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...

My, I love sewing

OK, even with the two boys hanging over me "helping" I managed to make two kitty collars, a blanket for SuperCuddly
And this.

Could it be any cuter? Man pants for Jack to swim in. I can't wait to see him in them. They look pretty skimpy in the pic, but they're the same as the prototype so they should be fine. Calvin's to follow with a SUBSTANTIALLY longer inseam. I really should have something for scale - they're TINY.

Have I mentioned my new love? I don't think so. Let me present Buzz, the Rocketeer. May we have a long and productive life together. I think Buzz is a bit older than me, but that's OK. He can still perform.

Recovery

Ah, long weekend. Is there a better way to spend one's time? (Well, of course there is, but if I wanted your opinion I'd give it to you.)

I recovered the waving lace socks, and I decided not to frog my clap. I really wanted to, but I think it's OK this way and I'm a fair way in. Plus it's just so pleasing to look and and feel.

The end is in sight for the tiger dress. I am officially on the last chart. OK, it's the huge and complicated one, but still. It's the last one. Interestingly, when I finished the chart last night, I couldn't make myself move on to the last one. I wonder what Freud would say about that? (Actually, it doesn't take Freud...) I want to have this done for KW on Sept 13, but that may be a bit of a pipe dream. We shall see.

Giving up is not aways bad

This is not good. I screwed up a few rows ago and made the classic and usually fatal move of taking it off the needles. Feh. I don't even feel like fixing it.


I have decided to rip out my clap and do it over on 4.5 mm needles. It's too loose and ain't going to get any tighter over time. Also, I'm going to make it a bit wider after the "it stretches lengthways, not widthways discussion". Big step for me. I'm not ususally good at do-overs.

Also - I'm going to put modern saddle shoulders in Jo's sweater if I can figure it out. Square sweaters with dropped shouldres are so 80's, man. If I'm going to re-do it, I should make it chic, n'est pas?

Goofy pic of Miko with le tigre. Matching the shaping is proving to be a huge trial, but I have matched up the top and bottom pattern pieces and fixed the tiger's nose. That's a load off.
Things to look forward to:
And the Alligator is done. The kids love it, of course so I can knit another one fore the SP Alligator Knitalong. That should be entertaining - wielding pointy sticks at work. Perhaps Dibbs would like to join our group? It would be an improvement over Tracy.Aren't these pleasing? They came with my Etsy fabric.

I am a dork

Why does it take me so long to clue into the "essence" of a pattern? Are other people like this? If so, no wonder they think knitting is hard. It is hard, if you don't "get" the pattern.

Take Clapotis, for that matter. My first try it took me HOURS of poring over the pattern to even get through the initial increase rows. Now, since I know what dropped stitches look like and get the whole twisted border stitch thing - it's SOOOO easy! OK, I can tell it's going to get boring but I'm so feeling the Dye-Version Bamboo Sport love and the colour is so much better in reality than this pic:Silky, drapey, shiny, yummy.

Tiger Sweater? Jeanie? Socks? I know not these projects.

Sloth

Thursday, the second last day of my freedom, brings evidence of how productively I spent my time:
Throw in a book or four and I think that about covers it.

Self-framing portrait of happiness:

Where does the time go?

When last we talked, I was a different women. I ran, I obsessed, I basically looked good. Now I am a fat eating machine who does nothing except eat, knit, shop and occasionally sew. I suppose there could be worse things. Heroin, gambling, prostitution...

Anyway, enough negativity. I have several things to report:

Amy Butler:


Michael Miller:

Alexander Henry:

And IKEA, go figure, upholstery weight at only 7 or 8 bucks a metre!

The back of this lovely garment is doneAnd Jen was kind enough to suppress her nausea long enough to display the progress on the front for me.

Dear Blog,

Don't be sad that no one reads you anymore - it's not your fault. The thing is, circumstances have changed. You have become inaccessible at work (although our relationship was always pretty inappropriate) which limits your spontaneity and your exposure. People just don't want to spend their free time with you. I know it's sad, but we have to face the facts.

It's not all your fault, though. I will be the first to admit that the excitement level of the content has dropped dramatically in the last little while. It's my fault that I no longer have anything interesting to write about. Perhaps we should contemplate things that would spice up the content a bit?

