Yum

The stove works! I made brownies and they were divine. Oh, except the bits of non-stick coating from the pan I had to pick off the bottom. Not so good. Time for a new pan.

And this. Representing hope, promise, and all things warm, fuzzy and emotionally damaged:

And look, it's got a little tape measure that comes out its butt. How cute is that?

Baking

I am pleased to report that I finally got a new stove. Better late than never. It does things I won't be able to figure out I'm sure, and it has the most bizarre setting: a Sabbath Feature - for cooking on the Sabbath and Holidays. So I gather you're not allowed to work on the Sabbath and this allows you to do everything but the cooking, which presumably then happens automatically? Odd because it does have a delay feature and I think it's hysterical that it has a special feature just for that. Go figure. Maybe GE is run by fundamentalists? Regardless, I'm looking forward to using it. Maybe I'll make brownies.Oh, and I have to say this was the single least painful appliance purchase I have ever made. 10 minutes to buy it and they delivered it when they said they would, cheerfully (especially notable considering my tiny house and the fact that the space was too small for the sticky-outy top part and they got it to fit with narry a scratch AND it's level). LOVE those dudes. Oh, and it was cheap.

Did some baking with Miko and Melinda. Haven't laughed so hard in ages. For them I give you this:

Sometimes when I'm crying in the car on my way to work I get a spray of tears on my glasses from my eyelashes, and then when I get to work I have to clean them.

Kind of like "Deep Thoughts" by Jack Handey, for anyone who used to watch Kids in the Hall.

Also - the Alien Head tank is stalled, waiting for me to make a decision on what to do next:

But Miko's poncho is rocking. I strongly suspect this will turn out to fit a midget - then we'll just call it a giant swatch and try again. Why am I knitting this when it's supposed to be her project? Good question. It's because I want it off the needles so I can do MY projects. Purely selfish.

Looooooong Weekend

Remember when a long weekend meant something? Lazing on the dock drinking beer and eating corn chips for three days? Road trips somewhere cool? Visiting friends you haven't seen in ages?

Sigh. Now a long weekend is sumpin else. Three days of whining, fighting, and if you're really lucky, chock full of birthday parties. I don't hate it, but it's just not the same. I love not having to rush around but man, it seems so... pointless. We should be DOING something. I guess that's my fault - I should plan something. The kids are getting to the age where it shouldn't be torture. Hopefully.

Speaking of parties, my entire family was banned fom my house during the party due to actual or impending stomach flu. I am NOT inviting that particular guest. I had a large moment of panic and almost managed to sequeeze out a tear when I contemplated being alone in a house full of savages, but then I thought - that will be FIVE less people in my house! Three less grownups! Yay! And of course it was fine. Talk about a confidence builder.

Shall we talk about my social life? No-dick dude has unceremoniously bowed out of the LL race. Thanks for the heads-up dude. Manners are free, you know. And then there's Amy and Jennifer's plan - if dude is even game. We shall see. The bar is currently VERY low.

Fireworks start at 9 tonight. Tomorrow morning should be fun!

Happy Birthday, Calvin

Three days of labour, forceps, vacuum, cesarean... totally worth it. (OK I swore I'd never do it again, but time fades everything.) It's a miracle dude has survived to his 7th birthday with me as a mom- dropped on his head when he was 6 months, left to wheeze like Darth Vader when he had croup, smacked on the head by the sidewalk numerous time... good preparation for having a brother, if nothing else.

Happy birthday, sweetie. I love you more than I ever could have imagined.

My little Picasso

Actually, he's probably channeling AY Jackson or one of the other group of seven, had he any idea who they were. Anyway, I walked up the stairs today to find this stuck to Calvin's wall:


Watercolour and india ink. The colour's a bit messed up since I foolishly took the pic with his red duvet cover reflecting onto it and then had to colour adjust out the hideous pink cast, but in reality it's gorgeous.

I was floored. Flabbergasted. Maybe it was a fluke but it's a lot nice than anything I've ever done, especially at six (OK, he's seven tomorrow. Semantics). He must have his grandmother's artistic genes.

ANTM!

I rocked ANTM! My gal won. Way to go sista.

I love animals

Especially chickens.
Twin thank yous to Robaxacet and vino, from my back.

That is all.

JLT Showhouse

My neighbour Amanda volunteers with the Junior League of Toronto and she sent me an invite to the tour of McLean house, which a whole bunch of designers had done up as a fundraiser for JLT. I agreed because it was a good cause, and I thought it might be fun.

It was awesome.

The house itself is great - lots of little nooks and crannies and HUGE. Some rooms were bigger than my entire first floor, but some were just tiny little nooks done up so nicely! The hall downstairs had these fixtures made up of a couple of halogen bulbs shining on a sphere of hanging prisms - it was spectacular. I want to make one.One room was an homage to Chanel, and it was gorgeous - a dressing room, not very big, in black and white of course, quilted wallpaper - just so simpleand elegant and classy. The main bedroom - surrounded on three sides by huge old windows (imagine how cold it would be in winter!) - was spectacular. I would never leave. But my favourite was the basement - a suite set up as the "secret" lady suite. Very un-ladylike I thought. The walls were brick, the ceiling had all exposed ducts and wiring, but it was all sprayed gray and looked FABULOUS. The floors were polished concrete with a few layers of poly and looked superb. Minimal lighting but it still looked FAB. I am going to do this to my basement. Two loveseats, TV on the wall, wide shelving for toys, fabulous polished floor and a throw rug.

So inspiring. I will never live in a house like that but it gives you so many ideas! I want to put all the contents of my house in a dumpster and start again.

This takes the cake.

Sigh. Lowering me expectations was an excellent idea, however it appears I didn't lower them enough.

I arranged to met the dude on the corner of P and D and as I'm approaching, I'm saying to myself "No. No. Nooooooooooo." Dude is wearing ratty running shoes and those nylon-y athletic pants with the two white stripes down the sides. I cannot believe it. I tried to find a way to Kineer his shoes/pants but there really is no discreet way when you're inside and need the flash. Weird, very weird too. Some compulsions, crap job, unbelievable aspirations... man. Not a bad guy, but WEIRD.

There's gotta be a better way.

Also - I have no oven to bake birthday cake in. Also - my weed is as dry as the prairie in the summer and not very effective. Too bad - I could have used an out of body experience.

