huzzah.

DSW

2007-09-18T22:06:00.003+01:00

In preparation for Milo's arrival, we had to "puppy-proof" the house.

It was an undertaking of larger-than-expected proportions. We never realized how dangerous our house was, since we're both adults, (generally) have complete control of our motor skills and (again, generally) know better than to chew on electrical cords.

There are few things that make me as happy as organizing something to within an inch of its life. I do so love the idea of creating a bucolic, orderly haven out of what was - quite recently - a chaotic, haphazard mess. So, it was with relish that I moved the oil-fired heater from the floor in the kitchen, instructed the husband to shore up all the small gaps in the garden fences and set to reorganizing our (how very American) walk-in closet.

Now, knowing that puppies like to chew and knowing that the husband would scream blue murder if our new puppy chewed his fantastically expensive shoes, I decided it was time for me to make my move and ask for shelves that I had been wanting for ages.

The problem? The shelves were at Ikea.

It takes a lot - and I mean a lot - to get the husband to go there. We're talking bribes and the promise of sexual favors here. A trip to the Swedish hell that is Ikea has a lot of stipulations attached to it: I have to know exactly what I want and it's better still if I know exactly where that thing is in the self-service aisles. It behooves me to know the color and the dimensions of said thing before we've left the house and I should be willing to push that heavy-goods cart with the one wonky, plastic-clogged wheel without making a fuss or running over the husband's schmancy shoes.

I also have to purchase Swedish fish for the drive home.

With my own money.

Still, he was no match for me.

I convinced him to go and to buy me shelves by pulling out his pair of cafe au lait-colored, butter-soft suede driving shoes from aforementioned expensive shoe shop and asked him to visualize them covered in puppy hair and drool, complete with teeth marks and holes.

I got my shelves.

I chose simple LACK shelves in the birch effect and we put them up the next day.

My closet now looks like this:

The blue thing in the frame is the first thing I ever knitted. And, yes, the thing in the window is a Manolo Blahnik shoe horn. I did tell you that he was schmancy.

Is it sad that I'm equally excited looking at my closet as I am thinking of eating those doghnut cupcakes?

I don't think so.

Not for one minute.

Insert Homer Simpson-esque Drool Here

2007-09-16T13:13:00.001+01:00

Those of you who know me know that I love cupcakes.

I mean... I well and truly love cupcakes.

I have the ability to fit an entire cupcake into my mouth - frosting, sprinkles and all. The ensuing frosting headache is absolutely, in no uncertain terms, always worth it.

Now, because it doesn't come up as often, you may not know I am also a big fan of the doughnut. To be specific, I am a big fan of the freshly baked doughnut. Those disgusting Entenmann things masking as doughnuts do not move me. Those "end-of-day, been-sitting-there-since-7 A.M., gettin'-love-from-no one" doughnuts don't have a place in my heart and Dunkin' anything makes me throw up in my mouth a little. But a freshly baked doughnut... oh the pleasure, the joy. You watch as they're taken out of the piping hot oil and laid suggestively on a rack or gently absorbent surface and then rolled indecently in sugar and/or cinnamon right in front of you. Arrrrr-rrrrr.

So, suffice it to say that I was deliriously happy to see this post on a blog that I frequent.

She makes me soooo very happy...

There's Good News and There's Bad News

2007-09-13T23:37:00.000+01:00

The bad news: I've already cleaned poop out of the car once today.

The good news: it wasn't my poop.

Honest.

It was Milo's poop. Milo. Our new puppy.

Ladies and gentlemen, meet Milo!

In person, he is waaaaaaay cuter than that photo, but he's a wiggle-bottom and it was nearly impossible to get that photo, so you'll just have to suck it up.

Milo is a five-month old Havanese who likes playing with his toys, listening to Mozart and pooping in his crate.

Okay, I don't know for sure that he likes Mozart and we're working on the crate thing.

Welcome to the newest addition to our fur-baby family. So far, his cat-sister hasn't paid him the slightest bit of attention.

Wish us luck!

The Death Report

2007-08-14T22:02:00.004+01:00

My mother calls me periodically to let me know who amongst our family and friends has passed (or is in immediate danger of passing) away.

The conversation generally goes something like this:

Mom: Hi. How're you?
Me: I'm good, thanks. You?
Mom (deliberate pause): I'm tired. [Insert current nemesis' name here] is putting me through all kinds of changes.
Me (because I have no response to this): Mmm.

She is not insulted. This is not what my mother called to tell me about. This is incidental, the opening band, the prelim bout.

Mom: You know that little man that used to lived across the street from us?
Me: Uh-uh. I think I'd gone away to school by the time he moved in.
Mom: Oh. Well... you'll never meet him now. They found him dead in his house this morning. (Ding! Ding! KO'd in the first round of the Title fight.)

I used to respond by not responding. I would wait, in vaguely uncomfortable silence, for my mother to change the subject. She never did. She would just go on to the next item in the report.

I then tried the obvious: "Mom, I have no idea who you're talking about." I was trying to gently tell her that I wasn't disaffected, I was just confused. I didn't know who she was talking about and so wasn't able to generate the correct emotional response. I wasn't being mean, I was being what I was - unattached to a situation that had no real bearing on me. Sure, it was sad that someone had died home, alone (or by the hand of a cousin I had, heretofore, not known existed), but it was like losing Copernicus or "Touched By An Angel" - it didn't mean anything to me.

This tack didn't work. It was like explaining to a distant relative or stranger/friend of your parents, who hasn't seen you since you were very, very small, that you honestly don't remember them and that - without regression therapy - there is no way you're going to retrieve a memory from when you were two-and-a-half and they gave you an apple and you ended up with Granny Smith all over your face and you were just so cute and you couldn't say "thank you" properly so you said "tank-ooh." And that no matter how many times they say the words, "Remember, remember?" you won't remember.

Being unaffected was not excuse enough.

I wised up and changed tactics. I started giving her the desired - nay, required - and correct acknowledgment: "Oh, Mom. That's terrible. That poor little man."

And then we could move on.

Me: So, what else is new?

Now, you have to understand, the report doesn't actually have to involve death. Terminal and/or chronic illness will do just as nicely - as will pedophilia, drug addiction and general misfortune. And by family and friends, I mean random and sundry - people who may or may not be related to me, that I may or may not have met in my current incarnation or lifetime - from my mother's pastor's sister's friend to a woman who worked three floors down from my mother in the hospital where she worked for 31 years that I never actually met, but who knew me because she saw my Junior Prom picture and commented on how nice my dress was. All said in a breathless, mournful tone meant to elicit the response, " Oh, Mom. That's terrible..." Which, of course, now, it does.

To my mother's credit, there's no actual relish in her voice. I'm not saying it doesn't exist - that there isn't a little "Ha! There's another sucker I outlived" going on inside her head - I'm just saying that if it is going on inside of her head, she has the decency to keep it out of her voice. I'm just sayin'.

Sorry, gotta go. My phone is ringing.

"Oh, hi, Mom. What's up?"

Saying Goodbye

2007-07-22T22:57:00.003+01:00

In my head, I keep hearing that song by Art Garfunkel, All I Know. "Endings always come at last..."

I couldn't really empathize with a friend when she posted about the end of the Gilmore Girls. Having had a similar relationship with my own mother - save for the erudite repartee and the fashionable clothing - where I was often more mother than daughter, I never garnered the same affinity for that show. I always knew that there would come a time would I would have to take the parental role, but I expected that it would be later, rather than sooner, so I can't say that I... appreciated the Loreli character.

Tonight, at least, I can sympathize a bit more.

It's nearly 11 P.M. and I will try to get some sleep now. I know that my dreams will be filled with what did and did not happen in the very last volume of a book series that I desperately wanted to read, yet didn't really want to read because there would be no way to undo the end once it was done.

And now I've done it.

I've just finished Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

Ah, how I wish that Hogwarts really existed and that I could have been a student there. I think I would have ruled at Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts and I'd like to think that I would have been good at Spells and Charms, but I know that I would have sucked ass at Potions and History (I'm terrible at following a recipe and I still don't know when the War of 1812 took place; I always think it's a trick question, like how long did the 100 years' war last?).

I would have wanted to be in Gryffindor or Ravenclaw. I would never, ever have been sorted into Slytherin. Ever. I probably would have fallen for Fred or George (boys who look like nerds, but with a wicked sense of humor and a penchant for trouble!! Oh my...). I would have gotten at least one detention for knocking the crap out of Pansy Parkinson and I would have consistently lost my house points for talking back to Snape in class. I'm guessing that my mother would never, ever have let me go into Hogsmeade. Ever.

I know that it's not real. Still, I'd love to know how butterbeer, pumpkin juice and chocolate frogs taste. I'd also love to be able to perform an undetectable extension charm so that space in my kitchen cabinets would never be a problem again. Mmm, just think: a flick of my wand and the laundry would be done.

I loved reading those books. And I learned to appreciate them for so much more than the escape.

I appreciated the writing of the series and how the level of it grew, along with the characters, over time. The vocabulary became more varied, the language stronger and more adult, the plots became more intricate and the characters more developed with each novel, in turn doing something so out of character that I could hardly believe that she wrote it in and then swinging back to do something that would bring the true nature of the character back into focus. It's much the same way we are in real life - duress, grief and unhappiness have a way of changing us all. I appreciated the way, around book (year) 4, Ms. Rowling stopped babying us through the key pieces of information (much the way a parent - a good parent - will do for you in real life). I was so relieved when she stopped explaining recurring characters and situations for the uninitiated.

I'm going to miss those characters. I am going to miss the anticipation of a new installment, miss the little thump of excitement in my chest when I open that very first page. The movies don't do that for me. They don't satisfy, can't satisfy, the way that the books do. The books are faithful and true, whole and untainted and they are always new...once. The movies can never do, never be that.

So, I raise a glass and say this: Goodbye and thank you, J.K., for letting me share in your - and Harry, Ron and Hermione's - journey. Thank you for bringing a bit of humor and intelligence to the subject, without miring yourself (or us) in the theological discussion that generally accompanies this type of thing. Thank for you making me wish that it was all real.

Thank you, most of all - and I mean this sincerely - for making me believe in magic.

Cheers!

Open, Open, Open...

2007-07-20T23:52:00.001+01:00

It's 11:52 and 32 seconds (33, 34, 35, 36...) and I'm off to the local book sellers to purchase Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

Any guesses as to whether I will finish unpacking my suitcase? Whether the hall will get vacuumed? Dishes washed? Cat fed?

