Rabbitch

Silent Poetry Reading, in Honour of St. Brigid

2012-02-02T13:34:00.000-08:00

To A Mouse.
On turning her up in her nest with the plough, November 1785.
(Robert Burns)

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty
Wi bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murdering pattle.

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth born companion
An' fellow mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't.

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's win's ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld.

But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still thou are blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

The Night Before Christmas

2011-12-25T04:31:00.000-08:00

'Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the hutch
Not a creature was stirring;
We'd eaten too much.

...

I'll finish the poem after I've had some sleep. That whole turkey thing did me in.

But in the meantime I wish you and yours a wonderful ... Christmas? Hanukka? Kwanzaa? Oh, whatever you celebrate -- have a good one.

Rabbitch's photostream

2011-12-18T00:31:00.001-08:00

Rabbitch's photostream on Flickr.

What I've been up to.

In The Halls of the Mountain King

2011-12-18T00:13:00.000-08:00

That's where I've been. In the halls, the caves. Caverns.

Sorting shit out.

I will neither confirm nor deny that I was gnawing on rodents whilst in the caves. We will never again speak of this.

I've also been on Facebook an awful lot ... that thing is a drug, isn't it? I never expected it to suck me in so far that I couldn't write for three months though.

To the two or three people who are still reading me, I apologize.

I'm ok. The little black dog of depression bit me so hard that I went to bed for three days at one point, but I'm a mom and any mom who's worth her salt just gets back up and keeps on going, which is what I did.

I shut down my Etsy store for a while, because I couldn't deal with not really having a place to work (the dining room isn't such a great venue) and not having the time to keep the store stocked. I do have a ton of stuff ready to go and I'll be opening it up again in January. I've ditched the "Toe Jam" label and the new yarn will be called "I'm Burnin' For Ewe". There will be some of the same colourways and a few new ones that have presented themselves to me, as well as a repeat of some very old ones I found in my dyebook and want to do again. But, like I said, January ... the next few weeks will just be about my family.

Another thing I've been doing a lot of is going out to the forest and the beaches and taking photos. I'm really getting into photography and the link to my Flickr stream is in the last post. I have a great need to be alone and silent and witness beauty. I think some of those photos are worth looking at.

I promise I'll be posting more ... I just needed to fall down a bit and perhaps reinvent myself. To the folks who are still reading -- I appreciate it. Imma be more interesting shortly.

And Merry Christmas to you. Or Happy Holidays. Whatever works for you.

Finally, A Real Story ... About Sock Summit, This Time. At Last..

2011-09-05T05:34:00.000-07:00

O hai! You still here?

The madness of the summer is almost over (almost ... I still have a couple of hard things to deal with) and now it's time to sit back, enjoy the fall and tell some stories.

And today, my story will be about Sock Summit II.

A word of warning -- this is going to sound like a negative review. It's not; I'm just trying to be honest. I'm really, really glad I went and I had, overall, a delicious time in a city that I love dearly. I just can't do it again.

Ever.

I did Sock Summit the first time, two years ago, when I was just coming out of The Crazy. It was fantastic, and when the call went out again I was all over it.

I mean, is this a brilliant idea or what? Thousands of sock knitters filling up a conference centre and booking every room in town ... what? Who thinks of shit like this? I still think it's one of the most amazing things EVAR.

This year was very different from the last time. You see, work fucked me over -- hard -- in February. I could have fought it, through the union, and as my rights were very clearly violated I would have won. It would have taken memos and hearings and paperwork and bla bla bla but in the end I would have won; because I was in the right. It would also have engendered many hard feelings and I would never have been able to be comfortable at work again.

I decided not to bother -- I didn't need more angst -- and instead I cashed in some of my retirement savings, paid off all of our commercial debts (I still have some debt, but only a small number of personal loans ... basically we're debt-free) and bought a heck of a lot of fibre stock. I then signed up for every show in (and out of) town and started dyeing like a lunatic. THIS was the year, I told myself, that I would make my dyeing into a real business or just give it up and walk away.

So yeah, when SS came up I jumped, even though I'd lost money last time.

I booked a booth and paid the fees for that and all of the costs that go along with a show like this (insurance and so forth). I asked a friend in Portland if I could ship stuff to her so that I could avoid the hideous drayage fees and she agreed.

As we neared the time to go, I started freaking out. I was too little, we couldn't do this, we couldn't afford it, and of course nobody would buy my stuff, because it sucks (I do this before every show, but it was especially bad this time).

I would show up with two skeins of yarn and a stitch marker and all of the big kids would laugh at me ... and this time it would be even worse, because I was taking my daughter with me, and she would get to see me fail.

The friends I was going with kicked me fairly firmly in the taint and informed me that I had booked a fucking booth and I WAS going, no matter what I said, and they fronted me some cash so that I could actually ship my shit there, too.

The day we were to leave, I couldn't find my daughter's birth certificate and there were 90 different flavours of panic going on, seeing we had to leave RIGHT NAO. I finally found a photocopy (which is enough to get through the border, thank the FSM) and we took off, about 12 hours after we'd planned.

We missed setup and the preview but I figured it would be ok, we could just do it quickly the next day. Nobody ever buys anything at the preview anyhow ... it's just a lookie-loo kind of thing.

We arrived in Portland, finally, at 4:07 am (not that I checked the time), booked into the astonishingly scuzzy hotel (Motel 6 ... do not EVER stay there) and crashed like the Hindenberg.

I had wanted to have a bath before bed, but the bathtub plug was broken. Just one of the first of many insults rained upon us by that hideous hotel.

The next day (well actually technically the same day, but I'd had four hours of sleep) we hit the hall and I set up. The first thing that I noticed was that, even though I was a returning vendor, I was placed in Siberia. I was right at the edge of the marketplace -- there was nothing behind us but a big empty floor and then the doors to the loading docks. It would have been hard to find a worse spot. The second thing that I noticed was that right at the end of our row (all of the Canadians were in the same short row near the loading docks) was a double booth rented by a store that was closing down. They started the show with everything at 40% off. How could any of us even begin to compete with their prices?

My sense of impending doom was well-founded. After four days of standing on my feet and vending my silly ass off, I'd made far, far less than the cost of doing the show. Even my hand-paints didn't sell. The only reason I actually had gas money to get home was that I discounted some yarn hugely ... and even at that most of it didn't move.

I got to see a whole lot of people I love more than cheese. Franklin was there, and Jen from Holiday Yarns, Tracy from Crafting for the Peanut Gallery, Big Alice, Sivia Harding, Stitchy McYarnpants ... the list goes on and on, and I was so delighted to be able to spend time with all of them.

But I came home with a $2500 hole in my pocket, and as an indie I can't support that sort of thing. I've had to cancel every other show I had planned for this year, including the smaller ones, and my kid doesn't get to take band this year in school. I need glasses and dental work, and that's not happening. SHE needs glasses and dental work and that's not happening either.

I'm not going to sit here and sing "waah waah waah" for any length of time ... I have work to do, and we're going to come out of this just fine.

But I've gotta say ... if you're a small indie and you're thinking of doing a show of this mangitude; think again. There's a good chance it'll bite you hard in the ass.

And Whilst You Sit There ...

2011-08-26T04:22:00.000-07:00

... with bated breath, waiting for me to actually tell a story instead of just post a teaser ...

I've updated my store quite a bit. Shipping is free for any orders placed up to and including midnight on Sunday. Take a peek, if you're interested. More yarn is going in later today (including some lace and a couple of skeins of heavy worsted).

And soon, my dears, soon ... you will get a real story. Maybe after I wash all of the freakin' dishes. My house has apparently been taken over by wolves or something.

Still Here, Bitches

2011-08-08T02:02:00.000-07:00

And I'm not going away any time soon.

I have have many tales to tell. I realize I never finished the story about Stitches West, or even started the one about Abbotsford or Olds or Sock Summit II or Surrey.

I never even adequately finished the one about the first Sock Summit and losing my virginity in Denny's, did I? I owe the few of you who are still reading so many tales from the last two or three years.

I have so many things I have to catch up on that I don't quite know where to start.

How about I start with the present and then do some backfilling or whatever you'd like to call it?

I got back from SSII on Tuesday and then slept for two days (it damned near killed me and cost me a hell of a lot of money, although I don't regret for a minute having done it), and then I got up, tidied my house a little (it's truly vile in here; don't ask, but there may have been feral cats living here for a week while I was gone. Feral cats who didn't do laundry or dishes and who left towels all over the place) and then rented a truck and went out to Surrey, BC to do a small fest on Saturday (a fest at which Mr. Assmuppet helped for the first time). After that I slept for another day and a half or so and then got up to start dyeing again because I'm heading out to another event in Grand Forks on Wednesday morning at half-past-sparrowfart.

I'm sort of wrung out and all over the place. I'll fill in the stories I owe you; I promise.

Tonight, though, I'm going to talk about overdyeing.

I was on Facebook tonight, talking with a new dyer. She posted a couple of questions and then a bunch of people chimed in with their opinions. It was a long and interesting thread, but as we were talking it occurred to me ... most folks don't realize that they own their yarn.

Yarn. It's string. Made out of animal hair. Many of us who dye yarn call ourselves artists (I certainly do). Some of us call ourselves artisans. Most of us think that the stuff we sell is good (although many of us, including me, have the artist's angst going on. This is our problem; not yours).

And so do you; or you wouldn't buy it.

But ... it's string. Made out of animal hair (or sometimes plants or maybe even worm spit or whatever).

It's not sacred. And no matter how long we work over something (some of my crazy stupid things take a couple of hours) -- if you buy it; it's yours.

And if you don't like it? Why, you can change it.

A while ago someone on Ravelry posted that she'd gotten some Wollmeise, which as we all know is one of the hardest things to get. And she didn't like it, and she knew she owned it, so she ... *gasp* ... overdyed it. From what I hear she was pretty-well crucified for committing such an outrage.

I mean WT fucking F? It was WOLLMEISE!

Yeah. And it was string. Made out of animal hair. And she'd bought it, she owned it, it didn't suit her and so she changed it.

That woman had the right idea. No, I'm not advocating that everyone run out and "wreck" their Wollmeise or Fleece Artist or Handmaiden or even my pretties (especially not mine). What I'm advocating is that people take ownership of the things they have purchased. If you don't like it; you can change it.

Even my stuff. Although I shall curse you if you do and you'll likely end up with fleas or something but that's your problem; not mine.

It's really easy to change yarn if you don't like it. It was dyed once but it doesn't have to stay that way. I've helped a few people change the yarn that they thought they loved and then realized that they didn't like it "quite that way". All it takes is a pot (that you can't use for anything else after that unless you use a food-friendly dye like Kool-Aid, Wilton's Cake Dye, Easter Egg Dye or food colouring), some water, some vinegar and a little time.

Just figure out what it is you don't like about the yarn ... too bright? Add a little black. Too yellow? Add some red or brown. Not purple enough? Then add some purple, you dork.

Heat up water in the pot. Add some vinegar (you don't have to go out and buy citric acid). Add the colour you think will make the yarn you dislike be a little more friendly. Put the yarn in. Wait until the colour exhausts (as in the water goes clear), take it out and rinse it.

Voila. New yarn.

If it's changed, but not changed enough, repeat the process. Yarn can take a lot of cooking before it goes stupid on you.

And if you're in the Lower Mainland area of Vancouver, BC, then call me. I will come over and help you do it.

Even if it's my stuff you're changing.

You bought it; you own it :)

Tonight I Cried

2011-06-16T05:07:00.000-07:00

While the illustrious and talented Barbara Brown and I have been working on our interview, I got interrupted by this hockey thing that's been going on.

I'm not a big hockey fan, but when it gets to the playoffs for Lord Stanley's cup I do watch.

It's been difficult. Our men played well and with skill. Boston? Well, they played like thugs, and the refs ruled like they'd been paid.

I'm not saying that they were -- I have no inside knowledge -- that's just what it looked like from the cheap seats here at home.

One of our boys hit one of the Boston lads, in a hard check. He hit the ice, got a concussion and the person who hit him got a four game suspension, thus taking him out of the rest of the playoffs.

Fairy nuff.

Then in clear retaliation, one of the Boston boys grabbed one of our players and performed what's known as a "can opener". He stuck his stick between the other player's legs (no, not up there, you perverts), twirled him around, shoved his shoulders down and rammed him hard, backwards, into the boards.

I've seldom seen anything uglier or more vindictive. Our player sustained a spinal compression fracture. He'll be out for about six months.

And that's if he ever recovers the health or the guts to play again. I know I wouldn't after something like that.

The player who did that? He didn't even get a whistle. Not the tiniest reprimand. Not a ten minute time-out.

If he'd shoved our player any harder he would likely have killed him.

So ... hard and fair check? Out for four games. Attempted murder? Oh you're fine, just go play.

(Again, the charge of attempted murder is just my opinion. I calls them like I sees them.)

After that, the fire pretty well went out for the Canucks. We phoned it in for the last game. I had been convinced that we'd own the last one on home ice but really? We sucked. And we lost.

But the important thing is what happened after.

After the game, Vancouver apparently took to the streets. And trashed them.

There were cars turned over and set alight, store windows broken, a couple of stabbings, a couple of police cars set alight, looting, tear gas, rubber bullets, police dogs ...

It was like we were in LA or something.

And I was ashamed.

There was a Boston fan who was beaten and left lying on the sidewalk bleeding from serious head wounds. Just for wearing the wrong jersey.

HELLO? What in the purple screaming fuck was that? This is Vancouver! We are granola and birkenstocks and singing kumbaya ... we're not about beating people for wearing the wrong shirt.

I was embarrased and horrified.

And then as I was reading about this and feeling horrible, I saw several friends joining a group on Facebook.

While the cars were still burning, they had over seven thousand people standing by to go clean up. For nothing, just as soon as the police would let them into the city.

And then ... that is when I cried. THAT is the Vancouver that I love. The people who give for no reason except that it's the right thing to do. The people who clean up because we don't want crap all over the place.

The people who stand strong and say "we care".

So ... to the people who trashed my city and made me fear for my husband's life (he had to drive through that to get to work) I say ... fuck you.

And to everyone else here in Vancouver. The real people. The people who love and nurture this community -- thank you.

Gentlepersons -- start up your Birkenstocks.

A Little Birdie Tells Me

2011-06-05T07:41:00.000-07:00

That in amongst my story about the incredible disaster that was STITCHES West (not their fault ... or at least the few things that went wrong there didn't add much to the disaster) that there will be an interview coming up very soon right here on this blog with the astonishing designer Barbara Brown.

Might could be this week, if I can get her to answer my chat on Facebook ... stay tuned.

RAOK

2011-05-30T07:21:00.000-07:00

Random Acts of Kindness.

(I still have tons to talk about, but this is, yet again, a place-holder post so that you know I'm not dead. Yet.)

So when's the last time you did something nice for someone? For absolutely no reason?

I'm as guilty as the next rabbit of focusing on myself and my family.

I pay my bills, I do my work, I feed my family, bla bla bla. All important things but I often forget to do the "nice" things while taking care of the practical stuff that seems to dog me day and night.

So today I went out front of the house and wiped some bird shit off a total stranger's car.

That stuff's acidic and it'll eat your paint if you don't get it off quickly.

They'll never know who did it ... in fact they might be pissed off when they get outside to take the car to work and find wipe marks on their hood and bumper; some total jerk touched their car!

But I did it, and I may have helped save their paint job. I saved them from having to clean it off, themselves, if nothing else.

It cost me one glove (I always wear gloves when I'm doing something ooky) and about five squares of paper towel.

It doesn't cost a lot to help someone out.

So ... what are you going to do today? Pass it on :)

Misconceptions

2011-05-22T07:37:00.000-07:00

I've been spending a lot of time on Facebook these days. I apparently have an addictive personality and the FB, I am addicted to it.

A lot of the communication is short blurbs, comments and so on, but now and again someone posts a long note that is of ... well, of note. As it were.

My friend Ramona posted this the other day.

It made me think. A lot. I'm hoping it makes you think also.

My response to it was as follows:

"I read your article about "Perfection" ... and then had it brought home to me by a specific example today. I locked the keys in the car, managed to get home, and had to go talk to our new property managers to try to get into the house. While we were walking over to my townhouse, I said something about having to clean, air out and paint the unit they are moving into at the end of the month, as the previous managers were heavy smokers and smoked indoors.

I had always been intimidated by the wife (she could be quite an unpleasant person) because when I went to pay rent, apart from the stink, her kitchen was always SPOTLESS, with even the canisters scrubbed. Mine usually has splats on top of the stove and we won't talk about the rest of the house.

Well ... the new manager told me that the place was so filthy it was insane. There was even cat shit in the corner of one of the bedrooms. Apparently the kitchen was the only room that was ever cleaned.

Now, my house certainly needs work still, and I have far too much crap. But it's not literally CRAP."

It's so easy to gather misconceptions, isn't it?

And Now, I Kiss You Goodbye

2011-05-19T05:08:00.000-07:00

No, I'm not quitting blogging (despite evidence to the contrary). This is a post that I wrote a week ago, to say goodbye to a friend of mine.

And then Blogger wouldn't let me post, the BASTARD.

And then I got busy and I feel terrible about it. I have many things to say however this is the most urgent, because I need to say goodbye to her.

I have two friends ... well, no, I have more than two (really I do, shut up). But these two friends, Leslie and Elaine, are very special to me.

These ladies have been together for years. They came up here to Canadia to get married (seeing we're all about the gay marrying up here) and tied the knot years ago in the gorgeous flower garden at Park and Tilford, just down the street from where I live (as in 25 minutes' walk, even when you hobble, as I do, like an old bat).

I met them online ... I'm not sure where or how. Through knitting blogs (I used to have a blog. You may have heard about it), mutual friends, that sort of thing.

Years ago, before we'd even met, on my birthday they sent me some beautiful New Zealand roving in my favourite colours, to help me celebrate, and some amazing organic chocolate with raspberries and rosehips in it.

I was incredibly touched.

The first time I met them in person, they graciously invited me to stay in their home. When we got in the door they asked me to sit on the couch, and said that they had rather enthusiastic dogs. I said I didn't have a problem with dogs. Then Elaine said "OK, are you ready?" I said "sure" and ... well ... supposedly she opened a door but I'm still not convinced of that. Dogs started emanating from the walls. No, seriously Right Out of the Fucking Walls. There were thousands of them and all of them wanted to sit on me, sniff me and smooch on me.

I'm like candy to dogs.

No really, if you have a dog and I come to your house, even if the dog doesn't like people he or she will be sitting on top of my head within six minutes. I think it's because I'm mostly made of bacon.

And after all of these giant dogs (two were Greyhounds, we're not talking a flock of chihuahuas here) got over trying to kiss me and sit on me and somehow oh my fucking god just get spit ALL OVER ME and live in my PANTS (it was Brody, who is not a greyhound, who was mostly about the getting in my pockets and becoming part of me) and they had sort of calmed down a bit, the most special dog came over to see if she would approve of me or not.

Kiska was a purebred West Boloshnian Flugenschnitzel (I'm likely off on the breed, but it's close). She was about 12 inches high, two feet long, and had a tongue hinged in the middle of her body somewhere. I'm thinking she might have been part aardvark. She walked up and looked at me and then hopped up next to me and wrapped her tongue around my neck about three times (I may perhaps be indulging in a little exaggeration here, but I have NEVER met a dog with a longer tongue). Apparently I'd met the requirements and was allowed to stay.

The last time I visited them I slept in their guest room on their beautiful new bed with the lovely new sheets. Piewacket, the little cat who had come to stay with them when my beloved Simon (a cat who I used to sit up and read to all night ... and with whom I sometimes surfed the net for porn) passed on, came into the room and killed spiders for me. He killed many. He killed one spider on the wall about ten times. I didn't have the heart to tell him that it was just a mark on the paint and that I wasn't scared of spiders in the first place. After Pie finally calmed down, Kiska decided to do a walkabout and came to my room. She hopped on the bed and floofed about a bit, wrapped her tongue three or four times around my neck, cuddled down beside me for half an hour or so and then went back to sleep with her beloved Leslie.

I loved that dog a whole lot.

And you'll likely notice that I'm using the past tense here.

Kiska left us on May 11th.

My heart hurts; but I'm so glad I had the opportunity to know her. I treasure the time I spent with her, and am glad I met her approval. She was a lovely soul and I will miss her.

Godspeed, little Wienerfloofle.

Oh Holy Hoo-Has, Who Ate March??

2011-03-31T21:57:00.000-07:00

Well hi there fibery fans. Apparently all of March has been and went and I had no clue that it was happening.

As usual.

(I started this post before midnight on March 31, so I'm still going to count it as a "March" post. Yes, I'm lying about it. It's my blog, and it's still March. Shut up.)

So I'm going to finish the story about Stitches, but not right now. I need to sleep; I've been dyeing up a storm and I'm bagged.

But I'll leave you with this teaser ... Indeed, I didn't get eaten by wolves, but I'll tell you -- by the time I got there I sure wished I had been.

Oh, I got to Stitches all righty. My yarn? Not so much.

More after I've slept.

Getting My Britches to Stitches

2011-02-18T08:38:00.000-08:00

As I write this, it is about 1:15am and I am somewhere way up in the mountains in Oregon, having just left a little place called Chemoke (spelling?). I won't be able to post this until I hit civilization (and a wireless network) some time mid-Wednesday. If I perish in the woods before that, I hope that this message is found.

