I flipped on the light, illuminating a room that was sparse and neat at first glance. I paused for a moment to look around before crossing the cheap landlord-special brown carpet to retrieve the empty Wal-Mart bag on the desk. The crinkle of the plastic reverberated against the bare walls in that buzzy echo that sounds like moving day.
A low-sitting futon style frame supported a made up twin mattress in the corner by the closet. The surfaces of the hand-me-down desk and bureau were bare with the exception of a shoebox that contained a pair of workboots and a grandmotherly side-table lamp.
I sighed and it too echoed against the walls. An iridescent soccer ball. A beat up acoustic guitar in and even more beat up case. Hand-me-down furniture. A bright yellow bookcase held a few books – James Patterson’s Maximum Ride series, Dean Koontz’s Odd Thomas, Ripley’s Believe it Or Not 2006, The Zombie Survival Guide, and a handful of trivia books were the only real clue as to whom this room might belong.
This room should have more in it, I thought. It once had. Anger, pain, and sadness had consumed most of an adolescent boy’s possessions.
The barren walls told their own story. Depression had trashed them, staining the paint with a cup of tea thrown in rage. Remnants of a pizza slice that had also gone the way of the tea cup. Blood from a late-lost molar spewed against the closet door and mirror. Gouges. Holes. Singe marks.And the carpet where snake-like indents bore the reminder of string set alight and then dropped when they became to hot to hold.
The walls and carpet would be taken care of next weekend, I thought. Right now, what mattered was how this room had changed. He’s been in treatment for six months and after a few upbeat weekend visits, we tackled his room together.
“Dude.” I said to him mid-Saturday morning. “I’m going to tidy up the house a bit and at noon we are going to start on your room.”His face fell and I could see the memory of pre-treatment attempts to get his room clean play across his face. Yelling. Tears. Door-slamming. An all-day entombment in chaos.
“Don’t worry, dude. Here’s the deal. I’m going to help. We’ll start at noon, and we’ll be done at two. What we get done is what we get done. It’s not going to be an all-day thing.”
“You’re going to help?”“Yep.” I confirmed. “That’s too much for anyone to handle alone. So…about a half-hour more of your game, and then we start. Kay?”
“Kay.”And start we did.We moved furniture. We broke down what wasn’t serviceable anymore and threw it away. He held the dustpan while I swept the under-bed detritus into the trashcan.
Together we, squeamishly pried what might have been a half-eaten apple up off the carpet.
Together, we negotiated the placement of the furniture that went back into his room. He vacuumed. I Febreezed.
Then, we celebrated the completion of the project 15 minutes ahead of schedule.A different outlook in less than two hours. That was my secret goal and I hoped that it would catch on.
Over a late Chinese Buffet lunch, I remarked. “Dude, your room has a completely different orientation now. “Just like my head” he said, not skipping a beat. Not slow on the up-take, this one.
Next weekend, we’ll spackle and paint to remove the last remaining ghosts of who he was before treatment from his walls. (He’s already called dibs on the spackling job.) Hopefully by the time he comes home next weekend, I will have completed a cotton rug to give a new face to the melt-scarred carpet.
Then, we’ll work on the rest of the décor
Monday, July 28, 2008
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Tankgirl wardrobe, here I come!
As first sweaters go, this has all the classic "um...you did it wrong" elements.
Gaping holes - check
misshapen pieces - check (the raglan pieces on the left side of the back sticks up)
Bunched up seams - check
Overall, it looks like wardrobe from a Sci-Fi channel post-apocalypse movie. Which, when you think about it it would be pretty accurate. It's acrylic and I'm sure that somewhere in some landfill, the neon green crop topped acrylic sweater I wore in the 7th grade is still hanging around next to the jelly bracelets and broken Walkman headphones.
This sweater was my yarn Dragon. Up until this point I had yet to complete a wearable and I would be damned if I was going to frog another attempt. This sweater was going to be made regardless of its warts. It was a necessary hurdle and even though it looks like my foot caught and I went down face first on the track, there is one thing this sweater has going for it.
It fits. And it flatters. Even my son said so.
So, I'm keeping it and I will wear it. Maybe for the photoshoot my co-worker swears is in my future after watching me "manage" our psychotic boss.
"You're next months centerfold for Ass Kicking magazine."
Saturday, June 7, 2008
A Yarn is Born!
A little while ago, I bought a lot (as in a one-price for many objects deal) of wool yarn. In that lot as a vintage skein in cream, or natural. I thought, well, I didn't pay much for it and I want to see what I can do so I bought some Kool Aid packets, read up on the process and went to town.
What resulted, is this.
A color way I have named Azimuth. I did a little swatcheroo after untangling the yarn barf that always seems to accompany a balling project with no swift.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Stupid Should Hurt...
...and it does.
How many people do you know that can say:
"I screwed up my knee in an unfortunate recumbent biking accident." ?
Here's my kid on the bike in question. It's a jaunty little ride, a bit like pedaling an office chair and it's quite comfortable for long, flat surfaces like the trail near Valley Forge. By design, however, there is no such thing as "Look mom! No hands!" as the front wheel is so small, you need to keep a constant grip on it or it will spin off into oblivion.