Potential topics:

• blow by blow of the trip to NYC - I shall try to get into as much trouble as possible to maximize the entertainment value.
• possibly knit secret projects for undisclosed recipients. This would add some dramatic tension
• find someone new to obsess about - more points for having dire consequences (Stephen Harper, Fleetwood, Liiiiiiiiiiiiiievonan). This of course is easier said than done since one can't just turn on the "foolhardy" hormones

Sigh. Suggestions welcome. I don't want to resort to pictures of the cat.

Played hooky today. Worked a bit, went for a great run in the sun on the boardwalk, hung at the PP, went to see Dr. P (actually her nurse practitioner who I really like), got massive quantites of roti from Gandhi on Queen, walked home for the first time this year with both kids and didn't have to carry Jack, and ate so much I think I'm going to pop.

A good day.

Love

P.S.

Dear FC

I’ve been meaning to call you back and retract my invitation for drinks. For some reason, I had the impression that you might possibly have some interest in me. However, the SP grapevine, in all its accuracy, has provided me with some interesting little tidbits of information I was not aware of.

It seem like every single woman over a certain age has at one time made the moves on you with spectacularly little success. You must have very strict policies regarding dipping your wick in the company inkwell. One might well speculate as to the reasons for that, and believe you me, people do speculate. The prospect of you being a wee bit light in the loafers has come up more than once. Regardless of the cause, you might consider the wiseness of revving up all these women with no intention of following through. It’s nice to be friendly but you go a bit beyond friendly.

Rumours are also bouncing around suggesting you might imminently be getting married! Who knew? This might be a topic to throw into your casual lunch dates just to set the chicklets straight, don’t you think??

Anyway, congratulation and best wishes on your gay marriage. I’m sure you’ll be oh so happy whatever path you choose.

End of story

Dear FC,

You are very lucky. My friends did not tell me of the latest piece of gossip circulating through the rumour mills until today. Had I know that you were GETTING MARRIED while I had all weekend to myself I may just have driven to ‘burbia and beaten you to a pulp.

You are foolish if you think that is acceptable behaviour, and you should be wary. Women are quite cranky when made to feel like complete idiots. Thanks so much. I really wish to repeat this experience again.

My only (minor) consolation is that you seem to have left a trail of women behind you…I’m sure they’ll all be just as thrilled with the news. On the other hand, maybe I was the only one stupid enough to be suckered by you. Humph.

Best wishes to your fiancée in the future – I think she’s going to need it.

[Please please tell me you’re not scratching your head in confusion, saying I don’t understand, what did I do? I may have to beat you again for that].

XOXOXO

Why do all my “episodes” end with such a tremendous crash? I think I’ll bow out forever and stick with tv and knitting, boring but much safer. Although there’s always JQ.

Still rampent speculation in the co. regarding whether he quit or was fired. And even *gasp* his sexual orientation. Apparently women have tried to fire him up numerous times over the years with no success so that naturally leads to the homo speculation. I can’t see it, myself, but you never know…Maybe the marriage thing is just spec. Trying to get more goods from Cathy but it’s slow going. Now I just want to know – my personal involvement in this situation is so over. It’s done. Finis. Caput.

Who's the April fool?

Reality check. FC has no reason to call you and won't. He doesn't need to be nice, charming, gentlemanly because as we've already established... HE'S NEVER GOING TO SEE YOU AGAIN.

Get over yourself. Irresistible you are not.

Feh.

Day two.

Tick tick tick tick tick...

Craig, my hairdresser, rocks my world. How has it taken me 40 odd years to find a hairdresser who knows my hair better than I do?

I went in this morning to get a hair cut and he wouldn’t cut it! I explained my problem with looking like a bush and he said there was no way for him to cut it and make it look better – I just had to wait. He didn’t even offer to trim it. He voluntarily saved me an $85 haircut. Dude.

This is a haircut that’s now almost 5 month old and I though it was starting to look pretty crappy. He suggested I put it up with clips (and showed me how so it looked good, not like I was going for a run! - just say no to the ponytail, girl.) and then he ironed it for me. Man, it looked just awesome! So good I actually went out and bought a flatiron. Me, the girl who doesn’t own a single tool fancier than a hairbrush. How could I not? He took my slept-on hair and turned it into fresh from the salon hair in about 5 minutes. I am in love.