Being in Chemoke itself is no problem. No, no. The problem IS that if this is Chemoke, this must be oh, about 11pm on Wednesday, not 1am on Thursday.

Yet again I'm on my way to Stitches, and this time the trip has been even more fraught with difficulty than was last year's. I suppose I'll need to tell you the whole story.

In tedious, painstaking detail. Because this is my blog, and I can.

As I said in my last post of any substance, I wasn't even sure until a couple of weeks ago that I was even going to be able to do Stitches again this year, due to a year of turmoil, angst and general fuckery. I was pretty sure it was a bad idea, but it turned out to be such a hoot last year that even though it wasn't particularly profitable I just couldn't resist saying yes again.

So far it's looking, alas, like I should have trusted my instincts. (Then again if I had done so, things would have turned out differently in so many of my life's situations that you should hardly be startled that I chose "the other thing", yet again. I'm really not quite sure why I'm allowed out on my own most of the time.)

I'll whine on and on about how I don't have enough product, I knew I didn't have enough time to get ready, I'm lazy and irresponsible and my husband is a dickhead some other time. I think right now I'd like to share the complete and utter ass-sucking agony of the last 24 hours. Because, you know, other people's tribulations are funny, and someone should be getting some sort of enjoyment out of this.

After the debacle of last year's childcare-juggling done from 1600 km away, Mr. Assmuppet and I decided that he should take time off work while I was away. He's got the time coming, so we won't lose any pay, and we won't have to worry about who is taking care of Her Surreal Highness (or, as happened last year, who was not taking care of Her Surreal Highness). In light of that, I felt that it would be best to leave the car in Vancouver so that they didn't have to schlep around on the bus for 8 days while I knocked a year off of the car's life.

After all, the Amtrak is cheap and convenient and fun and they have wi-fi and I could just kick back and enjoy myself and screw about online and knit and watch the scenery, couldn't I?

Couldn't I?

As it turned out; no. No, I couldn't.

My first mistake was to assume that there were two trains a day from Vancouver heading southward. After all, there always had been and so why would it have changed? Being no fan of this whole planning thing of which I have heard others speak, I didn't bother to check the train schedule until Monday. Yeah, I know. The day before I was to leave. Imagine my horror in discovering that, without even consulting me, the fuckers, Amtrak had changed their schedule.

That's right; there was now only one train a day and it left at 5:30 in the morning.

Just a few hours away.

After running about screaming and flailing for a while, I contacted Maia and asked if it would be a big problem if I came down on the Wednesday morning train instead. After all, I'd be there by 10am on Thursday which would give us time for setup. I would, of course, be rested and raring to go after a peaceful day's trip looking at scenery and screwing about on the internet and a good night's sleep in my comfortable and roomy seat.

Not a problem, right?

Yeah. Right.

To start with, 4:30 am -- no matter whether it arrives on Tuesday or Wednesday -- is still too damned early to be awake. It's especially too damned early if you've been up until after 2am doing laundry the night before. (I believe I've already mentioned that I'm no fan of the planning. Shut up.)

Still, I managed to haul my ass out of bed and Mr. Assmuppet, who had been up all night loading up my new MP3 player with tunes for the journey drove me in to the train station. We made it three minutes before the scheduled departure of the Amtrak-which-is-a-bus-not-a-train (you can tell I'm still bitter about this, however at least it wasn't such a shock this time). Although there was, alas, no time to grab a cup of coffee, there was no problem getting on the bus-not-a-train. Seeing most folks are too smart to get up at that time of day I had two seats to myself and after successfully navigating the turbulent shoals of Customs and Immigration, I managed to get a deep and satisfying sleep most of the rest of the way to Seattle.

Seattle! Oh, how I love Seattle. The train station, in all its crumbling decadent glory, is in a "colourful" part of town. The weather was fantastic -- cold, windy and clear -- and I hit the street to nab some breakfast (good coffee and a bacon and egg bagel from a little cafe) and then went on a hike to find a Tracphone, seeing I couldn't find the one that I keep for use in the US.

Although my love for Seattle is deep and constant, my love for hiking up hills past police cars and interesting characters waned a little when, upon reaching my goal I discovered they were all out of Tracphones. "Oh well", thought I, "I'll just get one in Portland when I stop to get some food for the rest of the journey; there will be tons of time."

On returning to the train station I discovered to my disappointment that the Amtrak "train" that I was supposed to be getting on was yet another bus, and not a train at all. This was a matter of federal and safety requirements and not any sort of deliberate deception -- there had been a mudslide on the tracks and they had to send us to Portland, whereupon our glorious TRAIN would finally be waiting.

Because of this, Amtrak -- who I must say behaved decently throughout the entire trip, despite my deep and childish feeling of betrayal by just about everything -- provided a boxed lunch for all of us, as we wouldn't have access to a snack bar or a dining car. Unfortunately, it was a submarine sandwich absolutely loaded with peppers, to which I'm allergic. Hardly their fault, but it meant that my lunch was a small bag of chips and half a bottle of water. Hardly adequate, even for a relatively small rabbit.

Things started looking up when we hit Tacoma and more passengers got on the not-a-train. I ended up with a very congenial and interesting seatmate. I napped for about an hour on the way out of Tacoma and then we enjoyed some really fantastic conversation for the rest of the way into Portland.

The bus took considerably longer than the train would have, and so by the time we got to Portland not only was there no time to get a Tracphone, there was also no time to get food and barely time even to get on the train. We pulled out of the station considerably behind schedule.

The eagerly-anticipated dining car was already fully booked for the evening and one could only get one's name on a waiting list. I hadn't expected the food to be anything special, the eager anticipation was just because I was sort of falling over both from lack of food and lack of sleep. I toddled off to the snack bar instead and had ... uh ... something. It claimed to be turkey but I didn't examine it too closely. Can of pop. More chips. Because every girl needs two bags of chips in one day.

And then the day sort of went to shit.

The much-vaunted and promised wi-fi connection? Nonexistent (which means of course that as I write this my family has no idea if I'm alive or dead, as I have no way to contact them At All, and Maia has no idea that I'm coming in at least two hours late).Both of these things are Very Much Not Good. I also have no way to get online and track my packages to see if the pathetically small amount of product I sent is even on its way. For all I know I'm going to stand there with a couple of lbs. of mohair and nothing else. It really would have been nice to at least know about the wi-fi when I was in Seattle and had a couple of hours to spare.

And then the train had to pull over onto a siding to let another train pass. And then again. And then there was a line problem and we were delayed again. Right now I think we’re running about two and a half hours behind. Who knows what the rest of the night holds?

The knitting? Not so easy; because of the way I knit it's easier if someone sits on my right-hand side, but my seatmate was on the left. The restful sleep? Total bullshit.

For most of the trip, a woman from Klamath Falls went on and on, in a voice (to quote the inimitable Carole Pope) "like a razor blade on glass" about anything and everything that came to mind. Now, usually, if I'm trashing someone I won't include a pile of personal details, but seeing she had no problem sharing with her companions (and the rest of the carriage) that she lived in Klamath Falls, her daughter is a librarian, she hates to read however her daughter reads a chapter of a book to her husband every night, and it took her about six months to get through Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand.

Recognize yourself? Might want to reconsider sharing all of your details with 30 strangers, then. Especially when most of those strangers have turned the lights out and have made it pretty clear that they’d like to sleep.

And then there was Typhoid Mary. Now, it’s not her fault that she has vicious bronchitis, and it’s not her fault that she’s been barking oh, every 2 or 3 minutes. It is, however, her fault that she’s had several lengthy phone arguments with whoever’s waiting for her at home. And I have to say that although the illness isn’t her fault, I’m sort of feeling like I’d like to wash down all the seats and take a shower in Lysol right about now. Two words, honey: Droplet Infection. Covering your mouth is never a bad idea.

We won’t discuss the person who, even now, thinks that 2:30 am (yes, I’ve been writing for a while) is a good time to share movies (with lots of screaming) with the rest of us.

It’s gonna be a long night.

Right about now, I’m hoping the train will break down altogether and that we’ll be eaten by wolves.

You’ll be able to identify my corpse by the shock of unruly hair, the Canadian passport, and the half a bottle of water and three gummy fruits that is all that’s left of my stock of food.

Should I survive, I’ll post this in the morning and finish the sorry saga. I’m looking forward to finding out what’s going to happen, myself.

Oh great … and now some man stopped in the aisles between the seats and coughed on me. I’m going to try to sleep now. If I don’t make it, you can have my stuff.

OK, so it's not tomorrow

2011-02-05T08:38:00.000-08:00

But apparently this is as close to "tomorrow" as I can get these days.

While I've been gone I've been doing a lot of photography. This is one of my favourites.

Dec 3 2010 dinghy
Originally uploaded by Rabbitch

I don't own this boat, don't know who does and don't have any particular personal interest in it; I just happen to like boats and this photo makes me happy.

I'll bore y'all with endless photographs in the days to come (or, if you'd prefer you can go look at my Flickr stream) but today? Ha! Today is the day of the yarn. I'm off to dye my hands (and hopefully some yarn) about 900 colours and finish up getting ready for the parpy.

Apparently even though I'm a little hazy on the concept of time, the calendar isn't and I'm expected to leave in about ten days.

Any bets on the chances of me sitting on the Amtrak with bags of damp yarn surrounding me?

I Can Go To the Parpy!

2011-02-03T21:21:00.001-08:00

I can! I can!

(for those who aren't familiar with the reference, it's from the brilliant blog Hyperbole and a Half, and apparently she can go to the parpy. If, however, you are familiar with the reference, what the hell are you doing here reading this twaddle when you could be over there, reading a real blog that actually has posts and stuff?)

(Also do you think I like parentheses too much?)

(No? Me either.)

Anyhow ... about the parpy.

I've been uncertain whether or not I'd be able to do much in the way of fibre fests this year.

I mean clearly I've been struggling with all sorts of issues over the past few years and even though I keep claiming that I'm "all better now", I think it's obvious to those with even half a clue (and I know several of you have at least that much) that I'm not all better now. I am, however, far, far more well than I was, and maybe better than I was before everything went kabloo, but in a different way. (Just sort of like a duck is the same as a chicken but different, if you get my drift. Or even if you don't.)

Quite aside from the mental illness (I believe that the final official diagnosis was that along with all of the hormonal nonsense that accompanies menopause, I had gone "completely batshit crazy". I do hate to confuse you with medical terms but I felt that in this case it was unavoidable) there have been several financial disasters -- not of my making and quite beyond my control -- and the whole getting another breast badger, having surgery, being invaded by rats and then getting evicted from the rathouse (which would, at first, seem like a good thing until you realize that it involves actually MOVING all of the crap in the house) just piled up one on top of the other untill it was all just Quite. Enough. Already. Thank you.

As anyone who's gone to a fest of any sort as a vendor knows, the initial outlay (and the insane amount of work) involved can be quite daunting, even for the sane and the solvent.

(I would like to note at this point that I don't know any fibre artists who are either sane or solvent, but there must be some, somewhere.)

So I'd sort of thought I might spend this year licking my wounds, sitting under the sink and drinking bleach and occasionally emerging from the cupboard to make some sort of silly post telling you that I was still here and if you'd only be good and wait another year or so that I'd come back.

And then I thought "fuck that". (apparently even my thoughts are pottymouthed)

So ... no bleach. No cupboard. No licking of wounds. Instead ... well ... I'm going to the parpy.

About ten or eleven days from now (I'm trying to persuade myself that that's almost as much time as "two weeks" but so far I'm not doing so well with that) I'll be getting on the Amtrak and hauling my wobbly little Rabbitchbutt all the way down south to California, to vend once again at STITCHES West.

I'll be sharing a booth with the lovely and gracious (not to mention talented) Maia Discoe from Tactile Fiber Arts. We'll be in booths 1340 and 1342. Both of us have been up to much and there will be a few show-specific surprises.

If you're in the area, come see us.

Tomorrow: a peek at some of the crafty things I've been doing while I've been ignoring this blog

All Is Quiet, On New Year's Day

2011-01-01T15:19:00.000-08:00

Be vewwy, vewwy quiet. We're hunting Wabbitches.

We're what?

Hunting Wabbitches. You're not being very quiet.

And why, exactly, are we hunting "Wabbitches"?

Because she's been gone and we have to hunt her and make her come back.

Hang on, you said "Wabbitches", as in more than one ... isn't there just one Rabbitch?

Well, yes, but it's sort of this Elmer Fudd schtick and ... oh, shut up, just be vewwy vewwy quiet, k?

Fine. Fuck it, whatever, I'm being vewwy vewwy quiet. Are you happy now?

I'd be happier if you were quieter.

Great. Fine. I'll fucking whisper if you'd like.

That's not whispering.

You're being a total twat about this, aren't you?

Well, perhaps, but at least I know how to whisper.

Look, I'm not going to play this. You're completely demented. I'll help you hunt for Rabbitch if you want or even for some godforsaken rabbits, but I'm not going to whisper. Let's just get on with it.

Fine, be that way ...

Remembrance Day

2010-11-11T05:44:00.000-08:00

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

My thanks and respect on this day to everyone who has served their country and who continues to do so. I don't come from a military family but my cousin Alan lost a foot in the Falklands.

My husband is a former Marine and his brother Tim and his other brother's ex-wife have served.

No matter how I feel about the reasons that our men and women have been sent to war; on this day I shall respect and thank them.

Please join me in doing so.

It's all good fun, until someone loses an eye

2010-10-25T02:59:00.001-07:00

And then, of course, it's just one-eyed fun.

(note here, nobody lost an eye during this move ... the rest? Yeah, it happened. And it hurt)

Did I mention that we were moving house? I think I must have, but then again I'm elderly and forget things a lot. Anyhow, the reason I haven't been here is that we've been moving. And this is part of the tale of that move.

It's also all good fun until you break a toe.

Which I did. Couldn't wear a shoe for a month, which is so much fun in the Pacific Northwest during the "wet and cold" season. No, really. It's been special.

It starts being less fun when you drop a heavy dresser upon the toe that only has half a nail and it breaks the nail and drives it into the nailbed and then there's blood and guts everywhere.

That part wasn't fun at all. (ok so there weren't guts. Toes don't have guts. But if they did, believe me, they would have been everywhere.)

I sorta thought I was ok, and then I got into the bath seeing I was bruised head to toe and utterly exhausted and my kid went, "Um. There's sort of a lot of blood on your foot."

I said, "oh, no, there isn't." But she assured me that there was and it was sort of dripping everywhere and was alarming her.

I acknowledged the wound, told her where to get bandages and tape and so forth.

She patched me up and asked "do I have to take you to the hospital?" which struck me at the time as being hilariously funny, as ten year olds don't usually "take" someone to the hospital.

I declined to seek medical assistance. It's still all fucked up, about a month later, but I still think I chose the right thingie. They would have bandaged it up, said "there's nothing we can do; give it time" and then charged the taxpayers $2300 or something for it.

Feh.

Oh yeah ... and it's all good fun until you fall down the back stairs of the house. I thought there were five. There were, in fact, six. I did a total swan dive and landed with most of my weight (which isn't very much, but is still too much to land on) on my right knee, which still isn't ok.

So um. The move to the new house is done. DONE. I have three bins of fleece still at the old house and I'm not entirely sure I'm not going to just leave it there.

This was THE WORST MOVE EVAR. I'm startled that I'm still functioning, quite frankly.

I've been beaten, I've been raped and I've been robbed. I've miscarried a much-wanted child and I've had two breast tumours. (And please don't start to feel sorry about me for those -- I've gotten past all of it and I'm just fine.) But I really don't think I've ever had a worse experience than this house move.

BUT

We are in the new house. It's fantastic. We have way too much shit and there are boxes to the fucking ceiling; it's an utter disaster and will be for at least another month.

BUT

I have a kitchen that works and I've been cooking, quite a lot. We have a washer and a dryer. The bath is big and huge and wonderful and we have ENDLESS hot water. And there's a dishwasher.

I have a big pine tree right outside the window of my bedroom. It's pretty as all-get-out. I have a DISHWASHER. (I know I said that before but I'm so in love with it I had to mention it again.)

And there are no rats. None. At all. A spider or two, but no rats. I feel safe here. I am going to miss the wildlife, but it's a small price to pay for safety.

So ... welcome home to me. This is a peaceful place and there is room for me to work.

Regular blogging will commence shortly. And the Etsy store will be open again tomorrow.

Right now, I'm-a-gonna go lie in the bath. And maybe add hot water.

Celebrating Five Years of Marital Bliss

2010-09-26T15:19:00.000-07:00

Today Mr. Assmuppet and I are celebrating five years of marital bliss.

"But wait!" I hear you say. "You've been married far longer than five years!"

"Yes, we have," I reply politely, as I am always polite even when you make totally asswanked comments like that.

We've been together fourteen years almost to the day. I don't recall the date we first met but it was around this time of year, give or take a week. We met online and it was a long complicated thingie during which we both almost ran, seeing I was married to someone else at the time.

My first marriage was on the rocks. The first time we had mentioned divorce was two years prior to my encountering Mr. Assmuppet. Hubby #1 and I were all wrong for each other, but we just LIKED each other so much ... we were basically maintaining but we both knew it was only a matter of time. I, however, certainly wasn't looking for anyone. Because marriage sucked and I wanted nothing to do with it.

Mr. Assmuppet and I first met in person on December 26, 1996. Somehow he talked me into driving down there the day after Xmoose.

He had also talked me into proposing to him. We were talking online one night and he said something along the lines of "well, now we're brave enough to say the L word, you do know that if this works out I'm going to want to say the M word too." I said "What, do you want to get married?" And then he said "Yes, I accept."

I said "no no no, YOU have to propose to ME," and he said "why would I? You just proposed to me and I accepted."

Fucker.

I didn't know what he looked like. He had sent me one picture and it was fuzzy and I had a totally crap monitor so really even if it had been a good picture I wouldn't have had a clue.

I should have known at this point that it was going to be nothing but trouble, and yet I made plans to go see him. I sort of felt that I had to, seeing that we were engaged and all.

I was a fairly new driver. I didn't get my license until I was 33. There was no reason to do so; I lived in the city, parking was scarce and public transit was plentiful.

I got my license after my best friend died of AIDS in 1995 ... I regretted so badly not being able to take him out and about. Towards the end it was so hard for him to get anywhere, and I wished time after time that I had a car.

Anyhow, after Martin died, I swore I was never going to be in that position again, so I went and got my license and got me a Toyota Corolla. She kicked ass, and her name was Smedley. Yes, I know that's a boy's name and she was a girl but it was her choice and she served me well for many years.

So ... I had agreed to go and spend two or three days with this man in Tacoma, Washington. I got in the car on the morning of December 26th and started driving south. By the time I hit Seattle, even if I had changed my mind, the snow was so bad that there was no way I could have turned back.

They'd closed the highway behind me.

When I got to Tacoma ... well ... um ... (and anyone who's been reading me for any length of time could see this coming) ... I got lost.

I sort of thought I took the right exit but I was a newish driver and there was snow and I was in a strange country and who knew that right and left weren't the same thing and bla bla bla.

Fortunately I had a cellphone and I called. He answered and assumed that I was calling from Canada to say I couldn't get there because of the weather. Instead I was calling from outside of some strange chicken barbecue restaurant SOMEwhere in Tacoma saying I couldn't get back home so he'd have to tell me how to get there.

It took about another hour, and a couple of phone calls and a lot of sliding about on roads and some white knuckles but then I got there.

And, you know what? He was sort of a jerk.

I thought he didn't like me. He thought I didn't like him. We were snowed in and I couldn't get back home and had to stay for six days instead of the two or three that we'd planned.

And during that time ... well, it sort of worked out.

If I'd been able to leave after two days, we wouldn't be married right now, because it took him longer than that to start acting sort of normal and like he was happy I was there.

Boys are dumb.

I might have been a little dumb too.

And after I got home we talked every night online and we phoned and I visited and bla bla bla

I drove there almost every Friday night and back every Sunday for two years.

Eventually he moved to Canada and came to live with me and after a huge amount of paperwork, money, trials and tribulations we got hitched.

12 years ago today.

And so yes, it's our anniversary, but we're not celebrating 12 years of marital bliss, or at least I'm not.

Ben and I are both difficult people (you! In the back! The one who is gasping with almost-believable astonishment that I might be difficult ... shut up.)

At times our relationship has been utter goat-raping, bleach-swilling, assmangling hell.

And, like all marriages, at times it's been really fucking boring ... totally normal, nothing to report ... I bought a newspaper, he made toast and ate it, bla bla bla.

A lot of the time it's been "good" but not "bliss".

I figure, mathematically, out of the last 12 years, five of them have been bliss.

And that's a pretty good percentage, really.

Please join us in celebrating all of those twelve years, including the five of bliss.

World Wide Spin in Public Day!

2010-09-18T17:30:00.000-07:00

Did you? I did!

Well, um, no, I didn't, but I will at work tonight and I want points for that.

It's all mental, all the time Chez Lapin. We're moving in 13 days and apparently I have some wholesale orders to ship and bla bla bla.

Blogging will not resume with any semblance of regularity or sanity (like there was ever that here) for a couple of weeks.

While you're waiting, please meet my new boyfriend

He doesn't know he's my new boyfriend, of course, but that doesn't matter as my ten previous boyfriends and sixteen girlfriends have also never met me or been made aware of my existence in any manner. It's so becoming to have crushes when you're fifty years old. Shut up. It is.

