I got the cardigan done alright -- the baby cardigan that is not the Hateful Cardigan of Hate, but instead the Somewhat Delightful Cardigan of Delight & Also Done. It's dead cute and winging its way to its recipient, and I no longer fear button bands and all that stuff, so probably breaking down and putting the HCOH away for a while wasn't so bad in the long run, since I got a full cardigan-making experience and really boosted my confidence in my hypothetical ability to complete the HCOH. Except I'm not working on it. I just can't quite bring myself to pick it up and figure out where I left off yet. Maybe I should make my mother a Clapotis instead?
Ah, no. I am incapable of completely abandoning a knitting project in the middle. It will get done, right after I finish smoking that rock pictured on the left.
How is it that just under two inches of the most frustrating knitting I have ever attempted has left me totally addicted to making socks? I'm not even quite done with the ribbing yet! I'm nowhere near the dreaded turning of the heel. I have at least seven inches of stockinette to knit after I finish this ribbing before I get to the scary heel, and yet, after nearly a year of longing to knit a sock, but being utterly convinced I'd never be able to do it, I am almost sanguine about it. I am, after all, knitting with motherfucking DPNs, and I tell you, I thought I would NEVER be able to do that. Ever. Even circulars are still kind of scary to me.
I contemplated knitting flat and seaming, but somewhere in my stubborn knitter's brain, that feels like cheating to me, and anyway, it would screw up the self-striping pattern of the cool sock yarn. And I sew enough seams already (see: cardigans, pullovers, etc.) and goddammit, why not try, fail, and just shrug it off?
So I got a simple sock pattern (the Basic Sock from Stephanie Pearl-McPhee's Knitting Rules), cast on (loosely! I remembered to cast on loosely!) got all my needles going in the right direction, and started awkwardly knitting. And totally jacked it up, but semi-fixed it, after taking a couple of deep breaths and creating a new mantra:
It is totally OK if this sock looks like ass. Just keep knitting.
And, you know, that worked. Every time I try something new with my knitting, if I can just shut up my inner perfectionist, it's OK. It works. I learn, and the next time, I do better. I made a strategic decision to sacrifice this ball of Opal sock yarn and the many hours it will take to knit it, just for the sake of learning how. Nothing bad will happen if I make the world's ugliest, worst-fitting sock. I'm enjoying myself, I am figuring something out, it just doesn't matter. Keep knitting.
Ladders at the joins? Got 'em. A few extra stitches appearing along the way? K2tog, baby, and keep going. DPN slips out of its stitches and hits the floor with a loud clang? Hold your breath and try to get the stitches back. Yeah, that looks like a stitch. Close enough.
This is so much fun. Once I get these socks done, the perfectionist will come back and demand I make my next pair right, but for now? This is fingerpainting in kindergarten; I'm just here to have fun, learn, and make something that will be beautiful to me, if nobody else.
All you sock-pushers were right. This is crazy good fun, and it does totally get easier once you get the first dozen rounds or so done and the needles stabilise. And sock yarn is, in fact, several orders of magnitude more addictive than crack. I'm not even done with the first cuff yet, and I just ordered two skeins of cashmere from HipKnits.
What? I needed it. Just shut up and pass the crackpipe back over here.
Friday, 9 June 2006
Saturday, 20 May 2006
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.
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.
Friday, 19 May 2006
Baby boom
Bootees! God, bootees are adorable, and a lot of fun to knit.
No, I am not pregnant, but it seems like most of my friends are.
In my desperation to knit anything but that endless goodamn cardigan, I have been working on a series of small, fun projects that I can do very quickly, just to get that finished object buzz. These are my first bootees, and oh my god, they are so very adorable. And so very soft, being made from cashmerino superchunky. Which is also machine-washable, something I gather is kind of important when you are talking about tiny little babies who can spit up and/or excrete three times their own body weight, or so it seems to me, based on my not-very-extensive baby-sitting experience.
This may be my favourite part of having a lot of pregnant friends. I get to knit stuff and it's all very, very small, meaning, of course, I am seldom more than a day or two away from completion of most baby-related projects. There's an almost immediate payoff in knitterly satisfaction. Unlike, of course, THAT GODDAMN CARDIGAN.
Also, I get to buy small quantities of really soft, high-quality yarns, which is the cost-effective way of getting my luxury fibre jollies, not to mention being able to use up those odds and sods of fancy yarn left over from my big projects.
The big problem, though, is that those bootees are so goddamn sweet and darling that it's all I can do not to EAT them. Yum.
No, I am not pregnant, but it seems like most of my friends are.
In my desperation to knit anything but that endless goodamn cardigan, I have been working on a series of small, fun projects that I can do very quickly, just to get that finished object buzz. These are my first bootees, and oh my god, they are so very adorable. And so very soft, being made from cashmerino superchunky. Which is also machine-washable, something I gather is kind of important when you are talking about tiny little babies who can spit up and/or excrete three times their own body weight, or so it seems to me, based on my not-very-extensive baby-sitting experience.
This may be my favourite part of having a lot of pregnant friends. I get to knit stuff and it's all very, very small, meaning, of course, I am seldom more than a day or two away from completion of most baby-related projects. There's an almost immediate payoff in knitterly satisfaction. Unlike, of course, THAT GODDAMN CARDIGAN.
Also, I get to buy small quantities of really soft, high-quality yarns, which is the cost-effective way of getting my luxury fibre jollies, not to mention being able to use up those odds and sods of fancy yarn left over from my big projects.
The big problem, though, is that those bootees are so goddamn sweet and darling that it's all I can do not to EAT them. Yum.
Wednesday, 10 May 2006
wooly madness
OK. OK. I HAVE A PROBLEM, ALL RIGHT?
But do you seriously know how hard it is to find Noro around here?
But do you seriously know how hard it is to find Noro around here?
Tuesday, 2 May 2006
I have hit a new low
Stockpiling. I have started stockpiling yarn. And what's more, I stockpiled it in a fit of irrational, possibly hormone-fueled rage, because some total do-gooding bitch revealed my secret source of extraordinarily cheap and incredibly DISCONTINUED Rowanspun. On probably the biggest knitting discussion board on these here internets. So I had to buy enough for at least one more of Phil's beloved Rowanspun Chunky sweaters, before it all disappeared FOREVER. Nevermind that I currently have at least one more sweater's worth of said yarn sitting, entombed in cellophane wrapping, right here in my study. It's discontinued, which means eventually it will all be GONE, and oh my God, then what? All Rowanspun Chunky is rightfully mine, or rather Phil's, because do you know how hard it is to make a sweater he loves as much as he loves that one? And it was my very first sweater, and it fits him just perfectly and he loves it to death, and I felt like a fucking genius when he put it on and there was not a goddamned thing wrong with it, so I am all emotionally attached to it. (God, I wish my period would just start already.) Mine. The Rowanspun Chunky is MINE, and I would appreciate it if y'all would just stay away from it. I would totally be willing to consider staying away from your favourite discontinued yarn if you would leave mine alone. Maybe. I am not a very nice person when it comes to yarn, unlike that person who, being kind and thoughtful and entirely better than me, chose to rat me out, with nothing but good intentions and knitterly camaraderie.