I'll give you three guesses and the first two don't count.

I asked my trusty Magic 8-Ball and it replied, "Outlook not so good."

And for the PETA-philes, don't worry. The cat will get fed, but only because I've filled her bowl to the very top.

She better pace herself.

Hone Again, Home Again, Jiggety-Jig

2007-06-27T19:34:00.001+01:00

I am in the Boston Logan airport waiting for a flight into San Francisco, where Molly will pick me up and drive me to SJ.

It's a sweltering 92 degress Farenheit (33 Celsius) in Boston and the haze is so thick that I am stunned and surprised that flights are taking off at all.

Still, despite the 6-hour wait, I'm grinning from ear to ear.

I can hardly believe that I am back on home soil for two whole weeks. Two weeks. I'll get to see dearly-missed friends, my Dad, my stepmother, a cousin I haven't seen since her dad passed away...

I'm going to the Harry Potter movie on opening night and I get to eat buttered movie popcorn, not some bizarre combination of sweet-and-salted-and-stale. I'm dreaming of a hot dog that tastes like a hot dog and not a recently used condom filled with god-knows-what kind of parts-is-parts. Knowing me, I will manage to see more than one movie. Mmm, home...

I cannot wait.

Hey Chel, I think I'm a Housewife

2007-06-07T21:58:00.000+01:00

That line from the Michelle Shocked song Anchorage kept going through my head as I went about my daily chores yesterday. It was the only thing that my mind could wrap itself around to explain my feelings about the day.

You see, yesterday was glorious. The weather was absolutely beautiful when I woke up - bright, fine, radiant sunshine, hardly a cloud in the sky. I looked out the back bedroom window and nearly jumped for joy.

My thought: what a prefect day to peg out the laundry.

Argh!!

It is a moment that will live forever in my memory. It's the moment the I went over to the domestic darkside.

A Meme? For Me? Shut Up!

2007-05-28T23:18:00.000+01:00

I was tagged by my swap partner for the Hogwarts Sock Kit Swap (hiya, Welsh Dragon!).

I'd complain, but memes don't bother me. Save for that book one (it's 100 items long and I have no patience for what people will and won't read - it all has some value, even if only to let one know what one doesn't value), I think they can be funny and/or interesting - you learn something new about a person, perhaps about yourself. And besides, when bloggers complain about being tagged I cannot help but scoff. Someone finds you entertaining enough to want to know what you think about x and you get to talk about yourself. Face it, you blog, you like to talk about yourself.

The rules of this are that I am to tag seven other people and have them answers these questions on their blog. I can't bring myself to tag other people with the expectation that they will actually do this. Besides, I only know of one other person who hasn't done this. Oh, wait, I'll tag her!

With that said, here are seven random facts about me:
1. I was born left-handed. The woman who ran the daycare/nursery that my sister and I went to was from the South and thought the left hand was the devil's hand, so she wouldn't let me use it. I didn't know this until I was well into my twenties. When I was in my teens, my father made a comment about it, surprised that I was right-handed. At the time, I thought he was a loon. It was more than 10 years later when my mother told me the truth.

I can paint and eat with my left hand as well as I do with my right hand, but to this day my hand "stutters" when I write.

2. I always put my left shoe on first. Always. If I put my right shoe on first, I don't feel comfortable and I have to take my shoes off and put them on again, left one first. This does not translate to anything else - pant legs, earrings, nothing - just my shoes.

3. I am famously, tremendously clumsy.

4. I am über arachnophobic. ALL spiders give me the heebie-jeebies: those creepy, fire engine-red, almost invisible ones to slow-moving, banana bunch-sleeping tarantulas - they all have the same effect. Someone once asked me what it was about spiders that I didn't like and I replied, "Because they've got eight spindly legs and they always look like they're up to something." And they do, too. They're always skulking about, hiding in corners, lurking in wood piles. I don't like it.

5. I don't drink soft drinks. It wasn't a conscious decision. I just woke up one morning and realized that I didn't like them. In the past 17 years I have probably had five or six soft drinks - and then, only because there was no other drink choice. I make an exception for Coke that is mixed with Lamb's Navy dark rum. I will drink a natural soda (basically juice with some carbonation), but I won't drink a regular, commercial soft drink if I have my druthers.

6. I have rented art.

7. When I sneeze I make a sound like a cartoon mouse. It sounds like I'm taking the piss, when that's really the way I sneeze. It, quite literally, stops people in their tracks. They will invariably smile and then say, "Well, bless you!" in an equally high-pitched, cartoon voice because they think I've done it for laughs. I haven't. Honest.

Bonus fact:
I have steered a crew (as in rowing) boat, a canal boat and an oil tanker. Seriously.

Swap-Bot Ate My Life

2007-05-26T22:37:00.000+01:00

Phew.

It's Saturday night and I am sitting down and I feel super guilty about it. I feel like I should be down on my hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor or outside in the dark turning over the soil in the beds in my back garden.

Downstairs, there are craft supplies all over my kitchen and front lounge. I am stumbling over boxes and packs of tissue and those bubble-wrap padded envelopes. My DVR only has 70% capacity left because I've set up program after program to record, but don't get the chance to watch them.

Upstairs, there are two piles of washing waiting for me: one that is desperate to be sorted and laundered and one that wants folding so badly it doesn't want to know what to do with itself. My toothpaste is still not in the medicine cabinet. My hair straignteners have been on the bathroom sink for three weeks. I cannot seem to fill the loo roll holder, so I keep taking them one-by-one from the 12-roll package.

Was that an over-share? Probably, but it illustrates the point. I have not been doing the things I need to do around the house. I don't answer e-mails in any sort of timely manner, I read but take days to respond to PMs and I rarely ever hear the text sound on my phone, so I answer all texts about 12 hours too late.

Why, you ask?

It's effin' Swap-bot, I tell you.

Swap-bot is both my Paradiso and my Inferno. In three weeks I've made 17 Artist Trading Cards, one scarf from Filatura di Crosa's Batuffolo Print and three handmade bookmarks (for which I developed a new design); learned to hand sew so that I could make hearts out of hand-dyed velvet, stuffing and lavender; put together three swap packages of mixed teas and a Tough Times package for a pen pal. I am currently, concurrently, working on four Thank You cards, two postcards covered in adjectives and one easy Wishlist swap.

Like I said, phew.

My neglected house and chores shame me. Now, people who know me know - given the opportunity - that I am, like, Monica Geller neat. I can't start to clean anything before I'm meant to be doing something else because. If I start, it won't be just a quick wipe and a sweep away, I'll end up using a toothbrush to get into the cracks and crevices and I will wear out a roll of those striped towels while using as much EcoSquirt as is environmentally-safe to use (which, considering it's an eco product, is a lot). So you can only imagine how the mess is wearing on me.

But, have no fear, it is slowly getting better. I am actually nearly a week ahead on swaps, I (decadently) vacuumed the floors and the kitchen (at least the floor is clean) and scoured the downstairs loo to within an inch of its life. Thanks to my SIL, my mock orange and aquilegia are in the ground, not in plastic garden centre pots, and there is lobelia instead of bare compost in one of my planters.

I'm getting there.

If I owe you e-mail, I swear I will answer. If I owe you a phone call, it'll probably be later this weekend or over the holiday. If it was a text, I promise you I'll check my phone (as soon as I charge it) and send you a reply (that will more than likely be a two-word reply or the word "okay" before I just end up calling you because it's easier for me than trying to work my cell phone while brain-numb).

Okay, lady, I love you, buh-bye.

I gotta go log into Swap-bot.

Tumbling Dice

2007-05-24T22:44:00.000+01:00

I was all set to post tonight, but I am going to go to bed instead.

This morning, at around 5 A.M., the mistress wanted to be let out and I got up to open the back door for her. I put my foot on the first step and it slipped out from under me. I never got the chance to put my other foot down.

I hit the top step with the better part of my coccyx and then slid - step by stair - to the bottom of the staircase, landing with a goodly thump on the hardwood floor at the bottom, in our front hall.

It seemed like a very long way down and I seemed to slide for a very long time. All I could think to say on my bumpy declension was, "Shit, shit, shit..."

I was able to stand and miraculously, not a thing was broken or sprained. I don't remember hitting my head or my scraping my hands, but now my neck hurts and I have the nagging sensation that usually accompanies carpet burns on both arms and the sides of both hands. My left thumb hurts. My back is stiff and it feels like I have a burn there, too. I cannot get the muscles in my right calf to loosen.

Still, if this is all I have to contend with after that fall, I consider myself lucky indeed.

I knew I wasn't going to die. Nothing flashed before my eyes - no tender moments, no past regrets, nothing - as I travelled. I was very much relieved until I realized that there could be more than one reason for that: either I wasn't going to die so there was no reason to do the highlight reel or I've been wasting my time.

I e-mailed the husband to let him know what happened and he told me to have the great British elixir - a cuppa - with sugar in it to help with the shock. What?! So, there is some basis of truth to Madame Pomfrey recommending chocolate to hurt or seriously scared persons. I sent a second e-mail to ask him that and if sugar would really help. He said, "Yes sugar in tea helps with shock. Put your Hogwarts uniform on then you'll feel better when you have your tea!"

Funny guy.

So, I'm off to bed with a glass of water and the miracle drug that is naproxen sodium.

The cat is outside for the night.

Ex-Pativersary

2007-05-18T23:32:00.000+01:00

It's official. I've lived in England for one year.

Did I say the thing about how time flies?

Alone Again, Naturally

2007-05-10T21:30:00.000+01:00

I've been on my own for a full week now. The husband has gone back to sea and it's just me and one wayward cat for the next four months. It's amazing how the time flies.

It's weird, too, because it seems as though the days have just passed and that I haven't done a thing this past week, but that couldn't be less true.

I've made 4 "Pink, pink and more pink" ATCs, 4 "Black & White" ATCs and learned to sew (sort of). I went to a meeting of the Altered Arts club (of which I was the only attending member that day), saw Spiderman, went shopping in Cheshire and Fleetwood, bought new bedding plants, two jasmine plants and a lavatera. I've been to Stitch 'n Bitch, a giant hobby store and the Wray Scarecrow Festival in (unsurprisingly) the small village of Wray.

This time last week, I was having a day of domestic responsibility. I spent almost the entire day going through the finances and bills, making sure that we're on track, adding all of the correct notations to my organizer, making the phone calls that needed to be made.