And now, seeing I have to be up for work in less than six hours I shall skedaddle.

Go listen to Mr. Cale and spin some shit, k?

Tomorrow is September 11th

2010-09-10T16:12:00.001-07:00

Yes, I know you all know that. Shut up.

Tomorrow is September 11th. A day upon which, nine years ago, the world changed for so many of us.

I remember waking up that morning. Our radio alarm was tuned to a rock station, but there was no music. There were people talking about planes crashing into buildings and unthinkable hatred and destruction.

They NEVER have more than a few seconds of talk on that show. It's all music, all the time. "Playing what they want". A zippy and rude bunch of folks who mock those who try to make requests. (Try to figure out why I like them -- no, go on. I'll wait while you do.)

I thought at first it was a joke. A "War of the Worlds" thing, you know? It took me quite some time to shake off the sleep and realize that it was real.

All the way to work in the car that morning I kept listening to the radio, and looking at my small daughter in the back seat and trying to comprehend it.

I still don't understand it.

When we got to work I took her to the daycare and all of the parents and workers there were moving in a daze. Everyone was hugging a child ... as if to reassure ourselves that our babies were safe, even if those of others were not. That there was life and hope. The adults were taking comfort from the children. I've never seen that place so silent.

I held my baby for a long time that morning.

I got to the office late, but nobody cared. We were all just stunned. The news came in all day; little to nothing got done -- we were all just moving on autopilot.

I hope to never live through a day like that again. And I'm inordinately grateful that I did live through it, unlike the almost three thousand people who did not.

Tomorrow is the ninth anniversary of that day. There has been talk of burning the Quran, of perpetuating the hatred, of making things worse.

Me? I can't buy into any of that. It's not about the Quran. It's not about the Muslims. It's not about the Christians.

And it doesn't have to be about the hate, or about revenge.

I'm not going to get all Xian and forgivey and shit on you -- you deal with it however you need to. I'm not your counsellor or your leader (and if I'm your role model then you likely need a counsellor or a leader -- dude, I'm nuts). I'm just me, and the way I'm going to deal with it is to do one small thing that will make things better.

Oh, it won't make anything big better. No, no. I'm going to maybe buy a coffee for a bum, maybe give someone bus fare, maybe put a couple of quarters in a parking meter so someone has time to get back and move their car before they get a ticket.

Perhaps I'll pat a puppy, or even just pick up a piece of garbage. Help someone across the road. Donate a can of tuna to the food bank.

Just one small thing.

And I'm not going to post about what it was. I don't need accolades for picking up a popsicle stick or telling someone they have toilet paper on their shoe. That's not what this is about.

I'm not going to post about what it was; but I'm going to do it.

It won't fix everything. In fact it likely won't fix anything, but it might make one small thing a little better for one person.

And I think that's a far better way to commemorate the day and honour the memories of those who died than is perpetuating the hate.

Just one little thing. I hope you'll join me.

As Ah Was Comin' Doon The Stair

2010-08-21T03:56:00.000-07:00

Ah met a blog that wasnae there
It wasnae there agin' today
I wish tae hang it gaed away.

*knock*knock*knock*

"Hello?"

"Hi, I saw your sign outside."

"About the blog?"

"Yes. You found it lying in the street?"

"I did. Oh god please tell me it's yours and you've come to take it away."

"Well, it might be mine. I've been missing it for a while. Is it sort of ... difficult?"

"It is, and I'm so desperately sorry I ever laid eyes on it. If it's not yours, I'll give you $20 to take it off my hands. It's been in the bathtub for ten days now, drunk as a loon. I'm out of Cheetos and beer (which are the only things it'll eat) and it's now singing obscure songs in a broad Glaswegian accent. It's broken the computer, I think the cat's pregnant and the carpets will never recover."

"Oh man, that sounds like my blog. I'm so very, very sorry."

"It keeps going on and on about some lumberjack that it had a grand and gritty slam with in a Denny's in Portland, and how it won't tell the story until someone named Rabbitch comes back."

"Ah. Yes. That's my blog all right. I'm Rabbitch."

"Please, I beg of you ... I'll do anything ... take it back."

"All righty then. I'll take it, and thank you for rescuing it. I'm so sorry about the damage ... to the computer, the cat, the upholstery ..."

"Oh, fuck. The upholstery too?"

"I'm afraid so. Oh sweet FSM ... I do hope that most of this blood is yours."

"Blood?!?"

"Um. Nevermind. It's all good. I'll just kick down the bathroom door and put it in this sack and we'll be on our way. Thanks so much for the help. No, no really, you can keep your $20. I suspect that you'll need it for the repairs."

"REPAIRS?!"

"Uh, I meant for a haircut. I'll just kick down this door and put the blog in a sack and be on my way. Thanks so much for the help."

"You can't just ... Oh. Apparently you can. Bye, then ..."

Drown the Bastage!

2010-08-08T12:14:00.000-07:00

*ring*ring*

"Huh? Mmph ... hello? Hello?"

"Oh hi, it's me. We have a problem."

"Dude do you know what freakin' time it is?"

"Yeah, I know, I know, but this couldn't wait. Like I said, we have a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

"Well, you know that blog we found last week?"

"I don't like where this is going."

"There's a problem with it. I can't make it do what it's supposed to do. I named it George (see tagline) and I hugged it and squished it, but now I can't make it tell stories. And it's making ... demands."

"Demands?"

"Well, sort of orders. And there has been biting."

"Biting?"

"Yes, when I wouldn't bring it another beer and some Cheetos. And it's been in the bath for three hours now! It says it won't tell any stories until some rabbit comes back but the rabbit's busy dyeing wool for a bear in Michigan and the rabbit's father had a mild stroke and she has to move house and she's too busy to come back and now I don't know what to dooooo ...."

*sobs*

"Hang on, hang on. This blog said it belongs to a rabbit?"

"Yes, I think so."

"And now it won't tell any stories until the rabbit comes back, but it wants Cheetos and beer and it's lying in the bath?"

"Yeah, that pretty much sums it up. What do I do?"

"Fucked if I know. You've found Rabbitch's blog. I wouldn't touch that with a ten-foot pole. If I were you I'd wait until it's had enough beer and then drown the bastage in the bath!"

"But ... but ... it's so little and cute and it says it's just a simple knitting blog! How could I drown it?"

"Quite frankly, I suspect that it would manage to kill you before you killed it. I'm gonna hang up now. Buddy, you're on your own with this one."

"But wait! Don't leave me with ..."

*click*dialtone*

Poke It With A Stick!

2010-07-31T23:58:00.000-07:00

"Whoa, dude ... what's this?"

"What?"

"This! This ... thing. It's just lying here on the ground."

"Oh, that thing? I'm not sure. It ... well, it sort of looks like a blog. You know, one of those things that all of the cool kids did before their lives got eaten up by Facebook."

"A blog? Are you sure?"

"No, not sure at all. Whatever it is, it looks like it's dead. We should just leave it."

"I don't know. I don't think it's quite dead yet. We should check."

"Well, how would we do that? Poke it with a stick?"

"Yes! That's the ticket! Poke it with a stick, indeed. Here, I'll go get one."

"Be careful! Those things can be nasty. I've heard that they can turn on you without warning."

"Oh, it looks too far gone to do anyone any sort of harm."

*poke*poke*poke*

"There, see? It twitched! I think it's still trying to live!"

"I saw that, but it's sort of bedraggled. There's a good chance it has fleas. I still think we should just leave it."

"No. No, I don't think I can do that. Look, let's just wrap it up in this towel and take it home and love it (and maybe even call it George) and see if we can't get it healthy again!"

"Well, ok, but it's staying at your house. You never know what sort of mess it might make of the carpets."

"I don't care. I think we should give it a chance. Come on, let's go."

...

Stone Cold Crazy

2010-06-12T01:55:00.000-07:00

Tonight, Mr. Assmuppet and I had a rare opportunity. We had an invitation to go out, we were both off work, we had childcare and we had a little cash.

So, I put on makeup (which I hardly ever do) I put on some smellystuff (just body cream, Opium) and a bunch of jewelery (three rings, a bracelet, some earrings) and we headed downtown to the Railway Club, a fantastic venue established in 1931; I believe the original customers were those men who worked on the railway (I know, an astonishing leap of deduction).

I even shaved my pits in anticipation of the evening, which for me is a big concession, seeing I'm not so much into the shaving thing. And I'm sure you wanted to know that.

It's a way cool club and I've gone many many times over the last 20 years or so, but this was the first time I'd taken Ben there. They have a train track up near the ceiling and an electric train runs around the whole club all night long. I really wanted to share a special night with him.

They are a REALLY big supporter and promoter of local talent; if a local band needs a place to play, the Railway Club is the place for them to do it.

Tonight there were a whole shitpile of bands (I think four or five or maybe even six), but we went to see Stone Cold Crazy, a Queen Tribute band. I think you all know how much I love Freddy Mercury, and so I was a little apprehensive, but the bass player, Ferdy Belland, had assured me that they had a kick-ass Freddy, and so I thought ... what the fuck? Let's go see.

The first band that we saw was called Crimson Roots and um. Um. I hate to trash anyone's artistic talent, but they had little of that, as far as I could see.

The bass player and lead singer was a very nice-looking very young man, with a decent voice. He was on-key nearly all the time and he had the Rock 'N' Roll hair going bigtime. He was a little pitchy from time to time but who isn't? The music itself was ... excruciating. No, that's wrong. That insults a lovely word like excruciating. It was, perhaps, execrable (which is also a lovely word but in this case more accurate.) It could be that I'm too old to appreciate the sort of music they were playing, but it seemed to me to be a horrible waste of time, talent, energy and electricity. I would be happy to never see them again.

I'm just not so into thrashing electronic noise with no discernible melody. Call me a purist, if you must.

The second band, Girls 'N' Roses, was a Guns 'N' Roses tribute band. I was pleased to learn that one of the guitar players, Mel, was a former Capilano College student (I did office admin in the music department there for five years and I love running into the kids again.) The lead singer who was supposed to be the Axl Rose guy clearly had some serious performance anxiety. I have it too, which is why I don't do standup comedy any more (did I ever tell you that I used to? I only did it like six, eight times. No more, I just can't, even though I was good.) The first couple of songs, he was stiff, and sang to the band instead of to the audience. After he relaxed and got into the groove he was pretty good, although really, he shouldn't do that to his voice. Mr. Rose does the high-pitched screaming a lot and you could tell it was taking its toll on the boy. The few times he stopped with the screaming and sang in his own voice you could tell that he has a LOVELY voice. I do hope that at some point he uses it for good ...

That's not to say that it was a bad band; I enjoyed it and sang along, a lot. I just hate hearing people hurt themselves vocally. I'm a vocalist, I have two and a half octaves (not fantastic but decent) and I know what it does to you to stretch it out like that.

The third band? Well, that's what this post is about. Stone Cold Crazy utterly rocked my world. ROCKED. I never had the privilege of seeing Queen while Mr. Mercury was alive, but I'd like to think that had he known of this tribute band he would approve.

The man who did the Freddy impression had a FANTASTIC set of pipes. Fantastic. Huge, huge voice, easily hitting all of the notes. I think he went a little flat once, which is nothing, considering. He strutted, he posed, he did it up brown (I don't even know what that means but I heard it said once and I liked it.)

I was happier than a pig in shit.

Cold beer, hot music, and a man who loves me by my side. Can YOU think of a better night? Because I really really can't.

Now, you could tell that "Freddy" was straight. For one, he mentioned his wife (BIG CLUE there) and for another his wife-beater wasn't skin-tight.

But he still rocked my world.

Apparently they're doing another show in August and/or a Labour Day show.

And you can bet I'll be there.

With bells on.

If you're smart, and a Queen fan, you'll be joining me.

Well done, gentlemen. Well done and thank you.

I Am A Speshul Snowflake

2010-06-10T01:41:00.001-07:00

OK, it's been long enough, I've been back from Stitches West for months, and I have to finish the story, but first I need to finish telling you about my boob.

Because, you know, it's all about the hooters.

Here I am, two and a half weeks past surgery and yesterday I was comfortable enough to be able to skein yarn again, which is a good thing, as I leave for Fibre Week in Olds, Alberta in two weeks.

I swore that I was going to do Olds if I had to drive there with my poor offended tit in a hand-knitted sling around my neck. Amusingly enough I've had three offers from people willing to knit me such a sling, but it won't be necessary.

I'm still swollen, still sore, but most of the bruising has gone and I'm able to lift stuff again, which is good, as my hoar Sara and her lovely fiancé Trevor drove to Blaine last week and got a bunch of my yarn back from my other hoar Tracy, via yet another hoar named Carry.

My goodness, there is a multitude of hoars about these days, isn't there? And I, for one, am endlesly grateful. I have no idea what I would do without them.

During that trip, Trevor learned the truth about yarn. He picked up one of the two large bags and looked at Sara and said "I never knew yarn could weigh this much." Dude, 30 lbs of anything (which is about what was in that bag) weighs 30 lbs. I think he hadn't known there was that much yarn in the world. Heh.

And there were two of those bags. That's about a third of what I've got ready for Olds right now, excluding the roving.

Now ... a skein of yarn is about 110 grams or so, and five of them are a pound, so 50 are ten pounds. You do the math. There's going to be one fuck of a lot of yarn in Olds. Come and buy it, won't you?

I made it just for you.

BUT ... back to my boob.

The last tumour was 10cm x 7cm x 8cm. That's 4 inches by 2.75 inches by 3.14 inches for my friends south of the border. For people who don't do math, um, that's close to the size of your fist. I lost more boob than most folks had to start with, seeing he took that plus a margin of tissue around it. (Heh, I typed "tittue" at first. It made me snort. I have the sense of humour of a 12-year-old boy. I think that breast tissue should hereafter be referred to as "tittue") It should have been enough. But it wasn't, and the fucker came back.

The good thing? It was benign the first time. That pretty much made it a dead cert. that it would be benign the second time.

The bad thing? Well, it came back.

This one was WAY smaller. When I first found it I had tried to pretend for a week or so that it was just scar tissue and there was no recurrent badger, but really ... scar tissue doesn't just show up four years after surgery. And then I called the doc and it took me a couple of weeks to get in to see her.

During that time it doubled in size. These little fatherfuckers are way aggressive.

Fortunately my doc is seriously cool and understands that patients actually know what's going on with their bodies and the minute I said I had the tumour back again she sent me off to see my lovely Irish Gentleman, who managed to get me an appointment within the week.

He confirmed that it was back, and proclaimed that it would again be banished, forthwith.

(Heh, his office assistantnurseperson (I'm not sure what to call them) said that there wasn't time on the Friday in the OR and he said that there WAS and if the scheduler at the OR gave her grief, she could talk to HIM, but that the surgery would be done that day.)

He took it out again (and some time I'll tell you about how wise it is to "Play the Dozens" with your surgeon ... and win ... when you're actually ON the operating table) and we got the pathology results in and as I said in my last post, the good news is that it was benign.

The bad news?

Yeah, I was holding this one back for a bit so that everyone could be happy for a week, but there IS bad news, alas.

The spiral cells (I think that's what my lovely Irish surgeon called them) extended to the edge of the excised tissue.

That means he didn't get it all.

It's going to come back. Almost 100% for sure.

Again with the good news? It will be benign.

The bad news? I'm almost certainly gonna have to get chopped up again.

I'm going to go see him in September and then again in March and then again in June; we're keeping a close eye on this.

The next step will be to catch it when it's REALLY small and take a LOT of my boob (like a quarter, a third, maybe half) and then get a plastic surgeon to reconstruct the left one and reduce the right one to match. Because otherwise when I went swimming I'd be so unbalanced I'd just go round and round in circles and all of the cool kids would laugh at me.

So I'll end up having, at some point soon, the breasts of a 20-year old. (I do so hope that she doesn't mind. I'm hoping to sneak a tummy-tuck and a facelift in there too, if it's possible.)

I'm going to ask him in September if we can't just do it now before the tumour comes back, so that we can be done with it.

BUT ... no matter what happens ... it's going to be benign. I have things to do and yarnz to dye, and I will have the time to do it. I'm not heading out.

It's still time to dance; the bullet has been dodged.

tomorrow, more about the bitches at Stitches

He Had Me At "Benign"

2010-06-01T13:01:00.000-07:00

And after that he could have had me any way he'd wanted but he's not like that.

Mah boobeis are healthy (if bruised and battered). Follow-up is in three months, but it looks like I'm going to be around to annoy y'all for a little while longer.

Endless thanks to everyone who was more supportive than the best brassiere in town.

I do believe this is the time when we dance, no?

It's Been ...

2010-05-28T05:16:00.000-07:00

... One week since you looked at me
cut my boob up with your knife and said you're sorry ...

(sung to the tune of "One Week" by the Bare Naked Ladies")

So here we are, seven days post-surgery and I haven't had a call from the surgeon's office to "come in now" and talk about the results. I'm thinking that that means I've dodged the bullet again, thank the FSM.

I have my first follow-up appointment on Tuesday the first at 11:45am, and I'm assuming all will be well. You know I'll post if it ain't, don't you?

I don't think this should be a private process, although I am private about many things (some may be snorting right now, but those of you who know me well understand completely).

So far this has been remarkably undramatic. I took the Friday off work and Mr. Assmuppet took the entire weekend off. Even though we really couldn't afford to lose the income. I hardly ever ask for help, from anyone, but this time I caved without a fight. I really couldn't have coped alone.

He cooked up a storm and he and Her Surreal Highness waited on me hand and foot. Srsly, I've never eaten so much in my life or had my feet so constantly and devotedly warmed. For someone who has circulation as shitty as mine is, it was a blessing. I intend to put my feet on my family as often and as thoroughly as possible at all times from now on. I'm so glad that I both married and birthed mammals. (in case you're wondering, Boris the Wonder Snake has been of no use at all during this process. He's cold. Nuff said.)

I've had to take a couple of acetaminophen, a couple of ibuprofen, but the pain has been completely manageable. I'm serious here; I'm not particularly stoic and I would have taken the T3s (Tylenol 3 with codeine) if I'd needed them but I didn't even think of it; not once.

The itching has started (and I can't tell you how much fun that is ... but it's not really bad yet) but that's ok, because it means that the healing has also started. I've had a few shooting pains, which I think (hope) means that the nerves are waking up again.

This has really been a non-event, apart from the startlingly lovely bruising.

Yellow, gold, dark purple that's almost black, some magenta, a little green. There's going to be a new colourway called "Brokerack Mountain" (because if we can't laugh about the broken rack, what can we laugh about?). My left nipple (and I'm sure you all came here to hear about it) is so bruised that I suspect that they actually picked me up by it to move me onto the gurney after the surgery. There's really no other explanation for it. I'm in favour of vigorous nipple action at the best of times, but I've NEVER been bruised like this.

(I know, it's making you hot; admit it.)

I went back to work on the Tuesday, after taking four days off (Monday was Dead Queen Day, and I meant to post, because although most folks in Canada celebrate Queen Victoria on that day, I prefer to celebrate Freddy Mercury, a dead queen who actually means something to me ... but I just wasn't up to it). I really haven't had a problem working, although I was sore after having to sit up for eight hours that first night.

Anyhow, the long and the short of it is that I'm fine ... I'm still on the right side of the dirt and despite the remarkable fluorescence of my boob I'm both feeling and looking pretty much ok.

I'll post again after the doc's appointment on Tuesday, if not before.

And for all of the people who emailed me and left me messages on Facebook, asking what they could do?

My tumour is considered to be a cancer because of where and how it grows, even though it was benign the first time and likely is so again this time. (It's a sarcoma). I'm technically a breast cancer survivor, even though it wasn't malignant.

There's only one thing that you can do for me, and that is ... go and have a mammogram.

Seriously. Do it. For some folks it hurts a bit, for most it's not a whole lot of anything. If you've ever had your blood pressure taken, it squeezes about the same amount.

And even if it's less pleasant than that ... it's a whole lot more pleasant than having a tumour and getting all chopped up.

So go do it, k?

It's Gone!

2010-05-21T20:54:00.000-07:00

The tumour is gone, and I'm home.

Sore, a little woozy, but comfortable. Mr. Assmuppet is making dinner and I think it might be naptime.

I'll post more when I'm a little steadier on my feet. Thank you so much to everyone for the good wishes.

Badger Eviction

2010-05-21T08:17:00.000-07:00

Just a quick note ... surgery is scheduled for 2:45 this afternoon. I'll post a drug-addled update when I return.

Keep a good thought, darlings.

Brief Badger Blogging

2010-05-18T16:03:00.000-07:00

Well hi there, uncola lovers ... I'll bet you think I'm just sitting here, cooling my tootsies!

(opening lines of a commercial for 7-up, about 30 years ago. Forgive me -- I'm old and I'm rambling).

This is just a quick update, as I'm stealthblogging from work (don't start calling management on me; nobody cares.)

I saw the surgeon this morning at 11:30. Same dude who sliced and diced me before. He's trying to schedule the surgery for this upcoming Friday (21st). I'm hoping!

Further updates as they happen. Plus more about Stitches once I get home :)

Rearing Its Head (Ugly)

2010-05-12T02:32:00.000-07:00

The Stitches saga will continue, as promised (as will the tale of how I got deflowered at Denny's during Sock Summit) but this is just a quick update.

I went to the doctor yesterday morning and yeah, my tumour is back. I'm waiting for a date with the surgeon and in the meantime have to do a few test thingies (mammo, ultrasound, nothing scary).