I think this calls for a fig one. And a drink.

A little updating

The mundanities of my life have been somewhat neglected lately. I shall rectify this immediately.

1. I am rowing! I joined the Viking rowing team at work. I'm not really a joiner, but when the request for volunteers came through right when I met Tom, it seemed fortuitous. So I joined. Turns out we practice at the Bayside Rowing club, which is right at the bottom of Carlaw, so it could not be more convenient. Also - it is SO fun! Since the people doing it are there because they want to be, everyone is positive and enthusiastic. Also - very hard work, especially upper body and lower back. Let's get Jen the wonder physiotherapist on speed-dial.

Bayside is into "inclusive" rowing, lettting regular public school kids row rather than the other clubs who have teams from Havergill, UCC, etc. They're trying to make the demographic in rowing more representative of the population of Canada, and thus do this fundraising to get inner city, non-wealthy kids into rowing. Good on you, mates. Why should the snotty rich kids have all the fun?

2. I am knitting lace! Reluctantly, and not well. I am doing the Lotus Blossom tank from IK somethingorother, which looks great on the model but I suspect I shall look like I'm wearing a tablecloth. Not fast knitting, either. I've done almost two repeats of the lace (of five or six) and managed to fuck up the first one. It's not brutal so I'm leaving it. Much thanks to LicketyKnits' modifications which might make it look a little less like arse.3. I am Bonding. Well, I am "helping" (read "micromanaging") Miko as she knits a series of overdue projects at warp speed. Baby blanket, Snake, and Bee for Bea.


I'm getting much better at this, mostly due to my "real" knitting machine which gives much better advice on how to use it. Also - Kay brought my lace carriage with her (we shall not discuss my rage at the effing customs people who opened the box with their box cutters and sliced ALL the lace punchcards) so I am DYING to get it set up and try my hand at lace on the machine. It'll probably be better than lace by my hands... but I have to set it up upstairs, not the basement and I don't have an appropriate table.

4. And last but not least I am running. Two weeks down, an infinite number to go.

Lighten up, Francis.

Does this really warrant a freak-out? It was supposed to be light and funny. Feh

So, when you're bored, drop me a line and tell me all the things I should know. Axe-murderer? Live with mummy? Seven wives in the basement? Seven bodies in the basement? Kingpin in Russian mob? Oh yes, Chekov, I've got your number.

I will excerpt his long and girly response:

... that was kind of a dark note and it scares me a bit. I'm a vegatarian social activist type ...it's just a little odd to talk about such dark stuff... I would like to know if you are someone who drinks a lot or not because that is something i would not be able to accept in any potential mate, [OK, potential mate?????? We haven't even MET!!!] but have no problem with a friendship with someone who likes to booze it up, it's just not for me. I myself feel strongly that i must live a clean life as an environmentalist...

Moralistic twat. Can he really be that bad? I thought the yoga in the profile was a JOKE. Besides, yoga and drinking go so well together.

Crazy-cat-lady man is looking better and better. At least he understands me (further tasteless remarks deleted as I might regret it).

Hydro rage

I have a bone to pick with the City of Toronto/Toronto Hydro/Electrical Safety Board. Related agencies, right?

I choose to live downtown in my tiny house on my tiny lot with 2 feet of access space between adjacent houses. That being said, must I be punished at every turn for my choice? Can the city not see that there are circumstances where a little freaking flexibility might be in order?

It all started with my insurance company humping my leg over my 60 amp service. It's served me well in the 9 years I've lived there and I've never even blown a fuse. OK, there's the annoying switch you have to throw to choose between the AC or the dryer, but really, how often do I have to do that? Minimal inconvenience. They decided it wasn't good enough. I did have the option of getting a letter from my electrician saying it was OK, but she said with great authority that she'd tried that and never had an insurance company accept it. (In retrospect it probably would have been worth a shot, but I took her advice.) I opted to upgrade to 100 amp service.

Simple, eh? Ha. This involves running a new line from the street, getting a new meter, and getting a new panel. The glory that is Toronto Hydro comes out and does a locator service to tell me where the acceptable locations for the new meter are. (This started in Feb - I called them and after they didn't show in the requisite 5 days called again only to discover they were in the midst of checking every ground plate in the city so no more dogs, or - god forbid - children, would be electrocuted. Waited until mid March and enquired again. Of course now they had no record of my original request so they had to put in a NEW order, did so but went to the wrong address and of course instead of the dude walking two doors up and doing the right house, they send ANOTHER guy out 5 days later. So, 2 months later…) Hydro gives me two options, one of which turns out to be at forehead height at the front of the alley, and the other, on my front porch, is ILLEGAL. WTF? Why does Hydro not know the electrical code? I am truly gobsmacked.

My neighbours and I had discussed the situation and decide the alley was fine as long as it was not at head bonking height. I arrived home yesterday to find it, or course, at head bonking height. After much teeth gnashing, hair pulling and shirt rending, I called the electrician and basically said WTF? Not only is she a master electrician but she must be part therapist as well. I ranted and raved about the stupidity of the entire system and she took it calmly, explained why this was the only option (several times) and commiserated. Turns out getting it on the porch would have been a logistical nightmare, expensive, and they probably wouldn't have approved it anyway.

I got that sick feeling I used to get when I was a kid and had done something colossally stupid and was going to have to fess up, except as a kid I really just tried to weasel out of it (I was an evil child). I have discovered as a grown up it's much better to confess, apologize and see what you can do to make it better. The sick feeling goes away much faster. Still, I had to slink over to the neighbour's and tell them the story. Amanda was SO great. She took one look and said, hey whatever. We live in this part of the city, it's all part of life. I would have had her love children at that point. (Her husband, or her brother who walks down the alley to the basement, might have been less pleased but they are all so lovely I doubt they'll hold a grudge for long).

I haven't even been down to the basement to look. I'm just going to cross my fingers, keep my head down, and hope it gets finished today (yeah, the first electrical panel was defective - only in my world).

Now I just need to finish the porch railing. This weekend, I swear.

Oh, and I have another date. A "dating" date. Chekov, meet Natasha.

