Just Some General Blithering

I've finished all the pieces of the Fisherman T-Shirt and am ready to seam, just in time to learn that our Executive Director has also just become grandpawpaw to twins, and may need a sweater or two flung in his direction, but other than that, no knitting news today, Dear Readers, just some light blahblahblah about my sister, the cats, and my inability to cook. You have been warned.

First, please help me wish Big Sister a Happy Birthday. This is important for two reasons: One, she has succumbed to something strep-ish and feels like crapola (anyone who has had strep knows there’s no sore throat like it), so I’m sure she could use the pick-me-up, even if it is from complete strangers. (But what kwality strangers you are!) And two, during the worst part of my, er, Blue Period, she was there for me every minute of every day, 24 hours a day, and did, and continues to do, so much for me I can’t even begin to describe it. Happy Birthday, Big Sister, and I hope you feel better soon! Will call you later and sing you the three family birthday songs. Again, you have been warned.

My big event for this weekend was to go on a hike with OutVentures here. I planned, oh, how I planned for this event. A piddly six hours of hiking, but when you take a princess away from her hot and cold running water and send her into the vicious, feral wilderness of a local state park, she panics.

Layered the clothes, packed a lunch, packed snacks, brought water, brought SPF 50 suntan lotion, brought a First Aid kit, wore my sturdiest shoes, printed text directions, printed a map, left the house with enough time to make the one-hour drive to the park and get lost twice, got to the trailhead just fine. And discovered that I hadn’t planned for one thing:

Rain.

I live in Seattle and I didn’t plan for rain. Somehow I couldn’t face six hours of schlepping around in the wet stuff since even minor sprinkles soak through to the skin after hour two or three, so I watched all the other guys and gals, who had planned wisely, march off in their warm, dry GoreTex jackets, and turned tail and drove the one hour back to chez moi. (Hmmmm. Seems I haven’t quite grasped this conserving gas thing.) I went to support group instead and drooled over the new strawberry blond. Then went home and cleaned the cat litter. Good God; just shoot me now.

You think I kid when I say I’m not a good cook? I invited knitting friends Gail and Diana over this weekend—because I wanted to hang wid 'em, of course, but also to practice my fledgling hostessing skills—and, in preparation, spent considerable time studying this page. I chickened out in the end and didn’t buy or make any coffee, but I coulda, I certainly coulda. In fact, I dare ya'; ask me, ask me anything.

The latest Benny escapade: He discovered the touch-sensitive, three-way lamp over my desk and spent a good ten minutes last night turning it low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off; low, medium, high, off. Tell me, God; what did I ever do to you?

I have also started to compose a list of the things that the cats think are yarn and must therefore try to bite in half or remove and drag across the room. So far we have: The mouse cord; the laptop power cord; the camera battery recharger; the cell phone recharger; the landline-phone cord; the answering machine phone cord; the answering machine power cord; the shredder power cord; the vacuum power cord; the ties on the chair pads; any and all pieces of fringe on my lap blanket; any and all pieces of fringe on my rug; the pull strings on any and all window blinds; the drawstrings on my jacket; the drawstrings on my sweatpants; the straps on my knapsack; gift-wrap ribbon; the string on a teabag; the measuring tape; and last but not least, dental floss, especially when you’re actively using it.

I feel as if Rabbitch and I are having the same experiences with our children, only different.

Auntie Em! Auntie Em!

[Picture-heavy post, Dear Readers.]

How I know, relationship-wise, that I’m not in Kansas anymore:

Yesterday morning I was here, wrapping up a four-day mini-vacation in this cabin on Vashon Island, including prancing around in the hot tub in just my skivvies (me, the Queen of Prudes! In my skivvies! In a hot tub!)...

...and that night, not 24 hours after the skivvy incident and a mere six hours after leaving the cabin, I was here, at a Seattle Storm game:

Whu-huh?! What happened to the life I'm used to, my comfort zone, where I stayed home and did absolutely nothing?

But, wait, there’s more! Apparently my future also includes rooting for a co-worker at his black-belt test, a bonfire party at a local beach, a koffee klatch, a movie night, dancing, a hike, a dye party, a trip to Oregon Flock and Fiber, the cruise, and a trip to my sister’s. I repeat: Whu-huh?! Nope, de-finitely not in Kansas anymore.