Honestly, I'd complain save for the fact that, thanks to British Telecom and the invention of the wireless network, I did all of this sitting outside at my table, which looks like this:

on a deliriously glorious day in my back garden, which looks like this:

Ah, and it's only Spring.

It's also hard to believe that in 8 short days, I will have lived in England for a year. 365 days. A whole year.

My, but how the time does fly.

Hubris

2007-04-30T19:30:00.000+01:00

I'll admit - before I even begin this post properly - that this post is pure, out-and-out boasting.

The woman who initiated the SnB group that I belong to is (fortunately for her, unfortunately for us*) selling her knitting shop. In an effort to make the transition easier for the new owner, she is very kindly selling the odd balls (called oddments here) off cheap.

When I say cheap, I mean cheap. Last Sunday we went by the shop to look through the yarn and I purchased two balls of Debbie Bliss Cashmerino Astrakhan for 50 pence each. Uh-huh, you heard me, 1-2-3-4-5-ifty pence. That's approximately 25 cents, for my U.S. friends that I am clearly taunting.

I bought it in this color:

Mmmm, chocolate...

I also bought a skein of Jaeger Alpaca 4-ply and a skein of Debbie Bliss cotton cashmere for the same price. I figure that I can either make fingerless gloves or add the last two to something else. They were just too good to resist.

Okay, I'll stop bragging now.

Back to regular scheduled programming...

Power Struggles

2007-04-25T20:32:00.000+01:00

In our house a war of wills is raging between the husband and the cat.

The two of them are constantly at odds - she wants him to read her mind (isn't that just like a woman?) and he wants her to be something other than the thing that attracted him to her in the first place (typical man).

I'm trying to remain as Swiss as possible. I mean, how can I take sides? Since I am currently... unapplied, he's keeping me in shoes and grilled cheese sandwiches and he's the one that gets up at 0-god-thirty to let her out when she needs the loo. It's hard not to see his point. But, look at her! How can you argue with that?!

Zoo, he can't read your mind. Nor can he smell the thing you can smell, so when you run up to him and mroowr that way and he looks at you like you're stupid and you look at him like he's stupid, neither of you are. He just doesn't get it. Mice and shrews he gets; they're self-explanatory. Random smells? Not so much.

Husband, she's a cat.

The Zimmers

2007-04-20T00:16:00.000+01:00

The husband is obsessed with this band.

I have to admit that the video is pretty good (and more than a little touching).

A DJ on BBC Radio 2 reckons that this song will go to number 1 on the charts. As an aside, more people have viewed this video than the original The Who video. [Note: I can't actualy vouch for that statistic. Someone told it to me and I am simply repeating it. If it's wrong, who cares, it sounds good.]

Old people are funny. Unless they're driving in front of you on a narrow one-track road. They're not very funny then.

Flix

2007-04-18T23:06:00.000+01:00

I blatantly stole this from TiggerLarue

The Movie Meme
1. Name a movie you have seen more than 10 times.
You won't believe me... French Kiss.

2. Name a movie you've seen multiple times in the theater.
Lord of the Rings (all of them).

3. Name an actor that would make you more inclined to see a movie.
I'm ashamed to say, James Spader.

4. Name an actor that would make you less likely to see a movie.
Jennifer Jason Leigh. I just hate her.

5. Name a movie than you can and do quote from.
Steel Magnolias ("I make it a point to never deal with my wife.")

6. Name a movie musical that you know all of the lyrics to all of the songs.
Godspell

7. Name a movie that you have been known to sing along with.
West Side Story

8. Name a movie you would recommend everyone see.
Shaun of the Dead. It's funny and scary in all the best ways and I love that about that film. Also, The Station Agent - Peter Dinklage is amazing!

9. Name a movie that you own.
(Le Fabuleux destin d') Amélie (Poulain)

10. Name an actor that launched his/her entertainment career in another medium but who has surprised you with his/her acting chops.
Tim McGraw. Call me crazy if you want to, but I dare you to watch Friday Night Lights and not be impressed by the transformation.

11. Have you ever seen a movie at a drive-in? If so, what?
Yes. I think it was one of the Back to the Futures, but for the life of me, I don't know. There was drinking... and flirting...

12. Ever made out in a movie?
Yep. And that's all I have to say about that.

13. Name a movie that you keep meaning to see but just haven't gotten around to it yet.
Monsoon Wedding

14. Ever walked out on a movie?
Nope. You just don't know how many times I've wished that I had that gene.

15. Name a movie that made you cry in the theater.
Brokeback Mountain. However, the hardest I have ever cried was on a plane watching This Is My Father. It may have been because we were on a French-Canadian airline, though. Let's just say it was the movie.

16. What was the last movie you saw in the theater.
300. It freakin' ruled.

17. What is your favorite/preferred genre of movie.
Don't have one. I prefer 'good' over 'genre.'

18. What is the first movie you remember seeing in the theater?
Star Wars

19. What movie do you wish you'd never seen?
Bridget Jones' Diary. I was stupider when it was over. That pissed me off. I'm still holding a grudge against the person who recommended it. He knows who he is.

20. What is the weirdest movie you enjoyed?
Ace Ventura: Pet Detective

21. What is the scariest movie you have seen?
Showgirls

Alright, alright... if I'm being serious, The Exorcist. To this day, I can't even watch the trailer.

22. What is the funniest movie you have seen?
Rushmore. Without a doubt.

A Crisis of Faith

2007-04-01T23:08:00.000+01:00

This last week has been one of frustration, mingled with ennui. And flu.

I've been what's termed "poorly" here. It started last week and has just borne real fruit this weekend (Friday really) - sinus infection, sneezing, pressure behind the eyes, headache, achy, seriously tired. I wasn't as bad last weekend, and expected this weekend to be much the same. Sadly, I was wrong.

It's been three days since I've been out of my pj's long enough to do anything other than change a key piece of clothing so that I don't smell as bad as I look. It's been more days than that since I've been outside my front door.

In addition to this, I am having trouble with my crafting.

I had the same problem last year, right before we moved, when I felt that my desires and my desired projects far exceeded my skill set. Worse, due to some mitigating circumstances, I was forced to reckon with my growing collection of craft supplies and came to the conclusion that I have more accoutrements than I have talent.

I participated in an ATC swap on swap-bot and I struggled. The theme was "black and white only" and, though it sounded like exactly the sort of theme that I could work, none of the ideas that I came up with seemed to work. I couldn't convince myself that the ideas and the cards that I liked best would be well received. I didn't want my swap partners to be disappointed when their ATCs arrived, but I was disappointed in them when they went out. I hope that spirit doesn't follow my cards and that the recipients do like them, but I can't help feeling that I let my swap partners down.

Worse, still, I keep trying - and failing - at knitting project after knitting project. I tried Fetching from Knitty... I tried felting a small clutch from the One Skein book... I thought about doing the Irish Hiking Scarf from Hello Yarn. It was only after I started Fetching that I remembered that I don't know how to knit in the round with double-pointed needles. Nor do I know how to cable. Hrrumph. I knitted the clutch and my seaming was better than it had ever been (thanks, kiddo; you know who you are), but the felting was a complete and total disaster - the piece never fully felted, it shrunk like all get out, but some of the stitches were still visible. I'd like to blame it on my front-loading machine, but everyone here has a front-loading machine and lots of people felt. So I moved on to the Irish Hiking Scarf. It was then that I remembered, after printing the pattern and sitting down to knit, that I still didn't know how to cable. Bugger.

And just to wholly deflate my already sagging ego, I surfed over to knit-one-one and realized that Punk Rawk Purl, whom I greatly and dearly admire, learned to knit a mere two months before I did and is now teaching classes, rather than sitting around of a weekend lamenting her abject lameness.

How do some people's skills get that far ahead, that fast? Is it because they knit every day? Are they inherently better at it?

Urgh.

So, this weekend, I have practiced making bobbles and am teaching myself to cable without a cable needle via Grumperina's tutorial.

I am determined to get past this.

I know, I know... I will. I'm just having a small quandary.

In my head, I hear Chevy Chase as Ty Webb telling me, "Just let it happen. Be the yarn. Be the yarn, Danny."

Pirates of the Caribbean 4

2007-03-22T23:14:00.001Z

...Curse of the Knit/Purl

Holy freakin' moly. This is why knitters get no respect.

Brick

2007-03-20T23:56:00.000Z

If it means what I think it means, I want Molly's brick.

My Real Personality

2007-03-15T21:34:00.000Z

I remember seeing a greeting card once where a cartoon woman, lamenting the true nature of the monthly feminine monster said, “My biggest fear is that PMS doesn’t exist and that this is my real personality.”

It’s a genuine fear.

Unfortunately for me, I don’t get a heads-up that my “friend” is coming to visit. One moment I'm fine and the next I'm doubled over in pain and begging someone - anyone - to get me pills, a hot water bottle and something (anything) that contains whiskey, honey and lemon.

And so it was this afternoon. At lunch, after a shopping trip to Helen Bateman in Edinburgh, it started. We were sitting in a restaurant waiting to order and I started to feel funny... that special kind of funny – my stomach started to hurt, only it wasn't my stomach exactly, it was just south of that and it’s not so much hurting as it is aching, dull and constant and making me feel more ill at ease than sick.

That’s how it makes me feel – uncomfortable in my own skin, aching in places where the pain doesn’t actually exist, overly sensitive (sound, movement, everything) and I really, really need to be under a comforter, out of the way of everyone with a woobie and a drinkie. The confined space of an Audi A3 is not the place to experience the height of your PMS throes.

I tried willing myself to sleep (it worked when my mother took me to the drive-in to see Blacula when I was a very small child). I tried turning off the radio, but then I could actually hear the husband rustling in a plastic bag retrieving and chewing his Haribo Tangfastics (which, strangely, didn’t bother me when I was helping him eat them on the way up). I tried staying awake with the radio on and watching the road, but then I could feel every, single movement of the car, fret about the curves and how severe they would be before we actually took them and make them into a bigger deal than they actually were. And this is from someone who does not get motion sick. Mind you, all of this was happening in my head since I wasn’t saying it out loud for fear of sounding like a neurotic, overly-sensitive nutter who also happens to be experiencing period pain.

The husband didn't seem to be properly sympathizing. It's because boys don’t go through things like this. I wish they did. If men experienced PMS, it would be legal to take ketamine and drink in the car once a month. And it would be a paid day off.

Are You Being Served?

