the seven deadly cozies

i know what boys like

Whoah.  Like, hi.  Swear, honest, I'm alive.  Silly lifestuff and whatnot kept me busy. 

Anyway.  On with this.  Wow, the writing muscles?  Are rusty. 

The boy's an uncle now, to a wee nephew thing, one Dylan Samuel.  Do I have stats?  Of course not.  The boy is still a bit flummoxed by this whole uncle thing. 

So I made the new boy a hat, because new boys need hats.   

i do more before 8:05 than most people do in a day

Today, I:

• Scalded my hand
• Lost my iPod
• Fell face-first down a half dozen stairs at a crowded train station, flipping my skirt up over my ass for all the world to see in the process.

All before 8:05 a.m.

Today has been hard. 

The end.

felled

The past two weekends have been spent entirely indoors: last weekend as caretaker, this weekend as caretakee.  My temperature has finally dropped below 102 (where it held steady for four long, long days) and I had the tiniest bit of appetite today.  I'm still cooped up, because it's cold enough outside to trigger some pretty spectacular coughing fits.  So baby steps, I suppose. 

I'm camped out at the boy's place right now, where there's more distraction (mmm, caaaable) than at my place.  I've got a stack of comic books, some popsicles, high-speed internet connection, 70+ channels of brain-sucking goodness and a bag full of yarn.  Life's pretty good now.

The baby sweater fell victim to holiday knitting ennui.  It's finally done now, though, which is a good thing, since the baby was born three weeks ahead of schedule (but since she just cracked the six pound mark, I'm not too worried).  And a pair of fingerless mitts are done, too.  There would be pictures, but both finished objects and my camera are across town, and I'm not moving from my warm, electronically-enhanced nest.  So there will be pictures.  Just not today. 

two gold teeth and cold cash money

Let me start off by saying my grille is far from jacked up.  I've reaped the benefits of modern dentistry, yes I have:  regular checkups, orthodontia, brushing, flossing, you name it.  But I've always had this... thing... about my two front teeth.  They just never seemed to fit in with the rest of my teeth.  A little too big, a (tiny-to-everyone-but-me) gap that braces never did fix. 

Notice that I'm talking about these teeth in the past tense? 

That's right:  I'm buying in to the beauty myth.  With "buy" being the operative word.  After careful consideration ("I think you should do it," said the dentist.  "Okay," said I), I took the plunge. 

I'm currently in temporaries, which is a little bit more involved than taking a pair of fake boobs for a spin in terms of commitment.  I'm ashamed to admit I did roughly 30 minutes of homework on this before going in to have things kicked off.  Ignorance is bliss, and after seeing one set of "during" photos I decided to err on the side of bliss.  Besides, hey, nitrous! 

Did you know they grind your teeth down before putting on crowns (we won't get into the mechanics of my bite here, but the short of it is that veneers were not an option)?  I did not.  No no.  I probably knew it intellectually, I mean I did do research, but still.  I was just not prepared for the reality of it.  And I thought briefly of stopping the whole thing, but that wasn't until after things had already started -- you know, the point of no return.  So, in for a penny, in for a pound, I figured.  Oh, and did I mention that in order to balance out the two teeth I'd actually be fixing four?

And now here I am, 10 days later, picking out Model Teeth from magazines per the advice of my dentist.  To me this feels like I'm walking into a plastic surgeon's office, asking for some famous person's nose.  It's creepy on so many levels to think that I get to choose what my teeth will look like.  My dentist is so casual about this you'd think I was going in for a haircut instead of something so permanent and so much a part of that far-too-important first impression.  Is some of her manner just an attempt to calm me down?  No doubt. 

In some ways I feel like I'll be less "me" when this is done, even though that's not the case.  It's a tremendous amount of cash I'm sinking into this project (since when is my mouth a project?), too, even with the benefit of dental insurance, and it's sobering to be able to place a retail value on my vanity. 

i'll make you happy, baby...

Confession time:  knitting this baby sweater?  Is freaking my shit right out. 

Reasons why this sweater induces freakouts:

1. I'm knitting it for the baby of someone I once planned to have babies with.
2. I still haven't quite figured out the whole baby-wanting thing.
3. The next birthday is kind of a big one, in terms of the whole biological clock thing.
4. Knitting things for babies automatically begets thoughts of babies.  And then we're tempted to share those thoughts with, for example, boyfriends.
5. Not necessarily sweater-related, but still: previously cool, non-pushy mothers (who have adult grandchildren) suddenly start clamoring for another one.

So. 

I'm shaping the front of the baby sweater (maybe saying "baby sweater" enough will take away some of its power), which is making it look more like a wearable something and less like a big block of mind-numbing garter stitch.  I've given up on all side projects until this thing's done, and I've got new yarn that wants to be gloves, so there's incentive to finish.  Soon.  Finish soon.  I have knit on this thing on the train, the bus, the subway, while on conference calls, while out having cocktails with friends (hi, baby!  Parts of this sweater of yours?  Knit by a drunk woman!).  It. Will. Be. Done. Soon. Ish.  At least it's helping me get over my breakup with Noro. 

Yep.  Noro and I have called it quits.  As much as I love it, we're just not meant to be.  Much like that on-again, off-again boyfriend I had in college, Noro's lovely to look at and wonderful to touch, but for me it's just not relationship material.  It's not for lack of trying on my part, people.  I keep getting sucked back in by the pretty, by promises that this time it'll be different... but it's always the same.  I invest my time, I foolishly believe it'll change, but in the end all I'm left with is a hazy memory of how good it all was in the beginning.