P is for Naive

I was going to say postmortem, but it's not even worth it. I think I would be capable of missing the subtext if it was written 20 feet high on a billboard. You want to do it again, but in a month or so???? I don't think so.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not sad or disappointed or anything like that, so condolences or pitying looks are certainly not required. Mutual fun was had by all. I'm just... resigned. Oh, and constantly amazed by what men consider "fit". Har. They sure don't have any self-image problems, do they? I'll see your beer belly and raise you a C-section and two breast-fed babies.

BTW? Small dick. Very.

Unfortunately....

I'm doing what Mimi did - googled myself preceded by the word "unfortunately". Hilarious:

• Unfortunately, Lise finds herself falling for Cam harder than ever. Lise is supposed to teach Cam to dance, but can she teach him to love?
• Lise welcomes all queries but please note that while you are welcome to contact us, unfortunately Lise cannot give specific advice without seeing your animal.
• Unfortunately, Lise's mother wants her daughter to marry a wealthy marquis, portrayed by a priceless and elegant Scott Vannan, who used to dance with the Irish National Ballet.
• Unfortunately, Lise's mother was fired from her own job, as she had to take considerable time away from it to tend her injured daughter.
  

Equally amusing, in hindsight, is the situation I have gotten myself into. All shall be revealed/resolved tomorrow night. If I don't spontaneously combust...

I could talk about knitting, but it all seems so lame when Ize haz a fire in my loins. As Sandra says, knitting is what I do when I have nothing else to do, not because I want to do it all the time. Here we go... Don't get me wrong, I love knitting and it's brought meaning into my dry and barren life recently. I will never give it up or forsake it for say, bunko, but man...sex? ANY day. In a flipping heartbeat.

Now go away, I'm going to knit.

And finally - I LOVE my friends

Barb Matthews in particular. A voice of calming sanity in my messed-up mind.
"Don't deny, don't pretend," she says. "Just go with the flow."

Word.

Red Alert! Red Alert! Abort! Abort!

My fucking universes are colliding. Why does this happen to me? OK, I am REALLY good at finding out information about people, but it's my job! It's what I do. It only sort of counts as stalking...

So it turns out dude grew up with my friend Barb that I went to university with, one of my BEST friends. She knew him well enough to ask "did he remember me?" No, it gets better. *I* (OK, we) WENT TO UNIVERSITY WITH HIM. He lived in residence. He was a fucking FLOOR REP. (SO not my kind of guy. I was more the resident dork.)

This is just weird. Is there any possible way i can just drop this nugget into the conversation? Yeah, I didn't think so.

O is for ...

I don't know - obnoxious opportunistic eye infection? Maybe we should just skip straight to P is for Pinkeye. Maybe not - I can live in hope. 5 minutes talking my kid down from the ceiling so I can dose him up with polysporin is NO fun. Expired polysporin, I might add Yep, parent of the century AGAIN! No surprise since half the freaking daycare has it, but I don't have to like it.

Or O could be what I'm aiming for Saturday night... I'm not spelling that puppy out. Use your imagination. You shall have to anyway, since it hasn't happened yet.

In knitting related news, I shall digress back a few day to the Frolic. It was hardly a frolic, more like a battle to stay on your feet while surrounded by hordes of bargain-hungry yarn shoppers. The Purple Purl had by far the best booth, IMHO. Best location, best sales, tons of yummy stuff and of course, the best staff, paid and volunteer!

I got to see the chick from Indigo, but I had no desire to meet her as she is clearly a spinner (in the non-yarn sense) but she did have my sock there! Colour me proud - I guess it couldn't have been too hideous.

Bought too much yarn with too little purpose - all greens, except a skein of Noro Silk Garden Sock id wild yellows and greens (oh, I guess that IS green) and some cool Dye-Version bamboo sock with lycra. They combine my two loves so expertly, and in a fabulous shade of purple to boot. (I'll do pics when my computer is back off loan.)

Today I committed myself to the Lotus Blossom tank - WITH Lickety Knits' mods or it will be a disaster. IK, what were you thinking? The original sure does have some serious flaws. But I bought some gorgeous Mist Alpaca pima cotton/silk in cornflower blue and I might just have to cast it on... NOW.

Yeah, right. HALF a tank top made of lace - who are you kidding? I give you a week before it's back in the frogpond.

N is for Neurotic

The joys of internet hook-ups. At least in a bar you have the benefit of your own perception rather than everything being put forwards how the other person want to be seen. Of course beer goggles and the horror of waking up the next morning next to a monster is even more scary- there's no going back from that mistake. Not that I would know, brought up in a convent and all...

Best case scenario - we meet, hit it off, bang, make concrete plans for the future, follow through and develop a relationship where we like to hang out and bang with the same level of interest. He doesn't begrudge talking time or see other women and he likes to be with me. I don't get all needy and start expecting birthday presents (yeah, you can laugh - I said BEST case scenario, not reality).

However, more likely to happen is:

- he treats me like a booty call at the last minute, won't plan the events and won't do other stuff. I want company as well as sex. "excitement every day", that's what he was shilling. Still it's pretty obvious they only say what they think we want to hear.

- he hates me on sight. I am fatter, more boring, blah blah blah

- he turns out to be a self-involved twat who can't get enough of the sound of his own voice. This one is highly likely, I suspect, but I might still bang him.

Why is he single? - another burning question. Some are divorced, broken up…. Not him. Just single. I know, I know, it doesn't matter. When he meets the love of his life he'll know, blah blah blah… as long as it's not me. Don't get me wrong, I'd love to be the one someone is desperately in love with and changes entirely because of , but it don't last, baby. Bang while the banging is good and get out! Actually, he seems imminently sensible and really too good to be true. No baggage. No kids. No ex. Seems to have friends and a social life. Hmmmm.

But a single 40 something dude in decent shape seems like an oddity… Nancy, quick! Turn around!

This mental lapse is brought to you by a charming series of migraines and belatedly, by Always - have a happy fucking period. This blog seeking sponsors with useful products - antidepressants, painkillers, and not least of all chainsaws, because we all know Malcolm solves his problems with a chainsaw and he never has the same problem twice.

5:34 am

Last night's post was a bit over the top, and I was quite drunk. Really, it was the rage/disappointment speaking, not the booze. However, both last night and in the sober (ha ha) light of day, I resisted sending him nasty emails. Wise move, my alcoholic friend. This is what I get this morning:

Date: Apr 25 at 5:34 AM EDT
No worries! We'll try for next week! I actually
just got up now--and went to bed almost right after we got off the phone. I was
EXHAUSTED!! Probably sounded that way too---so all was not lost by missing out
last night...(edited for brevity

Since it's dated crack of dawn, his credibility factor has gone up a lot. We shall see.