2007-03-12T20:55:00.000Z

On Saturday past, my friend and her mother took me to a new yarn shop in North Yorkshire.

It was a beautiful drive through the Yorkshire Dales on a day that should have been rainy and dull, but was instead bright and brisk, with very little rain (that didn't start until we left an excellent little cafe where we were served warm scones with warm Yorkshire butter and fresh strawberry jam; Ahhh, my mouth is watering just writing this!).

The shop was a gem - Noro as far as the eye could see and the first skeins of Colinette that I have seen since I've been in the UK (strangely). Mrs. Scott had scarf and throw kits (I do so love a throw kit) with Colinette, Noro or Debbie Bliss yarns; there were pattern books that I hadn't seen the likes of since I went to Stash in London.

I purchased all the wool I would need to complete the Lizard Ridge throw from the Fall 2006 issue of Knitty. I chose silk Garden for a softer throw and was (more than a little) relieved to be able to give up my quest for 21 skeins of Noro Kureyon in 21 different colorways that would be vibrant enough to liven up an espresso-colored sofa, but not too garish. I was very pleased with my purchase.

I arrived home and was showing the husband the color that I'd chosen when I noticed that the skein I had in my hand was a different color from the next skein in the bag. In fact, it was a different color from all of the other skeins in the bag. It was, in point of fact, a different color from all of the skeins in the other bag as well.

Well, shit.

As the shop was so far away, I panicked for a moment, called my friend that I had been with earlier to tell her what happened and then decided that since the shop was now closed (and would be until Monday) there was nothing to do but wait.

Sooo, this morning, I called the shop and spoke with Mrs. Scott. She was as perplexed as I was as to how the mistake could have happened and seemed to be somewhat at a loss what to do. No worries, I said, we (the husband and I) would drive back up there today to exchange the yarn. As it was unexpectedly a nice day, with rain yet threatened for later in the week, there was no use in us just sitting in the house today. Off to the Yorkshire Dales we went.

I expected to get there, exchange the yarn, grab a meal in one of the nearby cafes and then head home. I expected the shop proprietor to be slightly apologetic, give us the yarn and see us on our way. Instead, she went over the shade cards with us to make sure that we had exactly what we needed/wanted, left us alone as we had a quick browse around and then, to my delight and surprise, she gifted me with a skein of Colinette Jitterbug in the Sahara colorway and a set of Brittany DPNs. Nice! She said it was for our trouble at having to come back to the shop.

Now, that's what I call customer service.

You Know You're Tired When...

2007-03-11T22:31:00.000Z

You're frantically searching the restaurant booth for your keys and you're holding them in your hand.

Sigh.

Stitching ‘n Bitching

2007-02-28T01:09:00.000Z

I’ve been chastised for not writing about my knitting group here. It's not that I was ignoring them or intended any slight. Though the ladies in the group have been an integral part of me adjusting to life here in the UK, I just hadn’t thought that a bunch of old grannies and few (nearing) middle-aged knitsters (including myself) would be of interest to anyone but me. The truth is, though the knitting may not be, the women certainly are.

I wasn't even aware of it myself until today: they’ve been more of a help than I’d known. Monday was a horrible day. Normally I enjoy my trip to London – a train journey that allows me to read or knit uninterrupted, a chance to visit Café Macchiato and have a buffalo mozzarella and tomato sandwich on the softest, most perfect ciabatta I’ve had outside of Italy, a quiet sit outside Euston station where I choose between honey-roasted cashews and pecans and a Belgian chocolate brownie to have with my vanilla latte before boarding the train and then a nap or a read on the way back home. Monday I did not enjoy my trip.

On the train on the way up I had a woman next to me who wouldn’t sit down for more than two minutes at a time because she kept standing up to talk to her family in the set of seats in front of us and then super-lonely guy, on the way back, who needed to continuously talk on his cell phone (even though the phone kept dying and he had to keep redialing whoever it was he was annoying besides me) who spoke so loudly that I could hear him even with my earphones in and The Stone Roses up as loud as I could get them without giving myself a migraine. Un-fucking-believable.

I missed the first train I intended to take so I had no time between the time I arrived at Euston and the time I needed to be at the salon to make it to the shop I wanted to go to. My stylist was running behind schedule, which she never does, so she finished my hair at 6 instead of 5, so I still didn't get to the one shop I needed to get to before heading back to the station for my train home, which, by the way, I missed because I'd walked to a shop that was already closed. Shit.

I had fast food for dinner (which I am pretty sure that I gave up for Lent, but it was that or powdered toast when I got home at 11 p.m.) and my husband was late picking me up from the station, while the train was slightly early, so I stood around outside in a town that is normally about 2 degrees cooler and 20% windier than the town we live in. Bollocks!

As one can imagine, I was not a happy bunny when I arrived home. I went (almost) straight to bed, slept nearly completely through the night (I am like an infant when it comes to sleep. I usually have to pee in the night, but since I don’t have the luxury of weeing in pants and having someone clean up the mess in the morning, I have to get up, which I loathe) and then woke up this morning feeling what my friend describes as pants. I'm pretty sure it has something to do with feeling crappy, which very accurately characterized how I felt. I was tired and cranky and in no mood for anyone today. The post arrived bringing the yarn that I'd won on eBay, but was the wrong color because the shtooopid woman that listed it listed it as one color when it was really another (and, mind you, the numbers were not close - 167 instead of 154, urgh!) and I already had that color so I was miffed, irascible, droopy-eyed and feeling "pants" before I even reached the kitchen for coffee. Which, much to my chagrin, hadn't yet been made. Damnit!

Can you say, “Stay away from the crazy lady. Awoo-gah, Awoo-gah, this is not a drill! I repeat, this is not a drill! Dive, dive, dive!” ? Yes, I thought you could.

Even my ever-placid cat took one look at me, headed straight for back door to wait for me to open it and, when I did, went promptly out of it. Screw the rain - she preferred to sit outside. I imagine her telling the other neighborhood cats over a catnip toy they were passing around, “It’s either get wet or deal with my human, and I make it a point to never deal with my human.”

Needless to say (but I'm going to anyway), I was in no mood for a 15-mile drive that would take me 40+ minutes. I intended to skip Stitch ‘n Bitch because I feared that I would be less of a stitch and more of a bitch and that that wouldn’t be good for anyone. But, as I'd arranged to meet someone there to talk about bears (don’t ask!), I felt obligated to go. My friend, the closest friend I have here in the UK, sent me a text to say that she wasn't coming and that made me even less inclined to go. Sigh.

Going was the best thing that I could have done.

I arrived at our usual meeting place to see another friend and her beautiful little grandson, who has one of those sweet, little kid voices [made all the better for his little English accent (I know, I know, I’m the one with the accent)]. He had a brand new fire truck and was on his way home with his nan to get some supper and, more importantly, extricate his new toy from its box. He said a dulcetly high-pitched "bye-bye" to me and, as they left, more of the group started drifting in, including the friend I wasn’t expecting to see! I had lemon drizzle cake and a small vanilla cappuccino and a good old natter while we knitted. Another friend showed up late, but she sat near me and kept me in stitches (pardon the pun) the entire time. It's been a long time since I laughed so easily and comfortably with a group of people. I wasn't the new American girl anymore, I was part of the gang. I got invited to a birthday party (it’s for a 6-year-old, but, hey, it’s an invite) and I made plans with two of the girls to make plans for a girls’ night out. Excellent.

By the time I'd left, I felt more like I used to - social, included, happy.

I needed that. I needed them.

Thanks for taking me under your wings, ladies, and for making me one of your own - even if it's only for an hour, every Tuesday night.

It’s midnight now, and I am going to have to post this tomorrow because the steamer that the husband is using to strip the wallpaper off the walls in the upstairs bedroom just tripped the breaker that controls all of the sockets in the house.

And you know what? I don’t even care. I’m going to go eat half a tub of Cinder Toffee ice cream so that it doesn’t melt and call it serendipity.

Yum.

A Grand Day Out

2007-02-23T23:34:00.000Z

As you well know, I did not have high hopes for the day. Before I went to bed last night there was no sign of having anything to look forward to but boredom and wallowing in self-pity.

Ha! The universe has its way with me again.

Today we went to Harrogate – a beautiful little village to the southeast of the Yorkshire Dales – for my birthday day out. It was fantastic, and not just because I got two new pairs of leather-lined boots!

Instead of the promised rain, the weather was mild and brisk and very pleasant indeed. In fact, the only rain we saw was from the inside of the Old Bell Tavern as we drank pints of Timothy Taylor and glasses of Lamb’s Navy rum and Coke (with lots of ice), refreshing ourselves after a hard day of shopping and eating.

We had a gorgeous* lunch at the Loch Fyne Restaurant in Harrogate and then a walk around the village. We ventured into a men’s shop that sold men’s clothing tailored in a traditionally English way and the husband bought an exquisite pair of handmade boots. He is as much of a shoe who-ore as I am.

We headed back to the town centre** and bought currant scones for tomorrow morning and lemon tarts (to serve as my birthday cake) from Betty’s Tea Room. Oh, the lemon tarts… They were exceptional – the perfect balance of sweet to tart, the kind that gives you that momentary flush from the tart, but none of the cloying taste of the "too sweet." Mmm, mmm, delish. It's a shame that we only bought the two because we both devoured them in record time (after a proper dinner, of course). I’ll be missing mine about an hour from now.

We wandered up a winding side street to burn a few calories and check out some of the shops off the beaten path, where we happened upon a killer shop called Velvet Rose - a smallish shop packed to the gills with the girliest of girly wares. The racks were sagging from the weight of organza, rumpled linen, velvet, rose-shaped brooches that wouldn’t be amiss on a woman from a Dickens novel and skirts fit for a Gibson girl - bustle and all! It’s exactly the sort of clothing I love and exactly the sort of clothing that makes me look like an ottoman with legs (which is why I never wear that kind of clothing). They also had a fa-hab-u-lous pair of brown leather boots with a four-inch heel and electric blue trim around the seams. These do not make me look like a walking ottoman, which is why they are now mine to stroke and yours to covet. Of course, with each step I hear Molly McGee's voice telling me, "lean way back on your heels." Hopefully I don't look like a clydesdale or an ottoman.