   

someday, kid, all this will be yours

The baby sweater.  Roughly 3.5 inches done, 3 inches to go before I can start working on the sleeves and neckline.  I. am. bored. to. tears. with all this garter stitch.  But the color?  Loving it.  And the texture?  Smooshy-yet-ridgey.  Loving that, too.  I do love the simplicity of this pattern.  I think the simplicity is what makes it so sweet to me.  The intended recipient won't be born until late December, so I've got plenty of time.  Which is good, because sometimes knitting on this puts me to sleep.  Ever wake up from your little train nap with knit marks all over your face?  It's not pretty. 

Speaking of pretty, there will be no photos of the socks in progress.  Nor finished.  They're red-hued Koigu, and the color keeps going all wonky on the camera.  But trust me, they're something. 

This weekend there are 784935 Halloween parties in the Bay Area.  It takes on an almost religious significance here (by "almost" I mean "more than" - this really is bigger than Christmas and Easter and St. Swithen's Day combined).  Me?  I'm hiding.  I have no costume.  I have no plans to have a costume, mostly because planning said costume last year led to this weird little fit of mania with me not sleeping for a couple of days to work on my vision.  I will go to one party, that one being thrown by the person I'm sleeping with (hi, mom!), and that is all.  I will avoid clubs like the plague, there will be no revelry in the Castro.  I now officially own my curmudgeonliness, so please be so kind as to get outta my rutabagas. 

And, you know, have a happy Halloween weekend.

falling on my head like a memory

It's raining again.  At least, I think it is.  It was this morning, with no wind, which made the walk to the bus stop rather pleasant.  But I haven't been outside in broad daylight yet, so maybe it's stopped.  It's weird, this going to and coming from work in the dark.  I lose track of time.

It was a food-riffic weekend.  While the roommate was in Sonoma for the weekend, taking a cooking class and having a little something to eat, the boy and I took part in a group dinner at the house of some friends, with tasty-but-simple food and an eye-popping assortment of desserts.  Got to see some people I haven't seen in months, people who forgive me for dropping off the face of the earth from time to time.  Monday evening a small group of us got together for Peruvian food.  I don't think I'm going to need to eat for the rest of the week.  I keep making noises about having people over for lovely little dinners, but that would cut into my goofing off time. 

While I'm really rusty in the writing department, I'm making up for it in knitting.  In the past month, I've broken my knitting slump with a pair of gloves, a scarf and one sock.  That sock's going back whence it came, though.  The pattern's lovely, but I'd like to remake it with plain knitting for the sole instead of 2x2 ribbing.  The ribbing just feels funny underfoot.  In the meantime, I'm working on a sweater for a friend's soon-to-be-born baby.  I'm using the baby kimono pattern in the summer 2005 Interweave Knits and Baby Cashmerino yarn in Apple, and so far, so good. 

Also?  I love the color so much I want to paint a wall in my bedroom to match.   

and other fancy stuff

I've resisted knitting lace.  My grandmother could tat lace, and her finished product was a thing of beauty.  My mother crochets lace, from ornaments to doilies to Psalm:23, in a handy 3'-by-4' size (which won a blue ribbon at the county fair) to bedspreads and tablecloths.  The woman's a lace machine.  Me?  Not so much.  I don't tat, I don't crochet, and my two previous attempts at knitting lace have left me swearing and crying, hurling tangled masses of threadlike yarn across the room in defeat.

No more.  Behold:

Branching Out, in Olive Silky Wool.  Take that, lace!  I win!!

the jungle VIP

People don't believe me when I tell them I'd never seen a wild raccoon or skunk (alive, anyway) before moving to California.  But it's true.  When you live in a place that has nothing for miles and miles but miles and miles, the animals tend to go there instead of hanging out in, say, your yard.  Imagine my surprise, then, when I was forced to stop admiring my glove-and-a-half in order to avoid being savaged to death* by a giant**, vicious*** skunk****.

There it was, just toddling along, ignoring me, all black and white and packing stink.  At the transit hub near my office.  Where there are lots of people and cars.  Was the skunk waiting for his bus?  Did he have to get to his job in the woods?  Does he know the duck? 

Maybe he just wanted to admire my work.  I'm on the thumb gusset of the second glove now, though I think I'll end up frogging and reworking the fingers of the first.  I'm surprised at how quickly these are knitting up (which I really shouldn't be because they're gloves, not a sweater)... almost as surprised as I am at the prospect of maybe having gloves to wear in time for it to be cold. 

These dogs don't care about my gloves.

*maybe not **possibly the size of a guinea pig ***minding its own business  ****but totally a skunk

well, fiddle dee dee

On this morning's train ride, a friend asked me why I started my blog in the first place.  Ostensibly, I started blogging in an effort to teach myself HTML (because when you work with numbers all day, you need something to keep your creativity chugging along).  And to keep myself going with the whole knitting thing.  Roughly two years later, I am neither an HTML whiz nor the most dedicated knitter on the face of the earth.  So there you go. 

After hotting on me for a week, Nature has decided to try to break me by colding on me.  I'm mostly okay with the colding thing, as it lends itself nicely to bundling up and such.  I just can't stand it when my hands get cold.  So of course I must knit. 

Hey, it's a photo.  I don't post many of those on here, and now you know why: gloves make my wrist look blurry.  These will be a modified version of Savannachik's Natalya gloves, if I ever get them done.  They're in Artyarns Supermerino, colorway 105, which is incredibly lush and fondle-riffic.  I'm about halfway through the first glove, so expect this pair to be finished sometime around Spring 2007.