And just for the record, friends don't let friends drink and blog. I could delete last night's rant but I think it's a learning lesson for everyone.

HA

You know who's a cunting whore? He is. What the fuck? If I'm not good enough to meet for a drink, one drink, minor time commitment, then fuck you. I am not a ho.

I keep telling myself I'm over-reacting, I'm asking for too much but hey, get some self respect sweetheart. Get a grip. You are NOT asking for too much. No way. You know that and if he's doesn't see that, then kick him to the curb. NOW.

The fact that you can't discuss this with anyone is a fairly good indication that your self-respect is taking a beating. Not good.

For the love of god...

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Auntie Flo is a cunting whore, pardon my language.

M is for making out

With any luck.

My sister is here, crusty as ever. I should take international negotiation. Being with her is like walking a tightrope for the first half hour or so, after that it's fine. The rest of my family doesn't have as much luck. OK, she's a crusty bag, but everyone needs to grow up and act civilized. Is that so much to ask? Apparantly.

We're taking the kids to the museum tomorrow. That should be entertaining. I can't believe I haven't taken them yet. This is a perfect age as they're all about the dinosaurs.

Then I'm ditching her with the rest of the family, the kids with STD, and going to help with the PP setup for the Frolic! Yay Frolic! Yay no kids!

Finally, miraculously, I am going on a date. Oh yeah baby, mama's getting lucky. Slutty? Maybe. Do I care? You gotta be kidding. Dragging my ass into the Frolic at 8 might be a challenge but he's gotta get up at 6. It could be worse!

L is for all things L

Lava dude - who I have prepared myself to be a little short of physical perfection. I found myself poring over his pictures, asking myself is that a bulge of fat? Do I see a potbelly? until I mentally slapped myself. Look in the mirror. More to the point, look around you - do you know any 40-something men who are perfect? I thought not. Lighten up and be grateful as he may not be so horrified by your gunt.

Lickerish - hours of entertainment and eye candy - say no more.

My lovely doctor who had us in, x-rayed and out in under 30 minutes. Jack now has a great appreciation for the structure of the human foot.
Injured? Who's injured?

Steps - the hard part is done. (yeah those last two have nothing to do with L)

And lemon cupcakes in progress despite my damned oven giving up the ghost haf way through. I called 9-1-mom and discovered you CAN cook cupcakes under the broiler. Go figure. But now I can get a new one! Yay! No more cooking on two burners, with no buzzer or oven light.

K is for... karma?

In some convoluted way, I'm sure all this makes sense and one makes up for the other... whatever. Karma started with K. Either that or I'm in for some mega payback.

I find I can do construction with my boys present these days. Granted it's not fast, and often not pleasant, but it is possible. Poor Cathy saw them at their screaming fighting best when she dropped off the railing (ain't she a champ? I am so grateful - must make cupcakes.) but they had settled down by this afternoon and I was actually making some progress.

I was trying to make the bottom step for the stairs and had spent at least an hour leveling the ground for the patio stone at the base when I gave up. The fucker must weigh 50 pounds and each time I had to move it it was a chore. I rolled it out of the way and propped it up against the side of the house.

Enter my charming, inquisitive Jack. He staggers towards me saying "I hurt myself, mummy". As usual. But I take off his shoe to investigate as requested and there is a GIANT PURPLE BLOB on the top of his foot!!!!!!!!!!!! I bundled him inside and installed him on the couch with a bag of frozen corn and eventually ferreted out that the goddamn patio stone had fallen on it. I feel sick just thinking about it.

After consulting the emerg # of our doctor and my local resident nurse, I decided to take him to emerg. HAR. Last time I do that for things other than breathing/head wound related injuries. 4 hours later I gave up and took my tired, overcartooned child home without even having been seen. I will seek the advice of my REAL doctor on Monday. He can't walk on it, and even when falling won't put his weight on it and I am just the teensiest bit worried.

Of course, then Calvin hit his elbow on the bathroom door and declared himself incapable of the most rudimentary tasks. Monkey see...

But the funny part is as I was leaving for the hospital I thought - where are the health cards? Having been blessed with a new wallet on Monday, I had transferred all my stuff to the new one and chucked the old, but for love or money I couldn't remember putting the health cards in (they were in they're own compartment). FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!.

I looked in the garbage and didn't see them, but then I thought - that garbage is pretty full, I bet I didn't put it out on garbage day (Tuesday) and - PRAISE THE FUCKING LORD - when I looked closer it was in there, the health cards tucked snugly into their compartment.

Karma indeed. I'm gonna pay somehow.

J is for Junk

One and a half tonnes, to be precise.
I loved Big Ben. Small, local, indy, fast, polite, non-nonsense, reasonable. Thanks, Ben!
(Perhaps my neighbour to the north should contemplate his services...)

And ohmygod where does the time go???? From the picture archives of 2006...

I is for ... I?

I am done.
(OK, no stairs or railing yet, and possibly not the most aesthetic structure ever, but the rest is done. I could have drinks if it would just freaking warm up already.)

I am 43 today. Happy birthday me. I gotta tell you, it doesn't feel any different and I'm glad but man, 43 sure sounds old. I was blessed with a migraine this morning, though, so maybe my body feels 43 - or maybe it just doesn't like the abuse I've been giving it lately.

Opted out of cleaning the house today even though it's filthy. That's not something I should have to do on my birthday.

H is for hepatic issues...

...which I will have if I continue to drink at this rate. I started at 3 yesterday, and didn't end until midnight. Not good. But fun! Drinks with Jennifer (too many of my friends have the same name) and company on the Danforth, followed by dinner with the family (always involving booze) and then out to the Cluck Fuck and Moo with my brother who was playing there again. And since I arrived with him, the cutie gal behind the bar comped my drinks! (I tried to pay, really I did.)