I wish I could tell you that I hit a rock or that my son had made a quick move and I had to brake quickly...or that I hurt my knee by stopping suddenly to save a tiny kitten from certain traffic annihilation.
Alas, confession is good for the soul, so I will tell you that I tried to answer my cell phone will still in motion which sent the front wheel into a death roll and I had to put my leg down fast to stabilize myself. The impact rocketed right through my knee.
After swearing in who knows what language, I flipped open my phone.
"Hello." I said faintly, it was my friend Ken.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"I just racked my knee."
"Are you okay?"
It was at this point that all my dignity fell away. "I think I peed a little."
He paused for what I think must have been three blinks and answered, 'Well, do you want to go to an art opening?"
I politely declined after polling my son who assured me that he was "all set" with the art opening idea and I managed to ride home. I spent the evening watching my left kneecap disappear like a boulder at high tide.
I'm better now. I can bear weight and the swelling has gone down significantly. I hope to be pretty much near normal mobility for the weekend.
If not, I'll hobble as much as I can, because it's not my son's fault his mother is a dumbass.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
The Fire Within...
I've done it yet again. I packed up the car and let the GPS take me to a place I have never been to do something I have never done for the purpose of allowing it to change me somehow.
When I leave on these journeys, I am always hopeful that I will at least learn something and come home with a new skill. A really good bungee jump out into the world will peel back your skull, and press and prod your gray matter into a slightly different shape. The better to absorb things with, my dear.
If that's the case, the time spent on the Playa opened up my cranium and let my brain walk free with everyone else's.
I would tell the story, but those who were there will understand.
Those who weren't, won't. Not really. Not....really. The Playa is something that can only be experienced.
And even if I tried I wouldn't do it justice anyway..I've tried three times and my mouth is too small to contain it. It feels like blasphemy.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Bahhhhhhh....Ram.....& you!
I'd done this sort of thing before...travelling someplace I had never been to learn about something I knew little to nothing about. It's a pattern with me. Some might say... a sickness not unlike my overuse of ellipses.
This time, I was to board a bus from from somewhere inside Philadelphia which was bound for a destination somewhere outside Baltimore for the purpose of attending a Sheep and Wool Festival.
What 's a sheep and wool festival? I'm glad you asked. It's sort of like a mass introduction of one group of people - The producers of yarn and yarn-related anythings with their equal and opposite counterparts - the people who wish to buy them.
As with anything, there are some who would consider the prospect of a Sheep and Wool Festival to be oxymoronic at best (the OAB's) and others who get very, very exited about it (the VVE's) I was about to board a bus with 100 VVE's followed closely by another 100 in seperate bus, all setting sail from one little yarn shop.
Even odder, to the OAB's is the fact that we must have leapfrogged 10 other buses full of VVE's on the way down. Since I'm not a spinner or a knitter, most of the conversation was foreign to me so I kept quiet except for an occasional expletive when I dropped my hook and a thank you when it was returned to me.
I did manage to ask someone if that was a Mike-n-Ike under their seat or did they lose a needle covery thing. It was a Mike-n-Ike.
Anyway, the event.
I go to these sorts of things to learn stuff, but also to reconnect myself with humanity at large and to remind myself that no, I am neither the most fashion challenged person on the planet, nor the oddest looking one.
Everyone except me, it would seem, had something that they had created on or about their persons. There were sweaters, tops, shawls, belts, headbands, headwraps, skirts, bags, swaddling clothes, you name it.
To me, it was like walking the streets of a bazaar in a country I had never been to. Constant chatter hummed around me broken only by the occasional MMMMMMBLEEEEEAAAAAGGGHHH of a sheep or ram. (Ram, by the way, have freakishly large testicles. I'm pretty sure that a hollowed out sheep nut could house an Indonesian family.)
There were shouts of glee at the prices a particular yarn hawker was offering. There were shouts of recognition as old friends and cyber-friends recognized each other across paddocks. There were shouts of "Oh, crap!" as those distracted by all the colorful string walked right into fresh piles of sheep poop.
What stuck me most is that fiber artists are such a diverse group that we cannot be stereotyped. The common images of the crunchy patchouli-soaked weaver or the knitter with as many cats as grandchildren just don't hold up.
We come in as many colors and weights and fibers as there were yarns available at this gig and we do just about as many things with it all. As for me, I took some time to see all this through my camera lens and then set about doing some shopping.
Most notable of my purchases is a skein of "naked" wool yarn for the purpose of dyeing it myself with Kool-Aid. Apparently it's not just for deranged cult leaders anymore!
I also came home with a sunburn that looked not unlike a yoke around my neck, but that's alright. I have bigger worries...most importantly, how I can get a note to the U.N. about having solved the world housing crisis through sheep testicle technology.
You can see some pictures, here. http://www.flickr.com/photos/bean_sidhe/?savedsettings=2465624787#photo2465624787
Of the event, not the ram balls.
This time, I was to board a bus from from somewhere inside Philadelphia which was bound for a destination somewhere outside Baltimore for the purpose of attending a Sheep and Wool Festival.
What 's a sheep and wool festival? I'm glad you asked. It's sort of like a mass introduction of one group of people - The producers of yarn and yarn-related anythings with their equal and opposite counterparts - the people who wish to buy them.