Carolyn and I went shopping after my hair affair. Instead of spending vast sums of money, I returned 2 Buzz Lightyears, the bad jacket and my beloved shoes. It was sad, but necessary and a net gain of $200 even after the flatiron. A good day, I’d say.

As opposed to detailing the bizarre phone messages I would like to leave Fairycakes, I will burden you with this lovely song, sung to the tune (such as it is) that goes with the every popular “I’m fucking Matt Damon” clip. If you substitute FC’s real name, it fits the song perfectly, but for obvious reasons I’m not gonna put it in here.

I’m fucking FC
In my dreams every night
I’m fucking FC
And it feels oh so right.

I’m fucking FC
In the car, on the floor
And in building 84.
On the plane, by the TV
And of course in 93.

I’m fucking FC!

Ever wondered if I have too much time on my hands?

Day one.

This must be what it’s like to be a heroin addict – doing really stupid things just for the rush. But you gotta do more and more dumb stunts since you get hooked on the rush. At the time it feels awesome, and then sickening, and then you’re so relieved it’s over. Then the adrenalin fades and you have to think of something else to do to replicate the rush.

We did a drive-by at lunch. Classic stalking behaviour and I would have been absolutely and completely mortified if I had been caught. I made Morrison drive right INTO the little gated complex, but as soon as we were there I panicked and made her turn right around and get the hell out. God, imagine the implications of that. You can get away with being seen on the street but to actually be driving up to his front door????? A restraining order might not have been uncalled for. Every single car of class I was convinced was him, and the car next to us with a dude in a tweed jacket? Stroke material, my friends.

Anyway, I still have no confirmation either way, but dude is back on the email list AND the intranet. I’m not liking that one little bit. Imagine if I’ve made a serious miscalculation and he hasn’t actually left? It seems unlikely from the gossip swirling around, but the fact that I have not heard one concrete fact makes me highly suspicious. And the IS issues just add to the intrigue…

Imagine how mortifying it will be when he returns from whatever has him away (emergency?) to find he’s been sacked by public opinion. Not to mention my lame assed message. I’ll have to pull a Seinfeld and break in to erase the answering machine message.

*************Update: Positive confirmation by my boss that he was in fact TERMINATED. What a terrible word. Now I feel awful for him. He’ll get a might severance package and probably a good a mighty good lawyer, but still…

And hmmm…. Maybe it’s me. I seem to spread employment instability wherever I go. Look at Inco boy…sleeps with me and the next thing you know he’s been sacked. Sigh. Better not let that little gem get out or I’ll never get laid again. In fact I must be getting more virulent as I didn’t even have to sleep with Fairycakes, I just had to think about it.

At least I didn’t have the humiliation of him being back at work. Gotta look on the bright side.

One day down, 30 to go…I’m still calm and hopeful and ready to accept psychiatric help on an outpatient basis. No need for a straightjacket just yet. The question is – is he more or less likely to call me now that he’s been sacked rather than quitting? We might just break even on the edamame bets.

Oh, and I'm loving the sock - pattern and all.

Jayzus H on a stick

First things first…

The boys are better. Hallelujah. From this picture one might well ask why I bother putting water in the tub- they're obviously getting nowhere near it...
















Jack’s socks are too short. Cute as hell, but definitely too short. Bugger. Ah well, the toe shaping was messed up anyway (what a surprise since I did it at the PP).
















I have started socks for *gasp* myself. In a moment of self-delusion, I decided I should knit the Embossed Leaves socks. Now, I can’t knit lace. Really. I’ve tried several times with the simplest pattern known to mankind and I balls it up like crazy. So why I would have selected lace for socks I cannot even imagine. I looked at a nice cable pattern but rejected it because it involves knit and purl. Yeah, like lace doesn’t. I chalk it up to the emotional distress of yesterday. So far they’re going nicely though.
















Yeah, that’s ribbing. Twisted rib, but just ribbing. Not much to screw up there.

The yarn rocks my world, though. Soft soft soft with tons of twist. Indigo Moon merino in Moss from, finally, the Purple Purl. Makes that Opal feel like steel wool.











Fairycakes is brought to you by Primitives.









Speaking of emotional distress, word on the street is that FC has left the building voluntarily. Since the gossip consensus seemed to think he had actually departed, I decided that now would be a good time to PHONE HIM UP AND ASK HIM OUT. Me. Lily-livered chicken-shit me.