Think good thoughts. It'll be sorted soon, I promise.

I also promise that after I sleep there will be another Stitches tale.

But until then ... the good thoughts, please.

Badger, Redux

2010-05-10T03:10:00.000-07:00

For anyone who's been reading along for a while, you'll recall the breast badger I had taken out four years ago.

For the new readers, I had a Phyllodes tumour in my left breast. Surgically removed, and it was benign. It was still, however, considered to be cancer (oh hell, I said the C word) as it was a sarcoma and bla bla bla medical stuff and so on. (I'm not so big on technical terms, as you may have noticed).

Anyhow ... the chances of it coming back were fairly small. Apparently "fairly small" chances are still chances. I'm trying to deny the fact that it's back, however I have a golf-ball sized lump in my left breast again in exactly the same spot. I was trying to pretend that it was scar tissue, but scar tissue doesn't double in size within two weeks, does it? And it doesn't suddenly show up four years after surgery.

I go to the doctor on Tuesday and I expect, unless she has another explanation for this, that I'll be seeing the surgeon within a couple of weeks.

I'm a little scared but not totally freaked out. I'm a lot disappointed. They did say, however, that if it came back, the chances were that it would be benign again. Let's hold that good thought in our heads, shall we?

I'll continue with the Stitches saga shortly ... just sort of needed to put this out there.

And now, I'm going to bed. I have yarn to take over the border and mail out in the morning. Stay tuned for new yarn appearing in a store near you (I have agreed to wholesale to a store in the Eastern US. Details to follow once we've worked it all out.)

I may be down right now, but dude, I'm nowhere near out.

How To Knit a Love Song: A Review

2010-04-29T06:15:00.000-07:00

Before I continue my saga about Stitches, I owe Rachael a book review. I told her I'd do it. She likely doesn't remember me saying so, but I keep my promises to my friends, and so here it is.

Now, before I get started you need to know that I love Rachael more than I love cheese. If she had written "I hate green beans" on a piece of toilet paper, slapped it between two pieces of cardboard, stapled it and handed it to me saying "o hai, i has a book!" I would have reviewed it, and favourably at that. I am in no way an impartial observer.

That being said, this is not a piece of toilet paper slapped in between two pieces of cardboard. It is a real book, published by Harper Collins.

And it's pretty damned good.

I was nervous about reading it. I'm not so much about the romance, and straight romance at that. I thought "Oh fuck, what if I hate it? How do I tell her? No, no, how do I tell her I love it and fool her into thinking I don't hate it?"

I really didn't want to read it. I knew I would hate it, and I hate lying to my friends.

When we met up at Stitches, she gave me a copy (before it was released, which makes ME more special than you, so nanny-nanny boo-boo) and she signed it for me, which makes me even specialer.

Yes, that's a word. Shut up.

When I got back to Canada (after getting lost many times) I sat down and read it. And read it and read it and read it. I think I read it in two sittings.

Now, it's not Sartre and it isn't Camus either, but that's ok, because really my French is limited to ordering beer and asking where the bathroom is. Either of those dudes wouldn't have done it for me. Well, you know, unless they'd ordered me un biere and told me where la toilette was located.

It is, however, a sweet and funny story, with enough sexybits to get your attention.

I really really liked it. I liked that there was spinning, I liked that there were horses and dogs, I loved imagining living in that house.

I admit it -- I even liked the sexybits.

The characters were believable. The situations were funny. And there was spinning and horses and dogs.

And, you know, the sex.

I don't know how to write an actual book review; you may have noticed. This is more just an endorsement. It's good.

And now, I've been working a hell of a lot of graveyards of late, explaining my absence. I'm going to bed. While I'm sleeping, go buy her book and read it and stuff, k?

I'll expect a report shortly.

Apparently So, Ellen

2010-04-22T21:33:00.000-07:00

This, in response to Ellen in Indy's question as to whether I was going to make you wait ten days for the next installment.

Apparently so.

In my defense, I've been very busy -- the District is still knocking our house down so we have to move, and also too some rats (now very dead) got in.

I must say that the rats make the thought of moving all of my shit a lot easier to take. (please note that no yarn or roving was harmed during The Great Rat Slaughter of 2010)

Back to Stitches. Man, it's taking me longer to post about it than the event itself took, isn't it?

It's hard to know what to say. I suppose a list of things I learned is in order.

a) Some of the big kids won't acknowledge your existence, even though they've clearly seen you several times before. The amazing Maia Discoe from Tactile Fiber Arts tells me that this is par for the course and that you have to be around for a long time to even get a nod. I wasn't particularly worried -- I was busy. (Maia was unable to come to Stitches, which was a terrible pity, but I got to meet her later. That'll be in the next installment. Really. Or the one after that.)

b) I need to learn to prepare more. Way more. Even though I came nowhere near selling out, I didn't have enough yarn to look pretty.

c) I need to learn how to set up a display in a booth.

9) Tracy and Carry are insane.

&) Concrete is really, really hard and the smart people either bring pads to stand on or order the carpeting for their booth even though it's obscenely expensive.

R) California is hot.

@#$!) I can drive 1600 km in one day (foreshadowing)

.) Motel staff are often assbuckets. (more foreshadowing)

pop!) If you take your camera to a big event -- you know, a big event that you have to drive 1600 km to get to -- you should probably use it.

I think that the thing that was most important to me about this whole event was that I got to meet a ton of people who I've known online for years, but have never met in person (I don't remember who I met on what day, and I met several people more than once so it's all just a mishmosh here. I may well not include everyone. If I miss you, please let me know and I'll give you my address so you can come kick my ass.):

The beautiful and talented Bakerina (with a bonus Momerina thrown in, to boot! Um, no, there was no booting. You know what I mean. Shut up.)

The lovely Jennie, who seems to have been so overwhelmed by the entire experience that she's stopped blogging completely since then.

Susan, who I don't think has a blog. I met her on Facebook and it turned out that she's a friend of Jennie's and, although not a knitter, the minute I put out a plea for help for tear-down, volunteered her services. For this she was paid the magnificent sum of one felted bowl (that needed to be felted a little more but my washing machine sucks) and one felted soap. She knows how to drive a hard bargain.

No-Blog-Rachel (who, amusingly enough, has a blog).

Some readers came by to say hi (hi Mehitabel!) and even someone who had heard me on that podcast I did 900 years ago. I suspect she remembered me because of the disgusting names of my yarns but nevermind.

There were a lot of familiar faces, too:

Michael from A Verb For Keeping Warm, Stephen from HizKnits, Rachael and Lala, to name but a few. It was absolutely lovely.

I could go on name-dropping all day but y'all likely want the meat of the story. You know, the reason my face is on the post office wall in Santa Clara.

You'll have to wait, alas, until tomorrow. Today the small black dog of depression has been biting me firmly on the ass. Many people have annoyed me. Several have disappointed me. I have found myself both annoying and disappointing. I think all that I can cope with (it's 10:51pm) for the rest of the day is to go to bed.

(Yes, me. I sleep sometimes. Shut up.)

Never fear, my pretties. This is just transitory or whatever that big word is spozed to be. I'll be fine by tomorrow. I'm not falling down the rabbit hole again.

to be continued ...

The Bitches at Stitches

2010-04-12T23:53:00.000-07:00

O hai! U still hear?

(Please excuse me, I know it's horribly passé, but when I like something I really like it, and I'm still just as much in love with the Lolcats today as I was when first I met them. I seem to be unable to stop talking like them).

Sorry for the unauthorized absence there; I wasn't ignoring you and I really, really meant to blog, but you see ... on the way back here, I got lost.

(more like on the way back here I got sucked into working a whole bunch of graveyard shifts. All that got lost, at least temporarily, was my will to live.)

So to continue the saga ...

We got up in the morning after a ridiculously small number of hours of sleep and, after a huge breakfast at the IHOP (which, I must say, was nowhere near as good as the Denny's in which I lost my virginity in Portland -- still gotta tell you that one) dragged our weary asses over to the convention centre to set up.

The first things I noticed upon leaving the hotel was that a) it was freakin' hot and b) there were palm trees everywhere. I have no idea why the trees freaked me out so much but they seemed somehow indecent, just sort of strewn about the landscape where anyone could see them.

The third thing I noticed was that for such lovely people, a horrifying number of them had a serious crack habit. There's no other way to even begin to explain the driving. U-turns, people, U-TURNS, across three, four, five lanes of traffic. Speeding, veering ... you get the idea.

Despite the clear intention of the Californicators to send me to my early demise, I managed to arrive, unscathed (and hardly lost at all), at the convention centre.

I almost died when I went to the Sock Summit, having been used to far, far smaller events, but this time, having been through the fire, I was almost maybe sort of prepared for this. Or so I thought. But dudes, that place is HUGE. Seriously huge. I wasn't as scared as I was at the Sock Summit, but still ... I am but a small rabbit, and it was a little overwhelming.

We were greeted warmly at the door and while moving through the hall to our spot way back in the boonies, I was delighted to see a number of familiar faces, such as Mike from A Verb for Keeping Warm and the women from RedFish Dyeworks. (Unfortunately their names escape me, but if you're looking for beautifully-dyed silk, they're good folks to go visit.)

It was fantastic to get to see again the amazing glasswork of Michael and Sheila Ernst, and in fact the only thing I bought during the entire event was a set of glass knitting needles. I'm at work right now but I'll try and get a photo of them for you shortly, as this particular style doesn't appear in their store at the moment.

Finally, after a few hours of work, setup was complete, and we were ready for the ravening ~~whores~~ hordes.

Or were we?

to be continued ...

Here We Are Now, Entertain Us

2010-04-03T23:07:00.000-07:00

I kept on driving and kept on driving, secure in the knowledge that Santa Clara was big, and that there would be signs. I remembered vaguely from my look at the map that it was somewhere near San Jose. (foreshadowing)

That whole bridge thingie had picked me up, bigtime, and I was starting to believe that maybe I would stay alive to get to Santa Clara, after all. I really, really love driving but I'd been doing a lot of this trip down unfamiliar roads, after dark and in the rain. Not the ideal driving conditions and I was starting to fade.

Badly.

To the point where I was getting a little scared.

The knowledge that everyone in California has at least three handguns didn't make it any easier for me but I hadn't been shot at more than seven, eight times so I wasn't really all that concerned.*

Finally I saw the signs for San Jose (which is apparently larger than Santa Clara and does have signs.) I got off the highway and started noodling about looking for signs to Santa Clara. I finally saw one and followed the sign and then found a gas station that was open. I pulled over so I could ask for directions to the Best Western, where we had a reservation, and then noticed that the Best Western was right across the street.

I drove over there and parked, So Freakin' Relieved to finally be at the end of my journey. I sauntered into the office and was met by a small girl who looked at me in great confusion and then went into the back office to get a larger man. A man who, alas, also looked at me in great confusion. I immediately suspected that I had encountered one of the Californians who was very serious about his weed.

Him: Can I help you?

Me: Yes, I have a reservation. My friends are already here and I'd like the key to our room.

Him: Oh. You'd like another room?

Me: No. I have a reservation. There will be three of us in the room. I'd like the key to the room so I can go and sleep.

Him: OK, what's the room number?

Me: I don't know. Maybe you could look it up?

Him: Oh. Oh, yeah. What's the name?

Well, I gave him my name, and there was no reservation. Then I gave him Tracy's name ... still no reservation. (By this time I must say that I was having some reservations, myself.) I gave him another name under which Tracy might be registered. No reservation. Then I gave him Carry's name. Still no reservation.

Me: Um, this is Santa Clara, right?

Him: Uh. No. No, it's San Jose.

Me: (brightly) Oh! Well, that would likely explain why you don't have a reservation for us!

Him: Probably.

Me: Nevermind then, thank you for your time!

He gave me directions to Santa Clara and returned to his weed-enhanced fog in the back room. I set off again, too tired to be embarrassed and secure in the knowledge that come morning he wouldn't remember any of our names anyhow.

I followed his directions and soon became completely lost, seeing I'd apparently only listened to the first of about seven different things I was supposed to do. I went into a 7-11 to get further directions.

Me: I'm sorry to bother you (we Canadians are so polite! Don't you love us?) but I seem to be lost. Could you tell me how to get to Santa Clara from here?

Him: Saga Babba?

Me: No. Santa Clara.

Him: Sabla Wawa?

Me: No. Santa Clara.

Him: I new here.

Gee. I never would have guessed. I thanked him for his time (again with the so polite!) and went over to the Taco Bell where a nice young lady didn't seem to think I was a total assbucket for going through the drive-through and not ordering food but instead asking for directions.

She was very clear. I followed the first two directions and then ... um. (I think y'all saw this coming, no?) I got lost.

I found a nice-looking hotel and the very polite man behind the counter (I suspect he was Canadian) gave me directions to where I was going. Fortunately I had been zeroing in on my target and this time there were only two steps to the directions.

THIS time, I did not get lost.

I got to the hotel, and oh thank the blessed FSM, there was a reservation. They knew who I was! (I suspect that because by this time almost everyone in California had heard about the demented woman in the car full of yarn who knew the way to San Jose but not to anywhere else.)

The clerk gave me the room key and gave me directions to the room.

And um, then? Can we all say it in chorus? Yeah. I got lost.

I finally found the right hotel room (the women standing on the balcony screaming "Rabbitch" gave it away) which was in fact one building away from where I had been engaged in a futile search for our room. We unloaded the car and I collapsed gratefully on the bed, greatly in need of beer.

Only to find that the bitches hadn't bought any.

They had flown, so couldn't bring liquids with them, but there were STORES dude, and they were OPEN. All I can say at this point is that There Will Be Retribution.

Eventually, we all slept, as we had to be up in a ridiculously small number of hours to do set-up. They claimed that I snore. They lie.

*As far as I know, nobody shot at me, or at anyone else for that matter.

to be continued ...

Welcome To The Hotel California

2010-04-02T23:15:00.000-07:00

So I drove and drove and drove. I drove until I thought my ass would fall off. I was so incredibly grateful for this car that my parents had given me (I mean, dude, who just gives you a car?) but I was close to toast.

And I kept looking for signs to Santa Clara, because after all "It's big, there will be signs."

And I saw no signs.

But I kept heading for San Francisco, because dude, that is my dream city. I knew if I could get there it would be OK.

All of a sudden there was this bridge, and I realized it was the Golden Gate Bridge.

I was tired beyond tired and everything hurt. My shoulders were on fire, because the steering wheel on that car is a little too high for me.

But when I saw where the road led, when I saw that I was actually about to drive right over the freaking Golden Gate Bridge, although I was alone in the car, I laughed out loud with delight.

It was one of the highlights of my life.

tomorrow ... The Incident in San Jose

Store Update

2010-04-02T04:43:00.000-07:00

Before I continue with the saga, I'd just like to note that there has been a small (very small) store update. I'll try to get more listed tonight after I stuff myself, friends and family with some turkey.

Silence Is Golden

2010-04-01T23:52:00.000-07:00

And so is that bridge thingie outside of San Francisco. I know. I drove over it by mistake.

As I've stated many times, I could get lost in my own bathroom; quite possibly in my own glove compartment. I start out confidently, fully aware of where I am and where I'm going and how I'm going to get there, and then somewhere in the middle of the journey I get distracted by something shiny and it all goes to hell after that.

Every. Single. Time. (this may help explain how I tried to go to a fibrefest in the wrong place last summer. Apparently the people at CFB Esquimalt didn't want to buy yarn, but at least they didn't shoot me.)

I managed to leave Beth's house just fine, and find the I-5 again (eventually) and even found a place to get off the highway for lunch (Arby's) and to buy some ibuprofen (Bi-Mart -- how could I have resisted?) and managed to get back ON the highway again. Going in the right direction.

This, for me, is a plus. I wouldn't have been at all startled to have gone about 20 miles in the wrong direction before I realized I was heading north, but I didn't make that mistake that day. (it later turned out to be one of the few mistakes I missed making)

I drove and drove and drove and oh, Oregon! Why did nobody ever tell me before how pretty you are? If I'd had more time I'd have gotten us a room, that is just how pretty you are. Sheeps! Trees! Green everywhere! And everyone was nice and polite and funny and bla bla bla. As you can tell, I was utterly enchanted.

I finally got to the border and was through the Fruit and Nut Gestapo (they were actually very nice and not a bit intimidating but this is my story, so shut up) and managed to convince them that I had no fruit in my car (I didn't). They didn't seem to notice I was nuts, so all was well and they let me through.

The change in terrain was almost immediate, and I was again enchanted, although not quite as smitten (I'm used to green). I pulled off the highway in a little place called Weed (Californians are serious about their weed, apparently) and called home, as I had realized I'd left the directions here. Or perhaps never even printed them out.

Ben couldn't get Santa Clara to come up on the map, so he said, "Oh, it's big, there will be signs. Just head for San Francisco and look for the signs; you'll find it with no problem."

*ahem*

Apparently it is NOT big, and there are NOT signs.

There were problems.

to be continued ...

The Kindness of Stranglers

2010-03-31T23:25:00.000-07:00

(I may have used that post title before; if so, please forgive me, however it makes me snicker like the 12-year-old boy that I secretly am)

I don't know if I've mentioned it, but Carry and Tracy had decided to fly to Stitches (seeing it was considerably more sensible than driving) and we were going through all sorts of angst trying to figure out how to get our stock there without going bankrupt. This was truly a mad, mad undertaking for two small indies. In our defense, it had seemed like a good idea at the time. And we were drunk.

Mad or not, it was something I had to do. Now that I'm more well again (not completely well, I still go into the dark more often than I'd like, but I know how to get out again, and that's what keeps me whole) I was determined to play with the big dogs. I refuse to get back on the porch.

Faced with a lack of funds and some truly impossible logistics, I declared that the only thing that made sense would be for me to drive, as I had not yet booked a flight.

I was going to get a trailer hitch put on the car, but that was almost $300 and then renting a trailer on top of it was impossible. I decided to trust to the fates, and hope that my car could carry as much shit as I thought it could.

Turns out, it could.

I had decided that I couldn't possibly do the drive in one day (and this was before I had realized I wouldn't be sleeping ahead of time) so I needed to break my trip somewhere in Oregon.

I couldn't afford a hotel and had thought perhaps I'd just sleep in the rest stations on the I-5. It's quite possible, but it turned out not to be necessary.

At least, not this time. (please note here that this is once again the literary device known as foreshadowing.)

I flung out a comment on Facebook that I was driving and would need to sleep in Oregon at some point. Not five minutes later, one of the mad, lovely knitters who helps make our community such an amazing thing popped up with a message ... "Need a place to stay?" I'd never met her, and in fact we have precisely one friend in common. A friend (Duffy) who I had only met once in person.

I said "Yes, please!" and then we chatted a bit online and she decide that I was unlikely to steal her dog and rape her fridge and so on, and that it would be good if I stayed there on the Tuesday night. Um, I think it was Tuesday.

I'm not so good with days, apparently.

After picking up stock from Tracy, and re-starting the car, I then headed south. Tracy is wise beyond her years, and had bought me a cellphone so I wouldn't be stuck on the road without a way to get hold of anyone. Oh Tracphone, how I love thee! It saved my ass, without a doubt. (more foreshadowing)

I somehow lost two hours while in transit (not only am I shit with days, I'm also clearly shit with time) and pulled in to Portland (actually not Portland, some place off to the side that I think starts with an H) somewhere around 7, 8pm. It was now close to two days since I'd slept and I was starting to go stupid. Beth and I and a friend of hers whose name escapes me completely now went out for a burger and then after her littledog (Foco) had jumped all over me and kissed me, I slept for hours and hours in a very comfortable bed under one of the most beautiful blankets you've ever seen (from Guatemala, I think). I woke and Beth made me eggs and toast and some of The Best Coffee EVAR and was on my way again, warmed by the hospitality and kindness of stranglers ...

to be continued ...

Preparation Is Everything!

2010-03-30T23:02:00.000-07:00

Clearly, therefore, I have nothing.

A week or two before Stitches I had the usual pre-show meltdown. I emailed both Jen Van Calcar and The Tsock Tsarina in a state of mild hysteria, only to be kindly (kind of) reminded that a) I do this before every show, b) I'm a bit of a twat and c) my yarn sucks and I won't sell anything so I should shut up, stop whining and have a beer. (OK, they didn't say the part about the yarn sucking. Beer may have been mentioned.)

I took their words to heart and relaxed, content in the knowledge that I had tons of yarn, I had always had tons of yarn and everything would be perfect.

The night before I left to drive to Stitches I realized that I DIDN'T HAVE ENOUGH YARN AND NEVER WOULD HAVE ENOUGH YARN AND WHAT WAS I THINKING AND I HAD TO DYE MORE YARN!!1! (before you ask, yes, I had run out of beer by that point).

Anyhow, so I stayed up all night and dyed yarn, partially dried it, packed it up along with the stuff that was already dry (separate bags, goofy), BOUNCED on the trunk of the car to get it shut 'cause it was so full, and headed out to Seattle. Without having had any sleep. None. At all.

Yet again I headed out to a 'fest with damp yarn in my car. Apparently I'm a rabbit of habit.

I arrived in Seattle way, way after I had planned (as usual) and after a little bumbling about and driving in circles I showed up at Tracy's house, ready to load her stock into the car. By this time I'd popped the back seat down and so there was lots of room for everything. That little car holds a hell of a lot.

That little car does not, alas, like being left parked outside for a couple of hours with the headlights left on.