As with anything, there are some who would consider the prospect of a Sheep and Wool Festival to be oxymoronic at best (the OAB's) and others who get very, very exited about it (the VVE's) I was about to board a bus with 100 VVE's followed closely by another 100 in seperate bus, all setting sail from one little yarn shop.
Even odder, to the OAB's is the fact that we must have leapfrogged 10 other buses full of VVE's on the way down. Since I'm not a spinner or a knitter, most of the conversation was foreign to me so I kept quiet except for an occasional expletive when I dropped my hook and a thank you when it was returned to me.
I did manage to ask someone if that was a Mike-n-Ike under their seat or did they lose a needle covery thing. It was a Mike-n-Ike.
Anyway, the event.
I go to these sorts of things to learn stuff, but also to reconnect myself with humanity at large and to remind myself that no, I am neither the most fashion challenged person on the planet, nor the oddest looking one.
Everyone except me, it would seem, had something that they had created on or about their persons. There were sweaters, tops, shawls, belts, headbands, headwraps, skirts, bags, swaddling clothes, you name it.
To me, it was like walking the streets of a bazaar in a country I had never been to. Constant chatter hummed around me broken only by the occasional MMMMMMBLEEEEEAAAAAGGGHHH of a sheep or ram. (Ram, by the way, have freakishly large testicles. I'm pretty sure that a hollowed out sheep nut could house an Indonesian family.)
There were shouts of glee at the prices a particular yarn hawker was offering. There were shouts of recognition as old friends and cyber-friends recognized each other across paddocks. There were shouts of "Oh, crap!" as those distracted by all the colorful string walked right into fresh piles of sheep poop.
What stuck me most is that fiber artists are such a diverse group that we cannot be stereotyped. The common images of the crunchy patchouli-soaked weaver or the knitter with as many cats as grandchildren just don't hold up.
We come in as many colors and weights and fibers as there were yarns available at this gig and we do just about as many things with it all. As for me, I took some time to see all this through my camera lens and then set about doing some shopping.
Most notable of my purchases is a skein of "naked" wool yarn for the purpose of dyeing it myself with Kool-Aid. Apparently it's not just for deranged cult leaders anymore!
I also came home with a sunburn that looked not unlike a yoke around my neck, but that's alright. I have bigger worries...most importantly, how I can get a note to the U.N. about having solved the world housing crisis through sheep testicle technology.
You can see some pictures, here. http://www.flickr.com/photos/bean_sidhe/?savedsettings=2465624787#photo2465624787
Of the event, not the ram balls.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
NoMo Noro - The Winner Announced
I have to admit, some of the answers confused me and had me asking questions like...
"They know this is wool, right?"
and
"I already felted it..."
Regardless, a winner must be chosen and so choose I shall.
*tick tick tick tick*
*DING!*
As fun as your ideas are, I get the feeling that none of you (dubiously) rational grownups REALLY want this atrocity, so I will award it to the wee ones Alora and Athena because mom is right! Little girls don't care about anything but how BRIGHT and PINK something is. (I like me some bright and pink too, but...jeesh, throw some black in there will ya?)
And also because my name is Alia and I think that a hat shared between us three girls with unusual A names is a good way to pass something on.
"They know this is wool, right?"
and
"I already felted it..."
Regardless, a winner must be chosen and so choose I shall.
*tick tick tick tick*
*DING!*
As fun as your ideas are, I get the feeling that none of you (dubiously) rational grownups REALLY want this atrocity, so I will award it to the wee ones Alora and Athena because mom is right! Little girls don't care about anything but how BRIGHT and PINK something is. (I like me some bright and pink too, but...jeesh, throw some black in there will ya?)
And also because my name is Alia and I think that a hat shared between us three girls with unusual A names is a good way to pass something on.
Monday, April 21, 2008
NoMo Noro
Many would call me a yarn wimp.
I am intimidated by yarns. Really. I am. My usual "what the hell" nature is stymied in most yarn stores and I seldom buy more than one ball of any yarn in any colorway.
Right now, my stash looks like the discount bin in the back of the store. Truth be told, that's where I get most of my summa dis/summa dat yarn anyway.
Right now, my stash looks like the discount bin in the back of the store. Truth be told, that's where I get most of my summa dis/summa dat yarn anyway.
I thought to myself one day in mid-March that if I was going to buy only one ball, that it was time to figure out what this Noro stuff was all about and for some reason, I chose a colorway that is indescribable in its hideousness.
I tried. Believe me. I did. I can't help but draw similies in my head for what a yarn's colorway reminds me of and this stuff had me stumped.
I tried. Believe me. I did. I can't help but draw similies in my head for what a yarn's colorway reminds me of and this stuff had me stumped.
Cotton candy on acid. After a hit of heroin. Because it was out of meth.
Skittles vomited by a clown.
A clown vomited by a pink elephant.
A multi-racial Peep jousting event gone wrong.
You see where I am going with this. I had to be rid of it and since I had but little of it and it's colorway prevented a trade, I decided to fulfill my friend Jane's joking request for a toilet paper cover. I would create a toilet paper cover so large as to use every last inch of this obnoxious stuff and then felt it.
