Listen, Bambi: Actions have Consequences.

I forgot to show you guys the socks I cast on instead of fixing my lace mistake (which is currently in the corner having a time out). I went for the Marina Piccola socks again - hoping to break the Sockapalooooza hex.

This counts towards stash reduction - and frugality, too. I got the yarn from Shelley at Fun Knits, when the Group was over there for the afternoon last year. Judy Maclean, the Sweatermaker dyer, had given several tangled skeins of merino/nylon sock yarn to Shelley. These skeins had apparently become partially unbound in the dyeing process and were a snarled mess. Judy told Shelley that if anybody wanted to go to the trouble of untangling the yarn, they could have it for free.

OF COURSE I took it. I spent two days untangling my skein and winding it into a beautiful, perfectly symmetrical, centre-pull ball. After having given away my first, aqua-coloured pair of Marina Piccolas, I was determined to have some of my own, and these are them. They. Those. here they are.



Again, I'm happy with this pattern: it's easy to memorise. I also like how the colour is knitting up. I'm getting about 10 stitches to the inch, magic-looping on 2.5 mm Addi Turbos.

Oh yeah: and progress on the log cabin afghan. It's now too big to take with me anywhere, so growth has slowed considerably. It's about 4.5 feet across at the moment.


It isn't easy to get good pictures these days, by the way. It's so dark here....I went out to take some garden photos and the camera saw fit to use the flash. Outside. At 10.30 AM.

Anyway, I was poking around looking for signs of spring. And I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but white-tail deer don't like crocus. Or bamboo. And yet?

Exhibit A

There were 100 crocus bulbs in here, evenly distributed and all about 1.5" high. It's hard to tell in this photo, but the deer have pawed (or pulled with their teeth) half the bulbs out and cropped the tops off of the remaining shoots.

Exhibit B

My poor bamboo. THE NERVE. What do they think they are, freakin' pandas?

Luckily, I am a member of a superior race. These opposable thumbs come in really handy for delicate work, and taxidermy requires some dexterity.

Exhibit C



Just kidding.

Sheltered? maybe.

My sister used to torture the neighbour's kitten, Mighty, by dressing him up and strapping him into her doll buggy. Apparently her cruel sadistic streak has only been repressed, not eliminated.

#2
This is the story of ten of the most awkward minutes of my life.

One night, while I was in university, my friend Diane and I were walking back to my place from the club where we had gone dancing. She wanted to stop at 7/11 for a cup of coffee, but had a lit cigarette which she wasn't allowed to bring inside. She handed it to me and said "here, hold this". I stood there outside the 7/11 while she bought her coffee at 2.45 AM, holding a lit cigarette like it was a stick of dynamite. I tried to look natural - you know, like it wasn't my FIRST TIME holding a cigarette at the age of 21 - but was fascinated by the ominous death-stick in my fingers. After a few minutes, when I was growing increasingly worried about the glowing red ring creeping ever closer to my hand, a kid about 15 approached and asked if he could bum a cigarette. I looked up in surprise and said automatically, "I don't smoke."

He looked at the cigarette in my hand. Looked up at me. Said "F*ck you, lady."

Half a Loaf.

The first order of business was to write another book review, seeing as how it's been several weeks since I posted one. Now that's done, I need to address some of the comments from last week.

Firstly, Anna, I feel that as far as Lorna's Laces go, beggars shouldn't be choosers. That said, I have only ever tried the Shepherd Sock, and haven't even petted any other types of Lorna's Laces. I do like lace knitting, though, and have heard good things about the Helen's Lace. If you are TRULY SERIOUS about sending me some, I can only thank you happily and dash away furtive tears of joy. I love red, pink, blue, green, grey and purple.

Secondly, yes I belly dance. It's great fun and very affirming from a feminist perspective. It's not easy to get over stage fright, but I wouldn't like to think I had given up an interesting and enriching life experience just because I was worried that people would laugh at me. I've been mocked many times in my life, and have come to the conclusion that people will do it even (maybe especially) if you're fully clothed, sitting in the corner quietly, and trying not to be noticed. So you might as well put body glitter on, don a sparkly costume, slide cymbals on your fingers, and jump up on the stage.

Thirdly, I have been tagged for another meme. I've come to a more mature perspective on memes, and no longer feel that they are necessarily Of The Devil. Therefore, I give you seven more things, courtesy of Annalea, who tagged me. But I will stretch the meme out over the next few posts because I can only think of one, right now. Surely by tomorrow some more will come to me.

1. I have this recurring fantasy where I hide in the library until they lock it for the night, and I spend all night in there drifting through the stacks, lying on the floor reading random bits of random books, and nobody bothers me. It gets dark and maybe it rains (our library has a leaky roof right over the children's section) and I eventually end up in the occult section, freaking myself out with spooky books like you'd find in the Sunnydale High library. Flashes of blinding lightning illuminate the towering stacks like angular, monochromatic gargoyles.