Ah well, at least, as mentioned, the yarn was cheap, and since I was there anyway, some Jaeger Luxury Tweed going for the ridiculous price of £1.25 a ball fell into my shopping cart, because, well, do I really need to explain why I bought enough yarn to make a whole sweater for the low, low price of £12.50? I had to buy it. 65% merino lambswool and 35% alpaca. I am physically incapable of resisting a fibre combination like that for, I repeat, £1.25 per ball.
As it turns out, I am pretty good at resisting the fibre combination in my mother's cardigan. I did really well, until Saturday night, when I just couldn't stand it anymore, and decided to use up the couple of skeins of black Cashmerino Superchunky I had leftover after making Phil's most recent sweater. I made a silly hat with earflaps, pointed kitty-style 'ears' at the top, and a really quite nifty stitch pattern that is mostly lost in the stygian black yarn, but hey, I know it's there. And it made Phil laugh and laugh when he saw me wearing it, but in that nice way he laughs when he thinks I am being adorable, and that makes me feel very loved. And in spite of my reckless refusal to knit a swatch, it came out only very slightly too big, but I don't care, because sometimes, you just have to knit a goofy hat that makes you feel good.
Ah well, at least, as mentioned, the yarn was cheap, and since I was there anyway, some Jaeger Luxury Tweed going for the ridiculous price of £1.25 a ball fell into my shopping cart, because, well, do I really need to explain why I bought enough yarn to make a whole sweater for the low, low price of £12.50? I had to buy it. 65% merino lambswool and 35% alpaca. I am physically incapable of resisting a fibre combination like that for, I repeat, £1.25 per ball.
As it turns out, I am pretty good at resisting the fibre combination in my mother's cardigan. I did really well, until Saturday night, when I just couldn't stand it anymore, and decided to use up the couple of skeins of black Cashmerino Superchunky I had leftover after making Phil's most recent sweater. I made a silly hat with earflaps, pointed kitty-style 'ears' at the top, and a really quite nifty stitch pattern that is mostly lost in the stygian black yarn, but hey, I know it's there. And it made Phil laugh and laugh when he saw me wearing it, but in that nice way he laughs when he thinks I am being adorable, and that makes me feel very loved. And in spite of my reckless refusal to knit a swatch, it came out only very slightly too big, but I don't care, because sometimes, you just have to knit a goofy hat that makes you feel good.
Thursday, 13 April 2006
Gah, cardigan.
Holy mother of god, how I hate this cardigan I am currently knitting. I am only about halfway up the back of it, and, were this not my mother's birthday gift, which must be in the States no later than the 25th of May, I have every confidence this would be my very first Unfinished Object, left to languish for a long, long time, possibly forever. I love the yarn. I just hate knitting with the yarn. I have tried every pair of 5mm needles I have, rosewood, bamboo, plastic and aluminium (I think that leaves cassein, which I don't have, probably wouldn't make any difference, and am not buying for this bloody project), and the sad fact remains that this goddamn yarn just doesn't have enough give to make knitting with it a pleasure. I am just going to have to suck it up and suffer my way through this cardigan, and all I can say is she better goddamn love it.
On a happy note, I finished the Airy Scarf, and it is very pretty. There are a couple of errors in it, but ripping back mohair is a nightmare, so I just fiddled with the blocking, and when I wove in the ends, I faked a couple of dropped stitches, and it looks fine. It is as light as a cloud, very, very soft, and doesn't itch at all. I think, since I have a ball of cream(ish) kidsilk haze that I will make my mom one to go with the %$£@! cardigan, which is a lovely rich, fudgy brown (really, the yarn is gorgeous, even though we hates it forever) and that way I have her mother's day gift taken care of as well. The other half of the ball will make the same scarf for my mother-in-law. They live five thousand miles apart; the odds of them wearing the same scarf to the same event are, to put it mildly, highly unlikely.
So now I am working out my reward for making it through this sweater. My reward will probably be yarn. Sock yarn, I am thinking, because I desperately want to teach myself to knit socks, even though I fear double-pointed needles. Sock yarn is just so damn beautiful, and the longer I chug along on this cardigan, the more I come to appreciate the concept of small projects. I am on a mad, mohair-conquering high, so I think I'm ready for socks. And more lace. There are so many things I want to make, and this sweater is not among them. I love knitting for other people, in fact, I probably enjoy it more than knitting for myself, which always feels vaguely selfish, but socks? I need socks. I deserve socks. Socks are nearly Puritan knitting, so wholesome and practical are socks. OK, so I plan on buying some incredibly extravagant ebony dpns and cashmere sock yarn, but eh, they're still just socks. The whole 'use cheap stuff you don't really like while you're learning' philosophy has never worked for me at all. What got knitting to stick for me this time was firmly rejecting the crappy acrylic and buying some nice merino. There is a place for acrylic, I concede, and that place is usually baby stuff, because the little buggers puke and crap and drool all over everything, and you need to be able to just throw their stuff in the washer. Also, you can practically watch them grow in real time, so yay, acrylic. I guess.
Oh god, I want to knit something other than that cardigan. Help me.
On a happy note, I finished the Airy Scarf, and it is very pretty. There are a couple of errors in it, but ripping back mohair is a nightmare, so I just fiddled with the blocking, and when I wove in the ends, I faked a couple of dropped stitches, and it looks fine. It is as light as a cloud, very, very soft, and doesn't itch at all. I think, since I have a ball of cream(ish) kidsilk haze that I will make my mom one to go with the %$£@! cardigan, which is a lovely rich, fudgy brown (really, the yarn is gorgeous, even though we hates it forever) and that way I have her mother's day gift taken care of as well. The other half of the ball will make the same scarf for my mother-in-law. They live five thousand miles apart; the odds of them wearing the same scarf to the same event are, to put it mildly, highly unlikely.