I 411’d him and found the most likely candidate in the book. That’s hardly stalker behaviour is it? No, I didn’t think so. Driving by the house, maybe more so, but I haven’t done that. Yet. Anyway, I had to make sure it was him, so I *67’d myself and called.

Be still my beating heart. Machine, message, the whole nine yards, and yes it was him. So him, such a FC message. That was OK. Brief discussion with Morrison on how to proceed. Quality time with the sick kids and then. I went upstairs and did the deed.

OK, now after I walked upstairs with the phone I practically had to apply the defibrillator my heart was banging so hard. A few minutes to calm down and I was ready to go through my carefully scripted message. (Yes, scripted. I’m a moron and I know myself too well to wing it.) I’m not sure what would have happened if he had actually answered the phone at that point but I believe it would have involved either me slamming the phone down or the paramedics.

Fortunately that didn’t happen. However what did happen wasn’t much prettier. I made it through exactly two words of the script (“Hi, it’s”) before ballsing up my OWN NAME, but of course I couldn’t go back an correct that. What kind of idiot can’t say their own name? So now of course I’m in a full blown panic (he’s not going to know who it is! I’m a moron! Could this be any worse?) while trying to hold it together enough to leave SOME sort of message.

My solution? Babble. Um…so anyway…and I thought…ya know… God it was brutal. I sounded like a 14 year old with zero grasp of grammar, the English language, and vocabulary, and an IQ of about my bra size. I suppose I managed to get the message across but man, talk about a car wreck.

The ball is now totally in his court. I give him a month before I abandon all hope. After all he may well be away tying up his affairs.

Anyway, now I can stop all this obsessional behaviour. Yeah yeah, pick your self up off the floor. What could I possibly find to obsess about now that I’ve done the deed and he’s no longer at work for me to *possibly* run into? Check two phones for messages how many times a day? Refuse to answer either phone on the off chance it might be him? Drive by, crank call, other things I haven’t even thought of?

It’s going to be a looooong month, girls.

It's final

OK, not final as in the company put out a memo, but word has come down the FC has indeed left the company. Word seems to be that he has found a new job, but who knows? "Word" is not particularly accurate, now is it?

I am sad. No reason to tart myself up for work anymore, no sashaying... back to the mind-numbing routine.

Still, I can call him up and ask him out now. If I have the balls. I have absolutely nothing to loose, though, so he says no I have a moment of humiliation and then I move on. I'll NEVER see him again.

Get some balls and go for it my friend. Quick, before he gaps the country or forgets who you are.

Extreme emotional distress. I should sue the company.

As my regular morning ritual, I was trying to establish the location of Fairycakes yesterday and I couldn’t get him on outlook! Imagine my distress. I though it was just a computer glitch causing him to be obliterated from the company memory, but I was unreasonably distressed. I felt sick and anxious and unable to eat – so unlike me.

After some discussion with the gals, we thought it was probably a mistake, but weird none the less. After my meeting I actually went to see his secretary and ask her. She said, predictable enough in retrospect, that he was just offsite for the day.

However, my social network tells me otherwise. I actually sent him an email and got an automated response that was not at all like the other one I got (which included his cell number). This one just said I’ll get back to you when I can, leave a message with my assistant. Very different tone. And the feelers we put out have been gathering some disturbing vibes. C’s boss was talking about it totally unprovoked. Too much of a coincidence for me.

Oh, and his company cell phone isn’t working. They’ve cut the umbilical cord.

If indeed he was sacked and he did tell his sec, why would she confirm it to me? Of course it would have to come through the “official” channels. I am so self delusional, I just hear what I want to hear.

In short, I think he’s gone. And I’m very sad.

B thinks it’s good as now I can ask him out and he can say yes. Except I don’t know how to get in touch with him short of going through his assistant, which seems so… uncertain. I want to speak to him, or at least be able to leave him a message I know he’ll get. (Control issues, anyone?)

Oh, what was I thinking? If he is the FC in the book, I can call him directly. I shall have to try that tonight. Stalking? No, just good intelligence gathering.