How's that?

"By all accounts I'm a likeable fellow."

Erudite Mondays at HalfSoled Boots

Volume 2, Number 1

The Weekend Man

Richard B. Wright

After reading Clara Callan several years ago, I was dead impressed with Richard B Wright. So when I saw this title while browsing shelves in the library, I had to pick it up.

The thing you have to know about Richard B. Wright is, he is a truly Canadian author. This means that not only his subject matter and setting, but his voice, sense of humor, and perspective are keenly northern. As with other Canadian writers, it also means that the picturesque and the ridiculous are mixed in equal parts with the bleak and despairing - just as the protagonist and the antagonist are the same person.

The truth is that I am not a success because I cannot think straight for days on end, bemused as I am by the weird trance of this life and the invisible passage of time.

Wes Wakeham works in a publishing house. He's separated from his wife, and struggles with what he calls the nostalgies - the desire to live in either the past or the future. His dreams of better days incapacitate him. They subvert his ability - even his will - to be a driving force in his own life.

She's a big deep-bosomed woman with a face that should appear in this day and age on packages of frozen pies to attest to their home-baked goodness.

The reflections of the glorious contented past or the glittering champagne-coloured future are portrayed in a strange and specific way - the events of the book are impossible to date. They all occur in the few days just before a Christmas, but the year is never mentioned. At different times I thought it was set in the 1980's, the late 1960's, the 1990's, and the '50s. It's an effective way of temporally displacing the reader in order to manufacture sympathy with -- and, conversely, distance from -- the narrator.

No doubt she's wearing a smart tweedy suit and her long brown hair will be piled neatly under a simple hat. She's probably drawing on leather gloves at this moment and looking a bit like Joanne Woodward in one of those scenes where Joanne is trying to get rid of some creep so she can rush off to meet Paul Newman on the steps of the Natural History Museum.

Wes is a weird dude. He's severely emotionally distant from everyone around him, and has an unnervingly amoral approach to life. He's mild-mannered and apathetic, and sinks himself into fantasy constantly. I was not sure which he most reminded me of - Bartleby the Scrivener or Walter Mitty.

Before retiring I stood in front of the dresser mirror and tried on Bert's Shriner's fez; an elaborate headpiece, royal purple in colour with a silver tassel and a gold crescent moon and three small starts on the front. It came down over my eyes and made me look like some sly rascal from the streets of old Baghdad.

Flashes of the profound come thick and fast in this book. Written in the first person, it is a mild series of observances about the performance of daily life as the narrator sees it pass in front of him. There are many characters that enter and exit the stage before him, and his descriptions of them are hilarious, quick-witted, misguided, sobering.

She looks good today; blonde and sleek and heavy breasted in a starched blouse and a grey skirt which nicely covers her fine big bottom. Mrs. Bruner looks like James Mason's mistress in some movie about the fall of Berlin. I dare say she has climbed an Alp or two in her day wearing those heavy walking boots and short leather pants, singing songs of the Fatherland.

I found myself very often wishing for a change in narrative perspective - searching the pages for insight into the truth about how others actually saw this man.

And so we watch each other, though his look is turning into a glare. He probably thinks I am a homosexual. He doubtless would like to get out of his Chrysler, pull open my door and smash me right in the mouth. Perhaps even give me a kick in the scrotum as I lie on the pavement. I cannot tell the Moustache that all I am doing is searching his face for something to go on; some clue that will help me understand how he does all this without blowing his brains out some Monday morning about ten minutes past seven.

The book is so funny - I started laughing out loud at around page 3, and continued to the last chapter. It won't be universally appealing: I know enough about my taste in books to know that. My mother, for one, would hate this book - primarily because she would hate the narrator, just as she loathed Holden Caulfield. I find myself alternately in sympathy and in exasperation, understanding his perspective on life even as I am wishing he would suck it up and get on with things.

I myself just drift along, hoping that the daily passage will deliver up a few painless diversions. Most of the time, however, I am quietly gritting my teeth and just holding on.

Keep an eye out for Richard B. Wright, if you are the type to appreciate the pain, the numbness, the conflict and the humor of the everyday.

What, you're still here?

Feast or famine, eh?

I've been busy with a few things. I'd like to say it was all productive, but in reality I've been drying my eyeballs out staring at the Ravelry forums. Fora. I tell you what - people sure do get worked up. I joined the BID - Big Issues Debate forum - and you could just sit there all day watching the hissy fits. Some of the threads are interesting, many are simply virtual Molotov cocktails that get tossed into an already hot crowd.