The husband and I went into another shop so that I could point out the ridiculous price tag on a Chloe handbag. I was so smug. I ended up with a second pair of boots. They are spectacular. Fortunately, they were of a price that we mere mortals could pay and the husband bought them for me as an extra birthday present. Awww…

With the shops and teahouses closing, we headed off to the Old Bell Tavern for a quick drink to relax for a bit and wait out the Friday night traffic. It was a proper pub with old, french-polished wood and real ales (9 to 12 percent alcohol content; none of this namby-pamby 4 or 5 percent) and locals throwing back a pint before heading home or off to a restaurant for their evening meal. I made a friend of the woman next to us as she admired our shopping prowess and I got to pet a sweet, if overly excitable, cocker spaniel who was hanging out with his (human) mates before walkies.

After a quiet drive home, we arrived to find a second bouquet of flowers (the first was from hubby this morning before we left) and cards and a sweet little package from my in-laws and nieces. I ate my butter chicken with vegetable naan from the Indian take-away and opened my e-mail to find a haul of e-cards from friends.

Like I said, "Awww..."

Even though I’m far away, I felt (for a moment) like I was home.

So, before I can miss my lemon tart, I’ll head for bed – with a smile on my face, humming “Happy Birthday To Me” – and know that it was a good day.

Thanks to everyone who made it happen.

Mmwah!

* The British are fond of describing food with words like beautiful and gorgeous. They don't use arcane vernacular like delicious or tasty. Interestingly, scrummy is a perfectly viable adjective.

** They spell words that end in "er" like the French ("re"), for which you can be legally† drawn and quartered if you point it out to them.

† I'm not sure if it's legal, but they will‡ draw and quarter you if you point it out.

‡ Okay, they won't, but they will think about it.

Gonna Party Like It's My Birthday...

2007-02-22T23:55:00.000Z

Not.

Tomorrow is my 39th birthday.

Thirty-nine.

It’s hard to believe that I am damn-near 40 years old. Another year closer to being dead and no years closer to being the person that I always thought I’d be.

That’s a damn shame.

The problem is that I still don’t know what it is that I want to be when I grow up. The bigger problem is that I need to figure it out pretty damn quick since I am awfully, awfully close to being grown up. This, too, is a damn shame.

What a difference a year makes... This time last year I was surrounded by friends, living in a place that I knew well (and really, really liked) and I was a contributing member of society. I had a job and a social life and solid plan for my birthday. Last year I went to lunch with friends almost every day of my birthday week and had phô and chocolate cake and ahi tuna sandwiches - all within walking distance of my office.

This year, I am sitting up at nigh midnight looking up possible day trips for tomorrow - somewhere to go so that I don’t end up sitting in the living room watching a marathon of "True Hollywood Story" on E! Entertainment Television or reruns of "Two and a Half Men" while stuffing myself with bowl after bowl of Cinder Toffee ice cream and swigging hard cider from the bottle to keep from feeling sorry for myself; something to do other than clean the front room and try to put craft supplies and a hundred tech gadgets and their various peripherals into spaces that don’t exist.

There’s no solid plan for what to do tomorrow - just a bunch of suggestions, some self-pitying mewling from myself and a few half-hearted attempts by the husband to come up with a day plan. This is pissing me off. I love my birthday.

My stepfather and a good friend of mine prefer natal anniversary to birthday. My SIL asks me if I’m “x again” each time age comes up. Well, none of that horseshit for me. It’s my freakin’ birthday and I am 39. I am not coyly pretending to be some age other than the one that I've worked damn hard to reach, nor am I am couching the word "birthday" in gentler terms. I am happy to age. The alternative does not bear thinking about at the moment. I just want to celebrate my birthday.

I’d rather intended to write about how much tomorrow was going to suck since I was going to miss talking to my stepmother (who never fails to remember my birthday), but she called me this afternoon to wish me happy birthday and to talk to me before she boarded a plane to San Diego to see my sister’s 20-year Retirement ceremony from the Marines (Semper Fi!) and my older sister sent me an iCard from Apple.

Could it be a happy birthday after all?

A Tale of Two Mornings

2007-02-06T23:32:00.000Z

Last Friday, my world looked like this:

This morning, it looked like this:

And this:
And this:

It's night now and it is -2.78°, that is below f!@#ing freezing, thanks very much.

Winter is in full swing here and for the most part it's beautiful - cold, but beautiful.

Wish you were here?

Ecover Squirt

2007-02-05T00:05:00.000Z

My life these days seems to be a never-ending series of Sisyphusian tasks. Cook a meal, clean the kitchen, cook meal, clean kitchen, cook, clean, sunset, sunrise, repeat.

No sooner do I finish sorting a drawer, cabinet or room does something need to be mended in - or removed from - said drawer/cabinet/room. Everything that was in there needs to be shifted to some other drawer, cabinet or room, and this means rearranging everything that used to exist in that space to some other space. Arrrrrggggggggggh!

I'm reminded of an ex-boyfriend's mother who had a mastectomy and directly after her surgery she and her husband remodeled their kitchen. I remember her obsessing over really small details and parts of the process. Kitchen cabinet knobs became the thing. Should they be football shaped or moon shaped? If moon-shaped, should they be crescent moon or new moon shaped? Her husband and son became increasingly frustrated with her, wanting her to make what they felt was a simple decision.

I, on the other hand, completely sympathized.

Obsessing, er... focusing, on something that you can control - no matter how small - alleviates the need to focus on the real thing, the serious thing, the thing that's too big for your tiny, crazed, brilliant mind to encompass.

My...focus... is always cleaning some minute part of a room that is, otherwise, completely covered in crap. At the moment, that describes my entire house. People who know me will know that this is not a comfortable state of affairs for me. So, tonight it was the bottom shelf of a bookshelf. I got down on the floor on my hands and knees, sprayed the shelf with cleaner and then scrubbed the thing within an inch of its life. Behind me, there is an ottoman covered in sheet protectors filled with embellishments for card making and scrapbook pages, a furry alpaca pillow that has yet to find a home in any of the chairs that we own, my knitting bag that is (quite literally) overflowing with yarn and knitting accoutrements and a plastic storage container that has various archival adhesives in it.

My bookshelf shelf is gleaming. I could eat my evening meal off of that thing. Do I care that can't see the floor in the rest of the room? You bet your sweet ass I do. I am, however, choosing to ignore it.

Ooh, wait, look, there's a speck of dust left on the back edge. Let me just get that...

Ward 35

2007-01-25T23:06:00.001Z

We went to visit my MIL today in hospital. She had a mastectomy this afternoon.

She was cheerful enough when we went to visit and much like herself - she wanted a sherry, so we were pretty sure that she was fine.

I have to admit that I was concerned. I wasn't sure what it would be like when we visited her. A breast is so much part of being a woman that I was unsure - even for myself - how it would be to see her after she had one of hers removed.

I don't know what I would do. Sometimes I have a hard time looking at myself in the mirror now. One doesn't always love what one sees. I can't imagine what it would be like to look down and see a scar where my breast used to be and know that it had been taken by something so very far beyond my control.

It's such a dirty thing, cancer. You want to whisper it, like the mother in "Saint Elmo's Fire." It's not something that you can just say "get well soon!" to or something that they have greeting cards for. I mean, it's not like you can run over to Papyrus and pick up a card for cancer patients with pithy little sentiments like "Hope your cells don't spread!" on it.

My MIL wants to go to her own home afterwards. I guess she wants to take her time getting used to the "new" her in a quiet and (I think, maybe) controlled environment. I wish that my SIL would let her do just that. If it were me, I know I'd want some time to myself - time to wallow if I needed it, time to adjust - without the hustle and bustle of someone else's house, someone else's schedule.

Well, until you get back home and can sit in front of the fire and have a glass of sherry yourself, mum, I'll have one in you honor.

My thoughts and prayers - and for the moment, my liver - are with you.

Cheers.

Who's Afraid of Victoria Beckham?

2007-01-22T23:37:00.000Z

Tom Cruise is. Or he should be.

It's cold here. Cold.

Currently it's 3º here now. I'm not sure if that's the high or the low for today, but roughly 37º is low for me, no matter how you look at it. Tomorrow, the high will be 2º and the low is slated to be 0º.

Like I said, cold.

Still, not as frosty as the reception that Mrs. Beckham apparently gave Tom Cruise when he offered her husband an intro all that is wrong and unholy.

Unlike 99.9% of people in the UK, I knew there was a reason to like her.

And They Call the Wind...

2007-01-19T01:26:00.001Z

Okay, okay. So it's midnight-thirty and I am not in the bed. But for good reason tonight. I've stayed up a little while longer so that I write this post.

All the world seems to be experiencing weird weather...severe weather. And the northwest of England was no exception.

My SIL, my niece and I headed out to Preston to do some shopping - they were getting outfits for a wedding and I wanted a Jamie Oliver Flavour Shaker. Ridiculous, I know, but true.

Well, the wind last night was definitely what one would call "howling." You could hear it through any small crack in the house - through the windows, through the doors - it was awful. The shopping trip was planned for today (yesterday) and I was thinking of calling them to tell them that I didn't want to go. I was sure it wouldn't be much fun in that kind of weather.

When you're right, you're right.

We were only out for about 4 hours, and that includes travel time. It was horrific.

I talked my SIL into parking a bit closer today, thinking that fighting the wind would be un-amusing. When you're right...

We shopped in one store, where we were all unsuccessful in our endeavors, so we headed up the high (main) street to try our luck in some other shops. Big mistake. We three were windblown and disheveled before we got to the corner of the one block that we walked - our lips were chapped, our cheeks had the blush of the wind-worn; we were not cute. All the while, my niece and I were dreaming of Starbucks and warmth and Belgian chocolate brownies (as a reward for suffering through whinging and moaning as my SIL found nothing that she either liked or wanted in shop after freakin' shop. In point of fact, she probably wasn't moaning. The niece and I were just bitter and stinging from the fact that my SIL wouldn't let us be our own worst enemies and eat fudge- and caramel-filled donuts, even though we really, really wanted them).

As we walked back towards four-pump vanilla latte goodness, we noticed that there was a rather extensive and disturbing police presence along the high street. We thought, "Robbery" (there are a bunch of jewelry stores on that street), then we thought, "Heart attack" (there were a bunch of old people walking around in gale force winds being blown into the sides of buildings, so sue us), then we noticed that there was rubble in the street next to a brick building and we thought, "Shit! There's rubble from a brick building in the street." It was then that we noticed how all of the shops were shut and that police were waving us away from the doors in an effort to save us from potential falling tiles and flying Accrington brick. But they were also shooing me away from my beloved latte-brownie fix and my niece away from matte perfection. Not fair. It was so close. We could see it.