What resulted was a baskety shape large enough to hide the jumbo tub of cheese doodles I got for Christmas, but haven't made my way through yet.
After a trip though the washer, I was nervous. It was still big enough to hide a baby in. Hopefully, a blind baby.
The dryer didn't help either. Either Charmin was going to have to come up with toilet paper rolls large enough to wipe King Kong's bum...or I was going to have a hideous, useless, something or other to contend with.
So, I don't know what to do with this atrocity. Maybe some of you can suggest uses. I don't have the heart to foist it on a charity.
The dryer didn't help either. Either Charmin was going to have to come up with toilet paper rolls large enough to wipe King Kong's bum...or I was going to have a hideous, useless, something or other to contend with.
So, I don't know what to do with this atrocity. Maybe some of you can suggest uses. I don't have the heart to foist it on a charity.
Just having it in my possession is slowly bleeding mine.
Sooo....what do I do with it?
Best answer gets it. Leave a comment here or on Ravelry.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Praise Nigel and Pass the Pomegranate
I have a fascination for world religions even I don't understand.
Ever since the third grade when Jessica Whats-her-Name in her green Izod sweater was strong-armed by the evil (and most likely alien) Mrs. MacVane into talking about being Jewish and what Hanukkah was all about, I have been hooked.
No Christmas?? What??? Hell, my parents are atheist hippies but we still had Christmas!!!
What means this word Jewish? Are there more people like that who have no concept of a chimney and how it relates to a squalling brat in a barn somewhere in a place with no snow? I needed to know. There was a shift in my whole concept of the world and now I required data to balance the scales again.
Since then, I have had a sense of wonder about what humans believe, why they believe it, and how that belief system came to be. In short, I am intrigued by what each culture has in its Rule Book. (The Koran, The Bible, The Talmud, and for some...the Hobbit. These are all Rule Books.)
My Encyclopedia of World Religions is more tattered and battered than the vintage copy of the Betty Crocker Cookbook my grandmother gave me as a wedding present and I try to peruse it without judgement. After all, my belief system is based on no other tenet than "It seems to work for me."
When the universe communicates with me it's wearing tattered jeans, a CBGB t-shirt and it speaks with a voice not unlike Anthony Bourdain. Some people may find that alarming and I don't blame them. I'm a little unnerved myself.
Back to the book. The encyclopedia is three inches of history and facts and in my estimation it could probably be summed up in a brochure to be printed and included in the "Welcome to Earth - Please Don't Eat Us" packet the President has in his Emergency Flying Saucer Kit.
We are all colors of the rainbow and instruments in the symphony, but there are basic rules in every Rule Book that are all the same. It's my position that that's how things started until we humans decided we needed to have clubhouses and rules to keep the Starbellies in and the None-Upon-Thars (The Nuts) out.
Yes, humans evolved somewhere along the line into creatures that not only need food, water, air, and light, but we have developed lobes in our brains to meter our level of "feeling special". Oh, wait. According the rule books that part of our brains was not evolution, it was a gift from....(This is the part where I come up with a snazzy acronym for the God /Allah /Jehovah /Spaghettimonster /Tree Goddess /Rockpile that would make everyone happy. Instead, I think I'll just call it Nigel because I like how hard Nigel is to rhyme in a hymn without making it sound like a wet sneeze.)
Anyway...
The Basic Concepts of Religion As I See Them:
1. Be Nice
The Do's and Don'ts are delivered quite clearly very early on in every one's Rule Book. Like the first day of summer camp, Nigel spells it all out in the hopes that each camper will take it to heart.
Be Nice.
It's really as simple as that. With the enormously useful brain Nigel gave us should be able to handle that. But....we aren't. Each Rule Book has had to become a No Human Left Behind Manual that teaches to every one's learning style. Songs, stories, object lessons, word problems, chem labs, it's all in there because we couldn't get the basic first rule. Be Nice.
2. Identify and Exclude the Nuts.
Every rule book has at least a chapter, sometimes entire volumes relating to indentifying the Nuts. That can be boiled down just as simply as "Be Nice" and in just as many words.
You're Wrong or it's natural twin- We're Right.
You're Wrong and We're Right are the Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee of human belief systems. Except instead of a nice new rattle, entire geographic regions have been spoiled when You're Wrong and We're Right resolved to have a battle.
3. Consult the Menu
Every belief system comes with its own menu. Please consult your personal Nigel for today's offerings. A word of caution for those of you who might consider sampling from the menus of other belief systems - Kosher for Passover Cheese Ravioli tastes exactly like you would expect it to.
4. Wear Your Best
Each belief system has its own wardrobe of clothing for worship and ceremonies. Sometimes, this extends to special headgear as well. The standard rule appears to be that you should don your best glad rags when visiting Nigel's house or when you expect Nigel to visit yours. According to some Rule Books, you should be prepared for a surprise visit at any time, but if Nigel's going to knock you up at 3 am, then your pink poodle pajamas are the least of your worries.
Apparently, prayer is more like making a phone call, in which you can be as dressed or undressed as you like and I've even heard of cases where someone else's state of dress has resulted in fervent prayer on the part of the observer. This is hearsay, mind you. I can neither confirm, nor deny.