So this morning I forced my sorry ass out of bed at 8 and trundled down to Home Depot. To make a long story short, I managed to charm both the delivery dude (mullet extrordinaire - kinda looked like Hulk Hogan) and the little Indian home depot dude to deliver my deck stuff today rather than Monday, which wouldn't have done me any good at all. So now I can happily loaf until they deliver, hopefully early this afternoon.
Gotta love my detailed plans. I'm not at all sure this will end well. And I'm still out of booze.

G (finally) is for gung-ho!

Ah Easter. Spring is in the air, public holidays abound and my kidlets are gone for FOUR days. Time for some action!

My back porch has been a death trap for the last few years, and the insurance people finally said I had to fix it. Big surprise, it had lawsuit written all over. I am highly motivated. I spent the last few days at work planning (of course I left the plans at work) and after work yesterday I was raring to go.

Here's a sort of before pic. I had already dug out a massive lilac from in front of the porch and a euonymus (I have no idea how to spell that) and a spirea from the fence by the window:

Then I ripped the porch off the wall with my bare hands. That wasn't exactly tough and VERY pleasing. (the water barrel is still there because I'm draining 50 gallons of water into the nether regions of my garden. 50 gallons is HEAVY)
This in no way reflects the sweat involved in digging out the lilac (I broke my shovel and had to go buy another one, plus a crow bar that I didn't use - still. Who doesn't need a crow bar?). Or the amount of children's crap I had to clean out of there. And bricks from the driveway reorg.

My backyard is looking pretty Kentucky, eh?

Then I went to my friend Jen's who was gracious enough to let me crash her family gathering, ply me with copious quantities of red wine, and let me outstay everyone's bedtime. Sorry, Jen! Get a clock next time and put it where I can see it. Oh yeah, and she also pointed out that tomorrow was a holiday and I cannot replenish the booze supply in my house that ran out yesterday. Talk about bad planning. Good thing I'm going OUT to drink today.

Back to work. I wonder what will give out first - My muscles, my motivation, or my liver?

F is for forensics, futility and, not least of all, FUCK

I came home with the kids today and there was a cop car parked on my street. Not unheard of, but unusual. We went to McDonald's to shorten our lifespan and when we came home not only was the cop car still there, there was a forensics van as well. Just as we got out of the car, one of my neighbours was talking to the police so when she was done I asked her what was up. I figured the usual, drugs or a spot of domestic violence.

It turns out that our neighbour Martha had fallen down the stairs and died. DIED.

Martha lives alone except for her dog, so this could have turned into one of those things that you read about in the Sun. Fortunately (or unfortunately for the friend) her friend found her this morning. Martha was legally blind, although she could see a bit. She walked with a white stick, but recognized me enough to say hi in the park the other day.

Which brings me to the cops again. I said to my neighbour Jenny, I just saw her yesterday! and Jenny said, I think you should tell that to the cops. So I did and they said are you sure? and of course I was far from sure. They were trying to establish timeline. My days are a big blur of routine... go to work, come home, pick up the kids, put them to bed, repeat. I *thought* it was yesterday, but it could have been Tuesday. How's that for feeling like a totally incompetent dork? The only thing that saves me from being a total evidenciary nightmare is my ability to admit I might be wrong.

Martha was a lovely woman, younger than my mom. They said she didn't suffer and I really really hope that's true. Jen said she heard her dog barking on Tuesday night. I can only imagine how awful it must have been for her.

Life is short, man.

E is for Ewing's Sarcoma

I should have known. I was having a bit of trouble with E. Eat. Economy. Nothing seemed quite right.

My (other) friend Barb called me tonight. She lost her job a few months ago, and I knew she had a new one but hadn't heard the details. Fortunately she landed on her feet "in these tough economic times" (drink everyone!) and got what sounds like a great job, close to home, compatible hours and friendly colleagues. I'm so happy for her.

I've known Barb for almost 24 years. We met in first year university and we've been friends every since. She comes from a family of eight kids - Carolyn, Bill, Mark, Jamie, Craig, Chris, and Barb is the baby (there's another one in there but I can't remember where or who). The news that I'm not so happy about is that her brother Jamie has Ewing's Sarcoma. I've never heard of it but it's in his leg and he has to have chemo for 10 months before they decide what to do. Brutal.

Ewing's Sarcoma is rare. There are no known risk factors, no genetic link and no known prevention - kind of like being hit by cancer lightning. It does seem to be treatable, though.

My eating problems and the stupid economy seem pretty trivial in comparison.

D is for dummy, disorganized, dumbass and dumb luck

Again I win the award for the worst mother ever. I constantly feel like I am juggling 10 balls in the air and I'm about to drop them all . If reality, I'm lucky if I only drop one or two. This time it's fucking swimming - AGAIN. You would think I would know better by now. I was SURE I had the right registration date in my head. Positive in fact, but I thought I'd start getting my ducks in a row and check things out today. Imagine my disgust when I realized TODAY was the registration. For those of you who are thinking "good save - you were lucky to check it on the right day!" think again. Trying to get into swimming in Toronto is a competitive sport in itself. You have to line yourself up at 7am with your client numbers (good luck finding those), course codes and credit card info, and dial/refresh like your life depends upon it. If not, you are so screwed. There are 4 kids in a preschool swimming class, and trying to get your kid into one that's outside of working hours and before they go to bed… good luck.

I didn't have anything - my client numbers are at home, of course and I didn't even have the book at work. After a bout of self-flagellation, in desperation I decided to phone up and get my numbers and then see what I could crowbar myself into. I hit the jackpot in the shape of a lovely and competent operator. Not only did she get Calvin into a class, she got Jack in! I wasn't going to register Calvin without Jack (the prospect of that nightmare makes my head spin) so I am delighted.

There's an upside and a downside to the scenario, of course.

Down: They're not going on the same day, so that means two days of swimming performance.
Up: They did get in

Down: Jack's class is on the weekend and across town in Parkdale
Up: It's on a Sunday and STD will have to take him half the time.

It's hard not to find pleasure in the little things.

C is for Chaos

OK, C was going to be for complete, when I finished Sylvi, but I don't think that's in the cards.

The kids are driving me mad again so I did a bit too much yelling tonight. A thousand delays before bed and I had had enough. A few hours later I go up to get something and pass the cat on the stairs. I pat her on the way by and she's wet. Weird, I think.