And so the bitching began. We couldn't go back into the store we wanted to go into, my SIL and niece couldn't get their make-up and I couldn't have caffeine - it wasn't going to be good for anybody.

We complained all the way back to the car. We complained all the way home in the car. We complained while we drank instant coffee in the kitchen after we got out of the car.

And then we saw the news.

Nine people died as the UK was pummeled by storms from one end of the country to the other. There were 78 MPH winds, ferry services were cancelled, train services were suspended and flights were indefinitely delayed in nearly every major airport (with flights already in the air being lucky to land at all). Trees were felled, piers and seacoasts were battered by walls of water and roads were covered in water, snow or sand.

I'm sorry, what were we complaining about again? I couldn't have a designer coffee? My niece and SIL couldn't have new Nars foundation? Seriously, what is wrong with us?!

My SIL's house escaped relatively unscathed (a few roof tiles missing) and our house went untouched - all roof tiles, windows and cats accounted for (though our front and back garden fences didn't fare quite as well, as there is one small section missing from each). The same couldn't be said for everyone.

I'll have to make a better check of the house and the garden tomorrow when it's light.

For now, the wind has died down and it's quiet outside.

Forecast for Friday: light rain and westerly winds of about 10 MPH. That's much better than it's been.

Still, poor little pup.

Twenty-Four Hour Shopping...Rapture

2007-01-16T01:45:00.000Z

It's 1 AM and I just returned home from grocery shopping (god bless the 24-hour Megalomart).

It's no secret that I need to go to sleep. I went to the grocery store for some sleep tabs. Did I get them? No. They were out of the ones that I wanted. Mind you, they had something called Kalms, but I couldn't buy them because I distrust any product (or establishment, for that matter) that feels that substituting a K for a C is a responsible solution to branding. In case you're wondering, it's not.

I went for one thing...one thing.

Instead of sleep tabs, I got:

6 Bottles of Still Water
Alaskan Salmon Filets
Venison Steaks
Asparagus Tips
Red Bell Peppers
18 Rolls of Toilet Tissue (half price!)
Cherries
Dried Fruit
Pineapple Chunks
Blackberries
Organic Blueberries
Sweet Potatoes
Macadamia Nuts
Rare-Breed, naturally pastel-colored Eggs
Goat's Milk Yogurt
Potato Chips (Mature Cheddar and Caramelized Onion)
Distilled Vinegar
Organic Brown Sugar
2 Pains Au Chocolat
1 Pecan Plait
A Cutlery Tray, Dish Drainer and Laundry Hamper
A Nail Cleaner and Compact Mirror
2 Shoe Boxes (with lids)
A Clothes Airer
A Bouclé Door Mat
and
5 Bags for Life (plastice, reusble, bags that Tesco will replace for life for free)

I went for one thing.

For some weird reason I am reminded of Johnny Depp in that episode of 21 Jump Street where his girlfriend gets shot during a convenience store robbery and he obsesses over the number of things that he can do in the same amount of time it took the whole thing to happen. I'm obessed with the number of hours, minutes, seconds of sleep that I can get if I go to bed right now or, in turn, all of things that I could accomplish in that same amount of time. Would that I knew how to plaster and wallpaper. Or sew. How I wish now that I'd bought the Rosetta Stone DVDs - I'd be nigh to fluent in Italian by now.

Later today my sister-in-law and I are accompanying my mother-in-law to her pre-op appointment. She told me a week ago today that she has breast cancer. She found the lump before Christmas, but didn't tell us until then because she didn't want to ruin the holidays.

Mothers always do stuff like that.

It's knowledge that keeps a body awake, that's for sure.

To Sleep, Perchance

2007-01-15T07:07:00.000Z

Fuck.

It's 7 AM - past 7 AM - and I have yet to go to sleep.

When is this going to end?

I have spent yet another evening trolling the net, looking for sites to add to the links section of my blog and for knitting inspiration that would entice me into picking up the needles and try something, anything, for goodness sakes.

Perhaps I would be able to think of something if I could think. This lack of sleep is beginning to wear me down. I have no energy, no desire to go out of doors. Crafting with a friend today was a major accomplishment - I not only had a shower (you don't know how rare that is these days), I left the house. You know, got in the car and went to a place that wasn't the market or to visit my mother-in-law. Those trips don't count: both were necessities and duty. And I'm not convinced that I showered either of those days.

I find that I have to make a list of things to get done so that I can remember just to do the basics of a day. I'm no stranger to lists (I love them!), but I wasn't expecting to have to make lists to remind myself what to do when I got out of bed each day until I was well into my 70s. Distressing.

Ah, finally. I am beginning to yawn and my eye lids are finally feeling heavy. I'll take advantage of the moment and head to bed now.

It helps that it still looks like the dead of night outside.

To sleep, perchance before dawn.

iPhone, My Ass

2007-01-14T23:50:00.000Z

While everyone is busy coveting the new iPhone, I'm dreaming of affordable luxuries that will make my life and life with my laptop computer easier.

I am always on the lookout for new softy-shiny that I can use to (temporarily) sate my gadget jones. While cruising a couple of style blogs last night, I came across this by Belkin. It's designed by Mike & Maaike (Mike & Mike, anyone?!), who have designed some other nifty-looking products, and is available on the Belkin site.

Isn't it beautiful?! So rounded and squishy and Kermit-like. And it can keep scratches off my Precious?!

This thing even has storage for my power cord so that I don't have to hand carry the cord from room to room while I'm roaming with my laptop.

It's freakin' genius, I tell you.

I mean, don't get me wrong, I think that the iPhone is truly revolutionary. And those of you who know me know that my Pavlovian response to all things Apple will not allow me to exist for long without the addition of said revolutionary gadget to my technological menagerie.

I've seen plenty of sites and blogs that mention the iPhone and how sweeeeet it is, but if you want to see a demo of the phone itself, as well as Steve Jobs demonstrating "The Pinch," check out iPhoneFreak.

I'm not proud - I'll admit it - I made the noise when I watched SJ demonstrate "The Pinch." I think you will, too.

Whole New You... I mean, Me

2007-01-13T05:14:00.000Z

I had already decided that this would be the year of me. I had decided that I was going to make the changes I need (want) to make in myself, for myself, so that I can go back to being myself.

I started journaling again and I started posting again. When I looked at my blog I was disappointed in the progress that I hadn't made in year since I started this: I hadn't posted a photo in (I don't know how many) months and I still had those damn default links in the sidebar. It was shameful.

Enter the new drag-n-drop Blogger. Now, I am good at dragging and dropping. Having worked at the Big Red A for 6 years, I knew from drag and drop. So I figured that I could finally make some of the changes that I have been wanting (needing) to make since I started this.

So, I'm putting the insomnia to use (I'm writing this at 5:30 AM) and I've spent this morning adding links and new sections to my blog. I've given it a new name to reflect that that blog will be about more than just my knitting projects and I'm actually posting for the third time in as many days. I like the new look of, and the fact that there is actual content on, my blog. Hope you do, too.

Go get 'em, tiger. Rrowr.

The V Sign

2007-01-12T00:02:00.002Z

In England you don't flip people the bird, you flash the V sign instead. It's the same gesture as the Peace sign, but your palm is facing you. It's better if you gesture upwards quickly, in a kind of jerking motion; it makes more of an impact.

I want to give the V sign to drivers here in England all the time.

It's winter now and that means that it starts to get dark at about 4 o'clock PM... on a good day. If it's cold and rainy and grey during the day, it feels like the sun has taken to its bed even earlier. It can be as good as night at 3 in the afternoon.

Dark at 3 PM. Yay!

Tuesday was Stitch 'N Bitch so I drove myself to Lytham - a pretty little village about 15 miles away from where I live. Since we don't meet until 5, the drive now is along a dark, narrow, winding, two-car back country road with a low, brick wall on one side and oncoming traffic on the other.

Now, to get the "feel" of this drive, you have to imagine that you're driving along a two-lane, wending, twisting, undulating country road. There is no center divider, no barrier of any kind. There are no street lights. Each and every vehicle of oncoming traffic is cutting the corner on each and every curve, crossing the dividing line and driving into your lane. All of them - huge semis, all manner of farm vehicle, souped-up boy racers, hand-powered bicycles, slow-moving Smart cars driven by old people with dodgy reflexes - all of them. Just to save a nanosecond per curve. Damn the fact that to your left is said low, brick wall (masked in places by privet or yew hedges and built, apparently, by Hadrian to keep out advancing Barbarians and errant sheep) separated from you and the road by only the merest lip of a curb. It's like being a newbie NASCAR driver - you'd better know how to hold your line if you want to stay off that wall!

Oh, and did I mention that there is a white Ford Transit van driving so far up your ass that - should you be crazy enough to apply your brakes - you'd be able to see the red tip of the cigarette that the ham-fisted, North Yorkshire lad behind you is smoking and take comfort in the knowledge that he's doing so with one nicotine-stained hand because he's using the other to glue a mobile phone to his pasty, cauliflower ear?!

Okay, that's not quite fair... it could be a Citroën Relay.

If it wasn't, like, African plains dark, I'd be flipping people the bird left and right. Wouldn't make any difference - I keep forgetting that I'm supposed to flash the V sign.

Insomniac Theatre

2007-01-11T06:11:00.000Z

It's 4 A.M. and I'm awake and listening to the wind howl through the trees and the rain whip against my windows.

I'm awake and don't know if it's insomnia or jet lag or a combination of the two. All I know is that there's nothing on T.V., it's too early (literally) to start drinking and I don't have the ingredients to make beef wellington, so I'm at loose ends.

Being at loose ends isn't unusual for me these days. For the last 7 months I have been lamenting the fact that I haven't really had much to do. Well, it's high time I took matters into my own hands.

Tuesday at my knitting group I asked a friend to help me with my Curriculum Vitae (CV), which is the European version of a résumé, so that I can start putting it out. It was a pretty big step. I've been telling people (and myself, really) that my CV has been in the works almost since I got here, but looking at a hard copy of my old resume (and the résumés of a couple of former co-workers) doesn't actually count as working on my CV - that much I know.