5. Suspension of Disbelief
The one thing you have to remember when reading the Rule Books is that Nigel used to do some really cool space/time bending tricks. Hundreds of people were fed on a couple of sardines and a bagel. People woke up after being very, very asleep. Nigel landscaped like no one's business, and in the blink of an eye.
It's probably good he doesn't really do that kind of major universe manipulation anymore and sticks to saving newborns caught in tornadoes and making sure footballs get to the end zones. I don't think we'd appreciate the magnitude of the miracles, if he did.
"Anthony Bourdain! The water's turned to wine again! I had a load of whites in, Nigel dammit!" You see what I mean.
So that's really it.
Be Nice.
Identify and Exclude the Nuts.
Consult the Menu
Wear Your Best
Expect Weird Things to Happen.
It really doesn't get any more complicated than that if you boil it all down to stock. At least, it doesn't for me. Your Nigel may vary.
Ever since the third grade when Jessica Whats-her-Name in her green Izod sweater was strong-armed by the evil (and most likely alien) Mrs. MacVane into talking about being Jewish and what Hanukkah was all about, I have been hooked.
No Christmas?? What??? Hell, my parents are atheist hippies but we still had Christmas!!!
What means this word Jewish? Are there more people like that who have no concept of a chimney and how it relates to a squalling brat in a barn somewhere in a place with no snow? I needed to know. There was a shift in my whole concept of the world and now I required data to balance the scales again.
Since then, I have had a sense of wonder about what humans believe, why they believe it, and how that belief system came to be. In short, I am intrigued by what each culture has in its Rule Book. (The Koran, The Bible, The Talmud, and for some...the Hobbit. These are all Rule Books.)
My Encyclopedia of World Religions is more tattered and battered than the vintage copy of the Betty Crocker Cookbook my grandmother gave me as a wedding present and I try to peruse it without judgement. After all, my belief system is based on no other tenet than "It seems to work for me."
When the universe communicates with me it's wearing tattered jeans, a CBGB t-shirt and it speaks with a voice not unlike Anthony Bourdain. Some people may find that alarming and I don't blame them. I'm a little unnerved myself.
Back to the book. The encyclopedia is three inches of history and facts and in my estimation it could probably be summed up in a brochure to be printed and included in the "Welcome to Earth - Please Don't Eat Us" packet the President has in his Emergency Flying Saucer Kit.
We are all colors of the rainbow and instruments in the symphony, but there are basic rules in every Rule Book that are all the same. It's my position that that's how things started until we humans decided we needed to have clubhouses and rules to keep the Starbellies in and the None-Upon-Thars (The Nuts) out.
Yes, humans evolved somewhere along the line into creatures that not only need food, water, air, and light, but we have developed lobes in our brains to meter our level of "feeling special". Oh, wait. According the rule books that part of our brains was not evolution, it was a gift from....(This is the part where I come up with a snazzy acronym for the God /Allah /Jehovah /Spaghettimonster /Tree Goddess /Rockpile that would make everyone happy. Instead, I think I'll just call it Nigel because I like how hard Nigel is to rhyme in a hymn without making it sound like a wet sneeze.)
Anyway...
The Basic Concepts of Religion As I See Them:
1. Be Nice
The Do's and Don'ts are delivered quite clearly very early on in every one's Rule Book. Like the first day of summer camp, Nigel spells it all out in the hopes that each camper will take it to heart.
Be Nice.
It's really as simple as that. With the enormously useful brain Nigel gave us should be able to handle that. But....we aren't. Each Rule Book has had to become a No Human Left Behind Manual that teaches to every one's learning style. Songs, stories, object lessons, word problems, chem labs, it's all in there because we couldn't get the basic first rule. Be Nice.
2. Identify and Exclude the Nuts.
Every rule book has at least a chapter, sometimes entire volumes relating to indentifying the Nuts. That can be boiled down just as simply as "Be Nice" and in just as many words.
You're Wrong or it's natural twin- We're Right.
You're Wrong and We're Right are the Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee of human belief systems. Except instead of a nice new rattle, entire geographic regions have been spoiled when You're Wrong and We're Right resolved to have a battle.
3. Consult the Menu
Every belief system comes with its own menu. Please consult your personal Nigel for today's offerings. A word of caution for those of you who might consider sampling from the menus of other belief systems - Kosher for Passover Cheese Ravioli tastes exactly like you would expect it to.
4. Wear Your Best
Each belief system has its own wardrobe of clothing for worship and ceremonies. Sometimes, this extends to special headgear as well. The standard rule appears to be that you should don your best glad rags when visiting Nigel's house or when you expect Nigel to visit yours. According to some Rule Books, you should be prepared for a surprise visit at any time, but if Nigel's going to knock you up at 3 am, then your pink poodle pajamas are the least of your worries.
Apparently, prayer is more like making a phone call, in which you can be as dressed or undressed as you like and I've even heard of cases where someone else's state of dress has resulted in fervent prayer on the part of the observer. This is hearsay, mind you. I can neither confirm, nor deny.
5. Suspension of Disbelief
The one thing you have to remember when reading the Rule Books is that Nigel used to do some really cool space/time bending tricks. Hundreds of people were fed on a couple of sardines and a bagel. People woke up after being very, very asleep. Nigel landscaped like no one's business, and in the blink of an eye.