So now I am working out my reward for making it through this sweater. My reward will probably be yarn. Sock yarn, I am thinking, because I desperately want to teach myself to knit socks, even though I fear double-pointed needles. Sock yarn is just so damn beautiful, and the longer I chug along on this cardigan, the more I come to appreciate the concept of small projects. I am on a mad, mohair-conquering high, so I think I'm ready for socks. And more lace. There are so many things I want to make, and this sweater is not among them. I love knitting for other people, in fact, I probably enjoy it more than knitting for myself, which always feels vaguely selfish, but socks? I need socks. I deserve socks. Socks are nearly Puritan knitting, so wholesome and practical are socks. OK, so I plan on buying some incredibly extravagant ebony dpns and cashmere sock yarn, but eh, they're still just socks. The whole 'use cheap stuff you don't really like while you're learning' philosophy has never worked for me at all. What got knitting to stick for me this time was firmly rejecting the crappy acrylic and buying some nice merino. There is a place for acrylic, I concede, and that place is usually baby stuff, because the little buggers puke and crap and drool all over everything, and you need to be able to just throw their stuff in the washer. Also, you can practically watch them grow in real time, so yay, acrylic. I guess.
Oh god, I want to knit something other than that cardigan. Help me.
Tuesday, 11 April 2006
Oh, rubbish.
While my in-laws have been on holiday, I've been filling up their wheelie bin, as well as our own, every week. See, I've finally got around to clearing out the guest room (also known as the "crap room"), which I filled up with, well, crap, when I cleared out the old crap room, which is now my study/knitting room. We moved into this house, oh, three years ago, and I am just now finishing opening the last of our moving boxes. They were full of useless crap, for the most part, which is why they were able to sit there, peacefully gathering lots of dust, for the last three years. I have now condensed most of the crap down into five much smaller boxes, which I will go through at my leisure, and that surely means they will sit in the guest room, vaguely irritating me and gathering dust until we actually have houseguests about to arrive, when I will probably just pitch them into our bedroom for the duration.
You see, I am slowly and reluctantly coming to the conclusion that my husband will never see the error of his packrat ways. Our house will never be entirely free of clutter. We live in an Edwardian semi-detached house that, while lovely and very spacious, is completely lacking in closets. As in, there are none. I'm not exaggerating for effect. We have NO built-in closets, and only two free-standing wardrobes, both of which are packed to bulging already. Add to this the fact that every single radiator is stupidly located, the doors and windows and other furniture take up almost all of the remaining wall space, and we have thousands and thousands of books (none of which, no matter how crappy, stupid and unlikely ever to be read again they are, will he consent to give or throw away) on many large space-hogging bookshelves, and it would be fair to deduce that we will never have any more wardrobes.
He really doesn't see this as a problem. You should see his office. Part of the reason his office is such a fright is that I have taken to throwing the piles of crap he leaves in the rest of the house into it. If it were solely up to me, I swear to god, we would hire a skip tomorrow and toss out tonnes of what I consider rubbish, and what he considers potentially useful, or has some other highly idiosyncratic reason for not wishing to pitch. I love to read, and I love books, and I look at our overflowing bookshelves, and I am seized with the almost overwhelming desire to build a bonfire in the back garden. Don't get me wrong; very many of these books are mine, and in most cases, I, too, am reluctant to part with them. I sympathise with his acquisitive and possessive nature where books are concerned, since I share it, too. But if I find one more crappy airport thriller stuffed in a box, I think I'm going to start screaming hysterically and not stop until the men with the butterfly nets come and drag me away.
You see, I am slowly and reluctantly coming to the conclusion that my husband will never see the error of his packrat ways. Our house will never be entirely free of clutter. We live in an Edwardian semi-detached house that, while lovely and very spacious, is completely lacking in closets. As in, there are none. I'm not exaggerating for effect. We have NO built-in closets, and only two free-standing wardrobes, both of which are packed to bulging already. Add to this the fact that every single radiator is stupidly located, the doors and windows and other furniture take up almost all of the remaining wall space, and we have thousands and thousands of books (none of which, no matter how crappy, stupid and unlikely ever to be read again they are, will he consent to give or throw away) on many large space-hogging bookshelves, and it would be fair to deduce that we will never have any more wardrobes.
He really doesn't see this as a problem. You should see his office. Part of the reason his office is such a fright is that I have taken to throwing the piles of crap he leaves in the rest of the house into it. If it were solely up to me, I swear to god, we would hire a skip tomorrow and toss out tonnes of what I consider rubbish, and what he considers potentially useful, or has some other highly idiosyncratic reason for not wishing to pitch. I love to read, and I love books, and I look at our overflowing bookshelves, and I am seized with the almost overwhelming desire to build a bonfire in the back garden. Don't get me wrong; very many of these books are mine, and in most cases, I, too, am reluctant to part with them. I sympathise with his acquisitive and possessive nature where books are concerned, since I share it, too. But if I find one more crappy airport thriller stuffed in a box, I think I'm going to start screaming hysterically and not stop until the men with the butterfly nets come and drag me away.
Saturday, 8 April 2006
Lacy goodness
Stop the presses -- I am knitting a (very simple) lace scarf in mohair. The Airy Scarf from Last Minute Knitted Gifts in Rowan Kidsilk Haze, to be precise. I had three balls of Kidsilk Haze in my stash (more on my stash, later), bought on a whim, and which I thought I'd probably never use, since my one previous experience with mohair was not successful. It was, in fact, so horrible that it put me off knitting at all for a while. I totally hated it, found it agonising, and after about twenty incredibly painful rows, quit, and gave the yarn to my mother-in-law. The texture was icky, it stuck to my needles, and it had no give at all. It was some Sirdar blend of tiny amounts of alpaca and mohair and huge amounts of nasty acrylic. Hated it with a passion.
Fast forward, oh, two years, and I have three balls of Kidsilk Haze. Soft, oh God is it soft. 70% kid mohair and 30% silk, leaving exactly NO room for acrylic in the blend. I love this yarn, I pet it frequently, but I assume I am waaaay too new at Real Knitting to even dream of using it yet, and anyway, I'm still traumatized by the Sirdar experience. I place an Amazon order for some knitting books I've wanted, one of which is Last Minute Knitted Gifts, and there I find the Airy Scarf, which actually looks easy (although, for some stupid reason, I feared yarn overs) and more to the point, is listed as a 4-hour project and requires precisely one-half ball of Kidsilk Haze. As I am currently in the early stages of knitting what is shaping up to be an incredibly tedious Summer Tweed cardigan for my mother's birthday in late May, the idea of a four-hour project, one I think I will probably fail to do in four hours, and in fact will totally jack up, has its appeal: I'll hate it, fuck it up, and go back to the comfort of my easy but boring cardigan. Perfect.