More about the mini-vacation:

Vashon was…green. Lush. Green and lush. Lush and green. And, thanks to the current weather, wonderfully, romantically stormy, windy and moody (not that the romantic part did me any good, but it’s still the best way to describe it). Our hosts at the cabin were Larry, Gordon, Scarlet, and Walker—Homo sapiens, Canis lupus familiaris, Felis catus, and Felis catus, respectively.

Here, the view from the front yard, with Scarlet parading around:

The same view from inside the cozy cabin (note infamous hot tub):

My courage heart, which I brought with me and hung up somewhere very visible to remind me that the dark world is easily one unguarded moment away:

The plan was just to slob around, knit, read and Kindle. We tried, we really tried to just slob around but we accidently also engaged in “retail therapy,” wandered the beaches, flew kites, talked, sightsaw, watched the Democratic Convention, watched “Dr. Horrible’s Sing Along Blog” and Elaine and I played many hands of cutthroat cribbage (think the Jets and the Sharks from West Side Story). Granted, I won a couple of more games than Elaine did but she brought me to my knees with this (cribbage aficionados, count this baby up):

And the food? Good Lord! Elaine the Miracle Worker, with some careful pre-planning, managed to make things like this herbed cheese-and-potato torte with poached eggs using only a sad, two-burner hot-plate.

Leslie, flying a kite. I love this photo:

The one thing I wanted to see on the island was this but we weren’t able to find it, despite our best efforts. So, we settled for the poor man’s version, a red tricycle someone had stuck up in a tree:

(The islanders apparently try to capitalize as much as possible on the only interesting thing on the island, since the next day we found yet another red bicycle stuck up in another tree.)

How I knew I was home after the cabin trip. Guess who in my just-emptied cooler:

Knitting did happen, cross my heart. Both the front and the back plus half a sleeve of the Fishermen’s Sweater are done. Here are some pictures of the back from last week :

The yoke, masquerading as a complicated and fancy stitch, is actually just a two-by-two checkerboard. Fun, easy, gives a lot of bang for the buck, especially in this pattern. Can’t wait to finish this puppy. It’s been a kick!

Ramblings of a Muddled Mind

I pride myself on being somewhat inter-generational, old enough to remember Woodstock but hep enough to understand, albeit nominally, the modern young person’s with-it, high-tech world (even if I don’t have cable, an iPod or an iPhone). However, I recently ran head-first into my Waterloo: FaceBook.

My prodigal pal Anne (hi, Anne!!!) “friended” me on FaceBook so I created a profile and friended her back (because I’d figured out that much, at least), and then other friends found me and friended me, so I friended them back...and then after a few days things settled down and the friending mania stopped.

Then I found myself thinking, “Now what?” I’m on FaceBook, I have a profile, I’ve been friended, I’m totally phat, I have homies, I'm part of a posse, and now—seriously—what? I’m stumped. What do people do on FaceBook? It’s not as if I don’t understand the social-networking concept since I’m all ovuh Ravelry, but this is different. Take away the commonality of knitting, and I’m left lost and kornfused. Perhaps I should do what I always do: Go home and ask my washing machine. It’ll know what to do.*

The t-shirt for my co-workers grandson is going well, if by “going well,” I mean, “I knitted on it for two consecutive days without casting on for something else.” I’m using Dale Baby Ull, which for some reason this time around has an extraordinarily lovely feel to it: cottony, silky, springy. I don’t know what’s making the difference but even other knitters have asked, “Oh, my gosh, what yarn is this?!,” expecting me to say, a rare blend of angora, pashmina, qiviut, vicuña, yak, and the undercoat of a baby snow leopard, and this is the only ball of it in the world, and it’s all mine, neener, neener—and have been astonished by the real answer, which is just some old crappy workhorse of a yarn. All of which is to say, between the great pattern and the great yarn, I’m having a blast, and remembering for the first time in a long time why I like to knit.

It’s been a long time since I posted any Kooky Krafts but this one just cries out be posted. This is more sculpture/art than a kraft but it is definitely kooky, and definitely remarkable, if a little macabre. This artist creates the skeletons that he imagines cartoon characters would have inside them. It’s worth clicking through all the pictures.