I go do my thing, casually checking for spilled glasses of water, but I see nothing. I tuck Calvin back in and go to tuck Jack in. He's lying on the bed with the covers off, pullup around his ankles. Sigh. Then I start to notice that my left foot seems wet. And the covers are SOAKED. WTF? But his bed is only a little wet and his pants are barely damp. ????

Best as I can see, he stood up in bed, pulled down his pants, peed on the cat, covers, floor AND his stuffed alligator, and went back to sleep. It's not bad enough that I have one that talks, grind his teeth and occasionally walks in his sleep. Now I have one who pees in his sleep.

Can life get any better?

B is for bored

All I have left on poor Sylvi is 1/2 of one flower. I loathe knitting these flowers, simple though they are, but more than that I dread sewing them all on. That's all I have left so I am procrastinating like crazy.

I have been eyeing the Foliage hat pattern on Knitty for a while, but when Sarah stared wearing hers to the Purl I fell in love. It was beautiful, and knit out of the lovely Malabrigo, which I have in my stash. I have been trying to knit some of my stash up lately, so it was perfect. (We shall not discuss the recent additions to my stash that won't get knit up for years at this rate.)

So I stash dove and found this great Malabrigo clone, bought in my soaker-making days. 100% Purewool, single ply, scrummy soft. Green of course since it's foliage (and also since Sarah's is green). I'm nothing if not original.

Started Friday night, finished Saturday night, no modifications to needle size, unbelievably fun to knit. All projects should be so rewarding.

Guaranteed to make me look like a dork.

A is for Advice

I rarely have anything intelligent to say so as inspiration I shall work my way through the letters of the alphabet, trying to find something marginally relevant to say. So...

Per yesterdays entry and the spectre of Fairycakes rearing his head, I am looking to the Globe and Mail for advice. My Arian horoscope today reads:

Venus in your birth sign makes you even more romantic than usual, if that is possible, but not everyone seems pleased that you have allowed your heart to rule your head. Watch out that your passion does not get you into some serious hot water today.

Words to live by. Remeber the "I'm going to get fired" incident of 2007?.

Also - accomplishment. The knitting of Sylvi is finished except for two flower petals. I am supposed to be knitting mamma some socks for her birthday, but I can't leave Sylvi alone.

This is getting creepy

Through the joys of Facebook, I get the occasional email about job openings for which I am imminently unqualified. Innocently I click on the link, scroll through a few jobs, and then I see this:

Our client has an established presence in all global AIDS crisis zones including East and South Africa. They also recently opened a 36,000 square foot state-of-the-art lab in New York. Exceptional management team and board, the Vice President of Vaccine Development is former Global Vice President of Process Development at Sanofi Pasteur, the largest vaccine company worldwide.World class corporate (i.e. Pfizer, Bristol-Meyers, Google) and foundation (i.e. Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation) financing.
Position	Location
Senior Director, Regulatory Affairs	New York

I swear someone is messing with me.

Most rewarding socks ever

Plain socks, Indigo Moon (spring flowers in twilight?). Miraculously perfect fit. I really, really hope she wears them out.
We love you, Po.

11 degrees and dropping

Ah Sylvi. The bigger you get the more entrancing you are. Your fronts knit up like the wind (although the shaping could not compete with a late-night George Clooney movie) and I so cannot wait for you to be complete.

Blocking you was hard, very hard. How you resisted conforming to the shape I sought. I knew it was possible as I had bent the back to my will but you, gentle fronts and arms, were not blessed with as soft and spacious a blocking spot as he had. No, you were put on the knitting equivalent of the rack - the drying rack.

However, persistence won through - you are worth it, sweet Sylvi. Only 90 minutes of toil and you were in position. I truely expected you to be dry this morning, but circumstances have foiled us again. Damn furnace - I see your attempts at sabotage, but my good repair man will fix you up quickly and we will soon be blessed with warm drying winds again. As we speak, Berlin is sourcing an ignitor at great expense, but it's worth it for my red love.

I'm sorry for the rack, but there is no pleasure without pain.

Out out, damn hole.

For the love of all that's holey (har), why me????

Socks are not supposed to wear out so fast and I am sick of it.

That is all.

Yeeeeeeeee haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Look. Look! LOOK! It's a sock! A whole sock! With only one itty bitty mistake!

I worship at the ground of my machine.

Quality control? I don't see no quality control.

Less than a year after I made them, my first lace socks, the ones that started my love affair with Indigo Moon, have HOLES in them. Not little ones, from a nail snag or something, but giant gaping acreages of wear. I am NOT pleased. I can't figure out why the purple ones are still going strong (yes, I am totally jinxing myself) but these are crap.

Are my expectations out of whack? I don't think it's unreasonable to expect socks to last a while when it takes me MONTHS to knit them.

The picture of the heel (on the right) does not do the hole in the heel justice and the one of the toes is the toe I have not fixed yet. The other one was WAY worse.


I have decided subtlety is not the way to go. I'm fixing these puppies with something that shouldn't wear out so fast: the lovely and talented Noro. Cool colours and has the added bonus of reminding me, every time I wear them, not to use 100% wool for socks... ever.

I am very pleased with the final result, but it was a total pain in the arse fixing the heels. Picking up, short rows, math. Feh. I haven't worked up the strength to do the other sock, but I will. Someday.

Is it karmic justice that I was knitting these exact socks for the owner of Indigo Moon when mine imploded? We shall see how hers wear...

Sylvi is out of the "rest" pile and back on the needles (it was frightening how long it took me to find her - stuffed behind the couch in the pile of wool Jack likes to sleep on). It must be the warm weather threatening to appear before she is finished.

Quirky Nomads (or QN as it's called now)? Best podcast ever. She is so funny!

On a more interesting note, I think Lulu may be trying to make a reappearance. She's decided that "relationship" may not be for her, but is willing to give it a week or so of serious attention before she slinks sluttily back to orange. Troglodytes beware.

Look what I made!

I have not been so inordinately pleased with myself in ages! So much pleasure out of something so horrible. Maybe I should give it to my mother, as it's about on the level of a grade one mother's day project.

I give you... my first machine made sock (or some reasonable facsimile thereof):



The scale seems seriously fucked up. In case you need a better look:

Note the heel is half way down my foot and by my calculations this should have been a knee-high. Har.