My departure from Seattle was delayed slightly by the need to find jumper cables and get the car going again ...

to be continued ...

Do You Know The Way to San Jose?

2010-03-29T20:34:00.000-07:00

I certainly do.

Anywhere else in California? Not so much. But San Jose, yes, indeedie -- and I'm telling you, that's an important place to know the way to.

That is unless, like me, you have no need whatsoever to be there.

The whole madness of Stitches almost killed me. I knew I was nowhere near ready to go play with the big kids, but I just wanted to go so bad, there was nothing going to stop me.

(Well, apart from San Jose.)

to be continued ...

Oops!

2010-02-27T12:19:00.000-08:00

O hai!

Man, this place is mental. Good mental, that is.

Knitters, weavers, spinners crocheters, young folks, ~~old~~ more mature folks, big folks, little folks. Haven't seen any aliens or gorillas yet, but it's only a matter of time.

I'm having a hoot, although I'm becoming distressingly aware of exactly how hard concrete is.

If you're here at Stitches and haven't come by yet, please pop over to Booth 1242 and say "hey". I'll be the small demented rabbit standing at the front of the booth practicing my new obsession -- making cord on a Lucet.

No, srsly. It's the most fun I've had with my clothes on in weeks.

The Bunnie Has Landed

2010-02-25T01:38:00.000-08:00

Made it here to Stitches. It took forever and now I have to fall on my face. Setup is in um, six hours ...

Better report tomorrow -- I just wanted you to know I was alive, and stuff.

Oh The People You Meet, When They're Flaming Down the Street

2010-02-10T11:32:00.000-08:00

(with apologies to Sesame Street)

Today marked the day that the Olympians came flaming through our community, complete with honking cars, screaming school children and so forth. Despite my reservations (read: major opposition) to this whole Olympics thing going on, my daughter's school was going, and I figured it would be a good idea to go with her. I mean, this was the only time we were going to see this and it's not like my pointing out that while they're spending giant buckets of cash while we have people starving on our streets was going to make them slap their foreheads and say, "Dude, you're right! Thanks for telling us; we'll stop right away."

We stood at the side of the road waving little paper flags and shouting obscure cheers ("Eh, Oh, Canada Go" or some such nonsense) while endless cars paraded past. The flame finally came through, waved cheerily in the air by a completely-unrecognizable Karen Magnussen (to be fair, I don't think I'd seen her for 40 years), and about a minute later, the whole shebang was over.

I'm not entirely sure it was worth missing sleep for, however there you go. I've now got a little moment of history to share with Her Surreal Highness (who will have forgotten it in about six weeks).

I've now been up for over 24 hours and have to work again tonight, so tales of our trip to the farm (and mislabeled calves, confused goats and pissed-off geese) will have to wait while I catch up on my ugly sleep (yes, I'm so damned hot that beauty sleep is completely unnecessary, and instead I go for ugly sleep, just to even the field a little for mere mortals).

I have, however, managed to update my store a little (link on the sidebar to the left) and there are another six skeins of "SF3" and eight of "Aurora" available. I have a couple of other things I'm going to try to skein at work tonight (two skeins of a new colourway: Heart of Darkness, and some of the heavy sock yarn I had a month or two back. May not happen -- I'm busy knitting some samples and there's only so much I can get done while catering to the calls of the terminally confused (no rilly, you'd have thought there was a full moon or something last night) but I shall do my best.

And now, I think I'd better sleep before I do myself some sort of (further) injury. Off to dream of incendiary sporting events, my pretties ...

Madness Takes Its Toll

2010-02-06T07:33:00.000-08:00

Please have exact change ready.

It's all madness, all the time Chez Lapin these days.

The car situation has been resolved.

My parents, FSM bless their little addled noggins, decided to buy themselves a newer, smaller car, and give their old one to me. I am now the proud owner of a 2001 Chevy Cavalier -- the only North American car I've ever owned (apart from the Mercury Sable which blew up 8 days after I bought it, which has gone to the scrappers and about which we shall never again speak). It's too small, really, for business stuff, seeing yarn takes up a hell of a lot of room, however I'm going to see about having a trailer hitch installed and getting the wiring done so that I can just rent one of those little U-Haul trailers (and possibly eventually buy one).

It's got less than 100,000 km on it (60,000 miles for my friends south of the 49th), it has brakes, it's been maintained properly, and it has two scrapes (bumpers, nothing major) and a slightly-dented side panel (victim of last year's insane snows).

As for hauling, it's only a four-cylinder, but then again I'm hauling yarn, not lead ingots. It'll do us just fine.

You can't believe how grateful and relieved I am to have a reliable car.

As for the rest of the madness ... the main bathroom is fine, the second bathroom is completely festooned with brightly-dyed skeins of big fat singles which I will be selling as "weaving supplies", although they're also completely knittable. 100% New Zealand wool and I love it to death. I think I have another bunch of it that I'll dye today after I've had a little sleep, and then ship off to Seattle to my partner in crime, so I can haul it to California in just another couple of weeks.

I've discovered a hell of a lot of yarn that I skeined and then for some reason left on the loveseat (in the dining room ... we're about to get rid of it). I had thought I might be getting a little low on stock yarn, having spent a lot of my yarn $ on the blown-up car (oops, we weren't going to talk about that again). I moved some coats off the loveseat tonight and found skein after skein of undyed yarn. I just got another 12 cones in from my suppliers, so I suspect that I'll be fine. Right now the living room is piled high with many, many undyed skeins.

The box of dyed skeins that have to just be reskeined so they look tidy and then get ballbands put on them is huge. There has to be far more than 100 skeins in there now. My first 50 skeins that are ready to go have already hit Seattle. There's going to be a lot of yarn. I haven't even started on the fibre.

We can occasionally find a place to sit, but I think the entire family is resigned to the fact that for the next two weeks it's gonna be all yarn, all the time.

I'll try to get some pictures up later today. It's just utterly bonkers.

All I can say is that my family is just lucky I'm not trying to make them actually eat yarn. Or help me skein.

Yet.

And now ... to sleep, perchance to skein ...

Today Is The Worst Day of the Rest of Your Life

2010-02-01T04:21:00.000-08:00

Man, my car-ma is all messed up.

Remember that nice car I got a couple of years ago? The Nissan Altima?

Well, it's now got well over 387,000 km on it ($23.95 for my friends in the US, if I remember my conversion charts properly). Anyhow, it's tired as hell and rattles like a maniac and W (my friend and mechanic) thinks that the strut tower is broken. It's fixable, but it's no longer a long-distance car. The last trip I took to Portland in September was its last cross-border adventure.

So he'd been on the lookout for a good car for us, and found a Mercury Sable wagon that fit the bill. I had been given some $ for my birthday, and my parents lent me a little, and I used some loot I'd been saving up for yarn stock for Stitches, and I bought it about two weeks ago, thinking I'd finally gotten a car big enough to carry me, a helper, my event tent and display items and my yarn and roving. Finally, I had a car in which I could do it up right. It's big, it's clean, it has a new transmission and head gasket in it, and it's only got 167,000 km on it. In "Rabbitch speak", that's practically a new car.

Saturday, I had to go to Sumas, just over the border, to pick up a couple of cones of yarn. W said he'd like to get the car up on a hoist and check a couple of things out, but the place that had my yarn was only open until 1 so I said I'd go there first and see him around 2, 2:30.

If only he'd insisted that I wait. If only I had some sort of psychic ability.

If only the fucking car hadn't blown up.

I beetled along the highway to Exit 92 (and I'll tell you, that car handled NICELY at speed ... I wasn't exactly booking it, but we got to about 110, 120 ... that's 43 pounds for you folks in the US) and all was well. I took the exit, burbled along for a block or two and then there was this STENCH. And then I noticed that there was some smoke coming out from under the hood.

Now, I'm no mechanic, but this seemed wrong to me. I took a right (illegally) and hauled ass into a parking lot and switched off the car -- FAST. My hands were shaking, but at least nothing had actually gone on fire so I figured I was ahead of the game.

Dude, I set my kitchen on fire -- TWICE -- in November. My new rule is "if it's not visibly on fire you're likely ok."

But I was scared.

I went and got something to eat. I hadn't eaten yet that day and my blood sugar was low, plus I wanted to give the car time to cool down. When I got back, I noticed that in my panic I'd parked pretty badly, so I moved the car back a few feet into a more reasonable semblance of responsible parking. When I got out, I noticed that there was a puddle of cherry red fluid. Again, I'm no mechanic but I know what transmission fluid looks like. That, plus the ocean of oil around the car led me to believe that it would be unwise to try to drive it the 50 miles back home.

I called W, he didn't answer. I called Mr. Assmuppet, and he told me that possibly the transmission had blown so it would be a bad idea to try to drive home. He called W and the general consensus was that I should leave the car there and take transit home.

Mr. Assmuppet did offer to come get me in the Altima, but he had to sleep, he was working that night. I had packed my book and my knitting, thinking I might have to wait a long time at the border, so I was ok for amusement. I told him to go to sleep, and headed for transit.

Now, as disasters go, this wasn't so bad. I was parked right in front of the Autoplan place, so I could buy two days of insurance for the new van and leave it there. I was right in front of Wendy's, so I managed to get some food. I was also on the Canadian side of the border and right in front of Zeller's, which had a working pay phone. There was a bus stop right outside of Zeller's and I had a bus pass and some money in my pocket.

And I wasn't in Haiti.

It really wasn't that awful.

I broke down at 12:30. After a burger and a bunch of calls, I got on the bus about 2:00. I took one bus to the mall ... and then two hours later the next bus showed up. Yes, two hours. But I got a bottle of water and some chocolate and sat in the mall warm and dry and read my book until the bus showed up. And then I took that bus, and then another bus and then the skytrain and then another bus and then yet another (if you don't feel like doing the math, that's five buses and a skytrain.)

I finally got home at about 8:30pm.

So now I'm home and my new car is doing an Exxon Valdez in front of Zellers, about 80 km from here.

I'll find out in a few hours if we can find a way to tow it up here without bankrupting me.

The very worst thing about the whole event is that when I cleared all of my stuff out of the car, I discovered that the shopping bag that I had to put everything into was advertising Corona Light. I had to spend eight hours in public with people thinking that not only do I drink Corona, but that I drink Corona freaking Light. I may never live that one down.

All is well. I'm safe, and I'm still not in Haiti.

But MAN, it sort of sucked to be me this weekend.

Never Felt This Way Before

2010-01-29T21:58:00.001-08:00

Relax, I'm not about to announce that I've fallen madly in love.

Or at least, not with a person. I've recently become enamoured of felting. Behold, my first attempt, in all its glory:

bowlbefore1
Originally uploaded by Rabbitch

This is the bowl, top view, before several trips through my washing machine.

bowlbefore2
Originally uploaded by Rabbitch

And here it is from the side.

bowlafter1
Originally uploaded by Rabbitch

And again, from the top, after being abused.

bowlafter2
Originally uploaded by Rabbitch

And the finished side view.

It's nowhere near perfect, there's still a little stitch definition to be seen, but I'm pretty pleased with it for a first attempt.

The bowl is about 7-1/2" across and 2-1/4" high, made from yarn I bought at the Puyallup fair many moons ago (and which actually made its debut on this blog, but I'm too lazy to go back and find the reference).

I've been doing more than just abusing yarn in the washing machine, though. I'm busy getting ready for Stitches West, to which I am going with my friend Tracy from Crafting for the Peanut Gallery.

I've also been dropping furniture on myself. A big heavy pine futon frame, on top of my bare foot. It was very sexy, and although no bones were broken, there was much creative cursing. Right after the air cleared I, of course, had to create a new colourway to commemorate the bruising. It wasn't nearly as dramatic as the yarn implies, but y'all know how I like to exaggerate stuff.

Behold, "Stupid Friggin' Futon Frame", or "SF3":

sf3 003
Originally uploaded by Rabbitch

There are five skeins of this available in my store right now. Unfortunately that's all that's there. I've been skeining like mad all day and should have another update tomorrow, but a certain young lady went out to a birthday party tonight and swiped my camera.

She's home now, but even with the use of my new skein winder (purchased from Crazy Monkey Creations at the Sock Summit last summer), I'm pretty much thrashed for the day.

There are many many stories to tell, and now I'm not as crazy I'll share ... but for now I think I need to grab a beer and a trashy novel, get into a nice hot bath, and not think about yarn or fiber for a few hours.

Maybe while I'm asleep I'll figure out how the hell I missed noticing a Rubbermaid bin with 40 skeins of yarn that I've already dyed in it. It's only been sitting in the living room for, oh, six or seven months now ...

Have a good night, and see you tomorrow. And don't let the futon get you.

You Know, When I Was Your Age ...

2010-01-21T01:59:00.000-08:00

Oh hell, I don't care what happened when I was your age apart from the fact that it involved me walking five miles, barefoot, in the snow. Uphill both ways!

Today it's all about me.

You see, it's my birthday. I'm 48. (And no matter what they say, I don't look a day over 62.)

I don't make New Year's resolutions, as a rule. Oh, I think about them, I start formulating them, but because I have an ego larger than my ass the New Year for me starts today, on my birthday. This is the day I make resolutions. Even if I don't do it on paper, or even say it out loud; it happens.

This year I resolve:

To grab every opportunity that comes my way

To travel, meet the people I love online in real life and to expand my horizons

To take Great Big Bites of life*

To honour my instincts

To accept the fact that I know some stuff and that I can actually teach others (I have a series of dyeing workshops coming up that I was getting a little hinky about)

To call my friends and family more often

To eat bacon as often as is humanly possible

To dance, to sing, and to laugh at every chance

To point out to assholes that they're being assholes and to not tolerate their assholery

To honour my commitments

To shave my fucking legs at least once

To get the tattoo I've been dreaming of for years

To reduce my need for "stuff" and to throw out about half of what I own

To buy pants that fit

To listen to my daughter, because she's freakin' brillant. And to make her get off the phone before 9pm every night

There. That's it.

I think it's time for this whole "life" thing to be fun again. You going to join me on the ride? **

*This is in honour of my best friend who, when he was my age, had already been dead five years.

**you must be this tall to ride

Mark Vincent Made Me Cry

2010-01-17T02:52:00.000-08:00

He made me cry more than once, but the one that really did it is here

I've only watched it 12 times or so. I mourned the loss of Pavarotti, but this lad gives me hope. Even if you don't like opera, go listen and wonder how such a Great Big Voice could come out of an unassuming 15-year-old.

And then come back and tell me there ain't a god. I won't believe you.

Haiti

2010-01-14T00:19:00.000-08:00

No cute titles, no silly posts here. Just something serious, and quite horrible

I think Stephanie said it well when she said "If you're like me, you're too busy being grateful that you're not a mother in Port au Prince right now."

I had been going to go to Dressew here in Vancouver next week. They have yarn for $1.99 a ball. Regia. The big ones. Big enough for two socks. One freakin' dollar and ninety-nine cents. I figured I'd get ten or so.

I've been stressed; we're moving (not by choice) and we don't know where we're going to live in April. I'm getting ready for Stitches West, and there are a bunch of other things going on (the little black dog of depression has bitten my ass more than once). I figured I should have a treat. They have some fluffy green mohair stuff that my daughter would like for a scarf, too.

But you know what? I may not know where I'll be living in April, but I know where I'm living tonight. And tomorrow. And next week. And I know where my family is living. And that they're living.

I'm blessed. And I don't need any more damned yarn.

I sent my yarn money to Doctors Without Borders (website for Canada here, for USA here and other countries can find their site here) this afternoon. All donations are gratefully received. If you are able to donate, please, when you go to the website and get the drop-down menu, choose "Greatest Need" or "Emergency Relief" as the target for your donation. That way they will be able to apply the funds where they will do the greatest good.

This is a country that is so poor that even before the earthquake they were eating mud. I have no idea how they will survive this.

Perhaps, with our help, they can.

I know money is tight; we've all just come through the holidays, and I'm not trying to guilt anyone into doing anything -- taking care of your own families and making sure they're housed and fed and warm comes first.

But if you can ... please do.

(And if you're a reader of Stephanie's blog and you are able to donate, please let her know so that she can update the Knitters Without Borders donation totals.)

Thank you for reading this, and for caring.

Let Sleeping Blogs Lie

2010-01-13T03:44:00.001-08:00

Well it's been over a month, so my blog is officially dead. And yet, I have the urge to write again.

Is there anyone still reading? I'd be surprised at this point.

I survived the holidays -- how about you? I worked a hell of a lot and ate a ... well ... um, not to dis my mother but a really apathetic turkey thing on Giftmas.

We had some of the usual holiday angst (one year she actually started revving it up in like freakin' APRIL, can you believe?)

The conversation this year went like this:

Her: I'm tired. I just can't do Christmas at my house any more (this, after insisting it be at her house)

Me: Well, we could just do it at my house -- why don't we move it down here?

Her: No, I've bought the turkey breast (never mind that my husband and daughter prefer the dark meat -- she'll only cook a turkey breast) and I've cleaned. We'll do it here. You know, R, (downstairs neighbour) only has to cook the turkey, she gets so much help, her children bring the vegetables and potatoes.

Me: Well, I'm working the night before and on Xmoose night too, but Mr. Assmuppet could do the potatoes and we could bring them.

Her: No, no, that's fine, I bought frozen scalloped potatoes from M&M Meats, we all like those, it will be fine. But they don't do frozen carrots any more.

(as an aside, we live in the Pacific Northwest, there is bountiful produce all year long; there is neither reason nor need for frozen carrots, dammit!)

Me: Well, we could bring the vegetables.

Her: No, no, I have them, it's all right.

GAAAAAHHHHH!

Anyhow, we went and it was ... bland. And borderline vile (the veggies were either frozen or pre-packaged or something) but we ate like the little troupers that we are, and Her Surreal Highness had fun so that's what counts, right?

My parents gave us a bunch of gift cards for the local store (very nice) and I gave my mother three pairs of earrings I had made and which she seemed to geniunely like. My boyfriend-in-law gave us some good wine and some very very nice glasses, and then I went to work and made double time and a half.

So all was good.

Until my mother said "OK, we'll have Christmas at your house next year, but I'll buy and cook the turkey and bring it".

She will fucking NOT. Next year we'll have food that tastes like food.

So tell me, how were your holidays?

In Case Y'all Are Wondering ...

2009-12-05T06:57:00.000-08:00

... what I'm up to, while I'm making you wait for the story about how I lost my virginity in Denny's ...

I'm getting ready for Stitches West.

Booth's paid for, no room is booked, no travel arrangements are made, but the booth's paid for. And there will be yarn.

I do so hope that all of you in the area will stop by and say hey.

Did I mention that there will be yarn?

Aurora

2009-11-26T17:51:00.001-08:00

rabbitch-yarn
Originally uploaded by Rabbitch

Here she is, in all her beauty. I'm getting ready for a night of carousing but wanted to give y'all a peek. The colours are chosen from a bunch of pictures of the Aurora Borealis.

Should be available in my store, soon.

Hope all of my American friends are having a happy Thanksgiving.

Ennui

2009-11-22T12:03:00.000-08:00

Dear friends, I am suffering from ennui. This line, from a book I am reading, sums it up very well.

"Annie had yearned her whole life for a fond forgotten home that never was."

I'm far better than I was, the ~~hamthrax~~ ~~flu~~ ~~browncowitis~~ pneumonia is gone, but the ennui remains. There may also be some schadenfreude lingering.

I'm functioning and working but I've lost more weight (which wasn't such a good thing) and I need to spend the next couple of days sleeping.

I have, however, come up with a new colourway and as soon as I figure how to post it (maybe later today) it'll be here. It's along the lines of Revenge but better.

No, rilly.

Now go do something useful while I sleep and try to get ok again, all right?

Dear Interwebs:

2009-11-16T22:51:00.000-08:00

Please excuse Rabbitch for being absent, but she has been sic (sic).

Sincerely,
Rabbitch

Those of you who have friended me on Facebook are aware from my endless whining updates that I've been battling the ick for a couple of weeks now. For the rest of you, here's the summary:

Started with sort of a cold, went into flu (possibly Hamthrax, didn't get swabbed) then ended up with bronchitis/pneumonia type stuff, because clearly I'm an overachiever.

For the first time in five years I actually caved and went to the clinic and am now taking antibiotics. Clarithromycin. It's very nasty (and very expensive) stuff, but it seems to be working. There has been a horrible taste in my mouth for about a week now, which I'm hoping proves that it's working. The whole being able to breathe and talk again thing is also a good indication that it's working.

I'm sleeping -- a LOT -- and working, also a lot, and I should be back on my paws again within a few days. I promise I'll come up with something more entertaining to post.

For now ... it's back to bed, for morning (and my next shift at work) comes early.

Buddy Can You Spare a Dime?

2009-10-30T08:39:00.001-07:00

Or $5? Or a scarf?

Yet again, my buddy Norma is doing a thingie for the Red Scarf Project. I'm in a rush here (at work, stealthblogging in between misdirecting calls) so there's no linky-loo there, but there are links all over Norma's page, 'cause she's like that.

Anyhow, they've gotten about 20% of the hoped-for number of scarves, I believe, and they're far, far short of their monetary goal, also. If you've got time to knit a scarf (shut up, there is no Christmas Knitting going on) or a spare $5 (or more) ... won't you go help a girl out? There are tons of fabulous prizes, and, of course, there's the glory ...

Send Help. Now. And a Brassiere.