Before I wrap up for the day, I want to send a shout out to Vaire. Vaire has been one of the most loyal Dear Readers, reading Mossy Cottage almost from the beginning, and I was so tickled to see a comment from her on my last entry. And lest you think I don’t get attached to my commenters, I still remember, to this day, five+ years later, many commenters who have come and gone, like Barb from Texas and MysteryBookLover (Debra). If any of you guys are still out there, mwah!!

*My sentient washing machine now has a name, “Bill.” I’m reading a marvelous, don’t-want-it-to-end sci-fi book called “Chindi.” In the book, all the space ships are run by a very human-like AI computer, but to prevent confusion when a captain switches from one space ship to another, all the AI computers on all the ships are called “Bill.” So “Bill” it is. Although last night my washing machine informed me it would rather be called “William.” A washing machine with 'tude. Great. Next thing you know, it will have a FaceBook profile and will be friending Mr. Washie.

Sleuthing

This is not a good sign.

Let’s see if my hunch is right.

Walking through the living room…

Walking up the spiral stair case…

Walking into the loft…

…and sure enough. This drawer, which was closed when I left for work, is now…

Which explains:

So, is the drawer full of:

A. Acrylic which I hope bionic moths discover and eat?

B. Balls of half-used yarn that are of absolutely no value to me but that I keep anyway because.....I don’t know why?

C. My all-time favorite sock yarns that I love with a stalker-ish love and which I've carefully stored away in anticipation of years of knitting delight? (Imagine flashing marquis lights, a large red arrow pointing left, also flashing, and the sound "Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!" here.)

But all in all, I shouldn’t be surprised, since this morning the cats were making such a racket that I shut them out of the bedroom...and Benny let himself back in. He turned the (slippery round) doorknob and sashayed back in. I now live with a clothes washer and two cats who are smarter than I am. And I hear that some of the skeins of yarn are taking their GEDs, so they’re not far behind.

Of course, when the cats sense I’m less than pleased with them, they run to the couch and do this...

I can’t win.

Spider: 1; Benny: 0

We Northwesterners are very familiar with the huge (non-poisonous) house spiders that lumber through our homes. If people who live elsewhere see a spider this size even once, it becomes a tale they tell their grandchildren:“Why, sonny, I remember the time I walked to school ten miles, barefoot, in the snow, and when I got to school, there was this spider…” For us, it’s more “Move your foot; here comes another one.” Last night, however, Benny found the largest of these spiders that I’ve ever seen. You know how in Jurassic Park you can tell the T. rex is coming because you can see the vibrations in the puddle? That big. Benny proceeded to beat the crap out of the spider, bowling it across the rug, squashing it, raking it with his claws, poking it vigorously with his nose. When Benny was done (well, not done; he was unceremoniously thrown into the bedroom so he wouldn’t eat the spider. Or, more accurately, so that I didn’t have to watch him eat it, because it’s all about me), the spider, now known as Mr. Machismo, got up and walked away, unscathed. (And was then scooped up in my patented cup-and-paper Scoopinator and dumped outside.) I am very impressed by that spider and the Hand that wrought it.

On the other end of the spectrum, Joon: 4, moths: 0. Woot! Only I haven’t the vaguest idea where the moths are coming from. This concerns me. But according to my personal Prime Directive, I can’t kill them, even if they decimate every yard of yarn I own. If the cat eats them, that’s another matter altogether because that’s, you know, “nature.” Although, in one of my less finer moments, I might possibly have shown her where one was. Apparently my personal Prime Directive is a little elastic. I can't do the dirty work myself but I can hire a contract killer.

Lastly, the only thing worse than waking up to a cat face 1” away from your nose, is opening up your eyes to the other end, just as nearby.

On the knitting front, uncharacteristically, I’m just piling up the UFO’s left and right. The bomber jacket is still on the needles because I'm not convinced I have enough yarn, I’m picking away at three pairs of socks and not caring much if they get done or not, Elmira is still languishing, and I started a Fisherman T-Shirt (my fave baby-sweater pattern) in Dale Baby Ull. This is just not me. Help!

P.S. Do you think it’s a bad thing that, lately, whenever I see a newborn baby, I’ve been yelling at it under my breath, “Go back in! Go back in! It’s not safe out here!”