Except this is fun! After struggling through the first five garter stitch rows and getting used to the feel of such a fine, lightweight and did I mention mohair yarn, I hit the first row of lace eyelets, and after k2tog'ing, I attempt a yarn over. And I did it right! It worked! And then I did ten more, and they all worked, too. The k2tog parts are a little tricky, since getting my 6mm bamboo needle (alas, I have no polished hardwood 6mms, and I am not cocky enough to go with slippery aluminium on my first real mohair project) through two stitches of a laceweight yarn is not easy, but hey, I persevered and did it. And no way am I getting this scarf done in 4 hours, but damn, this is fun. I can't get over how light it is. Since the pattern repeat is stupid easy, I might just go ahead and use up a whole ball of KH, since the pattern, as written, is for a pretty short scarf, and I like my scarves kind of on the long side. Which will still leave me with three balls of KH to make a shawl from, since, er, I decided, before casting on, that while I love my black KH stash, I really needed to go over to John Lewis and buy the pale pink KH used in the book, since it was just so pretty. And while I was there, well, I needed a couple more skeins of Debbie Bliss Pure Silk to make a tank top with, and damn, if this scarf goes well and quickly, I can make one for my mother-in-law's birthday present, and she's very fond of brown and cream, and look! They make KH in a lovely cream colour, and about ten minutes later, I come to at the cash register, and my £6.50 ball of pink Kidsilk Haze has morphed into, well, a considerably larger purchase than that.
What can I say, the stash is a demanding mistress, but I love her so much it's hard to deny her anything, although at the moment, I'm working on convincing her she can wait a little while for sock yarn. I can't possibly learn to knit socks until I finish that bloody cardigan, I don't care how much she whines for a little Koigu or Lorna's Laces. They will be her reward after I make it through all this goddamn awful Summer Tweed.
It's not that Summer Tweed doesn't make a lovely fabric, because it really does. My swatch, after washing, has a beautiful, interesting texture, and very attractive appearance. Knitting with it is just kind of unpleasant; cotton and silk do not make for yarn with much give, and I am used to using nice, giving wool. This is kind of like knitting with nubbly dental floss. I'm getting better at it; my gauge is very close to dead on, and I've learned to loosen up a little on the tension, plus I switched from a pair of 5mm rosewoods to aluminium needles, so I'm getting some much-needed glide, but really, I just want to be done with this thing, so I can move on to something fun. My first two jumpers, knit for Phil, were made of Rowanspun Chunky (discontinued, dammit, but I've stockpiled some that was going cheap) which I adored, and Debbie Bliss Cashmerino Superchunky, which is really soft and nice and buttery (and has a good proportion of microfibre in it, so don't think I'm a total natural fibre snob, in spite of me snarking at the hated Sirdar above), and was lots of fun to knit. I suspect I'm just not a big cotton fan when it comes to yarn. I am, however, a total convert to the glories of kid mohair and lace. Time to finish up this scarf and get done with that goddamn cardigan so I can feed the stash some sock yarn.
Fast forward, oh, two years, and I have three balls of Kidsilk Haze. Soft, oh God is it soft. 70% kid mohair and 30% silk, leaving exactly NO room for acrylic in the blend. I love this yarn, I pet it frequently, but I assume I am waaaay too new at Real Knitting to even dream of using it yet, and anyway, I'm still traumatized by the Sirdar experience. I place an Amazon order for some knitting books I've wanted, one of which is Last Minute Knitted Gifts, and there I find the Airy Scarf, which actually looks easy (although, for some stupid reason, I feared yarn overs) and more to the point, is listed as a 4-hour project and requires precisely one-half ball of Kidsilk Haze. As I am currently in the early stages of knitting what is shaping up to be an incredibly tedious Summer Tweed cardigan for my mother's birthday in late May, the idea of a four-hour project, one I think I will probably fail to do in four hours, and in fact will totally jack up, has its appeal: I'll hate it, fuck it up, and go back to the comfort of my easy but boring cardigan. Perfect.
Except this is fun! After struggling through the first five garter stitch rows and getting used to the feel of such a fine, lightweight and did I mention mohair yarn, I hit the first row of lace eyelets, and after k2tog'ing, I attempt a yarn over. And I did it right! It worked! And then I did ten more, and they all worked, too. The k2tog parts are a little tricky, since getting my 6mm bamboo needle (alas, I have no polished hardwood 6mms, and I am not cocky enough to go with slippery aluminium on my first real mohair project) through two stitches of a laceweight yarn is not easy, but hey, I persevered and did it. And no way am I getting this scarf done in 4 hours, but damn, this is fun. I can't get over how light it is. Since the pattern repeat is stupid easy, I might just go ahead and use up a whole ball of KH, since the pattern, as written, is for a pretty short scarf, and I like my scarves kind of on the long side. Which will still leave me with three balls of KH to make a shawl from, since, er, I decided, before casting on, that while I love my black KH stash, I really needed to go over to John Lewis and buy the pale pink KH used in the book, since it was just so pretty. And while I was there, well, I needed a couple more skeins of Debbie Bliss Pure Silk to make a tank top with, and damn, if this scarf goes well and quickly, I can make one for my mother-in-law's birthday present, and she's very fond of brown and cream, and look! They make KH in a lovely cream colour, and about ten minutes later, I come to at the cash register, and my £6.50 ball of pink Kidsilk Haze has morphed into, well, a considerably larger purchase than that.
What can I say, the stash is a demanding mistress, but I love her so much it's hard to deny her anything, although at the moment, I'm working on convincing her she can wait a little while for sock yarn. I can't possibly learn to knit socks until I finish that bloody cardigan, I don't care how much she whines for a little Koigu or Lorna's Laces. They will be her reward after I make it through all this goddamn awful Summer Tweed.
It's not that Summer Tweed doesn't make a lovely fabric, because it really does. My swatch, after washing, has a beautiful, interesting texture, and very attractive appearance. Knitting with it is just kind of unpleasant; cotton and silk do not make for yarn with much give, and I am used to using nice, giving wool. This is kind of like knitting with nubbly dental floss. I'm getting better at it; my gauge is very close to dead on, and I've learned to loosen up a little on the tension, plus I switched from a pair of 5mm rosewoods to aluminium needles, so I'm getting some much-needed glide, but really, I just want to be done with this thing, so I can move on to something fun. My first two jumpers, knit for Phil, were made of Rowanspun Chunky (discontinued, dammit, but I've stockpiled some that was going cheap) which I adored, and Debbie Bliss Cashmerino Superchunky, which is really soft and nice and buttery (and has a good proportion of microfibre in it, so don't think I'm a total natural fibre snob, in spite of me snarking at the hated Sirdar above), and was lots of fun to knit. I suspect I'm just not a big cotton fan when it comes to yarn. I am, however, a total convert to the glories of kid mohair and lace. Time to finish up this scarf and get done with that goddamn cardigan so I can feed the stash some sock yarn.