As I was taking the photo I had a blinding revelation. Machine knitting is all about gauge. Know your stitch and row gauge, then you don't measure anything, you just count. (It's impossible to measure on the machine. IMpossible.) My gauge couldn't have been THAT far off, could it? Really?

cue bolt of lightning

Nope. But when you're knitting in the round, the counter counts each pass as a row, so a round needs TWO rows. When you think my masterpiece is shrunken by a factor of two, it's not really so bad. One might even say... pretty good.

Know any shrunken midgets with fat legs who need socks?

Slug

I give you the newest addition to our family:As you can see, the slug has crept into our lives quickly and seamlessly. See him here enjoying a hearty and nutritious post-swimming meal of McCrap along with the boys. He was even allowed to snuggle with Binkie! In fact, I was told to go get "Snaily" (what Jack called him before he switched to "Sluggie") from the car since Jack was sad and Sluggy made him feel better.

Quality use of a day of travel, no?

By the way, vegetables bite. Who wants salad when it's minus 10? Not this gal. But I hate DPNs too so you can't trust my judgment. Fat is the new thin.

Happy new year! Whadda ya mean, I'm too late?

Updates:

Sylvi was rocking along until I got to the fronts. Now I'm just bored with the seed stitch so progress is glacial.

My second pair of Embossed Leaves socks are almost done, thank god. I am NEVER knitting for someone I don't care about again, no matter how high the bribe. Plus my stupid socks are all getting holes in the feet. I am NEVER knitting socks with yarn the doesn't have nylon in it again. (like all the NEVERs? sure sign of imminent demise.)

I knit neckwarmers for my kids. Since I am parent of the year already, I sent my kids to school without scarves on the coldest days in history. They won't wear them. I thought neck-tuques might help. Actually I only knit one. The other one was the stupid red hat - I just ripped out the top and cast off again. Genius! Laziness rules the day again.


Tried knitting new mitts for Jack, but after fucking up three times I gave up in disgust.

Started the cashmere handmaiden hat, but hated the pattern given as it was just moss stitch (see Sylvi comments). Kill me now. I'm contemplating doing the straight part on my machine as then I can wear it before summer. Love my machine, BTW, but it's a huge timesucker. I could spend DAYS figuring it out. Maybe I can get the flu or something...

Speaking of timesucking, after knitting Cuddly a BSJ and Baby a dress, I decided it was much more efficient to sew stuff. Sure enough, I knocked off a silk (chosen by Calvin) dress for Barbie in the time it took for the kids to bathe. Damn, that Barbie is a classy chick when she tries.

My only NY resolution this year is to find myself an affordable housekeeper and keep her. I haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate cleaning the house. What a waste of time. (Oh yeah, and to try and use less commas and more pronouns. Lazy bitch.)

I've done my good deed for the month - I had my mom come and stay with me so she didn't freeze to death while the power was out. I am going to have to teach her some manners - she's been living alone too long. Sandwich generation indeed - I'm teaching my mom and my kids the same things.

Think happy thoughts. And drink wine.

Disclosure.

I have a bone to pick with the Harlot . While her blog is highly amusing, interesting and informative with respect to anything related to the fibre arts, I am going to have to take her to task regarding her cavalier attitude towards home renovations.

Now, I understand she lives in an ancient Toronto house, much as I do. She seems to have successfully undertaken several mammoth projects virtually on her own, with relatively little tooth gnashing, and the things that do happen are interesting and blog-worthy.

See, I think this is impossible. Where are the manic rantings of a woman who has been trying to fit something new into a house that has not a single 90 degree angle in it? That has multiple layers of wallpaper, usually still remaining only because they are a structural element of the house - certainly not for aesthetics. Where are the oddities unearthed like the second kitchen craftily concealed behind "that odd piece of paneling"?

I am not so lucky. I have spent the entire weekend trying to change a lock. (We shall not discuss the fact that I spent a previous weekend replacing one lock the insurance company deemed "too insecure" - comical to anyone who knows my ex's ability to close a door - with EXACTLY the same type of lock - and I had a billion keys cut.) A simple deadbolt. I've done it before. Piece of cake.

Except... it's impossible to drill a big hole over a smaller one without clamping another piece of wood on top first. Fine. PITA, but OK. But then the door hole kit I had previously didn't have the right size hole saw. Fine. Went and borrowed one from my neighbour. Turns out to be the same freaking size as the one I already have. Feh. OK, so I improvised (we shall not get into details due to the sloppy nature of my workmanship, but fuck it, it worked).

One day later, lock installed, just the deadbolt strike (?) to go. Nooooooooooooooooooo problem!

So my house is ancient. I think it's had the same lock for the past 60 years, but the wood has been... altered a bit. So when I come along to drill a 1" hole in the door jamb, there's basically nothing to drill into. I'm sure there's an easy way to do this that doesn't involve plastic wood, wood glue and the sawing of a thousand bits of wood to "fill" the 2"x 3" gap in my door jamb right where the strike is supposed to go, but please feel free NOT to point these out to me as I may have to make you eat the ten pounds of wood chips, shavings and scraps of shattered filler bits. Where were you two days ago? Keep in mind this is not a nice neat gap. It's a thousand steps from 1cm to 10 cm and every topographical variation in between. (Yeah, I mix my measurements shamelessly. Sue me.)

Anyway, the final fill piece snapping in two as I drove in the screws for the strike cover plate was the last straw. Another heavy application of wood glue and I threw up my hands and walked away. All I need to do now is put in the strike plate cover (again)(with bigger pilot holes) and I'm done. Piece o'cake.

Nothing entertaining, funny or interesting happened at all, but pity the first child who dares to throw their shoulder against that door.

Gratification

This is possibly the most gratifying Christmas present I've ever made:

I BAWLED all the way home. The tulipsocks are the nicest gift EVER! thank you SOOO SOO MUCH. I can't believe you gave them to ME!!!!! IM SO HAPPY. those are the bEst socks EVER - HANDMADE!

I could die.

I am slowly amassing a list of people for who I will and will not make things. Barb falls firmly in the first category. Merry Christmas.

Maybe I got ma mojo back...

Now that I'm one with the hood I can talk like a gangsta - yo. Word.