I also asked that same friend if she wanted to do some card making and scrapbooking together. In a place where most people are very insular and already well-established in their social circles, I've found it much harder than normal to make friends. This is unusual for me. I'm comfortable with my own company; I don't mind having time to read or watch a movie in peace (I do so hate it when people talk during a movie), but one can only do nothing by one's self for just so long before seppuku begins to sounds like a viable option. I miss my friends. I miss having friends. The only company I have most of the time is my cat. Look, I'm not faulting Zoe, it's not that she isn't great company - she's sweet and funny, easily amused by insects and purrs when she eats (part of the being funny thing) - she just isn't much of a talker. Which is both a good and a bad thing, I guess, but it does strain the relationship. I'd like to be able to go out of a Saturday afternoon, visit with someone who isn't related (even if just by marriage) to me.

Being bored here is partly (okay, mostly) my own fault. I've been doing less than I could, and certainly less than I should. I need to do something with the veritable cornucopia of time that I have on my hands and no one, honestly, can do anything about that but me.

Woo-Hoo

2006-11-09T00:06:00.000Z

What a happy, happy day!

The election results in the States are back (well most of them anyway) and the Democrats are winning! Currently they control the House and the Senate. When I say currently, I mean right this second, as I am writing this. Let's hope it sticks.

The weather turned yesterday - it started to rain, as I knew it would because today is bin day. Save for a couple of times this summer, it has rained every damn time that I've had to take out either the trash or the recycling. Every damn time. All the rest of the week: sunshine, breezy, glorious brisk Autumn weather; bin day: bloody rain.

I spent most of the day cleaning. I cleaned out the drawers of a French bombe dresser so that I could finally move the last of my clothes out of the plastic drawers that have been serving as my dresser for the better part of the last six months. It was time to move my things into a big girl dresser and today I did just that. I was very pleased with myself. Pleased that I got one more thing checked off the list, pleased that I got the last of the things I needed to get out of my side of The World's Ugliest Built-In Wardrobes, so that I could have someone come in and rip those ugly mothers out, so that I can start sleeping in peace without them looking at me. They creep me out, those wardrobes, they are vile and I don't know how they got there. Someone has bad taste. Not me, they were there when I got here.

One more thing checked off the list. Bush kicked into touch.

Happy day.

Long Days Journey Into Putney

2006-11-06T13:04:00.000Z

London is a very long way from where I live. The most direct train leaves the city of Preston, which is 25 minutes away from the village where I live, and arrives in London 2 hours and 45 minutes later.

And that's the train that doesn't stop before London Euston.

I know, I know, it isn't really all that far away - it's closer than Sacramento is to San Jose by train - it's all psychological; it just emphasizes how far away this very little village is from all things modern and metropolitan. I live in Blue Rinse Central, or in my own WB-esque sense of humor, Oldville.

Oldville is nothing like Smallville - no meteor shower has ever bestowed special powers on the people of this town, there are no hunky supermen, no weirdo billionaires, but there are dozens of overly-made up, crackpot wannabe-vixens.

I hadn't fully realized the implication of living in such a small village, with such an elderly population until I started going about my day-to-day activities. You see, the upside to not working is that you can get your shopping done during the day - Scottish raspberries, mackerel fillets, fruit, veg and pikelets and you're on the way back home before 11 a.m. The downside to shopping during the day when you live in Old Wrinklyville is that it takes from 9 a.m. until 11 a.m. to get those things because you spend 65 percent more time trying to navigate aisles that are clogged with tottering old betties desperately trying not to clean their own clocks with jars of pickled onions or potted beef. Their shopping trolleys are cocked at odd angles and the aisles look strangely reminiscent of the parking lot. Very old men are attempting to take direction from equally old women who are trying to determine the actual number of canned peaches you get per pence and whether they should splurge on the market brand or a more generic (if possible, and it is!) brand. Neither can hear the other, she can't walk over to the other side of the aisle and he can't read the can, they are too far apart to hand things to one another and all I want is my damn Carob Crunch made by a carbon-neutral, environmentally-friendly company so that I can get to the meat aisle and get wafer-thin organic ham before they run out (not bloody likely!). Hrrrrumph!

So, despite the fact that it takes nigh three hours to get there by train - made longer by the fact that if I don't rush onto the train and nab one of the few unreserved seats I'll have to stand the entire way - I headed off to London to have a hair consultation, visit a yarn shop that I'd found on the net and get the hell out of Oldville for a while.

The hair consultation was fine. I made an appointment for two days later an am looking forward to having something other than braids for a while. My own hair is a little too long to braid it into the style that I like, so it's time to make a change.

The real treat was Stash. Man, have I missed good yarns shops. The Yanks reading this will be pleased and amused to know that the one shop I've found that I really like is owned by an American (America, Fuck Yeah!). They actually carry Malabrigo and Misti Alpaca. They have Koigu and yarns by Tilli Thomas that are unreal - silk with Swarovski crystal beads or semi-precious stones. Here's hoping they make it to Stitches West! I must warn you though; it's spendy yarn - £75/skein for some of the yarns. Yowza. The women who worked there were quite nice, stayed open late for myself and one other customer, let me walk in off the street and wind my own yarn, troll through their books and even gave me guidance for a pattern when I came in and said that I was looking for a pattern for a specific yarn instead of the other way around. It was well worth the trip.

The shop is in Putney, South London and I have to say that I enjoyed South London a great deal more than I did Central London. My earlier excursion sent me to the Oxford Circus station and it was ridiculous. Not the good ridiculous as Karen Tanner usually means it, but ridiculous in the usual OED sense. It was like a caricature of what people who have never been to the Big City expect it to be.

While I was in Putney, I decided to take a later train and have dinner by myself at Pizza Express, which I'd spied on the way down to Stash. I thumbed through a copy of Selvedge and enjoyed the Padana pizza, which was excellent. It's something I am looking forward to on my next visit to Stash.

Back on the tube, I got to London Euston just in time to miss the train to Preston (and to learn that I had an hour to wait), but in time to find that there is a Krispy Kreme stand at the station - crazy. I had a latte and the last Belgian Chocolate brownie at Starbucks, sat in the cool night air listening to people I couldn't quite see laugh and talk and waited for my train. As I said, well worth the trip.

My Apologies

2006-11-05T20:50:00.000Z

I told friends and family that I would blog my adventures in England. What with a new house and being in a new place and being an expat and all, I expected that there would be tons to blog about. Tons. I expected that there would be great trips to the English countryside, wonderful picnic lunches on the banks of the Lancaster Canal and Monkee-esque, super fast-motion trips to the London Eye, the Tower of London and the Notting Hill Portabella Road market with much mugging and smiling and general silliness. This is what I thought living in England would be like.

How naive.

If I'd known that it was going to be fish and chips on a Saturday night, endless trips to the local B&Q Hardware and American sitcoms in rerun. If I'd only known that there was only one movie theater for a 15-mile radius with stale-ass popcorn that comes in sweet or salty or a diabolical mix of the two... Did I mention it's stale?

If I'd had any idea of how boring my life as a housefrau would be, I would never have promised to blog about it all. Or at least I would have made up better stories.

Ah, but a promise is a promise, so, in all of its lackluster glory, here goes...

European Vacation

2006-04-11T23:41:00.000+01:00

This is my last day in the U.S.

I will be leaving for the airport tomorrow to catch flight to Toyko and then my connecting flight to Singapore where I will pick up the ship that my husband is on and then I will only return to the States as a visitor.

Crazy.

This last week - well, since last Thursday, has been... trying to say the least. Let me just say that it has strengthened my resolve to surround myself with tolerant, gracious, patient human beings. It is not something that I have experienced these past 6 days.

I am looking forward to my trip. Looking forward to finally being away on my adventure, looking forward to arriving at the new house. I am looking forward to it all, but mostly I am looking forward to being the fuck away from here.

And So It Begins

2006-02-28T05:16:00.000Z

I packed the very first box today. I packed my husband's clothes from our dresser and a few of his things from the closet.

It all has become so much more real all of a sudden. I'm leaving. Not just moving, but moving moving. I am leaving the only place I have ever lived.

Sure, I've lived in different cities in the U.S., but I have never lived in another country, never been more than a 6-hour drive away from all of the people that mean the most to me.

I'm moving.

Is it bad that I am still excited?

Make A Wish

2006-02-24T07:34:00.000Z

I woke up to the phone ringing this morning, my Mom calling to wish me a Happy Birthday. Always a good way to start off the day.

The day has only gotten better and better.

I spent most of the day with Emy, buying Stampin' Up stamps and accessories so that I can start making some handmade cards. It's something I think about all the time. Something that, if I had the time, I'd really make a go of as a side business. I spent way too much money and had bad (read bad for me, but very yummy) food for lunch and had a blast. I also talked Emy into making me a pair of socks, so I spent part of the evening looking up sock patterns on The Knitting Zone, where I found multiple scarf patterns that I want to buy so that I can use some of the unbelievably beautiful yarn that my Secret Pal gave me for my birthday. That woman is an angel!

Beautiful skeins of yarn (Claudia's Handpainted, Delicious Yarn among them), discs 2 & 3 of Invader Zim (I'm obsessed!), gorgeous roses, generous gift cards from iTunes, phone calls from my sister, my mom, my best friend, a great friend that I met through work (we're like twins separated at birth), and a husband who is somewhere at sea(but still managed to call), a touching card from one of my oldest friends, good food, great company and smokey scotch.

It's been a very good day.

Birthday Presents

2006-02-22T07:06:00.000Z

It's my birthday on Thursday. It's not a big birthday, you know, not one that ends in an 0 or anything, but my birthday nonetheless. I'm excited because my present from my Secret Pal showed up today. I want to open it so badly. I am trying to be good and to wait the two days, but I just don't know if I'll be able to restrain myself.

I need to go to sleep so I can get up, struggle through the day, go to sleep, get up and open my presents!

Manchester England, England

2006-02-21T02:47:00.000Z

I was going to blog about Stitches West tonight, about all of the goodies I got while I was there. I was going to find pictures of some of the things that I purchased and post them along with my thoughts on Stitches. I was going to do all of that.

Then I remembered that today was Monday. Monday, the 20th of February, in the year two-thousand, double-aught, six.

I know what you're thinking: so what? What the frick is so special about the 20th? What on earth could be so special about a Monday?!

Today is the day that we exchanged contracts for the house that we purchased in ENGLAND!!

My sister-in-law was there to sign the papers and pick up the keys in our stead, but now I wish that I had taken the week off, hopped a flight to England and signed the papers and picked up the keys myself. Still, I can't stop grinning and I can't stop thinking about the fact that I am now a homeowner. A homeowner... Yow!

I'm congested, I'm coughing and sneezing and I can barely stay awake. I am behind on my knitting and I am gravely in danger of not medaling in the Knitting Olympics and I coouldn't care less.