2009-10-17T01:48:00.000-07:00

I just went outside. Something big fell down my neck.

I grabbed and pulled out what I think was a big spider leg but it might have been a twig (the joys of living in the woods is that one can never be sure).

I flailed at myself for a while then ran in and took off both shirts. I asked my husband to check if there was a pissed-off 7-legged spider on me.

He took off my bra instead.

So now my boobs are to my knees and I think I have an angry spider in my pants.

Anyone have any bug spray?

So How Was Your Day?

2009-10-10T05:09:00.000-07:00

Me, I've still got lots to tell but I've been busy.

Let's see, my car is still in need of work (I think either another engine mount has gone or the almost-new transmission is fucked -- knowing my luck it's both), I've discovered that the District, who owns my house, wants to knock it down (fortunately not with me in it; they've given me lots of time to move. Haha! Does anyone know of a large house in North Vancouver, complete with studio, that I can get for under $1300 a month? No, I didn't think so), my kid has been sick so I've had her underfoot riding the Drama Llama for several days, and oh yes, I'm making something special for someone and tonight I spun about five yards of mulberry silk.

It wasn't so much spinning as careful and painful twisting, inch by inch, because I really needed the silk and it really needed not to be a wreck and I really didn't have time to learn how to spin silk because I need it right away.

So I twisted it, slowly, carefully, painfully (OK, not so much pain; it was fun, I'm just using that poetic license thing here) and set the twist and then dyed it an amazing shade of a deep, deep burgundy red sort of thingie.

And then, while pouring out the excess dye, the silk (which is slippery) flooped out of the pot and disappeared down the bathroom sink which has no little mesh junk-catcher thing in it.

So now I have red hands, a broken car, I'm soon to have no home (and I've got to pack and MOVE all of this shit!) and there are five yards of beautiful silk somewhere down a sink that the District won't repair because they want me to move.

So hi. I'm fine and I'm still here but it's a little ... fraught around here today.

So how you doing? (someone pass me a beer, will you?)

The Sun Is Shining ...

2009-09-26T20:28:00.000-07:00

... or at least it was earlier today. The birds were singing, too.

The alpacas were humming, the goats were eating everything in sight, the sheep were fighting (well, only two of them), everything except the bunnies was bellowing and Franklin was knitting.

Day one of OFFF was very successful. I came away with three small bags of fibre (and only two nasty emails from my husband).

All in all an excellent day. Off to sleep to prepare for more sheep-patting tomorrow.

I Am A Bad, Bad, Blogger

2009-09-23T23:51:00.000-07:00

And likely a reprehensible human being. I think we all know that, yes?

But before I continue the saga (which I truly will try to finish in the next two days before I leave for OFFF -- at which I am not vending but at which I shall most assuredly be spending) I would like to bring to your attention a little fundraiser my good friend Mel is running over on his blog.

Mosey on over and take a peek and send a dollar or two if you can, mmkay?

And then I'll tell you all about how I lost my virginity at Denny's in Portland. (no really, I did.)

Let's Start At The Very Beginning

2009-09-12T05:14:00.000-07:00

It's a very good place to start (or so the story goes).

(My apologies for my disappearance. Apparently 6 days and ten hours are one and the same to me, which may explain why I have not been allowed to chair meetings for several years now. I started my "ten hours" by doing the same thing I do every fall -- I go to bed for a nap and sleep for about 24 hours.

I have done this when the weather turns pretty much every fall that I can remember; I think perhaps I have the urge to hibernate or something.

And yet, every time it happens I think I have mono again or maybe I'm dying. I don't seem to learn particularly quickly -- every spring I think I'm getting a cold until I realize it's allergy season again.

Anyhow, I went to sleep, stayed passed out more-or-less for about 24 hours or a little more, and I've been scrambling to catch up with everything ever since. So far I have failed to do so.

But I digress.)

Yes, let's start at the very beginning. I know you perverts were hoping that we'd jump straight into the juicy details of The Happenings At The No-Tell Motel, however you're going to have to put up with me making a long story even longer. We haven't even gotten to the border yet.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, I was rabbiting about the landscape, hoping against hope that I could make 3 skeins turn into enough yarn to fill half a booth.

Despite the wobbliness of my confidence (and occasionally my knees) I thought I should book myself into the fibre fest in Victoria first to get my feet wet again. (Alas, I got my feet very, very wet as it was slightly rainy, as per usual, and the festival is held atop a windy bluff.)

I spent the next couple of weeks dyeing everything in sight and skeining madly while working graveyard shifts (fortunately I can skein stuff at work). As I mentioned before, the sales in Victoria were very disappointing, however reconnecting with old friends and acquaintances was most rewarding. At the end of the Fest, I gave all of my unsold yarn to the nice folks at Knotty by Nature to sell, and merrily returned to Vancouver.

Only to realize that a) I had almost no stock left and b) I really couldn't afford to place an order with my supplier.

(Um, yes. This whole "planning ahead" thing takes a little getting used to. Shut up.)

The long and the short of it is that I ended up getting the bulk of my stock in-house about ten days before we were due to leave for Portland. A couple of days before it was time to leave, I packed and shipped everything and decided enough was enough and I'd just deal with it, until the night before we were about to leave, when I looked at the list of items that I'd promised as door prizes and for the silent auction and realized that I hadn't dyed any -- not one skein -- of one of the promised colourways.

Words were said. Some were repeated, emphatically. Yarn was dyed.

And on the morning of August 5 I wended my dye-splattered way, with a suitcase full of bags of moist yarn (and I emphatically agree with Joe when he names "moist" as the most unpleasant word in the English language) to Abbotsford, where Barb B, my father and I, in classic style (and stylish class) parked our cars in the McDonald's parking lot and then ambled over to Tim Horton's to have coffee before starting on our journey.

I'm now at work, trying to finish my meal (I no longer have a name for the thing I eat in the middle of the night) and finish my paperwork (for which I have many names) and make a list of things that I would do today if I weren't going to be comatose; therefore, this saga is, once again ...

to be continued ...

Rust Never Sleeps

2009-09-06T08:45:00.000-07:00

But apparently I do, if only occasionally and usually briefly.

The tale will recommence in about ten hours. Right now I'm going to go lie on my head for a bit.

Possess your soul in patience; you will see*

*quote from the play in which I played the lead in my senior year in high school. I still remember most of my 285 lines, although often I can't tell you my postal code. Clearly the mind is going.

Are We Sitting Comfortably?

2009-09-04T23:53:00.000-07:00

Good; then we'll begin. Or rather, continue.

Please bear with me as I rummage around in my somewhat-selective memory (and can anyone tell me why there is such a disappointingly small quantity of rum involved in the rummaging?) and resume the tale of what came to be known as "The Great Southerly Trek of Aught Nine".

Now, I'm all about the Great White North. I'm as Canadian as hockey, mooses, Birkenstocks and recycled haggis, and I've always claimed that the Deep South starts somewhere near Portland. I've never been further south than Leavenworth, Washington.

I'm also somewhat reclusive, require large amounts of "alone" time to function and am a very light sleeper.

Despite all of this, I found myself cheerfully (albeit slightly dubiously) agreeing to get a passport, drive to The Deep South, and share a hotel room with Barb (who had helpfully informed me that she is reputed to snore like a truck).

Now don't get me wrong -- this wouldn't be the first time I'd shared a hotel room with a woman I barely knew. It would, however, be the first time we'd both signed in under our real names.

This would be the first of many new and exciting experiences -- but far from the last.

(tomorrow: in which we redefine directions)

As I Sat Here, Cold and Lonely ...

2009-09-03T23:53:00.000-07:00

... a voice came to me, out of the gloom. It said "update your blog, bitch!"

Oops. Even my voices are getting impatient with me these days.

As promised, it is finally time to speak of many things; of ships and shoes and sealing wax, and cabbages and kings. And, of course, of The Sock Summit.

When I first received an email (from the wonderful Jen, who I got to hug in person at last) about "that sock thing the Harlot is doing" and was I going to go? I responded, intelligently, with "huh? What sock thing?" (Hey at least I didn't say "what Harlot?")

I really hadn't read anyone's blog (apart from Mel's, and that's only because he talked to me online and kept sending me links and making me go read stuff) for a really really long time. I had no clue what was going on.

I did a little research. I hemmed, I hawed, I said "yes, of course!" And then quickly recanted and ran back into my cave to sit about gnawing on the bones of small rodents and talking in tongues. I was clearly far too crazy to do anything of the sort, and I would just sit in the dark and filth for a while and be perfectly happy and everyone could just stay away thankyouverymuch.

And then somehow it started seeming like a good idea to pack up the three skeins of yarn that I, in my madness, would be able to have ready in time. I don't know how or why, but I suspect both Jen and her partner in crime, the Tsock Tsarina, had something to do with it.

They are morally reprehensible women and nothing but ill can come of associating with them and their ilk. (Or their elk, for that matter. Wicked bad elk, that one.)

I had been pretty much beaten into submission (which I quite like, in case you were wondering) when Barb B started asking much the same thing. This time I was able to sound a little less clueless, as I had at least figured out what a sock was and where Portland was by this time.

I was still on the fence about the whole thing. There was the matter of money (I'm still paying off the many thousands of dollars in repairs I had to fork out for my leaky condo -- the one I sold at a loss several years ago thanks to a dishonest realtor), the matter of time and childcare (Her Surreal Highness is nine; I can hardly just give her a six-pack and the remote and say "I'll be back in a week, honey", as I could with Mr. Assmuppet), the matter of a car (mine isn't quite dead yet, but it's sleeping. Very, very soundly. And after going almost 400,000 km, wouldn't you be?) and the matter of not having enough stock.

"Pish tush" she said, or something along those lines. (she's always talking about my tush, the pervert). "The booth is paid for, I have a car and can drive us, and bring whatever yarn you have; it'll be enough."

Somehow, in the face of her optimism (and her determined refusal to let me go back to those rodent bones in the cave) I found myself agreeing to all sorts of madness.

Just how mad, I had yet to learn.

(to be continued)

Someday You Will Find Me ..

2009-08-31T22:22:00.001-07:00

... caught beneath the landslide.

I'm still here, poppets, it's just been mad. You see, I've been fighting in the trenches.

A few days ago my home was invaded. Nonono, not by the dreaded m*ths, or even worse the dreaded relatives. No, we've been attacked by fruit flies.

We have no fruit, and yet the flies seem to be in no way discouraged by this and are flitting about merrily all over my house; even in rooms where there is not now and never has been any food.

It's quite festive. No, really. If I did drugs it would even be amusing, however I do not and therefore it isn't.

I'm beginning to suspect that they think that I'm applauding them, as my leaping about and clapping has produced a very disappointing number of tiny corpses. My only hope is to have "Fruit Fly Whapping" declared an official Olympic sport.

And if it is, baby, you can bet that Team Lapin will be there, clapping for Canada.

Tales of the Summit, Gibsons and the impending Oregon Flock and Fiber (which I am doing mainly because if you say it really fast it sounds dirty and I'm secretly a 12-year-old boy) are being written as we speak. Look for a "real" post tomorrow.

You may not find one, but I encourage you to look anyhow.

And now ... I hear the wild fruit fly calling my name -- TTFN and all that.

The View From The Top

2009-08-20T21:26:00.000-07:00

Or perhaps from the Summit.

I guess I've had long enough to process some of the Sock Summit thingie and it's time to post about it -- but where does one start?

The experience of a vendor is vastly different from that of an attendee. This is not to say that I have anything bad at all to say about it. Much to the contrary, this was one of the most amazing events I've had the privilege to participate in, and I owe y'all a report.

The problem right now is that I've been living on caffeine, no sleep, and the scraps of food gleaned from the kitchen floor for several days now. I leave on Saturday morning at half-past sparrowfart for Gibson's Fibre Fest. I am, as usual, in no way prepared.

I've been up for 26 hours straight right now, dyeing and ... oh hell, I must have been doing other shit but it doesn't come to mind right now. My kitchen is mostly clean so I must have done that too.

I'm as crazy as a sack of hamsters on crack. The good kind of crazy; the Summit kicked the rest of the bad crazy out of me, bigtime and I want to share it, in fact I need to.

But right now, as I sit here, covered in dye and sweat, I really can't do the experience justice. And also too if I don't go to bed I'm going to start barfing up lungs or something.

There's a lot to do tomorrow (well duh) but I'm back on Sunday.

I promise ... on Sunday I shall tell you of the vending, the spending, and most importantly of the mending.

Until then ... knit a sock for me, I'll be back for breakfast*

*extra points to anyone who gets the reference

Love Me

2009-08-16T00:33:00.001-07:00

As many of you know, my dear friend Dr. Mel has a wonderful little dog named Tuck. Tuck's a good boy but he had a really bad start in life (puppy mill, vile, arrests, etc.) and he needs a good deal of medical attention.

Next week Tuck's going to have some major diagnostic work done to see if they can get to the bottom of his recurrent respiratory infections. Major as in a major amount of $.

To try to offset some of the costs, Dr. Mel has set up a Zazzle Store.

Y'all need magnets and T-shirts and mugs, don't you? If not for me or for Mel, do it for this little face:

Love_Me_Tuck
Originally uploaded by Cabezalana

You know you want to (I did).

Over The Hills and Far Away

2009-08-14T21:42:00.000-07:00

Well, I've been back a few days and have had time to draw a breath or two so it's time to leap back into the world.

The first day I got home, well, there had been a misunderstanding. My father sat by the phone all day waiting for me to call so he could come pick me up (I have absolutely no recollection of any such arrangement), Barb went well out of her way to return me to my abode and then I ran about feeling guilty and apologizing to everyone in sight while trying to peel the nine-year-old limpet that was my daughter off of my leg.

And then Little Miss I Only Sleep Four Hours A Night (that's me) went to bed. And stayed there. For fifteen hours. I think they might have thought I was dead.

I've had a few days to regroup and I have learned a number of things.

1. That thing in the kitchen upon which I heat water so I can dye yarn -- did y'all know it can be used for heating food, too?

2. The natual colour of my hands is not magenta. Neither is it navy, scarlet, purple, chartreuse or lavender. They're actually quite boring.

#. When I am out of town, my family reverts back to its wild state. I can only assume they were living on Cheetos and Dr. Pepper as, apart from a couple of lonely rice cakes and half a box of granola bars, there was nothing resembling food in the house. I had left money in the bank in case they ran out of anything but apparently I'm the only one who can work something as high-tech as feet to get to the grocery store (our car is deceased and cannot be resurrected but it's only a mile each way to walk. It's not like we trek in from Irkutsk or something). Not that I'm bitter.

(((. Apparently whilst not eating anything but Cheetos and Dr. Pepper my family managed to dirty every dish in the house and leave them all awaiting my return. Some for the entire five days. Now that I have recovered my strength There Will Be Words (yeah, I know I've been complaining for years but I've really had enough of this shit).

b. It's completely reasonable, after having spent an utterly exhausting week on your feet Amongst Your People, to schedule another Fibre Fest in um, eight days or something. (If you're around, pop in and say "hi". I'll be there only one day, Saturday the 22nd, in the Artisan's Market rather than the Merchant Market. Not that I'm all artisany and stuff but that's where they had room.)

To clarify: I didn't schedule the fest, I scheduled my attendance thereat.

*&#. If you happen to decide to ship your yarn back from another country, and if you need that yarn for another fest in aah, actually 7 days, that yarn will not be delivered to your home, even if you spent $45us to ship it home, and you will therefore have to heat up that food-heating device and dye some more yarn just in case. Whilst also felting soap and figuring out transportation (see note re: deceased vehicle above -- but I think I'm getting another this weekend).

I have many, many things to say about the Sock Summit now that I have had time to ponder. I don't have so much in the way of photos seeing my laptop and camera still refuse to talk to each other, but I'm pretty sure there will be some on other blogs -- I'll link as I find them.

For now, I'm going to go wash more dishes (I know, shut up) and then put some food on top of that warming device and see if I can't come up with something edible.

More tomorrow.

Summit Wicked This Way Comes

2009-08-07T23:33:00.000-07:00

Intrepid Reporter Rabbitch here, on-site at the Sock Summit in Portland, Oregon.

I'm here to tell you that the crowds are amazing, the yarns are exquisite, and the ~~peasants are revolting~~ entire event is nothing short of a work of art, or perhaps of a very twisted mind.

We've completed the first full day of the marketplace and I've got to say that my estimate of "not enough yarn" in my booth has been escalated to full panic mode and is now hovering somewhere in the realm of "almost no fucking yarn at all, what was I thinking, was crack free that week?"

That being said, it's good to be back in the game again. Meeting old friends, making new ones, working on my wicked skeining muscles (no rilly, I'm getting frightening, anyone want to arm-wrestle for a beer?) and spending time Amongst My People is something I missed far more than I knew during The Year And A Half Of Madness and Advanced Twattery.

Last night's opening ceremonies were wonderful. I was amazed that I was in the same room as Cat Bordhi, Nancy Bush, Sivia Harding and Barbara Freaking Walker (no, srsly, can you imagine?) and managed to avoid peeing on my own feet like some overexcited chihuahua at a cocktail party.

Stephanie's speech was eloquent and moving, however I feel it is my duty as a reporter to touch on a point that she (perhaps even deliberately) declined to mention.

The speech held many glowing tributes to community, respect, creativity, camaraderie and so on, however, I think it was perhaps facile of her to omit mention of the real point of all of this.

The same focal point of any conference worth its salt.

That being, of course, hookers and blow.

I feel that, although painful, it is my obligation to expose the seamier side of a large gathering of this sort. With miscreants such as Farm Witch, The Tsock Tsarina, Jen VanCalcar, Pam Mann and myself in attendance, how could it be anything but a teeming cauldron of moral turpitude?

The hour grows late and I need to take my brightly-painted little self off to bed (red on the left fingernails, black on the right, red on my right knee ... just don't ask) however rest assured that I shall check in again as soon as can be with proper linkage, perhaps some photographs, and an update on the skulduggery going on behind the scenes (and perhaps under the table in my booth) around here.

For now ... keep your powder dry* and your chins** up. If you know what I mean -- and I think you do.

*dye powder, you freaks. It's no good if it gets wet.
**this is in no way meant to imply that any of my readers has more than one chin.

Oh Looosy! You've Got Some Skeining To Do!

2009-08-04T22:42:00.001-07:00

Well, here we are on Sock Summit Eve.

Isn't it cool? Isn't it nifty? Are you excited?

Are you having a nervous breakdown? I certainly am. In fact I'm having two; they're small.

Am I the only "artiste" who has realized that there is no possible way she has enough yarn and although she is sure to return home with every single skein unsold, and also although she is leaving town (and in fact country) in eight hours, she Must Dye More Yarn?

I thought so. It is all about me, after all.

So yeah, I've got about half as much yarn as I'd hoped to do, and maybe 25% of the soap I'd hoped to felt. I'm losing it completely. I have shipped three large boxes of yarn to Big Alice. All three of those boxes have arrived in Portland, to be delivered tomorrow and the fourth box I shipped, which is full of felted soap and handmade lavender sachets, was deposited on her porch early this evening.

(Don't you just love this interwebs thing? I've never met the woman and have happily shipped x-number-of-dollars worth of product to her without a second thought. She told me earlier tonight she was secretly selling it all on eBay before I get there.)

In fact if you know where she lives you can likely run over and steal all of my yarn tomorrow morning and then I can just buy some beer and turn around and drive back home and stop pretending I'm a yarnista. That would work quite well for me, Thanks In Advance.

My father, who has by his actions greatly ameliorated much of the animosity I feel towards him on a regular basis, is picking me up at oh-dark-45 (did you know there was a 6:45 in the morning? Who invented that, FFS?) and is driving me out to Abbotsford where I will meet my partner in crime, Barb, from Wild Geese Fibres and we will head to the border, where we shall either sail right through (as I did the other day with my lovely brand-new passport) or sit there for fourteen hours explaining to them that we're knitting afghans, not Afghans (this is not to imply that there is anything wrong with Afghans, I just can't knit one), and that we are more to be pitied than feared and that we really are going to a knitting conference and we should be let through before we start crying.

I'm taking my trusty new (to me, although really quite old) laptop and will attempt to blog throughout the madness. That is, if I can get it to talk to either of my cameras or my thumb drive (which I seem to have lost anyhow so it's a moot point really).

So if you're going to the Summit, come visit us. If we make it through the border we'll be there bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in Booth 729, either with far too much yarn or none at all.

There will also be some of my yarn over at the Yarny Goodness booth (#417). Stop by and say "hey" to my girl Pam. You'll be able to recognize her quite easily; she'll be the vendor pretty much covered with my drool the entire show, seeing she's one of The Best People Evar and also she's willing to let me smooch on her on a regular basis.

I'm also apparently making an appearance in the Color Me Crazy booth on Saturday morning at 11:30. I have no idea what I'm doing there; you can't exactly demo dyeing and I don't think I have anything interesting to say, but I'll be sure to stutter and turn red and maybe fall over my own feet (I'm socially inept). Come watch, it'll be fun, and it'll be cool to tell the grandkids about the time you saw a woman spontaneously combust.

No srsly, how often do you get to see that?

And now I'm going to check my emails, see what the heck I promised to the good folks organizing the Summit in the way of door prizes and auction things (I'm praying madly that I've already dyed it), pack the rest of this yarn, admit to myself that the time has come for me to stop this and then maybe felt ten more soaps, drink two beers and fall on my head for three or four hours of sleep.

See you there!