Ayway, Sylvi seems to be back. I tried again today. I boldly cast on with the 8mms, knit briskly for a couple of inches and then realized AGAIN I had neglected to slip the edge stitches. Sigh. Ripped back and started again. Then decided the gauge was too loose. Ripped back, and pulled the end out of my KP cable. Bugger. Perused the PPs selection of needles in a funk. Decided needle manufacturers were high. Thought in the interests of economy I would try the Chigoogy needles or whatever they're called. Bamboo, feh. But the cables were thinner than the Addis and the needle length was longer (what, does Addi think I like knitting on something resembling a short, fat crayon?) and the price is excellent.

Tried again. Actually, the needles are good. The cables could be better, but not impossible and at least they're thin. The bamboo actually works for me. Since I'm knitting on 6.5mms instead of something like a 7, I decided I have to do the entire gazillion miles of seed stitch continental. That should be interesting. It's not hard so much as awkward, and my hand hurts already, but we'll see how that goes.(Oh yeah, the black stitching is because I keep seaming up the stupid cuff the wrong way and it's too hard to pick out in red. I figure I can fix it later. Maybe. Maybe it will just be a nice accent detail.)

And look! It's christmas shopping! I vow to complete it this weekend, whether it kills me or not. The housework may suffer a bit though.
Now what on earth shall I buy myself? Whatever it is, I know it will be just what I wanted.

Word.

Wow. Sometimes things just take on a life of their own.

Like the slipper: take a mildly amusing giant sized slipper...Then stick it on someone's head - let's call her Barb - and give it to an underemployed person - let's call her Cathy - and the result....


Hi fucking larious.

Sylvi is kicking my butt.

While happily knitting away on the first sleeve chez Purple Purl, I happened to ask what happened if you didn't get row gauge. Just as a discussion point. I never measure row gauge. I figure if you get stitch gauge (or something resembling it) you'll be fine.

However, when it was revealed that I will probably run out of yarn if my gauge is whacked, I thought I'd give it a quick measure. I must be close, right> I'm using the right needles on the yarn specifically called for in the pattern. OK, so maybe I knit a little tightly, I was trying no to do so this time. Just to check.

Oh horror.

OK, stitch gauge is supposed to be 3 st/inch. I was getting about 3.5 maybe 4, but I could sure block that puppy into submission. Row gauge is supposed to be 4 rows per inch. I was getting… 7. Not even freaking close.

I took it home, washed the entire gauge swatch (that's the sleeve for the people who don't know how I feel about swatching) and blocked the living bejesus out of it. I practically had my foot on the ironing board for leverage yanking it into submission when I realized this was not a good sign. And yes, I surrendered. OK, I left it on the ironing board to dry in case she has a change of heart, but in my mind I have accepted the fact I will have to pull out my miles of seed stitch and start again. (Shall I mention the fact that my sleeve, which I had been patiently knitting and was not quite at the 10" mark was measuring at LEAST 12"? Definite issues there. How the hell are you supposed to measure something that grows so much? Yank the snot out of it each time? Sigh. Knitting things that fit is a novelty for me.)

I shall go up a needle size, because that's what Sylvi wants. And since Sylvi is such a lovely beautiful creature, getting gauge should be a good thing, right? It won't created a flimsy, holey garment that the wind just whistles through, will it?

No. Sylvi wouldn't do that to me.

Oh, and on a more comical note, are these supposed to look like this? I mean, I get the felting thing and all, but these are ridiculously huge.

Why I knit.

I was thinking this afternoon the question all knitters seem to ask themselves at one point or another - why do I knit? I can think of several reasons:

• Knitting doesn't talk back. If i ask it to do something, unless I'm the one screwing up, it does it.
• If I don't like it that day, I just rip it out
• If I don't want to deal with it's issues, I can stuff it behind the couch, leave it in the car or do pretty much anything I like with it.
• I am not responsible for how it acts when it's 18 years old. In fact people should be relieved if it reaches that ripe old age.

These are all compelling reasons. It restores order and sanity and some small measure of control to my life. However, there is another really good reason to knit.

I started knitting again to try and curb my tv snacking. It's difficult - not impossible by any means, but difficult - to eat and knit at the same time. Stuck in the house every evening I don't have much to do for entertainment (trust me laundry and housework are NOT entertainment by any stretch of the imagination) so I like to have a little reality escape by watching tv. No wonder I hate reality tv. That ain't reality, kids.

Now I have discovered another, possibly better, reason to knit: it's hard to knit when you're drunk. My life being the way it is I'd probably start drinking the moment I walked in the door and not stop 'til I was passed out on the floor. This would be a large improvement while dealing with the nightly performance of Thing 1 and Thing 2. I LIKE knitting, and I don't like knitting drunk. Good thing.

I don't know what to do. I cannot cope with my wretched children. Today I had to resort to unplugging the tv and carting it out onto the front porch. Really, it was all I could do to stop myself throwing it over the railing. Only the thought of picking up all the pieces of glass from my driveway stopped me. Every day I tell myself it will be better - they won't be so awful, I won't be so crusty, but it ain't happening.

And what a surprise. I average about 7 hours of sleep a night, in 2 or three hour chunks. Isn't this what they do to POWs to torture them? Well it's working. I'll give up my secrets, my chocolate, my children just for an extended bout of sleep. Great, I get to sleep every second weekend, but it just. Isn't. Enough.

Last time I whinged to my doc about being on the edge she said I should ask for help. Great. Fabulous. Got any volunteers? My mom won't take my phone calls and besides, she's tied up in her roll as full time babysitter to my brother's kids. So nice to have her in the city. Steve has already divulged the fact that he is outdoing himself in the parenting department by coming every second tuesday evening. Lovely, really that I get to go knitting, but I have to get the kids ready before he arrives, and when I get home I have to do all the other things I should have been doing; clean up, do the garbage, pick up crap... not much of a break.

AND IF THE TORONTO STAR COME IN MY HOUSE JUST ONE MORE TIME I MAY HAVE A MELTDOWN OF EPIC PROPORTIONS. I don't subscribe, tit, and I don't read it. If you're going to bring it in, PUT IN IN THE RECYCLE BIN, for the love of Pearl.

So tell me, if I start beating my kids do you think I could stop? I don't think so. That's why I won't go down that road, tempting though it may be. It's not supposed to help anyway. Feh.

So anyone who tells me I spend too much money or wool can just fuck right off. It's better than the alternatives.

Meet Sylvi, my new best friend.

Unnecessary use of plastics...