Saturday, 1 April 2006
Farmer's Market
Phil's been on holiday all this week, so of course it's been raining, and we haven't done much of anything. Can't really go anywhere, since his folks are on some monstrously long cruise around South America, and I'm keeping an eye on their house for them. Bee has about ten million houseplants, and it takes forever to water them all. Plus, they have this new alarm system, which is so stupidly easy to turn on and off -- it's this little gizmo like that I've Fallen & I Can't Get Up thing, you just press one button to turn the alarm off and the other to turn it on -- that I am, naturally, frightened that it's just too easy to use, and that I'm somehow going to accidentally set the alarm off, and then I'll have to deal with the security company and possibly the cops, and man, I just don't need that. My utter, animal fear of authority can be triggered by fucking rent-a-cops, for God's sake. How lame is that?
Yesterday, though, it was good. Flash woke me up at the ungodly time of 6.20 a.m., by headbutting me and purring loudly until I finally gave up and went downstairs and pelleted him. See, that's how Flash gives you a wake-up call; he's all friendly and affectionate and TOTALLY FUCKING PERSISTENT, like a furry, benign terminator or something. Pix will stand just out of reach and howl at you, or she'll do this thing where she sits right next to you and pick-pick-picks at you with one of her nasty little claws until you just give in, because you're going to lose your mind and possibly some blood if you don't. Flash, though, he's just annoying you by an excess of likeabilty and joie de vivre, so you're the bad guy if you get pissed off, the little bastard.
Anyway, I got up, and the sun was just dazzling. Beautiful, clear blue sky, a few fast-moving fluffy clouds, very nice. The local farmers' market is on the last Friday of the month down at B'head market, which is one of those big all-purpose markets, where you can get everything from eggs to orange pleather stilettos. The farmers, though, they only come in once a month to sell their expensive and gorgeous organic stuff to the vile, semi-moneyed hippie scum like us. Not that we're particularly rich, mind, it's just that when I look at how much money I spend at that monthly market, I feel kind of ill. Yeah, I smoke, but I'm afraid to eat meat that doesn't come directly from the hands of the guy who raised and slaughtered it, and who can give me chapter and verse on its pleasant, if brief, existence.
The market traders are all really nice, though. You get your usual run of meat/poultry farmers and butchers from Cheshire and North Wales, and your basic organic vegetable farmers (not much beyond root veg and brassicas at the moment, sadly), but also small, independent brewers and cheese-makers, a man who sells the most beautiful olives, stalls selling homemade chutney and jam and bread, all of which I make myself anyway, but I still love looking at their stuff, and then, occasionally, a real oddball, like the Catalan lady who had made a bunch of Spanish food, and was selling it. I bought a potato and caramelized onion tortilla from her, and brought it home for lunch. I thought it was lovely, but Phil's not mad keen on potatoes, and he was somewhat less enthusiastic than me.
Shortly after I got home, the rain came back, and after filling my freezer with all the meat I bought, I went and took a nap. No spring lambs haunted my dreams, thank God.
Yesterday, though, it was good. Flash woke me up at the ungodly time of 6.20 a.m., by headbutting me and purring loudly until I finally gave up and went downstairs and pelleted him. See, that's how Flash gives you a wake-up call; he's all friendly and affectionate and TOTALLY FUCKING PERSISTENT, like a furry, benign terminator or something. Pix will stand just out of reach and howl at you, or she'll do this thing where she sits right next to you and pick-pick-picks at you with one of her nasty little claws until you just give in, because you're going to lose your mind and possibly some blood if you don't. Flash, though, he's just annoying you by an excess of likeabilty and joie de vivre, so you're the bad guy if you get pissed off, the little bastard.
Anyway, I got up, and the sun was just dazzling. Beautiful, clear blue sky, a few fast-moving fluffy clouds, very nice. The local farmers' market is on the last Friday of the month down at B'head market, which is one of those big all-purpose markets, where you can get everything from eggs to orange pleather stilettos. The farmers, though, they only come in once a month to sell their expensive and gorgeous organic stuff to the vile, semi-moneyed hippie scum like us. Not that we're particularly rich, mind, it's just that when I look at how much money I spend at that monthly market, I feel kind of ill. Yeah, I smoke, but I'm afraid to eat meat that doesn't come directly from the hands of the guy who raised and slaughtered it, and who can give me chapter and verse on its pleasant, if brief, existence.
The market traders are all really nice, though. You get your usual run of meat/poultry farmers and butchers from Cheshire and North Wales, and your basic organic vegetable farmers (not much beyond root veg and brassicas at the moment, sadly), but also small, independent brewers and cheese-makers, a man who sells the most beautiful olives, stalls selling homemade chutney and jam and bread, all of which I make myself anyway, but I still love looking at their stuff, and then, occasionally, a real oddball, like the Catalan lady who had made a bunch of Spanish food, and was selling it. I bought a potato and caramelized onion tortilla from her, and brought it home for lunch. I thought it was lovely, but Phil's not mad keen on potatoes, and he was somewhat less enthusiastic than me.
Shortly after I got home, the rain came back, and after filling my freezer with all the meat I bought, I went and took a nap. No spring lambs haunted my dreams, thank God.
Saturday, 25 March 2006
My mother is nuts
But she does crack me up. She's had all sorts of gruesome health problems over the past year or two -- really unpleasant, if not life-threatening shit -- but still, she maintains her own weird sense of humour. A couple of days ago, an envelope stuffed with newspaper clippings landed on the doormat, and when I opened it, I found two things:
A) A newspaper story from our hometown's newspaper about a local surgeon, complete with a full-colour photo of said surgeon, and the following handwritten notation from my mum: "This is the guy who ripped my ovaries out. Hysterectomy doc, stingy with pain meds."
B) An advert, again from the local paper, for a neurosurgery practice. The three physicians who own the practice are all featured, as is my mother's commentary on two of them, complete with numbers, arrows and circles, to wit:
Surgeon Number 1: "This fucker is the one who had to re-do my back surgery. Stingy with drugs." (She has had issues with being given sufficient pain meds, and is understandably resentful.)
Surgeon Number 2: "This guy is my doctor now. I am reserving judgment, because he is better-looking."
I just hope he gives her more drugs.
A) A newspaper story from our hometown's newspaper about a local surgeon, complete with a full-colour photo of said surgeon, and the following handwritten notation from my mum: "This is the guy who ripped my ovaries out. Hysterectomy doc, stingy with pain meds."
B) An advert, again from the local paper, for a neurosurgery practice. The three physicians who own the practice are all featured, as is my mother's commentary on two of them, complete with numbers, arrows and circles, to wit:
Surgeon Number 1: "This fucker is the one who had to re-do my back surgery. Stingy with drugs." (She has had issues with being given sufficient pain meds, and is understandably resentful.)