Tonight's Conversation

2009-07-23T20:26:00.000-07:00

Me: Oh no! I took my pants off! You're controlling me with your mind!

Her: Why did you take your pants off?

Me: Because I'm going to take a quick shower.

Her: Oh, you're getting ready for work.

Him: Because that's how she likes to fry bacon! (I was making dinner at the time).

Her: In the shower?

Sweet FSM, and they ask why I drink ...

Ibuprofen Is My Friend

2009-07-23T03:44:00.001-07:00

I have returned from the Victoria Fibre Fest (in fact I'd returned before the last post) and although sales were very disappointing there, it was a worthwhile venture and we will likely go again next year. My kid had a fantastic time leaping about on the rocks all day with her friend and I got to meet some new faces, renew some old connections and generally have a good time while Amongst My People.

One of the really good things to come out of it was that at the end of the Fest, all of my unsold yarn (or at least all of it that I had skeined and ready) went to a fine new store called Knotty by Nature run by a lovely young couple who just happen to be the parents of the girl that Her Surreal Highness has had such fun with during the Fest the past two years. It's on Government Street in Victoria, BC, and if you're in the neighbourhood I'd really recommend popping in and saying hi. Even if you don't buy my stuff (shame on you!) it's a great place to spend some time.

Another fantastic thing was that I also got my yarn mojo back. I didn't think I'd be able to do it after TYAAHOSTAMBAATMIATUTIATT (The Year And A Half Or So That Ate My Brain And Turned Me Into A Totally Unreliable Twat In A Total Tailspin) (hmm, that's a slightly awkward acronym. I'll just call it "the missing year and a half or so", k?) but I somehow managed to dye and skein and gather up enough thangs to fill up a table in an interesting manner, and discovered -- rediscovered -- that this is the reason I get up in the morning.

I know there are a few folks waiting for yarn from me and I'll be doing my best to make it up to you if you are one of them. Some people won't forgive me, however if my best isn't good enough it in no way negates the fact that it is, in fact, my best. It's all there is. There will be extras. There will be refunds. There will be groveling. Stay tuned.

Since returning from Victoria I've been getting ready for the Sock Summit. There's been a little matter of finances (as always) as the gas bills for January through March were obscene and I've been paying them off for a few months. Who knew that heating a house this large would be so ugly? Anyhow, I've been working quite a lot at "the good job"* and my last paycheque enabled me to order some stock to go with the 200-300 skeins I have here in the house. Yes, I have that much. It's not all sock yarn but then again not everyone going knits only socks, so there will be "other stuff" in Portland also.

A few things have also found their way into my Etsy store, although not a whole lot as I live in fear of running out in Portland. Almost as much as I live in fear of bringing every single skein back with me.

*sigh*

Don't you just love the angst?

Anyhow, a couple of big boxes of yarn arrived on Tuesday of this week and I've been skeining like a madwoman, as another 40 lbs of stock is coming from Ashland Bay Trading Company tomorrow, and as well as skeining I have to, you know, like, dye the stuff. (let us not speak of my additional anxiety concerning the running out of dye powder, ok?)

Apparently one of the boxes of yarn I received is a Magic Box, hence the title of this post. The box with the 40 skeins in it? No problem. The other box? Well, there were 100 skeins in it to start. It actually comes in balls so I have to skein it before I dye it. I've been skeining like a madwoman for two days now, in between attempting to run a household, and every time I stop to count how many are left, there are 60. I'll skein five, count hopefully, and there are 60 left. I do another 7 or 8, recount ... still 60. I really need to get me one of them electric skeiner things, or even the kind you just wind, but in the meantime I'm doing it all on a niddy-noddy. One at a time. And never reducing the count.

It is indeed Magic, and I can certainly use the stock (although I think I'll have 700-800 skeins for Portland, which should surely be enough) but that whole thing with the niddy-noddy? After skein #1,896 or however many have come out of that box, using that thing hurts. I've talked the kid into cutting all of the ties I use to keep the yarn from tangling when I dye it, and she's done one or two skeins (also not reducing the count) but it's mostly been me. And quite frankly it stopped being amusing about half a bottle of ibuprofen ago. I suspect I shall be waiting for a new kidney soon -- thank the FSM for the Canadian Healthcare System (under which, should I be able to live long enough to get a kidney, at least I won't have to pay for it.)

Um, so, that's what I'm up to these days, and why you may not be hearing from me again until August 10 or so (although I'll try to update before I go, perhaps with a picture of a mound of yarn, and a still-full box of stuff waiting to be skeined).

If you're coming to the Summit, please do drop by and say hi. I and my partner in crime Barb, from Wild Geese Fibres will be in Booth #729 in the Blue Moon North area, I believe, and apparently I'll be in the "Colour Me Crazy" (how appropriate) booth on Saturday at 11:30am. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be doing there, I think it's a Q and A and "meet the artists and find out what in the screaming purple hell was going through their heads when they dyed that" sort of thing. Mostly I expect to cuss and blush and fall over my feet, as I'm socially inept. Come laugh at me; it'll be fun.

And now? Oh, it's only 4:40am. I think I'll go skein some more.

*(Oh hey! I don't have to differentiate any more! It's the "only" job apart from the yarn stuff -- I'm still really stoked about having quit, and have declined to participate in an exit interview as I'm done with pretending I have any respect for or loyalty to them, and if I tell them the truth then I can't ever use them as a reference again, seeing calling the entire management structure "soulless, morally-bankrupt, ass-sucking weaselfuckers" isn't something that usually goes over well. Employers are funny like that. The weasels don't think much of it either.)

Ponderings From The Shore

2009-07-04T02:01:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know, another post. Don't get all het up or anything. Think of it as a special Independence Day present to my neighbours (or sorry, neighbors) to the south.

I worked Thursday night from midnight to 8am on Friday, came home and got about three hours of broken sleep (although now I'm more awake than anyone should be at 2am on Saturday; go figure).

However, tired as I was when I got up, my services were required.

My dear friend C had to go to work yesterday. She's a single mom, working like hell to keep body and soul together and make a good home for her twins. Unfortunately, the other day, after slaving for weeks like a navvy to make enough money for rent (hauling scrap metal, doing odd jobs, gathering and cashing in like $100 worth of cans and bottles for recycling while waiting for her new job to start), she lost her wallet.

A wallet with over $500 in it.

Now some people are honest, however apparently a wallet with that much money in it is more temptation than others can resist, and it hasn't been returned, so even though through the intervention of her parents she managed to make rent (and imagine how much fun it is to have to ask your parents for rent when you're almost uh, thirtymumble years old) she had to go out and haul scrap again yesterday to pay for goofy little things like, oh, cable, electricity, hot water, food. You know, those little luxuries upon which folks like us are wont to splurge.

Her kids are old enough to spend the day on their own, and in fact often babysit Her Surreal Highness for a few hours here and there when I have to juggle my own impossible schedule, but it's pretty boring sitting home all day long and she asked me if I'd take them out somewhere with HSH. She's saved my bacon about eleventy billion times, so the only possible answer was "yes, of course."

We chose to go to the beach, where her kids, who swim like fish, had a fantastic time and where E discovered that in fact she doesn't swim as well as she would like and requested swimming lessons as part of this summer's regimen. (I said yes).

While lolling about on the sand (in black jeans -- WHAT was I thinking??) I pulled out my ever-present little notebook and scribbled a thought or two that I thought I should share with you.

1. The company of children, like cheap liquor, when taken in great quantity is apt to make you vomit.

2. Children are far more pleasant when they are about 100 yards away, and in the water, optimally with the wind blowing in the other direction so you can't hear them at all.

3. It is preferable if those children are alive (I'm not completely lacking in maternal instinct; I mean I wouldn't, like, eat my young or anything, I'm just not Mary Poppins. I did, however, buy them all ice cream and brought them home as hale and hearty as they were when they left, so I'm hoping that gets me a few points).

4. Boob implants look like boob implants no matter how young or how buff you are. Even in your early 20s, you shouldn't have lighthouses sticking up from your chest when you lie on your back on the beach. That being said, I appreciate the brevity of the swimsuits being worn by the aforementioned surgically-enhanced young ladies and would encourage them to continue with their research into the limits of swimwear.

5. Children (oh here I go again, call the Ministry) who are stupid enough to annoy Canada Geese by splashing water on them when they are serenely bobbing about on the waves minding their own business perhaps deserve a little menacing by said geese.

6. The plural of biscotti is surely biscotti, is it not, and not biscottis? (This from another barely-adequate book I was reading while lolling on the shore. I could be wrong on this but it just sort of struck a jarring note.)

Hmm, being a pedant, I've just looked it up at that online dictionary thingie and apparently the singular is biscotto and the plural is biscotti. At no point is it appropriate to use "biscottis". You can probably argue with me on this one but I'm just not interested; I've proven to my own satisfaction that the book was wrong and have demonstrated my moral superiority by not correcting it before returning it to the liberry. I can die happy now.

Anyhow, those were just a few scribbled thoughts I felt I needed to share. You're welcome.

And now for the meat of this post:

Tomorrow is the natal day of Her Surreal Highness. Nine years ago minus one day, I was being cheerfully sliced open by the sure and thankfully steady hand of Dr. R, after having endured six days of the medical community's attempts to induce labour (or labor, seeing, you know, the folks to the south and all).

My hoo-ha had seen the films about how babies usually come out and was heard to mutter "I can't be having with dilation and pushing, nasty stuff and all" a la Nanny Ogg. I mean really. I just couldn't possibly imagine doing such a thing and apparently my nether regions were in agreement. Anyhow, she arrived all well and healthy and a tidy scar that nobody ever sees is a small price to pay for her magnificence.

Her Majesty is my only chicken and although few can drive me to distraction (or drink) more quickly than can she, I treasure every moment of her life and every hair on her head. Even if she does poke at the batwings on my arms when I'm skeining yarn and asks me why I've gone all jiggly and then giggles like a madwoman as my face turns purple.

We've had some fiscal shenanigans over the last year or two, what with Mr. Assmuppet not having a permanent full-time job and with me being mentally incapable of much more than remembering where the bathroom is. He's working full-time now, thank the FSM, and I seem to be myself again (my apologies to all who didn't like me much in the first place; I'm afraid I'm back and I'm not going away again). The long and the short of it was that I was uncertain that we'd be able to do much in the way of birthday celebrations for Missy Moo, however the week has been quite wonderful.

There have been celebrations all week. My friend Ann send a Box O' Goodies which was received with squeals of glee. She has sons, no daughters, but she always seems to know the exactly right things to send. Gramma P also sent a box which got here yesterday, to an equal number of squeals of glee. Dresses! My kid doesn't wear dresses but these were bang-on and the kid's going to wear them happily.

My friend C has a friend who got her tickets for The Jonas Brothers concert this past Monday, at which I am told E danced and sang and screamed with the best of them.

I'm a little disappointed, in that my first concert was Blue Oyster Cult, definitely not a "boy band" but hell, she's eight and I was fifteen; one takes what one can get.

(And I sort of like the Jonas Brothers, too. Don't tell anyone, k? It'll be our little secret.)

We have also arranged for a party at the Laserdome. An hour or so of running about and shooting and then 15 minutes' climbing on the rock-climbing wall, followed by pizza, pop, chips and an ice cream cake. The minimum booking is for ten kids (including the birthday person). We've had eight responses, which means that unless someone shows up unannounced (they often do) there will be one slot left. My friend had said that the Laserdome was a great place for a birthday; they do all the work and I can just sit there and knit. However, unless there's a surprise arrival, you can bet there's going to be a mommy hiding behind the rocks and shooting people, and despite my fear of heights (which is immense and causes close-to-paralysis in me) I think I'll do the wall, too. So there.

The best thing, though? The Complete And Uttar Best Thing Evar?

The delicious and talented Lala has fallen upon hard times and is at the moment a "woman of leisure". She has been volunteering at the Rock Camp for Girls in California and told me that there was one in Vancouver, but however it was too late for E to go this summer.

I went to the website* and discovered that although they are full for this summer, they have a few slots left for Aboriginal girls.

My husband is Aboriginal. He's a Quinault and has Status, at least in the US (although not in Canada, as apparently when you cross the line that some white guy drew in the sand at the 49th parallel, you lose your cultural heritage, but I digress, and clearly have no issues with this. Shut up). E isn't status but she identifies as partially Aboriginal.

I emailed them, they emailed me, the committee discussed it and ...

I got the news yesterday that she would qualify for a spot. We may also qualify for funding although that's a small thing as we all know I'll be rolling in filthy lucre after Sock Summit.

Best birthday present ever.

Sadly, she has chosen to be a percussionist**, but at least she didn't choose the banjo. There are, indeed, small mercies.

* if you happen to have a few dollars spare, the Rock Camp for Girls is a worthy cause. Read the website, read what Lala has to say about it. This post is 900 years long and I'm running out of steam; but I think that any organization whose sole goal is to create a safe and empowering environment for our children is one worth getting behind. There is quite possibly a Rock Camp for Girls in your town, and if not, then there's one close to you -- or what the heck, go mad, contact them, and start up one of your own!

** E's grandfather is a drummer. His pipe band won the world championships in 1956. She comes by it honestly.

If You Butter Them, They Will Come

2009-07-02T14:13:00.000-07:00

I've been most negligent in my blogging duties over the last, oh, year or so, and as a result my readership has dropped off dramatically. And who can blame 'em? If there's nothing to read, why bother reading?

I think I've dropped from a high of 500+ readers a day to 90-ish, and I mentioned it to Mr. Assmuppet recently. He said "well, it's still a lot of people, but we could fit them in the living room, if we buttered them and packed them closely."

It seemed like a good idea, but then I thought "what about the vegans?" I mean, the vegans wouldn't want to be buttered would they? I resolved the problem by suggesting that the vegans should be coated in olive oil and stacked in the guest room. I mean, there can't be more than half a dozen, right?

These are the sorts of conversations we have in this house, which explains a lot, really.

Anyhow, for any of you who are still reading, I really appreciate your continued attention, and I promise the butter is fresh.

So things have been busy Chez Lapin. I'm getting ready for the Sock Summit and I think I'll have, oh, about half as much stock as I need. I'm also working almost full-time at the "good" job. About two days ago I grabbed myself a backbone or two and told the "bad" job that they should go and suck weasels because I'm never ever giving one minute of my time to them. It felt pretty good, and I actually managed to be polite and in my resignation email there was no mention of actual sucking or of weasels, although it was implied.

I've been working a lot at the "good" job, and have been spending most of the recent evenings there skeining yarn. There are some new colourways coming up and hopefully my Etsy store will actually have something in it tomorrow after I've had some of that sleep that I hear all the cool kids talking about. It sounds like fun and I'm gonna go get me some shortly. I have a big pile of green/yellow superwash merino that's a lot of fun and a few thangs of sock yarn and for the month of July, in honour of both the store's reopening and the birthday of Her Surreal Highness, shipping will be free.

I've also been reading a heck of a lot of books and I've been over the last day or two reading this thing. I mean this THING. It's by Lillian Jackson Braun -- she writes the "Cat Who" series. I read them from time to time, they're light and meaningless, sort of like the "natural flavoured" microwave popcorn of literature, or even "light butter", but this latest book makes me wonder if she's maybe lost it. It's "The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers" and I'm 3/4 of the way through the book and so far there's no storyline and no plot. It's a pile of poorly written, uninteresting, disjointed paragraphs. It makes me sort of worry about her mental state. If you're a fan of hers, don't go read it. I mean really; don't. I shall be returning it to the liberry, tomorrow, unfinished.

And now it is the time for the sleeps. Again, thank you to all who are still reading. I will actually have some photos of new yarn (when I find out where I've put the frigging camera) in a day or two and maybe seeing I'm almost sane again I'll blog more than once a month ...

Bisoux to all of you.

Bwaaa!

2009-06-15T05:18:00.001-07:00

Ok, so it isn't a real post, but I'm getting ready for the Victoria Fibre Fest and working full-time and Joy's coming to see me in about um, ten days or something and I have a new (very old, but new to me) couch and bed coming on Wednesday morning and I don't have anywhere to put them and I'm sort of bonkers.

So, while you're waiting for me to rejoin the land of the living ... here's a little gigglesnort I picked up from a friend on Facebook today.

You're welcome.

Slipping In Under The Wire

2009-05-18T22:55:00.001-07:00

Ack! I almost forgot to post on this, one of the most important days of the year.

I refer, of course, to Freddie Mercury Day.

(Yes, I know that some people are celebrating Victoria Day, but honey, you celebrate your dead queen and I'll celebrate mine, k?)

Mr. Mercury brought us joy, showmanship, and one of the most beautiful voices I have ever heard. The world is richer for his having joined us, albeit for far too short a time.

And so, Farrokh, I salute you. You did indeed rock us.

Rest in peace, dear.

Oh. Em. Gee.

2009-05-11T03:56:00.000-07:00

Gah!

I thought I hadn't blogged for about two weeks and just suddenly noticed that as of tomorrow it'll have been a month.

I believe it was Lee Ann's husband who said that if you don't post for a month, your blog is officially over. Or maybe it was for two months.

Clealy*, sir, I am sneaking this one in just under the wire.

Anyhow, it's been a long and involved month (the same can be said of the last year, really) however reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated (and perhaps celebrated a little too gleefully by some. Names have been taken.)

There are many reasons for my prolonged absence (and erratic posts) but I'm sure most of you don't come here for excuses and whining (although there has been a plethora of both over the past, difficult, year), therefore we shall dispense with all of that and just move on to more pressing issue of what I've been up to over the past, like, three or four months since I've actually written a "real" post.

Things I Have Learned

a) "Slumdog Millionaire" and "Hotel for Dogs" are NOT the same movie. If you get them mixed up and express shock at the latter winning the awards given to the former, you will be laughed at and perhaps taunted.

b) when knitting anything but warshcloths, gauge actually does matter and if you ignore it you will end up with some very nasty objects, none of which you should preserve for posterity. (hint: you should not be able to fit both feet into one sock)

c) fibre people are amazing (no, not Euell Gibbons and others of that ilk who run about eating bark mulch, I mean you, the knitters and spinners and occasionally even the crocheters) and should one start to fall on one's ass, there will inevitably be someone there to pick one up. And then to kick one in that self-same ass should it be so required.

Things I Have Knat

a) Warshcloths. Fourteen of them I believe.

ii) A scarf for my boyfriend-in-law.** It's a gorgeous blue alpaca/silk and I have a picture of it somewhere but I'm posting this from work so y'all are going to have to wait. It was supposed to be for Christmas but I think he got it half-way through January.

#) Seven or eight mitered squares for a blanket for myself. I don't believe I'll ever finish this but one can dream.

ping!) most of a sock for my daughter. This will eventually reside with the one sock I finished for myself, the sock and a half I've done for Sandra, the sock cuff I've done for my brother and the one and a half Seabury socks that I did for my mother. Either that or I'll just suck it up and maybe finish some socks. I should probably learn how as I'm soon going to be hanging out with a lot of people who know how to make socks (this is the literary device known as foreshadowing)

Everyday Things Other People Can Manage But Which Defeat Me Quite Often

7) Pajamas. I have lost my pajamas, completely and utterly, at least twice within this past month. If I didn't know for sure that several people had actually SEEN me in pajamas I might suspect that they were sort of like The Emperor's New Clothes and I didn't actually own any after all.

If in fact I don't own any and have been running about Seattle naked, would you be kind enough to let me know? I always prefer to be cognizant of whether I'm being laughed at or with.

(Actually it might be a bit of a relief if those bright pink fleece pajamas with the red and white reindeer all over them were imaginary, but I digress.)

42) Stairs. How on earth can y'all manage to go up and down stairs without incident on a more-or-less daily basis? You may recall a winter or two back when I bounced down the front stairs of the house, leaving a bruise in the shape of Japan on my ass. Well, I decided to celebrate Easter by bouncing down the stairs outside the kitchen door. Unfortunately there were no bloggable bruises, but as there are four entryways to my home, rest assured that there will be many more opportunities for a rousing game of "name that country" in the near future.

Places I Have Gone

Because of a "get into every place neat for free" pass thingie from Mr. Assmuppet's work, we have been to visit The Vancouver Police Museum, The UBC Museum of Anthropology, The Nitobe Memorial Garden and The Dr. Sun Yat-Sen Classical Chinese Garden, all of which were way cool. Mr. A and Her Surreal Highness have gone to a pile of other places but I've been working a lot of shifts (just finishing a run of 12 graveyards and I have another 9 days and 38 nights scheduled between now and September 12) so I haven't really been paying a lot of attention to anything.

When Joy comes to stay with me for a few days in June, perchance we shall have a chance to visit a few more places.

(I know! Joy! In my house! I could squee if I hadn't been working on repairing my spinning wheel with glue and pliers and wrenches yesterday and was feeling far too butch to do anything of the sort.)

The Pending Vending

It would seem that amidst my madness I've managed to do at least a little business and I shall be vending both at the Victoria Fibre Fest in June and at the Sock Summit in August (see back to that foreshadowy thingie a couple of paragraphs up).

The latter will be in conjunction with my partner in crime, Barb, from Wild Geese Fibres in Alberta. I've been working on a couple of exciting projects with a few folks -- more details as soon as they're available (or maybe you'll just have to show up and find out what's going on); I'll be vending some gorgeous little fibre art magnets made by the clever hands of my very good friend wenchlette and some moth-repellent sachets made by my friend Lavender who has a store here, but who seems to be temporarily closed. (I will update this link if she reopens in another location).