But it hasn't all been "Are you in favour of same-sex marriage?" and "I feel Creationism should be taught in public school science classes". I've been doing some ACTUAL things as well.

My friend recently opened a gourmet food store, and she is offering a Middle Eastern cooking class this month. She asked me if I would come and dance at it.


Belly dancing. By myself.

At first I figured I'd decline, but I decided life is short and realistically, any kind of bellydancing looks good to people - objectively, I'll probably get more admiration than derision. So I'm going to go for it. (Ack!)

My daughter took a picture of me practicing.




And I got the loveliest surprise the other day. A USPS priority box from a (mostly) non-commenting, non-blogging Reader, CHOCK FULL of beautiful and yummy things. Look!


See how happy it made my daughters. (Though you can only see one of them in this picture.)



Thank you so much, Anna from Chicago - and to your question (and I quote) "Maybe you'd like some Lorna's Laces? They're from Chicago. Let me know!", an extreme "Will you marry me?"

After all - it's legal.

"Seriously. NOT!! NOW!!!"

Welcome to the End of the World. We hope you've enjoyed your stay.

It probably doesn't look bad to you, but I'll have you know this is my third attempt to fix this mistake. If I can't do it soon, it'll be frog time - and tinking four 370-stitch rounds is a prospect that daunts even me.

Thrift is Better than an Annuity

I found out about Wardrobe Refashion 2008 from Mel at Pipe Dreams and Purling Plans. It's a simple idea for reducing my consumerism and environmental impact: recycle, renovate, repair and create my wardrobe this year, without buying new clothes.

I will be spending today on the mending/finishing basket. One day won't cut it.......uh, especially if I stop to blog about it......but at least it's a start. And, if you've ever wondered how exactly you're supposed to patch a pair of jeans, wonder no longer.

You'll need medium or heavyweight fusible interfacing, scrap fabric (preferably the same fibre content as your garment, and pre-shrunk), an iron, pins or Stitch Witchery (fusible adhesive webbing), a sharp needle and thread. Once you have these things around, by the way, you won't need to buy them for a long time. Just get a half meter of both interfacing and quilting cotton - it'll last you quite a while and only cost a few dollars. If you prefer a heavier fabric, such as denim, you can skip the interfacing stage altogether. You can also cut patches out of worn out clothing - choose the less-worn bits, of course.

Fusible interfacing and quilting cotton.

Step One - Create a Patch.

Fuse a section of interfacing onto the back of the fabric, making sure it's on-grain, if you're using a woven interfacing.

Cut out your desired shape from the now-interfaced fabric (I used a sheep cookie cutter and an extra-fine Sharpie).

You can use any shape, keeping in mind that one with lots of points, such as a star, will start to show wear around the edges very quickly.

Now you have a patch - or, I suppose, you could always buy one from a fabric store. But it won't be nearly as interesting or satisfying, I'd wager.

Step Two - Baste the Patch.

You need to hold your patch in place while you sew it on. There are two ways to do this: you can use pins (and caution while sewing) or you can use fusible webbing. My mum calls this stuff "Stitch Witchery", which I think was a brand name back in the day. It comes in a roll from which you can snip off bits of the length you need.

Position the patch where you'd like it, with the Stitch Witchery underneath, completely covered by the patch - you don't want this stuff stuck to the soleplate of your iron.

Fusible web on the bottom - patch on the top.

Press, without steam and for a fairly long time. Use the appropriate setting for the fabric you're patching. The heat has to get right through the double-thickness of the patch, so test it by lifting up on the patch a little bit to see whether it's fused. It doesn't have to be solid as a rock - you're just trying to keep the thing in place while you hand-stitch it.

Fusing the patch to the jeans.

Or you could do it the old-fashioned way.

Step Three - Sew the Patch.

Hand-sewing is getting to be a lost art, as everyone knows. If you're not in the habit of mending, darning, reattaching buttons, and so on, you might have to practice a bit before you really get the hang of it.

For today's patches I used blanket stitch. I like the look of it on this patch fabric.

Here's a good photo tutorial for blanket stitch.

Working from LEFT to RIGHT, (though I hold my fabric so as to make it TOP to BOTTOM) bring needle out at point A (outer edge). Insert at point B (adjusting spacing as desired - I spaced mine about a millimeter apart), then with thread below the needle, come out at point C directly below. Repeat, noting that point C now becomes point A for the following stitch. Make sure your spaces are even - unless you want them uneven.

Taking the stitch - note thread is below needle tip (also note I did this one right to left - don't let it bring you down).


Drawing the loop smaller.

Pulling the thread tight, ready to take another stitch.

Here are a pair of finished patches on Charlotte's favourite jeans. These hearts had to be a bit on the big side, which brings me to my final note: Patch 'em as soon as they need it. Apparently it's true that a stitch in time saves nine.