Surgeon Number 2: "This guy is my doctor now. I am reserving judgment, because he is better-looking."
I just hope he gives her more drugs.
Monday, 13 March 2006
OK, I remember now why winter sucks.
Because of all the goddamned snow. Two days is clearly my limit. Yes, it was very pretty, and then it was grey and slushy, and goddamn, can we have spring now? My crocuses (croci?) and snowdrops were blooming when the snow hit, and now I think they're probably dead. Fuck you very much, winter.
Sunday, 12 March 2006
still winter
Winter is making what I am guessing will be its last stand today. When I looked out the window before I went to bed last night, a bit past 1:00, there was only a light dusting of snow on the street and our hedge. This morning, I woke up when Phil opened the bedroom curtains and commented, "Wow. Winter wonderland out there."
And so it is. Cloudy and snowy though it was this morning, our bedroom faces north-east, and our curtains and bedding are all blindingly white, so we didn't need the sun to fill the room with light. It was all so very cosy that it wasn't hard for me to go right back to sleep, feeling smug and happy. I only slept for another hour and a bit, though, before Flash managed to chivvy me out of bed to make breakfast.
I like Sunday mornings like the one we had today. Phil was playing with his new camera (although I took that picture with my own little snapshot camera) while I cooked, and our house felt very peaceful and warm. I baked a fresh loaf of honey-whole wheat bread last night, specifically because the toast it makes is so crunchily wonderful, and we had it with eggs, bacon and big portabella mushrooms, then we sat at the dining room table for a while and drank coffee and talked.
Now a lazy afternoon and evening stretch out in front of me, and other than a quick trip down to the shops, the only thing I have to do is decide whether I want to spend my time reading or knitting. Every Sunday should be like this.
And so it is. Cloudy and snowy though it was this morning, our bedroom faces north-east, and our curtains and bedding are all blindingly white, so we didn't need the sun to fill the room with light. It was all so very cosy that it wasn't hard for me to go right back to sleep, feeling smug and happy. I only slept for another hour and a bit, though, before Flash managed to chivvy me out of bed to make breakfast.
I like Sunday mornings like the one we had today. Phil was playing with his new camera (although I took that picture with my own little snapshot camera) while I cooked, and our house felt very peaceful and warm. I baked a fresh loaf of honey-whole wheat bread last night, specifically because the toast it makes is so crunchily wonderful, and we had it with eggs, bacon and big portabella mushrooms, then we sat at the dining room table for a while and drank coffee and talked.
Now a lazy afternoon and evening stretch out in front of me, and other than a quick trip down to the shops, the only thing I have to do is decide whether I want to spend my time reading or knitting. Every Sunday should be like this.
Saturday, 11 March 2006
Why didn't anyone tell me...
...that Georgette Heyer is so much fun? Seriously, I picked up a couple of her books at WH Smith today, on a whim, because with all the knitting I have not been doing so much reading of late, and I miss it, and also the books were on Special Offer, and I love a Special Offer, and I am only about two chapters into Friday's Child, and already I can tell that I am going to love Georgette Heyer.
This is good! She writes well! The mother of the Regency Romance actually could, you know, totally fucking write! Unlike my somewhat pathetic Victoria Holt/Jean Plaidy addiction, I don't think I'm even slightly embarrassed to be reading Georgette Heyer. She's more like Patrick O'Brian than your standard crappy historical romance novelist, and believe me, I know from crappy historical romance novelists. Mind you, this doesn't mean I don't thoroughly enjoy a good trashy historical romance novel, but I wouldn't feel compelled to hide the cover of this one, which is more than I can say for something like My Enemy the Queen.
It could be worse. I could still be reading V.C. Andrews, an author I thankfully outgrew by the time I was in single-letter cup sizes, and whose ghost-written oeuvre I revisited in a brief spasm of nostalgie de la boue a few years ago, only to be stunned by just how terrible Flowers in the Attic actually was. I was embarrassed for myself, especially when the incestuous rape scene that the first three quarters of the book is merely killing time leading up to turned out to be so much less enthralling than I had remembered.
You really can't go home again.
This is good! She writes well! The mother of the Regency Romance actually could, you know, totally fucking write! Unlike my somewhat pathetic Victoria Holt/Jean Plaidy addiction, I don't think I'm even slightly embarrassed to be reading Georgette Heyer. She's more like Patrick O'Brian than your standard crappy historical romance novelist, and believe me, I know from crappy historical romance novelists. Mind you, this doesn't mean I don't thoroughly enjoy a good trashy historical romance novel, but I wouldn't feel compelled to hide the cover of this one, which is more than I can say for something like My Enemy the Queen.
It could be worse. I could still be reading V.C. Andrews, an author I thankfully outgrew by the time I was in single-letter cup sizes, and whose ghost-written oeuvre I revisited in a brief spasm of nostalgie de la boue a few years ago, only to be stunned by just how terrible Flowers in the Attic actually was. I was embarrassed for myself, especially when the incestuous rape scene that the first three quarters of the book is merely killing time leading up to turned out to be so much less enthralling than I had remembered.
You really can't go home again.
Your hostess
I was all dubious about P buying yet another digital camera, until he took this photo of me, at which point, I decided it was a Miracle Camera (akin to the Miracle Bra, of course) and it magically had the ability to make my hair look good. So that's all right then.
Expect lots more pictures, if not necessarily of me, certainly of my yarn stash.
Expect lots more pictures, if not necessarily of me, certainly of my yarn stash.
Sunday, 5 March 2006
So I totally fuckin' made another jumper!
This was planned to be my Knitting Olympics project, and it was, but I just overestimated my knitting speed, and the amount of free time I'd have to actually sit down and knit, so it ended up taking me four extra days to finish it. But that's still One Whole Jumper done in just about three weeks, meaning I shaved just over a week off the time it took me to knit my first jumper, and this one was a slightly more complicated pattern, what with the ribbing at the hem, wrists and crew neck. And I boldly deviated from the pattern by subbing a different yarn, fucking with the gauge, and changing it from a polo neck to a crew neck.
In other words, I rule.
The details:
Pattern: The Compromise, adapted from The Yarn Girls' Guide to Simple Knits
Yarn: Debbie Bliss Cashmerino Superchunky (the pattern called for something long-discontinued from Noro) in black.
Needles: Lantern Moon Blonde 8mm straights and Addi Turbo 8mm/40cm circs.