It's probably good he doesn't really do that kind of major universe manipulation anymore and sticks to saving newborns caught in tornadoes and making sure footballs get to the end zones. I don't think we'd appreciate the magnitude of the miracles, if he did.
"Anthony Bourdain! The water's turned to wine again! I had a load of whites in, Nigel dammit!" You see what I mean.
So that's really it.
Be Nice.
Identify and Exclude the Nuts.
Consult the Menu
Wear Your Best
Expect Weird Things to Happen.
It really doesn't get any more complicated than that if you boil it all down to stock. At least, it doesn't for me. Your Nigel may vary.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
F*&K You, UTI...Love, Toolbag
I'm doing a lot of waiting, lately.
Waiting to hear about my son's placement into Residential Treatment. It's a long story which can be best summed up by the phrase "That boy ain't right in the head." We'll get him sorted out, eventually, so don't worry too much. Until then, however, we need to keep him out of jail, out of rehab, and off the streets.
Waiting to see what my next temp assignment will be. The last one ended rather abruptly yesterday, so I'm thrown into the world of never being able to plan more than a day ahead because I may be called for an assignment. Such is the life of a professional temp.
To be honest, and I think that maybe you'd be okay with the above as justification, I'm a little bit rundown. A little blue. A little, dare we say, depressed? Depressed in the "I'm rising dough and someone just stuck their finger in my side" kind of depressed, not the "I haven't showered in three days and my idea of a good time is the toast landing on the floor right side up" kind.
At times like these in my life, I return to the familiar for solace. Instead of sitting on the couch watching "16 Candles" or as in other more severe cases, Sesame Street, I went to the library and lost myself for a while.
Rows and Rows and Rows and Rows of other worlds to escape into and things to find out about. Escapism at it's best. And better yet, it's free and...legal...and...won't make you want to eat an entire serving tray of marshmallow and Dorito sandwiches.
After a couple of hours, I found two crochet books I wanted to play with, a fiction book for my son, and a book about the various mathematical and scientific figures who didn't let a little manic depression, schizophrenia, or an unnatural affection for pigeons keep them from doing amazingly brilliant things.
By then it was 2pm and I was hungry. Luckily, the Mall is a scant 100 paces away from the library so I packed up my proverbial troubles and went on over for some lunch. I had Chik-fil-A and then played around with some yarn for a bit.
3 pm rolled around and I decided to go on a walk. A different sort of walk. The kind of walk I used to do when I was a kid. With $2o bucks in my pocket, I used to see what cool things I could bring home having spent as a little as possible. The booty: A backpack from HotTopic for $10. Two journals and a book about American Artists $7. Dairy Queen $2.00
Girl was done with her patient and on her way to get me so I walked over to the window seat near the mall entrance. On the table had been carved "F*CK UTI, Love Toolbag."
I'm pretty sure there's a novel in that. Toolbag, the car mechanic from the wrong side of the tracks and UTI, the Technological Institution that threw him out. He must still hold some affection for the place, I pondered, owing that to is sign off. Maybe he just couldn't spell Sincerely.
I was building Toolbag as a character when Girl pulled up to the curb. Toolbag would have to wait, but I was feeling generally better. That might have been the brief foray into fiction or the medium half and half cone but it didn't matter. When I got home, the temp agency called and asked if they could send my particulars over to a manufacturing company near here.
I happily obliged.
Waiting to hear about my son's placement into Residential Treatment. It's a long story which can be best summed up by the phrase "That boy ain't right in the head." We'll get him sorted out, eventually, so don't worry too much. Until then, however, we need to keep him out of jail, out of rehab, and off the streets.
Waiting to see what my next temp assignment will be. The last one ended rather abruptly yesterday, so I'm thrown into the world of never being able to plan more than a day ahead because I may be called for an assignment. Such is the life of a professional temp.
To be honest, and I think that maybe you'd be okay with the above as justification, I'm a little bit rundown. A little blue. A little, dare we say, depressed? Depressed in the "I'm rising dough and someone just stuck their finger in my side" kind of depressed, not the "I haven't showered in three days and my idea of a good time is the toast landing on the floor right side up" kind.
At times like these in my life, I return to the familiar for solace. Instead of sitting on the couch watching "16 Candles" or as in other more severe cases, Sesame Street, I went to the library and lost myself for a while.
Rows and Rows and Rows and Rows of other worlds to escape into and things to find out about. Escapism at it's best. And better yet, it's free and...legal...and...won't make you want to eat an entire serving tray of marshmallow and Dorito sandwiches.
After a couple of hours, I found two crochet books I wanted to play with, a fiction book for my son, and a book about the various mathematical and scientific figures who didn't let a little manic depression, schizophrenia, or an unnatural affection for pigeons keep them from doing amazingly brilliant things.
By then it was 2pm and I was hungry. Luckily, the Mall is a scant 100 paces away from the library so I packed up my proverbial troubles and went on over for some lunch. I had Chik-fil-A and then played around with some yarn for a bit.