Sad sad sad. Now what gives me a reason to come to work? The occasional visits from JQ? (who BTW is hot hot hot for me. Must be the hormone vibe. I had to beat them off with a stick yesterday.) I like him but I’m so over the casual bonking at lunch scenario, at least with him. I’d take anything I could get with FC.

I’m a freak.

Update: OK, so now he’s back on the list! WTF???? I can’t take this. I am amazingly lighthearted, though. How much would it suck being fired even if you do have more money than god and are old as the hills and ready to retire?

So why do I want to go out with a dude who’s 60, smokes and probably dyes his hair? Very good f-ing question. Because I’m obsessed and obsession has no rhyme or reason.

I’m wearing my new shoes tomorrow! I looooooooooooooooove them with the passion of a thousand white hot suns.

On a more mundane note , I finished Jack’s socks last night at the PP and wound the Indigo Moon for socks for ME! Finally. Can’t decide whether to do a cable pattern or a leafy pattern that would go with the green colour… decisions decisions. I’ll probably go with the leafy thing as then I can knit mostly instead of having all those purl sections which drive me mad. And I’d have to knit “normally” so my gauge would be way tight.

Party Friday night at the Purl. Woo hoo! Bring on the te kill ya. (Interestingly, they called me Tequila Lise when I walked in last night. I can only imagine the conversations that went on without me. Really, I was hardly drunk at all. I swear.)

Easter weekend looms large

This weekend brings some momentous events. First, I give you the unconventional yet highly effective potty setup:

The boy pees on the top level (less messy than standing and peeing to the bottom level) and then will remove the top level and sit to poop.



This is miraculous to me - I spent 6 months trying to get C to do just this.


Mind you, it's interspersed with pant peeing incidents. Still, early days.






What a great topic, eh?

And it's Jack's 3rd birthday on Sunday. As I bought them both Buzz Lightyear and they're now off Buzz - I'm screwed. Ah well, the fickleness of youth. Fortunately I found some leftover Lego which will probably get me over the hump.

Plus the easter egg hunt: always a cornucopia of tears, fighting, temper tantrums, it's not fair-ing and chocolate induced hysteria. Good times.

I have decided that FC is bad for me. Yeah, yeah, besides the obvious;

- 1st time we met it was because I almost missed the shuttle and everyone was slagging me off.
- 2nd time was after the MM fiasco in SW. Nuff said about that particular event.
- 3rd time - lunch after which I got ebola (OK, it was strep, but it felt like ebola)
- the sighting I had of him on Wednesday? Just after I almost fell down the library stairs.

Should I take this as a sign that I am doomed if I get anywhere near him? Imagine if I slept with him - my house would probably burn down!

Still, I gotta do it. Ask him out, I mean. I don't know how or when but I will. My luck it will be just after he gets a new gf. Sigh.

Game on.

This not having access at work really bites, by the way...

You know what? The bitches can say what they like about Fairycakes not being hot, and I almost believed them, but I had a brush with the man today (he didn't see me) and he is SO hot.

Ha. Game on.

More of the same

Finished Calvin’s socks, which were greeted with great enthusiasm. I love my kids.

Speaking of which, it’s funny how one can loose perspective. Over the last month or so I have started to think that my kids won’t make it to their next birthdays. They’ve been driving me mad and I really wanted to kill them. However, it seems that perhaps it was not my kids. It was a combination of me being whacked, them being tired, out of sorts, and cranky, and everyone being off their feed.

I made chicken curry with rice and peas and naan last night and it was hoovered up. Jack was eating MEAT with a FORK. They both had a bowl of cereal afterwards. Oh joy, oh bliss. My chill’n are back! This morning it was cereal and two rounds of toast plus milk galore. No wonder they’re full of piss and vinegar – they eat enough for 10 men. I love them to pieces when they’re like this.

As for me, I find the sashaying is growing old. It feels (and I’m sure is) totally pointless. I need action or to lay off, and I’m too bored to lay off. What does that leave? I think it leaves me having to speak to the man, easier said than done. Maybe I’ll get my Etsy cards soon and I can use one of them as an appropriate (using the term very loosely) icebreaker for Fairycakes and I.

Who is hideous, according to Barb. Sigh. I am so deluded. Maybe it is just the accent and his undeniable charm, but I think he’s hot. So if he really is old and hideous, wouldn’t that make my chances better? My horrorscope says the approach of the full moon (that’s on Friday, FYI) makes it necessary for me to speak my mind. FC seems to be committed all day tomorrow so again it comes down to the one day deadline on Thursday, a fabulous repeat of last Friday’s pathetic performance. Now that’s something to look forward to.