I am just so chuffed. I love knitting. Having always had crafty aspirations combined with a low threshold for boredom, and a tendency to not believe in my own abilities, I am so happy that I've taught myself to knit. I have a long way to go -- this is all just pretty simple stuff so far -- but I'm starting to think I might have the potential to be quite good at this. I'm already frustrated by the constraints of other people's patterns, and soon I'd like to try to either seriously adapt from an existing pattern, or just, you know, design something of my own. The worst that could happen is that it just wouldn't work, yes? I'd have to frog it all, and that would be sad, but hell, it's knitting wool, it can be re-used.
The really insane part of this knitting madness is that I'm already day-dreaming about learning to spin and dye my own yarn myself. I think I'll probably get quite a few more completed whole garments under my belt first, though.
In other words, I rule.
The details:
Pattern: The Compromise, adapted from The Yarn Girls' Guide to Simple Knits
Yarn: Debbie Bliss Cashmerino Superchunky (the pattern called for something long-discontinued from Noro) in black.
Needles: Lantern Moon Blonde 8mm straights and Addi Turbo 8mm/40cm circs.
I am just so chuffed. I love knitting. Having always had crafty aspirations combined with a low threshold for boredom, and a tendency to not believe in my own abilities, I am so happy that I've taught myself to knit. I have a long way to go -- this is all just pretty simple stuff so far -- but I'm starting to think I might have the potential to be quite good at this. I'm already frustrated by the constraints of other people's patterns, and soon I'd like to try to either seriously adapt from an existing pattern, or just, you know, design something of my own. The worst that could happen is that it just wouldn't work, yes? I'd have to frog it all, and that would be sad, but hell, it's knitting wool, it can be re-used.
The really insane part of this knitting madness is that I'm already day-dreaming about learning to spin and dye my own yarn myself. I think I'll probably get quite a few more completed whole garments under my belt first, though.
Tuesday, 28 February 2006
OMG teh snow!
It snowed like hell for about fifteen minutes this morning, so I ran upstairs and got my camera to record it for posterity, since I knew it was going to melt as soon as the sun came out. Which it duly did, and now we have a cold but beautiful sunny day. We get so little snow up here that I tend to get disproportionally excited at the first sign of a few little flurries.
Back in the day, when I was living in the midwestern snow belt, I dreaded and feared the arrival of snow, since that meant both treacherous roads, and the necessity of digging my car out of huge snowdrifts in order to go risk my life on said treacherous roads. Now that I live in the UK which has plenty of public transport, bad though it often is, snow has become a treat I get all too infrequently. I'm sure three days of a ferocious Michigan winter would quickly cure me of my snow nostalgia, but god, that first thick snowfall is a beautiful thing, and I miss it.
I actually got to bed at a reasonable hour and got a decent night's sleep, so I was up pretty early, and I've had an efficient morning. A load of laundry done, a couple of rows knitted, six pictures hung, and after I finish this, I'm off to Liverpool to look for more picture frames. Our house is finally starting to look properly decorated and lived in, except for the mostly bare walls, which are seriously getting on my nerves. We had some stuff from the London flat that just needed to be hung, I've acquired a few things, and one of these days, we're going to have some of our own photos up as well.
I also got a start on clearing out the guest room last night. Yes, we still have packing boxes and just piles of stuff that needs throwing out or putting away. I want to redecorate the guest room, since my mum and auntie will likely be visiting this spring or summer, and anyway, the room looks like something you'd see on How Clean Is Your House?, minus the animal faeces, mouldy food, years of dust and cobwebs, and staphylococcus colony, of course. Proper hoarders and squalorees would snort in contempt at my definition of squalor, but it bugs me. It's just full of boxes and bags and cat fur tumbleweeds, and I'd like it to, you know, not be that way, so I have a safe retreat when Phil's snoring becomes unbearable.
And now I'm off to hack the dust out of my lungs, and get some more shit done.
Back in the day, when I was living in the midwestern snow belt, I dreaded and feared the arrival of snow, since that meant both treacherous roads, and the necessity of digging my car out of huge snowdrifts in order to go risk my life on said treacherous roads. Now that I live in the UK which has plenty of public transport, bad though it often is, snow has become a treat I get all too infrequently. I'm sure three days of a ferocious Michigan winter would quickly cure me of my snow nostalgia, but god, that first thick snowfall is a beautiful thing, and I miss it.
I actually got to bed at a reasonable hour and got a decent night's sleep, so I was up pretty early, and I've had an efficient morning. A load of laundry done, a couple of rows knitted, six pictures hung, and after I finish this, I'm off to Liverpool to look for more picture frames. Our house is finally starting to look properly decorated and lived in, except for the mostly bare walls, which are seriously getting on my nerves. We had some stuff from the London flat that just needed to be hung, I've acquired a few things, and one of these days, we're going to have some of our own photos up as well.
I also got a start on clearing out the guest room last night. Yes, we still have packing boxes and just piles of stuff that needs throwing out or putting away. I want to redecorate the guest room, since my mum and auntie will likely be visiting this spring or summer, and anyway, the room looks like something you'd see on How Clean Is Your House?, minus the animal faeces, mouldy food, years of dust and cobwebs, and staphylococcus colony, of course. Proper hoarders and squalorees would snort in contempt at my definition of squalor, but it bugs me. It's just full of boxes and bags and cat fur tumbleweeds, and I'd like it to, you know, not be that way, so I have a safe retreat when Phil's snoring becomes unbearable.
And now I'm off to hack the dust out of my lungs, and get some more shit done.
Monday, 27 February 2006
Please, go away. Please?
This woman is bugging the shit out of me. She's the (formerly) non-famous(ish) person who won Celebrity Big Brother, which I didn't watch, and was only vaguely aware was happening at the time. I do not watch a lot of television, not because I'm all culture nazi or anything, but because I just don't. I do manage to absorb a fair amount of television-related pop culture simply by walking around and existing and stuff, though, because hardly a day goes by without me seeing the covers of many, many lurid tabloids and interchangeable gossip magazines. Those things are everywhere. Even Marks & Spencer has a magazine and newspaper rack now, for heaven's sake. So I am following this woman's fifteen minutes of fame via headlines and tacky cover photos.
Apparently, this (formerly) non-famous(ish) person was planted in the house by the producers to fool the C-listers into thinking she, too, was marginally famous. And she did. And she won. And now she's a C-lister in her own right, hooray for her. I am so goddamn sick of looking at her, though. She seems to have a beau named Preston, or something like that, and every twist and turn of their ginned-up attention whore relationship is being communicated to me through the covers of such fine publications as Heat and OK! and oh, whatever the hell the rest of them are. Who the fuck is Preston? What does he do? Why should I care that, as Chantelle assures us, "YES, we're sleeping together!" Never mind, don't tell me, I don't care. Glad you're getting some, Chantelle, now please shut up and go away.