3 pm rolled around and I decided to go on a walk. A different sort of walk. The kind of walk I used to do when I was a kid. With $2o bucks in my pocket, I used to see what cool things I could bring home having spent as a little as possible. The booty: A backpack from HotTopic for $10. Two journals and a book about American Artists $7. Dairy Queen $2.00
Girl was done with her patient and on her way to get me so I walked over to the window seat near the mall entrance. On the table had been carved "F*CK UTI, Love Toolbag."
I'm pretty sure there's a novel in that. Toolbag, the car mechanic from the wrong side of the tracks and UTI, the Technological Institution that threw him out. He must still hold some affection for the place, I pondered, owing that to is sign off. Maybe he just couldn't spell Sincerely.
I was building Toolbag as a character when Girl pulled up to the curb. Toolbag would have to wait, but I was feeling generally better. That might have been the brief foray into fiction or the medium half and half cone but it didn't matter. When I got home, the temp agency called and asked if they could send my particulars over to a manufacturing company near here.
I happily obliged.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Confessions of a Fledgeling Hooker
If you're a yarn snob, stop reading right now before I offend your delicate sensibilities.
I've discovered that I rather enjoy working with one of the cheapest yarns on the planet. Red Heart Super Saver can be purchased for about $3.00 a skein. Now, in my limited experience, that works out to about 2 hats and maybe a skinny scarf. Depending on how big the hats are and how skinny the scarf is. (or how many times you decide to cut bait on any or all of the aforementioned projects and and start over.)
I purchased a couple of skeins, variegated in shades of muted browns, greens, and oranges. Very earthy colored and perfect for a boy considering that I'd seen those shades before on the knees several boys.
Being new at this crocheting thing, I was loathe to waste money on really good yarn only to have my project not work out and have it end up in the trash. Not only that, the blanket was intended for my son who being 13 and impulsive, would more than likely douse it in cereal milk of a Saturday morning when Spongebob held more of his attention than the list to starboard that his bowl of Rice Chex was taking.
I'd be damned if that would happen on a $18 a skein yarn. For his wedding or my first grandchild, yes. Now - in the age of hot chocolate and fruit punch - oh hell no.
At first glance, and feel (that is touching it while still in it's wrapper in the bin at the store) it tends to set your teeth on edge in the same way that accidentally biting your mitten when you intended to just eat the snow on it does or...er... did. I wasn't looking forward to working with it, to say the least...
However, when it's in your hands and you're working with it feels and looks like it's made of paper. It glides around the hook like Torvill and Dean around an Olympic Icerink, especially on a Clover hook. It's stretchy and forgiving.
Finsihed projects feel substantial and aren't itchy and make you feel like you want to squeeze them in the same way that a sea cucumber makes you want to squeeze it. Okay, maybe that's just me.
I've discovered that I rather enjoy working with one of the cheapest yarns on the planet. Red Heart Super Saver can be purchased for about $3.00 a skein. Now, in my limited experience, that works out to about 2 hats and maybe a skinny scarf. Depending on how big the hats are and how skinny the scarf is. (or how many times you decide to cut bait on any or all of the aforementioned projects and and start over.)
I purchased a couple of skeins, variegated in shades of muted browns, greens, and oranges. Very earthy colored and perfect for a boy considering that I'd seen those shades before on the knees several boys.
Being new at this crocheting thing, I was loathe to waste money on really good yarn only to have my project not work out and have it end up in the trash. Not only that, the blanket was intended for my son who being 13 and impulsive, would more than likely douse it in cereal milk of a Saturday morning when Spongebob held more of his attention than the list to starboard that his bowl of Rice Chex was taking.
I'd be damned if that would happen on a $18 a skein yarn. For his wedding or my first grandchild, yes. Now - in the age of hot chocolate and fruit punch - oh hell no.
At first glance, and feel (that is touching it while still in it's wrapper in the bin at the store) it tends to set your teeth on edge in the same way that accidentally biting your mitten when you intended to just eat the snow on it does or...er... did. I wasn't looking forward to working with it, to say the least...
However, when it's in your hands and you're working with it feels and looks like it's made of paper. It glides around the hook like Torvill and Dean around an Olympic Icerink, especially on a Clover hook. It's stretchy and forgiving.
Finsihed projects feel substantial and aren't itchy and make you feel like you want to squeeze them in the same way that a sea cucumber makes you want to squeeze it. Okay, maybe that's just me.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Resolution Revolution
Ahhh a new year....
When people take the opportunity to look back and to look forward. Sum things up and suss things out. Some people make resolutions for the coming year.
It's appropriate thing to do, but I've never been a fan of resolutions. It seems like a whole lot of lip service and pressure that the average human does not need. So...I'm starting a resolution revolution and just making a list of stuff I'd like to try or do this year and see how many I actually get to do...
Glass Blowing - Or, sand art for the overachiever.
Attend a Sci Fi convention - Physical proof that there are in fact people weirder than me out there.
Learn a song and play it all the way through - Physical proof that I'm not a quitter. (even though by the time I actually do learn it, my loved ones will wish that I was.)
Complete a crochet project to my satisfaction - or....actually make what I intended to make, not something that evolved into something else because what I originally tried didn't work out. How many cat saddle blankets can one person make, anyway?