I leave you with this stunning picture of Miko and her $250, 250 pound skirt. NWT, surprise surprise.

Alcohol and a Wiinus - what more could I ask for?

Ah, the glorious weekend. Finally, FINALLY, I felt better and I didn’t have the kids and I took full advantage of the convergence of the planets under my sun.

Friday night, once I had established that no tall, dark, accented man was going to magically sweep me off my feet and take me away for a magnificent romantic weekend, I went out to the drunken knitters night with the gals from the Purple Purl. What a time.

We started off at the store where we did a little moderate knitting and some light tequila drinking. Now there was a new and novel experience for me. Not the tequila, but enjoying it. We had no lime so we subbed lemon, and no salt so we used sugar. Coarse brown sugar. It was awesome! No yucky salty afterbite, just sweet lemonade to wash down the not-so-hideous tequila. It was brought from Mexico by the non-drinker in the crowd, go figure, and it was MUCH better than the usually gut-rot I’ve had reluctantly in the past.

Then we went up to the Spotted Dick where we were unable to sit with the other bunch of knitters as there wasn’t enough room. That was fine with me as I don’t know any of them and we all know how much I like strangers.

Had an awesome time. Fellow Guiness drinkers, giggles, poutine (my poor arteries), sugar cubes on the needles, the neverending dog bed. A good time all round. Rolled out around 12:30 and took the subway back with Jenn.

Saturday… I shall gloss over the $30 parking ticket, the hideous hours spent at the Eaton’s centre looking for work clothes *shudder* (though the Anne Klein red patent sling-backs rocked my world, even at $120), the fact that I had two buy TWO freakin’ Buzz Lightyears… an experience I’d rather forget.

After a 3 hour nap (shockingly lazy, I know. I chalk it up to still being in recovery) I called my lovely friend Tara (who was bunking chez 360 Bloor while her and the hub went to Canada Blooms). I went over there for a gourmet meal of tacos and beer (the hat was well received by the way – perfect fit and suits her to a T, ha ha) followed by a Wii extravaganza. Wiinus, hahahhahahahahahaa.

Now, I am a virtual Wii virgin, having only witnessed Calvin playing it at Aidan’s. What a hoot! Boxing, tennis, bowling, golf… and the stupid bunny games - hours of quality time wasted and I am SORE! Who knew a video game could give you sore muscles?? I didn’t roll out of there until 2:30 am! Thank god for cabs.

Sunday? A virtual spring cleaning extravaganza – lots of fresh air and bleach to banish the residual critters lingering in the air. So not like me but very satisfying none the less. AND I hung my curtains, which are very pleasing. Brown flocked taffeta.

And I ironed! All my blouses. I can’t even make myself wear them they look so nice. Maybe tomorrow, though I am taking the kids in so it might be a wasted effort. No – do it. You gotta look professional once in a while. Hmmm… skirt? I think so. Boots? Definitely.

I see some more sauntering in my future…

--Oh, and speaking of sauntering - Tara and I discussed the situation a bit. She had some fiendishly complex plans involving dropping thinly veiled hints , but the boys - who's opinions I value greatly as they are after all, men - said straightforward was the way to go. Ask him straight up, be prepared for rejection, move on.

Sometimes I think it'd be nice to think like a man.

Sick!

See, now I'm home I think it would be a good idea to CALL HIM UP AND ASK HIM OUT. What the hell is wrong with me??????? You are a gutless wishy washy spineless goat-sucking hair-breasted son of a codpiece. Get a grip. 5 minutes ago you were prepared to let it lie and now you want to CALL HIM UP? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR GOURD?????

Give your head a shake. I don't wanna hear any more of this nonsense.

Besides, he's ancient. He probably mainlines Viagra just for a session with Mr. Lefty in the shower.

Sigh... 3:20....zero excitement.

How now, wool-sack, what mutter you?

I suck. That is all.

2:20....nothing to report....losing motivation

Productivity: marginally improved

Although it's a beautiful day out there, it does seem a wee bit silly to be sashaying around in hopes of the elusive encounter. One might in fact say it seems positively...highschool: "I'll just hang around Joe's locker. I'm sure he has a free period some time today." Moronic in the extreme.