Speaking of stores, mine's been offline for many moons now due to a number of issues -- time, money, insanity and the difficulty of manipulating the piece-of-crap software I was using (the software was free -- one gets what one pays for, as always). I've decided to abandon the fibrestudio.net website (yes, I know, one can't abandon what one has neither owned nor maintained for many months - shut up) and go the Etsy route until I get my life a little more organized. I've had an Etsy thingie here for a while but I've never used it. Look for updates happening soon.

Um, and I think that's it. I hope that's it because likely half of you have fallen asleep by now.

I'll just go back to doing some paperwork here and maybe make another cup of coffee, seeing it doesn't seem that I'm going to be able to sleep again any time before November.

Carry on.

*not a typo, just a stupid joke known by like three people who read this blog so it was rude of me to include it but it amuses my tiny mind and it is still my blog so I'm leaving it. So there. Call the Ministry if you are so inclined.

**my brother's boyfriend. I didn't know what else to call him, so that works for me.

A Blessed Day To All

2009-04-12T04:52:00.000-07:00

Today I am joyously celebrating this, the holy day of the Goddess Ostara. I beseech her to bring great fertility to us all.

Whatever you are celebrating today, may there be joy and peace.

And perhaps a little chocolate.

Nom nom nom.

2009-04-11T05:39:00.000-07:00

A response to the National Organization of Marriage "Gathering Storm" bullshit performed by paid (and not very good) actors.

Buncha fucking wankers.

Run for the hills baby ... we're there too. Existing quietly and with dignity. Working, loving each other, paying taxes and contributing to the community.

It's a frightening thought, isn't it?

And next time, I'll tell you how I really feel.

A Bowl Of Farts

2009-04-07T04:28:00.000-07:00

You know, every now and again, you're sitting about and think "Oh man, it would be so good to have a bowl of farts here right now"?

Well, I have the recipe for you.

Two cups of lentils, well-washed. Wash 'em and wash 'em and wash 'em until all the chaff is gone.

Then put them in a pot overnight with some water.

Then need to cook something in the pot so move them into a bowl in an unobtrusive area of your house. Again with the water.

Then, three or four days later, begin to suspect that something has died under your house. Start searching about, sniffing all the time.

Eventually discover the bowl of lentils.

Poke a finger into the bowl of lentils and discover that there is a layer of snot over top of them. Once you have disturbed the layer of snot, discover the source of the smell.

Decide not to make soup with them after all.

And now, you have a bowl of farts, all ready to go.

Or a bowl of half-decomposed lentils, all ready to be flushed.

Your choice.

It's been smelly here today. How 'bout you?

Seemingly I'm Far More Interesting ...

2009-04-02T11:32:00.000-07:00

... than one would assume if one looks at the actual facts of my life (eat, sleep, work, knit, scream, wear mismatched socks, lather, rinse, repeat).

Your rainbow is strongly shaded orange and red.

What is says about you: You are a passionate person. You appreciate a challenge. You get bored easily and want friends who will keep up with you. Others are amazed at how you don't give up.

Find the colors of your rainbow at spacefem.com.

I think I have to be lying on all of these quizzes or something. Or just answering what I wish I thought.

Or, you know, they're sort of bogus.

Hee! With a big thank you to John.

ps ... for something interesting, go visit Dr. Mel. It's his birthday. Plus, he has good pictures of dogs and Tibetans and India and stuff.

Have Y'all SEEN This Stuff?

2009-03-23T14:29:00.001-07:00

I'm in a rush, but many thanks to Ruth for this link.

Must go get my child out of ~~hock~~ school now. Spring break is over -- yay!

Make It Stop!

2009-03-17T16:17:00.000-07:00

The crazy DJ in my head has been playing "I'm Burnin' For You" by Blue Oyster Cult in my head for days. This isn't really a big problem as I'm a big fan of Arena Rock.

Man, I love me some Blue Oyster Cult. They were the first band I saw live (At the Gardens in Toronto, some time around 1977. Don't Fear the Reaper tour.)

I admit it, they still get me hot. They also may be the only band that uses sufficient cowbell. I do so approve of the cowbells.

The problem is, that ... well, the lyrics.

There's a line there, "I'm livin' for givin' the devil his due". Of course (no, srsly, if you know me this really is an "of course" moment) my mind started playing with the words and ended up with "givin' the devil his do" -- as in hairdo.

Which led me, of course to Devil's Haircut(embedding disabled by request, the bastages) by Beck.

Now don't get me wrong. I am greatly approving of Mr. Beck and in no way wish to denigrate his talent, however dudes -- I now have Beck and Blue Oyster Cult doing some sort of insane Dueling Banjos thing from Deliverance in my head.

I'm sure you understand how this could be disturbing.

It's gonna be a long day.

It Never Snows in Vancouver

2009-03-15T07:07:00.001-07:00

snow9
Originally uploaded by Rabbitch

Never.

I meant to post this ages ago but Flickr was hating me for a while. Let's see if this works.

This is the view(ish) from my front porch, a month or two back.

Mel and David Stretched My Holes

2009-03-01T02:22:00.000-08:00

As promised, it's not been all blood and bandages around here. The "situation" is still ongoing but I expect it will either escalate (in which case I can deal with it officially) or go away (in which case I don't need to deal with it at all) shortly. It's not something I am spending my time stewing over.

Over which I am spending my time stewing.

That thing.

There has been much work of a fiberly nature and now I've finally got my camera talking to my daughter's computer (it still won't talk to mine) I am working on getting photos of knitting on here. I have to load them on to her computer (when she's not playing on Club Peguin -- don't ask) and then email them to MY computer and then download them to somewhere and it's all a huge pain but at least it's now possible.

There has also been ornamentation of the person.

I'm not much for jewelry. If you've met me you've likely noticed that I (sometimes) wear a wedding ring (it's usually in my pocket or on the desk where I'm working), sometimes wear two pinkie rings (on the same finger) that I love (one is a Celtic band in silver, one is a very very old eternity ring with a circle of diamonds), and sometimes wear a knitted and beaded ring given to me by Sivia. (I'm a total starfucker, I like dropping names. Name-dropping. That. Plus I like claiming that she and I are engaged.)

I very occasionally wear a sheep pendant made for me by my Mouse and I always wear my belly ring and one small earring up high on the cartilege of my right ear. The belly ring and that one earring are my only two constants. My weddding ring's in my pocket right now. I think. Unless it's in the bathroom with the other rings.

However, I recently received a very thoughtful gift package from my friend Dr. Mel. Along with some utterly delicious roving from his own Madeleine, I got some luscious hand cream and a little wall plaque (thank you, David!) and some silver earrings (purchased on their recent jaunt to Peru) that I thought were alpacas, my husband thought were llamas (he immediately asked me where the duck was; the boy is well-trained) and which Mel claims are vicuñas.

Anyhow, no matter what the critters are, they're lovely. Simple, plain, stylized, and they suit me very well, so I put them on this evening.

Evidently if you don't wear earrings for a long time, your holes get tighter. (The holes in your ears, you perverts.) These earrings have fairly substantial posts, and I should hardly be surprised, as Mel claims that those of his tribe often have "a little extra".

Anyhow, there was shoving and pushing and possibly a little tearing. I wore them all evening but my earlobes were a little damaged and I had to treat them with some alcohol (rubbing alcohol externally, a little beer taken orally, just to be sure and purely as a prophylactic measure).

One can never be too careful.

If I can get my kid to take pictures tomorrow I'll see if I can get Flickr to cooperate and let me post pix of them. Amazingly, they even look appropriate when one is all butched up in a flannel shirt.

Anyhow, the point of this whole post is to say a huge Thank You! to Mel and David. That was the most delightful and touching package I've received in some time and I'm still smiling.

If, perhaps, a little sore.

I do hope it was good for you.

Anger

2009-02-26T02:02:00.000-08:00

I've been off the radar for a bit, and I apologize if anyone's been concerned.

There's been some RL stuff to deal with around here. Something quite horrible happened to my family this week and I had to deal with it. It's something I can't blog the details of due to possible legal issues in the future, but rest assured that nobody is harmed in any way, mentally or physically. If I've discussed it with you already in private conversation then you know what's gone down; if I haven't, then I'm sorry but I won't be doing so. This is something I need to keep close to my chest.

The issue was, and is, betrayal, by someone who purported to be a friend.

I seldom get angry. Oh sure, I rant, I rave, I run about screaming inappropriate (and sometimes incomprehensible) vulgarities, but I don't get angry. If something offends me I fire up, blog about it or rant to a friend, and then it's over. Done. Gone forever. Dust in the wind, as it were.

I know I bluster here, but the folks who've met me in person know that I'm generally pretty calm. I don't usually get upset over things; or at least not for any length of time.

For me, angry is a huge emotion and something that's not particularly healthy to be. When I get really really angry, I don't get unangry until someone's dead, and it doesn't even matter if it's me. I don't back down -- I'm unable to -- which is why I seldom start.

Unfortunately, this is one of those times.

(I'm sort of like one of those fucking dogs that bite you and then their jaw locks and they can't let go. Or maybe it's not a dog but a turtle. Or perhaps it's just my imagination but I'm pretty sure there's something that does that, isn't there?)

No, not for real dead. I'm not about to get a kitchen knife and go stalk someone. I'm not in any way physically dangerous, but some things are unforgivable, and attacking my family is one of them.

So for now, and for the foreseeable future, I'm angry. Loaded for bear kind of angry. And perchance just a little vengeful.

Someone's gonna pay.

And I suspect there will be rather a lot of very tight knitting.

Next post: pictures of snow, pictures of knitting, rejoicing in the silly creature that is Boris the ~~trouser~~ Corn Snake and perhaps some news about spinning, too. Stay tuned, it's not going to be all blood and bandages.

If You Are Freaked Out By Snakes ...

2009-02-10T03:54:00.000-08:00

... Today's post would be a good one to skip.

No really. It would.

I'm trying to put lots of paragraphs and line returns and so on in here so that if you're scared of snakes or find them repulsive you don't have to gaze upon the new love of my life.

Run away.

Look away now.

Is that enough room?

If not then oh well, you'll have to look at a snake.

And like it, bitch.

Oops, was that my outside voice?

And now, here, we have the picture of my little (well, almost four feet, but still little) dude.

Oh look, you're safe, I can't post photos, only links.

Flickr is being a complete and utter bitch today so I don't know if this is going to work but I'll try ...

snaek

There, can you see him? Is he gorgeous?

Like I said, Flickr has something seriously wacked going on with it right now so I can only post links, but here's the dude climbing the skanky tiled wall of my bathtub. I'm still not quite sure how he did that, but apparently that's how he rolls.

Of course, we're careful with him. He's a vicious wild animal. Vicious I tell you.

Vicious.

If you don't hear from us for a while, assume he's eaten us. About an ounce at a time.

Ack!

2009-01-21T03:52:00.000-08:00

I'm still here and I have tales and pictures. And pictures of tails.

I just realized how long it's been since I blogged however the rumours of my early demise have been greatly exaggerated.

I've been knitting. Despite the rumours that I have been lured to the land of scrapbooking, I knit on, resolutely. "Scrapbook" is not a verb. And it's also a really fucking stupid way to spend your time. Stop it, right now. The future of humanity may depend on it.

I have a new pet (a snake, so if you hate snakes you likely don't want to look here for a bit because as soon as I figure out how to get the pix off the camera there will be pictures of Boris the Corn Snake).

I've been working, full-time, at the good job. I've been loving and laughing (as I did the day my co-worker said she was sending her mother to the paleontologist. I looked startled and asked how old she was. Apparently she's 80 and that seemed a little young for that sort of thing. Eventually we figured out that in fact she needs to see the podiatrist.)

I've been cleaning house, sorting out my priorities, getting the ducks in a row and whatever other cliche you'd like to insert here.

However, today is my boopdate. My birthday, even, and for today I'm going to set all plans and dreams aside and just maybe eat bacon. All. Day. Long.

Because you know that bacon is like having a mouthful of Jesus, and I think that's just the sort of thing I need right now.

More Education

2009-01-01T22:10:00.000-08:00

I have learned that the mitered square is an amazing and wonderful thing.

I have learned that when one decides to make a mitered square blanket for a much-loved daughter who has been longing for one for a long time, after about the 50,000th stitch one thinks somewhat less of the mitered square. (There was a total of just over 89,000 stitches. I'm a geek. I worked it out.)

I have learned that when one is as tired as all hell, one should go to bed rather than completing the long post that one was planning.

There is a tale or two to be told, and an accusation or two to refute (someone accused me of abandoning knitting and taking up macrame -- this outrage must not be allowed to stand unanswered) but for the nonce, I think that bed thing might be a good idea, as I have to work in the morning.

look! a post on each of two consecutive days! it may well be one of the signs of the end times ...

The Year In Review

2008-12-31T23:29:00.000-08:00

I thought I'd sneak one last post in before the end of the year. Tomorrow I'll finish the long post I've been writing all about how the last three weeks have been a learning experience.

I've learned that when the snow is up past your knees, it's not a good idea to try to walk home carrying a turkey and a sack of potatoes when you're only wearing shoes. (I was wearing clothes, too. Perverts.)

I've learned that when going outside early in the morning, when it's very very cold and the windchill makes it something like -27, it's a good idea to take your keys, or at least make sure that the handle of the front door isn't locked before you slam it behind you.

I've learned that no matter how broke you are and even if it's two weeks before Christmas, when the metal of your steel-belted radials starts to show through the rubber that you have to spend $246 on two new tires.

I've learned that a frozen 14 lb turkey won't thaw overnight.

Most importantly, I've learned that when you have a choice between peeling a potato and taking a big chunk out of your left index finger with a potato peeler, the potato is likely a better choice.

But for now:

The Year In Review

It sucked.

That is all. Carry on.

ps. happy new year, everyone!

Call Me Madam

2008-12-12T15:37:00.000-08:00

Or Cthulu.

Which creature of the night are you? Your Result: Cthulu Spawn You are really an alien thing, aren't you? I can't describe you because you are beyond. We say "left field" and you say "Krn Grth Thchrang." You are the wild card of the bunch, the unknown quantity
Vampire
Sorceror
Incubus/Succubus
Demon
Werewolf
Ghost
Which creature of the night are you? Quiz Created on GoToQuiz

Many thanks to Miss Mouse for this!

Madness, Thy Name is Christmas Knitting

2008-12-04T11:39:00.000-08:00

I haven't yet finished last year's holiday knitting, and yet for a brief, fleeting moment I held dear to the belief that it was completely reasonable to cast on for six or eight things for THIS year's holiday knitting. Yes, for the holiday that is three weeks away today.

And then, taking a bite from the sandwich of reality, I decided that the four washcloths that someone from work wants will get done. The mitered blanket from hell that my daughter wants will get done (I'm over 70,000 stitches into it already, probably approaching the 80,000 mark by now. And yes, I counted. Excel is my friend).

For everything else, there's storebought. It's warm, it's beautiful, it's alpaca ... what more could you ask?

well, I *could* ask for a 36-hour day but I wouldn't get it, would I?

I Am No Longer Married

2008-11-29T07:17:00.000-08:00

I've decided, based on this post that my marriage is no longer valid. Neither is yours.

I have explained it carefully to my former husband and he agrees that as long as I keep making his lunch, that I can refer to our union as an "invalid and oppressive construct of the patriarchy".

He's sort of cool that way.

He wasn't quite as cool with it when I told him that seeing I wasn't married I was going to start dating again, but we'll work on it.

You've Got Some 'Splaining To Do

2008-11-28T05:26:00.000-08:00

I'm confused. Befuddled and perplexed also.

As most (all?) of you know, I have an eight-year-old daughter (hereinafter -- and also hereinbefore which I know isn't a word but I like it -- referred to as Her Surreal Highness). Over the years we've had some ... um ... interesting experiences with her schools. Much of this is my fault; I'm not an easy parent to deal with and they're most comfortable with the folks who colour inside the lines and fill out the required forms and so on.

Uh, forms. Shit. I was supposed to send those back two months ago. But I digress.

Some of it has been the fault of educators who wanted to "help her conform" rather than enjoying and appreciating her differences and creativity. This year's teacher is a whole different animal. She "gets" E. Completely. She seems to "get" me, too. It's such a relief and I have no doubt that over the years as I continue to butt heads with teachers and administrators I will recall this year as an oasis of sanity amidst the bloodshed.

Anyhow, this isn't about that. This isn't even about "Professional Development" days, which have confused me a little for some time. (Especially when she was in daycare. What did they do? Attend advanced colouring workshops given by Crayola? Play-Dough as a Dietary Supplement seminars?) (She had the most amazing daycare also ... they toilet trained her. I didn't have to do it. At all. For that I shall always bless them.)

Anyhow that's not about that either and there's no disrespect meant towards primary educators who I know work hard to increase their knowledge and skills and bla bla bla weasel weasel backtrack oh god please don't come and TP my house.

No, this is about today.

Today is a "District-Wide Curriculum Implementation Day". Apparently the way to implement the curriculum is to ... uh ... not offer the curriculum and all of the kids have to stay home (or at least not come to school).

Fortunately my husband isn't working today (I am), so it doesn't inconvenience us but really ... can someone splain that to me?

I think perhaps they could use some help in naming their days. Don't you?

Hello. My Name is Inigo Montoya.

2008-11-22T06:42:00.000-08:00

You Killed my father. Prepare to die.

I'm sorry. So, so sorry. This post is likely to drive many of you to despondency, or at least a few moments of ennui. Or even Schadenfreude or Weltschmertz or something. There may even be angst, but it just can't be helped.

I know that there are many of you out there who hope that I shall eventually give up my sporadic and inexplicable affection for the ways of the wang, as it were, and give myself over fully to the love that dare not speak its name, however I fell in love last night.

On the advice of The Esteemed Lala, Her Surreal Highness and I took The Princess Bride out from the liberry a few days ago. We watched it last night and I'm afraid that my heart has been lost to Mandy Patinkin.

Utterly lost.

I usually fall in love with the heroine but she really didn't have enough of a rack for me so I had to bend my rather bent affections elsewhere, and I'm afraid they landed upon poor Mr. Patinkin.

I am even at this moment restraining myself, manfully, womanfully, personfully even, from penning embarrassing sweat-stained mash notes to him. I really can't see that it would do either of us any good, and besides, I can't find my pen.

Or my mash.

All histrionics aside, it's one of the loveliest movies I've seen in years, and Mr. Montoya is one of the most endearing characters. It was also delicious to see Andre the Giant, who sadly passed away in 1993 at the age of 46. Despite his massive size (7'4" or something) and his frightening appearance, he was, from what I can gather, a kind and gentle man (who spent his spare time beating people up on television but well, we all make our rent money where we can.) I remember him well from my many nights of sitting around drinking beer and watching wrestling with someone who pretended to be terribly refined. (No matter what accent one fakes, the Bog Irish always shines through in the end. Yes, that was catty but as only one person who reads this knows to whom I refer I felt I could allow myself a tiny meow in this case.)

The entire film was charming. It was supposed to go back to the liberry last night, but seeing I'm paying a day's late charges anyhow, I may just allow myself one more viewing before it goes back.

And Mandy, if you read this -- call me. You know you want to.

It's 2am, Do You Know Where Your Penis Is?

2008-11-20T02:08:00.000-08:00

Mine seems to be missing.

I was talking to my friend Marilyn a couple of weeks back and during our conversation I said that I hardly ever checked my mail at bunniegirl at shaw dot ca. I mean once every few months.

The reason for this is that Shaw Cable is perhaps the worst ISP in the entire universe. They certainly provide internet access, more or less, most of the time (and there's nobody else around here from whom I can buy cable access and you know with all of the downloading of the porn and such I really need the speed) but as for their reliability in terms of email, they are vile. Completely incompetent and possibly verging on criminally negligent. There is absolutely no argument that they could present in their defense to explain the years of utterly appalling service I have received from them. (Dear Shaw Cable, if you happen to stumble across this post and feel like emailing me about this, I suggest that you send it to my gmail account, as if you send it through your own server the likelihood of my getting it is less than 80%. Please note that if you do email me about it at any of my email addresses, I won't respond. Because you suck. Donkeydicks.)

Anyhow, as I was talking to Marilyn I thought I'd just check my Shaw mail account and suddenly I was downloading either 2796 or 2976 emails. A lot. Close to three thousand; apparently I hadn't checked in about six months.

After several hours of work I was left with about 70, only ten or so of which I've dealt with ... if you've written to me there, on the small chance that I actually got it, I'm getting to you; you should hear from me this week.

Anyhow, most of the emails seemed to concern my penis.

Now, I would have written it all off as spam but there were so many many people who seemed genuinely concerned. Not all the same people, either. Robert987 told me how I could add 3" to it, Brenda45 told me how I could add 4" even! And then there were the people with the Viagra (or the Vi*gra) and the Cialis (or, again the C*alis) who wanted to talk to me about the erectile dysfunction I was experiencing with my elusive penis.

I'm getting really concerned; I mean not ALL of these people could be spammers, could they? I think I'm going to have to go look for it again.

Perhaps I left it in my other pants.

Do It Now!

2008-11-15T19:57:00.000-08:00

more the engrish!

I'm at work (at the "good" place). Working four to midnight today and tomorrow. I'm hoping that at some point before Monday I'll figure out how to follow these instructions.

Oh yes, and I'm knitting. As we speak. No really I am.