Hard! Rock! Hallelujah!

Heh. Best Eurovision ever; the cheesy Finnish metalheads won, warming the cockles of my camp-loving little heart. Day of Rockening! The Arockalypse! Monsters! Giant boots! What's not to love? I especially loved the part where Terry Wogan had a bit of a meltdown when, during the point count, the queeny Dutch guy was flirting clumsily with the presenter. Jeez, Terry, what's the problem? Is the Eurovision Song Contest just a little too gay for you this year?

The problem, of course, was that in order to get to the cheesy Finnish metalheads, we had to, you know, watch Eurovision. And, as Phil so neatly put it, "Every year, I sit down thinking I'll be in for a night of ironic, sneering pleasure, and about two songs in it is just so excruciatingly bad I eventually have to flee the room."

But hey, I had a bottle of cheap plonk, so it helped take away the pain of the non-Lordi acts. Phil ran out before the whole tacky shebang started to get beer, and asked if I wanted anything. I told him to just grab me a bottle of wine, he asked what kind, and, knowing how limited the selection in our local offies is, I just told him, "Oh, something like Chardonnay. A basic white. Whatever's in the chiller cabinet." He came back with a bottle of, I shit you not, Bulgarian Chardonnay.

Ana: "Bulgarian Chardonnay?"
Phil: "They had much nicer-looking stuff, but that was the only chilled Chardonnay."
Ana: "Well, I didn't mean it that literally. I'm not even that nuts about most Chardonnays. They're kind of like the wine equivalent of Diet Coke. I just said 'Chardonnay," because I figured you'd recognise it." (He is not a wine-drinker.)
Phil: "Oh. Well I didn't know that."
Ana: "No problem. It's just Chardonnay. I wasn't expecting anything wonderful. Please tell me this cost at least two quid."
Phil: "If that."

I can report that Bulgarian Chardonnay isn't as awful as it might sound. It's a perfectly drinkable cheap white, and if it's not sending me into transports of oenophile bliss, it's getting me pleasantly buzzed. For all I know, Bulgaria may produce some truly excellent wines, and in fact, probably does. I just wouldn't expect to find one at our local Co-Op for mere pennies. And we didn't, but like I said: pleasant buzz.

More knitting has happened, but no more progress on the Hateful Cardigan of Hate. I broke down and told mom last week that it wasn't going to be done in time for her birthday, and it won't, but I will keep plugging away at it, as frequently as I can bear. I'm doing some fairly small-gauge knitting in Baby Cashmerino at the moment, and I'm surprised at how much I like it. I normally am very dubious about going much lower than 4.5 mm needles, but this is knit up mostly on 3 and 3.25 mm needles, and I am really liking it. Progress is way faster than I would've expected, and I think that's probably due to how light the needles are. I usually like hardwoods the best, but damn, bamboo is light and easy on the wrists.

As my sickness deepens, I am strongly contemplating getting into spinning. Soon, Phil is going to ask me what I want for my birthday, and I fear "a spinning wheel," is going to be my answer. Unless it's a swift and ball-winder. I probably shouldn't ask for a wheel until I've tried a drop spindle first, but oh my god, I want one. And a couple of alpacas to go with it, too. Maybe some sheep and angora bunnies. A llama. I like to think big.