On one of my return strolls I had a brief fantasy about hitting him in the back of the head with a snowball, which then led to some scuffling in the snow. I don't think even I managed to push that fantasy to making out in a snowbank at work, but I tried. Pathetic.

Grow some balls, sunshine. Get over to his office and do the deed.

Har. Funny. I think I'll sashay some more. Perhaps I'll glimpse his codpiece.

10:56.... no action...still hopeful...

Productivity: very low

Well, so far the day is just about freaking perfect. I'm wearing a shirt that's too tight and makes me look all bulgy, no sexy and scantily clad as I had intended. Plus it's got a blob of something strategically placed on the left boob - I'm not sure if I slopped my coffee on it or if it's residue from a previous wearing - either one is quite possible.

I would have tried the Tide pen on it, but I have discovered that old Tide pen smells like vomit. What kind of a marketing gimmick is that? Make a pen which magically removes the evidence of your clumsiness but leaves you smelling like someone sicked on you? Not a great idea. Oh, unless you're Tide of course, in which case it's great because your loyal customers are now wedded to the idea that they don't have to walk around all day anointed with the coffee they spilled on themselves when they slammed on the brakes in the car after checking their hair in the mirror only to look up and discover traffic had come to a screeching halt. Since they naturally detest the smell of barf, they go out and buy a new pen every month or so so they can still reap the benefits of the pen without smelling like an overworked orderly.

I have limited myself to one casual cruise through the campus to the cafeteria and back. Shockingly, there was no sign whatsoever of TH. I would have though he would have read my mind waves and be intercepting me in the nearest laneway to be propositioned.

Things are going well, aren't they? Someone should have clued me in that if you rely solely on chance encounters with the man of your dreams you are unlikely to get anything more that an unaccustomed amount of exercise and seriously frizzy hair from the rain.

Excuse me, I have a date with the side of a building.

If there is a god, I'll get Ebola

Socks are done! Hallelujah, and they seemed to go over well. I showed off the seams at the PP on Tues and I was positively rapturous about them. It's good to have an appreciative audience for this type of squeee-ing so the rest of the world doesn't think you're insane.









Love the card and the oh so cute little birdie pin :)

Hat for T is blocking and smells like wet dog - possibly good seeing as its new home is quite doggy.

Boy meets sidewalk. For weeks I've been warning of the perils of sliding down the sheer face of our snowbanks to the concrete sidewalk below. Today, the inevitable happened - he slipped of and landed on his head. Poor baby. Looks like someone hit him with a meat tenderizer.

See the snowbank just past the blue van? Make it steeper and take away the protective layer of snow on the sidewalk and that's the scene.

His socks are ticking along nicely, although had to pick up the heel stitches twice. Why can I never do this properly the first time? Not much point on a pic of these.

And tonight my little friend comes home and reenters my orbit. For some strange reason I have convinced myself that things will go well. I have convinced myself that I will spontaneously run into him alone, not in a group of people, without lurking so badly outside his building that I have to have myself surgically removed and warrant another entry into the SP Annals of Accidentia. That we will engage in witty banter that leads seamlessly into an opportunity to ask him out. That he will accept, and have no plans for the foreseeable future and whisk me away to some romantic paradise where we will frolic in the daisies and bond forever.

Does this have any basis in reality? Even one toehold on the earth? I think not.

More like if I study his schedule and walk around at an opportune times I might just see him, probably with a whole bunch of his PDers and if by chance he does speak to me, I'll say something stupid and inane, miss any opportunity that might remotely arise and scuttle back to my desk having accomplished NOTHING.

Why the panic to do it tomorrow? I don't have the kids this weekend and feel like if I miss this opportunity I won't get another one for ages. What? How long has this been going on? Hmmmm... 8 months? You can't wait another few weeks for a decent opportunity to arise?

But quite frankly, we've spent some quality time in conversation, exchanged mildly suggestive cards and emails, had lunch twice, and kissed. (OK, it was on the cheek, but still. I haven't kissed anyone else at work in my 6 years except BB and he's tres French). Oh, and the cupcake. Maybe it's time we put da cards on da table.

With any luck I'll get Ebola tomorrow and miss the "perfect" opportunity.