Make a piece of jewelry - already got some designs. Just need someone to show me.
There'll be more...I just needed to get this out of my head.
When people take the opportunity to look back and to look forward. Sum things up and suss things out. Some people make resolutions for the coming year.
It's appropriate thing to do, but I've never been a fan of resolutions. It seems like a whole lot of lip service and pressure that the average human does not need. So...I'm starting a resolution revolution and just making a list of stuff I'd like to try or do this year and see how many I actually get to do...
Glass Blowing - Or, sand art for the overachiever.
Attend a Sci Fi convention - Physical proof that there are in fact people weirder than me out there.
Learn a song and play it all the way through - Physical proof that I'm not a quitter. (even though by the time I actually do learn it, my loved ones will wish that I was.)
Complete a crochet project to my satisfaction - or....actually make what I intended to make, not something that evolved into something else because what I originally tried didn't work out. How many cat saddle blankets can one person make, anyway?
Make a piece of jewelry - already got some designs. Just need someone to show me.
There'll be more...I just needed to get this out of my head.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
More Rice Krispie Treats Please.
I have to admit that my knowledge of fondue is pretty limited.
The word itself, while fun to say, conjures images of polyester leisure suits, avocado kitchens, pet rocks and lawn darts. I used a fondue pot to heat water for tea in my first apartment, now that I think about it having purchased it at a yard sale for a pittance. No! I found it in a box marked "FREE".
Since Girl and I had never been to a Melting Pot, it was decided that we should rectify that in celebration of the New Year. In short, we would fondue.
Sounds dirty doesn't it?
When we arrived, I did as I always do when presented with too many choices. I shut down and placed my trust in my eating partners uttering only the occasional short phrase or random comment.
"The Swiss Thingy".
"I like teriyaki."
"I'd like to try glassblowing."
Boy knew what to do thankfully, and ordered for us. Swiss and Gruyere (I think?) to start, salad to cleanse the palate (or appease our colons - I'm not sure), and a spread of cow and ocean dwellers.
I have no recollection of what our poor waiter said. I saw his lips moving but I didn't hear a thing. I did however watch how he did things very closely...as I expect from Girl and Boy's responses to the offerings that I should probably figure out how to do it.
My favorite part was the meat course.. It was so beautifully presented, in fact, that I only societal taboos prevented me from going canine on the beef. Seafood. Oh yes, there was lobster of which Girl got the King's portion, as it should be. I contented myself with veggies and cow. Yummmm.....
And then..it was dessert. I suggested the flaming turtle, which is some concoction of caramel and chocolate, pecans, into which rum is added and then set alight. Even if they hadn't set the thing on fire, Flaming Turtle is just too fun sounding to resist. Like some sort of Amphibious Off Off Off Broadway production.
The FT was paired with...what? what's that??? Little Rice Krispie treats? Oh yes, and strawberries, marshmallows, and brownies, and cheesecake. There was no holding back on the Rice Krispie treats coated in chocolate. I asked for more, and more came as if I had already asked for my pipe and bowl, and the fiddlers three were clamoring down the hallway at my beckon.
All told, it was a great experience. Thanks to Boy and Girl for taking me. :)
And now, I must google fondue recipes.
The word itself, while fun to say, conjures images of polyester leisure suits, avocado kitchens, pet rocks and lawn darts. I used a fondue pot to heat water for tea in my first apartment, now that I think about it having purchased it at a yard sale for a pittance. No! I found it in a box marked "FREE".
Since Girl and I had never been to a Melting Pot, it was decided that we should rectify that in celebration of the New Year. In short, we would fondue.
Sounds dirty doesn't it?
When we arrived, I did as I always do when presented with too many choices. I shut down and placed my trust in my eating partners uttering only the occasional short phrase or random comment.
"The Swiss Thingy".
"I like teriyaki."
"I'd like to try glassblowing."
Boy knew what to do thankfully, and ordered for us. Swiss and Gruyere (I think?) to start, salad to cleanse the palate (or appease our colons - I'm not sure), and a spread of cow and ocean dwellers.
I have no recollection of what our poor waiter said. I saw his lips moving but I didn't hear a thing. I did however watch how he did things very closely...as I expect from Girl and Boy's responses to the offerings that I should probably figure out how to do it.
My favorite part was the meat course.. It was so beautifully presented, in fact, that I only societal taboos prevented me from going canine on the beef. Seafood. Oh yes, there was lobster of which Girl got the King's portion, as it should be. I contented myself with veggies and cow. Yummmm.....
And then..it was dessert. I suggested the flaming turtle, which is some concoction of caramel and chocolate, pecans, into which rum is added and then set alight. Even if they hadn't set the thing on fire, Flaming Turtle is just too fun sounding to resist. Like some sort of Amphibious Off Off Off Broadway production.
The FT was paired with...what? what's that??? Little Rice Krispie treats? Oh yes, and strawberries, marshmallows, and brownies, and cheesecake. There was no holding back on the Rice Krispie treats coated in chocolate. I asked for more, and more came as if I had already asked for my pipe and bowl, and the fiddlers three were clamoring down the hallway at my beckon.
All told, it was a great experience. Thanks to Boy and Girl for taking me. :)
And now, I must google fondue recipes.
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