I'm perfectly happy to hear lurid celebrity gossip, but, you know, I prefer it to be about real celebrities. I don't think Britney Spears is exactly loaded with talent, but she's legitimately famous for actually doing something, so I'm OK with reading all about her trainwreck marriage. Go, Britney. Chantelle...eh. What can she do, other than look cheap and tacky? Unless you count standing still long enough to be photographed as a talent, in which case, she is slightly more talented than my cats, she really doesn't seem to do anything. God, please, let it be 14.5 minutes and counting, because while I don't really need a new chav celebrity to despise, it would at least be a change.
Apparently, this (formerly) non-famous(ish) person was planted in the house by the producers to fool the C-listers into thinking she, too, was marginally famous. And she did. And she won. And now she's a C-lister in her own right, hooray for her. I am so goddamn sick of looking at her, though. She seems to have a beau named Preston, or something like that, and every twist and turn of their ginned-up attention whore relationship is being communicated to me through the covers of such fine publications as Heat and OK! and oh, whatever the hell the rest of them are. Who the fuck is Preston? What does he do? Why should I care that, as Chantelle assures us, "YES, we're sleeping together!" Never mind, don't tell me, I don't care. Glad you're getting some, Chantelle, now please shut up and go away.
I'm perfectly happy to hear lurid celebrity gossip, but, you know, I prefer it to be about real celebrities. I don't think Britney Spears is exactly loaded with talent, but she's legitimately famous for actually doing something, so I'm OK with reading all about her trainwreck marriage. Go, Britney. Chantelle...eh. What can she do, other than look cheap and tacky? Unless you count standing still long enough to be photographed as a talent, in which case, she is slightly more talented than my cats, she really doesn't seem to do anything. God, please, let it be 14.5 minutes and counting, because while I don't really need a new chav celebrity to despise, it would at least be a change.
Sunday, 26 February 2006
Into the ether
I found a precious handful of posts from my dead journal on The Wayback Machine. Oh God, I'm actually crying, because I've lost so much. It's not that my prose is so deathless, or I'm deluding myself with the mistaken belief that I once had the Best Online Journal Ever, it's just that pieces of my life are missing, things I really cherish, and just saving the scraps of the literally hundreds of days of my life I wrote about makes it horribly clear that there are memories gone forever. Funny things my husband and I said to each other, holidays we took, meals we had at our favourite restaurants, visits from friends and relatives, our earlier married life, little vignettes about various Camden street crazies, stories and photos of one of our beloved cats who is now dead...just vanished. And I won't get more than this small fraction of them back.
I am just numb. Why did I entrust my memories to somebody else's keeping? I should've made my own back-ups, I know that, but...
At least I have my 2000-2002 Diaryland entries safely backed up, thank God. I am so angry with myself for ever moving from Diaryland to Diary-X, just because I was able to get the journal name I wanted at D-X. There's a huge mistake I'm going to regret making for a good long time. And, oh, how I remember how many people used to tell me that Diaryland sucked, and that Diary-X was so. much. better. Ah, yes. I have almost nothing left to show for that genius move on my part.
The Wayback Machine salvaged this for me, though, and I am so grateful, because it is a quote from my husband which I hope I never forget again, because it will make me laugh on my own deathbed:
"Sam Gamgee is Tolkein's revolting ideal of the faithful retainer, so cringingly obsequious and aware of his fuckin' place that he makes Hudson from Upstairs, Downstairs look like a hardcore, raving Bolshevik, and he makes me want to puke."
That is just so Phil, I can't even tell you. And there are dozens and dozens of things like that I will never see again, and probably never spontaneously recall. Gone. Disappeared. Into the ether.
I am just numb. Why did I entrust my memories to somebody else's keeping? I should've made my own back-ups, I know that, but...
At least I have my 2000-2002 Diaryland entries safely backed up, thank God. I am so angry with myself for ever moving from Diaryland to Diary-X, just because I was able to get the journal name I wanted at D-X. There's a huge mistake I'm going to regret making for a good long time. And, oh, how I remember how many people used to tell me that Diaryland sucked, and that Diary-X was so. much. better. Ah, yes. I have almost nothing left to show for that genius move on my part.
The Wayback Machine salvaged this for me, though, and I am so grateful, because it is a quote from my husband which I hope I never forget again, because it will make me laugh on my own deathbed:
"Sam Gamgee is Tolkein's revolting ideal of the faithful retainer, so cringingly obsequious and aware of his fuckin' place that he makes Hudson from Upstairs, Downstairs look like a hardcore, raving Bolshevik, and he makes me want to puke."
That is just so Phil, I can't even tell you. And there are dozens and dozens of things like that I will never see again, and probably never spontaneously recall. Gone. Disappeared. Into the ether.
how much for those kitties in the window?
Another test post, this one to see if the awesome combined power of Flickr and Blogger will triumph. Those are my cats. They are not impressed.
Saturday, 25 February 2006
And that's all she wrote (at Diary-X)
Yeah, so like many thousands of other people, my journal, formerly located at Diary-X, got totally fucking hosed, as in gone for fucking ever, thank you ever so much Stephen Deken. I am feeling kind of bitter, as you might imagine, but you know, I'm also feeling kind of free. I lost the written history of the last 4 years of my life, which sucks oh so fiercely, and with great, juicy, gulping noises, and if I think too hard about that, I want to cry. But I am also in the position to make a fresh start. Tabula rasa, baby. I'm no longer tied to the old journal format, which, truthfully, I was starting to find kind of confining. Now I can feel free to work on getting bored with the old blog format.
There will be knitting. And gardening. And photos of my knitting and garden. And politics, probably. And more of life as an American expat in England. I have no way of finding the majority of my old readers, but you know, I'm OK with that.
The most painful part of this is losing my entries about my years living in London, in many ways the happiest years of my life. It may the kind of pain that makes you stronger for living through it, though, because when I'm sitting here, wishing I still lived right in the heart of the best city on earth, at least I can't go trawling through my old archives, making myself even sadder and more depressed.
Fresh start. That's the ticket. Stay tuned! (I just hit the cliche trifecta!)
There will be knitting. And gardening. And photos of my knitting and garden. And politics, probably. And more of life as an American expat in England. I have no way of finding the majority of my old readers, but you know, I'm OK with that.
The most painful part of this is losing my entries about my years living in London, in many ways the happiest years of my life. It may the kind of pain that makes you stronger for living through it, though, because when I'm sitting here, wishing I still lived right in the heart of the best city on earth, at least I can't go trawling through my old archives, making myself even sadder and more depressed.
Fresh start. That's the ticket. Stay tuned! (I just hit the cliche trifecta!)
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