It has been a very good day.

Resigned to My Fate

2006-02-16T07:49:00.000Z

I quit my job on Monday.

Actually, I quit on Friday last, but I turned in my letter of resignation on Monday.

It felt wonderful.

I only have a couple of weeks left at the place where I've been employed for the last 6 years, 3 months and 14 days. In a mere 15 days, I will no longer be a cog in the wheel of the machine that is the Scarlet Letter. Perhaps it hasn't settled in yet. Perhaps I really am just overjoyed to no longer have to go to work there after the end of this month. I thought that I would feel more sadness, more remorse. All I feel is weight of a Sisyhean task being lifted from my shoulders - getting up day after day to push myself to do something I am no longer interested in doing for people who no longer inspire me to do the job I know I can do.

I want to do something more. Not, like, rich-and-famous, putting-my-business-in-the-streets more. Like, learning-something-new-everyday, engaging-my-brain, putting-something-out-into-the-Universe-that-means-something more.

You know... more.

Pay It Backwards

2006-02-07T06:53:00.000Z

People suck.

Today, on my way back to the office I ran into a guy who said that he was homeless and looking for a place to get a free breakfast. I didn't know of such any place downtown. I know of one place, the place where I sometimes volunteer, but it isn't downtown, it's further out, and I told him that. He tried to flag down some poor schmo on a bike, who just waved him off and kept riding, while I stood there still. His response: "This is a hard town to get help in."

I walked away.

Then I remembered that I had a Starbucks card in my back pocket. I turned around, walked back to him and offered him the card. I didn't have any money on me and I told him so. The card had, maybe, $15 on it - enough for a sandwich and a pastry and a coffee, if he wanted it. There was no way to get me the card back, so it was his to keep, spend, eat, poop on, whatever.

He accepted it. I experienced a fleeting moment of pride and happiness and then the Karma gods decided to smite me down for my hubris. It was instantaneous. Before I had taken six steps, the guy called me back, asking if he could tell me how he had gotten from his city to mine. Stupidly, I said,"OK." He then proceeded to tell me how his girlfriend was in a fire, and how she was 6-months pregnant with his kid and then he did it... he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to force out a couple of tears. When he couldn't manage to get one out, he tried wiping his eyes to make it look like he was crying, except, that he wasn't. I was looking right at him. It was the pathetic crocodile tears of a little kid who wants something that you won't give them. It pissed me the f!#% off.

Fine, pal! You scammed me out of the card. I didn't give you any money because I didn't have any money to give. I was trying to be nice!!

I said that I was sorry about his misfortune, that I hoped that things went better for him in the future.

I walked away.

When he called me back this time, I just kept walking.

Fucker.

Good Night, Gracie

2006-01-31T20:14:00.002Z

I miss my kitten.

She was a total nutter and would go completely insane when freed from her daily confinement of our upstairs bedroom when I got home from work.

For at least two hours she would run and jump on everything that would or wouldn't move. The two older cats would be subjected to her Napoleonic, leopard-like pounces.

It killed me the way she would hop on their backs and then crisscross them while they were trying to get back down the stairs and under the dining table, where they (wrongly) thought that they would be safe. Gracie would just hop onto the dining chairs and then bat them from above their heads.

Personally, I was very amused.

What I will miss most, though, is the way that - once she got tired and wanted a snuggle and a nap - Gracie would walk along the back of the couch and climb down me like I was steep hill. Half of the way down, she would stop and lay on me. It was like wearing a warm, purring boa.

I'll miss the way she would gently touch my face with her paw.

I always imagined that she was telling me something sweet, telling me about her day and about all of the crazy stuff that she saw from her upstairs window-ledge perch. She was probably just saying, "Thanks for the food, Lady. Don't forget to give me some more tomorrow." Cats are like that.

Anyway, I'll miss her. She was a joy and a crackup to have around. She went to a good home, with good people who will love her and care for her. She'll have another cat to play with; she'll have the run of a Zen Garden and a dog to pick on; she'll get to sleep in the bed with mom, dad and her new sister.

I was only her surrogate mommy for one month, but I loved her nonetheless.

Bye-bye, Gracie. Keep your box clean.

The Art of Complaining

2006-01-29T19:10:00.000Z

As an update to my last post, the knitting store redeemed itself by responding to my complaint email by refunding the money I paid for the two classes (the horrible one that I took and the one I cancelled because of the horrible one that I took) and they're sending me a gift certificate.

Ah, the beauty of a well-crafted complaint.

Credit where credit is due, it was pretty good customer service.

Crabby McGrumpypants

2006-01-24T17:36:00.000Z

I was crabby on Saturday. Crabby, crabby, crabby. I blame it on the awful knitting class I went to in Saratoga.

Two things can put me in a bad mood like no other two things on this planet - a bad breakfast or a bad class.

I don't just like breakfast, I LOVE breakfast. I am a breakfast person. I'll never know why people invite me to brunch because I am never gonna eat any damned lunch when I can eat breakfast. Call a spade a spade and invite me to breakfast, because that's what I am going to eat.

Now, if I've had a bad breakfast... woe to all who meet me that day. There is no saving grace for anyone who crosses my path on a day when I have had a bad breakfast. And if that bad breakfast was in a restaurant and I had to pay for it... Well, let's just say that on those days I go home and sit on the couch with my little hands clinched into little fists and stare at a wall and don't dare go outside for fear of the havoc I will wreak on an unsuspecting public. Husband gives me a wide berth, slowing down occasionally to throw raw meat and/or caffeinated beverages in my direction (always remembering to tuck and roll).

This is precisely the mood I end up in when I have to sit through a bad class. And if I had to pay for that bad class...

That was me on Saturday, little fists clenched, staring at a wall and then I decided to go to the mail box to pick up the post. And what should I find waiting for me but a lovely present from my loverly Secret Pal! Awww. The box was stuffed with teas, sock yarn (Rowan Cashsoft among them!) and one that looks like my SP took the time to mix a few yarns together to make me a sock yarn. Let's not forget the maple candies and the "Hello Kitty" Pez dispenser (nice!). The icing on the cake, though, was the copy of The Twisted Sisters Sock Workbook, which was on my Amazon wish list and a book that I really, really wanted. It changed my whole perspective on the day. It put me in such a good mood that I was able to go out on Saturday evening to Game Night at a friend's house and have a great time. Until I got the package, I was dreading the thought of going because I was sure I would be a huge buzz-kill.

Thank you, Secret Pal!

The world thanks you, too.

The Scarlet Letter

2006-01-21T04:49:00.000Z

Friday. A full two weeks back at the Scarlet Letter after my 7-week hiatus. Oh, how I miss the carefree days of not coming into the office. The halcyon days of not having people throw their cars at me from the wrong direction up the aisles of the parking lot, of not having my fellow co-workers position their caffeinated, jerking fingers over the Close Door button in the elevator as soon as the damn thing stops on my floor.

For the love of god, let me off the elevator before you request that the doors fling shut so that the elevator can hurtle you on your way to... well, nowhere.

It's short-timers. I just know it. My ability to gladly suffer fools, never the kevlar-coated stuff of a Jane Austen herione, is now gossamer thin and littered with holes. I will not make it to my anticipated quit date. I will be in a federal penitentary long before that date arrives.

Right now, I am a worthless amalgamation of red blood cells at work. I can't concentrate, I can't get motivated, I can't do anything that would require me to do anything that would resemble work. I wish that someone would lay me off so that I can avoid making the double-bird jesture as I tell them that I quit.

Two days. Two days to adjust my attitude and suck it up for the next few months.

Wish me luck.

This is NOT news, not even Entertainment News

2006-01-19T23:17:00.000Z

It is a slow day in the Universe when this is what passes for a news story, even if it is on the Entertainment Tonight website.

The Knitting Olympics is news, however. It made Will Femia's Clicked column on the MSNBC web page.

In the spirit of the Knitting Olympics, along with Emy, I have decided to tackle my AbFab Throw kit by Colinette. I am going to make the Scallops throw. Though it's not the easiest one to make, it's supposed to be really easy. We'll see. I have started this kit many times now and keep stopping and starting over because my damn brain refuses to count to 122. Shut up, brain! I am going to start this throw and finish it for the Olympics. I was going to give it to my sister, but as it will now be my trophy for the Knitting Olympics, it may have to stay with me.

Photos of Gracie

2006-01-16T03:16:00.000Z

These are photos of the kitten that we rescued on Christmas day.

Koigu Krazy

2006-01-08T07:46:00.000Z

I decided to get off my candy ass and go outside today, refusing to spend it entirely indoors with only the cats to talk or kvetch to, so I went over to Commuknity and the very lovely Lolly was there with two skeins of the most beautiful, girly-pink Koigu for me. Lolly is an absolute doll. She was my teacher for Sock School and made it easy to see how a novice like me would be able to (eventually) make a pair of socks that didn't look like a cack-handed monkey had made them. Strangely, I always feel better when the things I make don't look like a cack-handed monkey was involved in any way. I'm just egotistical like that.

Bringing home my gorgeous new yarn inspired me to inventory and chronicle my stash, notions, bags, baskets and works in progress.

What's worse is that I made a spreadsheet in Excel that lists not only the colours and numbers of skeins of all of the yarns, but the yardage, weight, fiber content, weight class, gauge, lot, needle size and care instructions for each as well. I made separate tabs for needle conversion/needle inventory and weight standards for yarn as well.

What's worse than that is that I feel that I've left something out of the spreadsheet.

As my friend's boyfriend would say: nerd, nerdy, nerdly nerdliness.

The truth is that I will sleep much better tonight knowing that it's all organized (much the same way I sleep when I know that all of my shoes are facing the right way and touching in my closet at night). Besides, I couldn't just shove my scrumptious new yarn into a drawer full of mismatched skeins and balls of random yarn, now could I? I'd be thinking about it while I was at work on Monday, planning how I could come home and put it all in order...

Thank heavens I can use the United Behavioral Health part of my company benefits to talk to a therapist.

To Blog Or Not To Blog

2006-01-03T22:01:00.000Z

A blog? Start a blog? To say what? And to whom? What is there for me to say to the world?

Well, I guess that it's time that I found out.

I have to confess that I am starting this (mostly) because I joined Secret Pal 7 and it was one of the requirements - having a blog. It's meant to be a way for me to communicate my likes, dislikes, wants, needs, desires, rants, raves and prophecies.

Why on earth would anyone want to read about that?