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November 07, 2008
Twitter broke my blog. Spending my days typing light little ditties of 140 characters or less has brought on a massive case of the lazy. I don't want to think, don't want to write. I just want to make my noise all day. In wee little blurbs, leaving pictures of rutabagas at the top of my blog for whole weeks. Can I even muster up the energy to craft one of my trademark ridiculously run-on sentences anymore? Dunno. Srsly. @somebody.
So: this week. Of course we spent Tuesday glued to the tee vee like the rest of the free world. Drinking beers, hoping, hoping, then rejoicing. The trouncing of South Dakota's proposed abortion ban is a victory for all who believe that women's health doesn't belong in derisive air quotes. My heart does hurt for all the people who had their constitutional rights stomped on by a bigoted majority (isn't the state supposed to protect people from this?), but I have hope. Bigots will all die off someday. And, Mormon church: go fuck yourself.
I've started a new routine of spending every weekday morning working in the studio even if I'm working on something that I could just as easily do at home. It probably goes without saying that I get a lot more work done when I can't check the blogs and the twitter and the facebook and the flickr and the e-mail and the goddamned games and the rest of it. Just in the last few days I finished up a pile of drum leaf journals and put them up in the shop and got a couple of copper plates ready to print. At home in the afternoons I've been working on some new drawings that I'm pretty excited about. I'll show you those tomorrow morning, maybe. We're well into the days where there's only a short window of opportunity for taking decently-lit photos in the house.
This morning I spent some time with a couple of other people fixing a broken press at the studio, and as a result pretty much the whole day the Judas Priest song "Breaking the Law" was stuck in my head, only with the words "fixing the PRESS fixing the PRESS fixing the PRESS". The mental juke box can be such a pain in the arse.
Tonight Peter told me that he'd rather listen to The Who than Judas Priest (for context: we hate The Who. And I like Judas Priest). It caused me to wonder how the two of us are even compatible. But then I pretended that my yoghurt was cum shots on my face and he responded by pretending to deep throat his banana, and I was reassured. We're clearly meant for each other. Cue romantic music and chirpy bird sounds.
I almost forgot. Here's your Soctober Surprise:
For anyone who knows me, the surprise is not that I failed to finish the Soctoberfest mystery socks. Y'all may have noticed I'm not a very good -alonger. I knit the cuffs and then decided to knit a bigger size, then took the yarn with me for Thanksgiving weekend family-visiting, but I somehow only brought three needles so I had to knit the cuffs flat and couldn't start the legs until I got back home. Ah, there's one of those excruciating sentences. Still got the touch. So the leg pattern in the sock wasn't very intuitive at first and I hate looking at charts and the Dream in Colour Smooshy yarn, while it's lovely and lives up to its name in comfy smooshiness, is a pain in the arse to cable-without-a-cable-needle, and then it all got set aside in favour of some work knitting I'm doing. Finally, the pattern clicked in my head and I was able to set aside the chart and just knit the thing just in time for October to end and for me to really have to focus on the work knitting now. So it goes on the half-socks pile for now. In the meantime, I've just been seized by an intense desire to rip out my nearly-finished Noro Kureyon knee sock and make the Ziggy socks instead. At the end of Soctoberfest. Don't even bring up Norovember, it's just not gonna happen.
Normally Little Miss Picky who can't send text messages because I'm all hung up on grammar and spelling and complete sentences, I'm not even going to proofread this. Going to watch some Trailer Park Boys instead. That's the way she goes, boys.
October 20, 2008
every handful is a whole new snack
file under: meta
I've decided to turn the comment moderation off for a while and risk getting slammed by sp@mmers again, because I don't like not getting e-mail notifications of comments. I miss being able to write back. We'll see how it goes.
*edit: how funny is this, a sp@m comment came in right when I was publishing this. ah well, I'm determined to leave it open for now so that I can start replying to your comments again!)
file under: road food
Everybody please rest assured that I did not eat that nasty lumpish thing I posted a photo of the other day. Cousin Mary got it right: the yellow thing masquerading as a fallen rutabaga on the roadside was actually a filthy blob of yellow insulation foam. I brought it home and threw it in the garbage, and tonight when we go for groceries I'll get myself a nice decent rutabaga that I'm sure will taste wonderful even though it didn't fall off a truck. By the way, the phrase "I dig rutabagas" came from a t-shirt my uncle Ken used to have in the seventies, that he got from the Ontario Rutabaga Producers' Marketing Board. It pictured a tall skinny dude with a shovel standing next to the words I Dig Rutabagas, and if I remember right the shirt was yellow on top fading to purple on the bottom. I've long wanted one of those shirts but am pretty sure they don't exist anymore, and a Google search on the phrase yields only one link: mine. Uncle Ken had a whole bunch of those shirts but had cut them all up for shop rags long before I thought to ask him for one.
file under: shill, baby, shill!
Oh, I slay me sometimes.
Speaking of my cousin Mary, she's been working all summer teaching herself lampworking, and has a new line of stitch markers up in her etsy store using gorgeous handmade glass beads. Y'all should show her some love so she'll keep making them and also so she'll upload all the amazing lampworked earrings I got to see when we visited last week. And remind her that I have a birthday coming up. Heh.
I've been plugging away (sluggishly, due to the chest/head cold I picked up over Thanksgiving) at getting my own shop updated, and finally managed to upload a couple of printed satchels, with more to come later in the week. Now just as soon as I feel I can go back to working under the buzzy studio lights without getting a migraine (a heightened possibility when I'm already compromised by illness), I can print up some more canvas for the next batch. I know, I'm such a delicate flower, it's pathetic.
file under: unwelcome guests
Last Tuesday I was sitting at the sewing machine in the front room with the front door wide open behind me (it was a beautiful warm day and we don't have a screen door on the front). I caught a movement in my peripheral vision and looked up to see a black squirrel standing next to the leg of my ironing board, a good metre and a half at least inside the door (that's about 5 feet, y'all). I said, sharply, "excuse me! get out of my house!". It turned and walked out, seemingly in no great hurry. I followed it to the door and there it was, sauntering down our sidewalk, whistling a happy tune.
I don't know if Cleo was asleep when this little dude slipped past her watch post but I get the sense she's not all that interested in catching things anymore. She used to be quite the efficient hunter in her day, but now that she's reached retirement age she seems quite happy to focus more on her hobbies: shedding fur, throwing up, and lying around in people's way:
file under: more harebrained ideas
I've decided to do the one hundred push ups programme, and today is my first day! I feel I've lost a lot of strength over the last few years, what with ditching the gym entirely during grad school (not that I was ever really able to do any significant amount of push ups). So: new leaf! Starting right now, in fact, as soon as I hit publish. Wish me luck.
October 16, 2008
i dig rutabagas
It's harvest time where I grew up, and we spent a good deal of time last weekend driving back and forth along roads of my childhood, to and from various Thanksgiving gatherings with family. A rutabaga field just outside my hometown was being harvested Sunday morning as we drove by and I was reminded of something my family used to do this time every year: my parents would drive slowly down then-unpaved Airport Line towards Exeter while my brother and I excitedly scanned the shoulders and ditches for rutabagas that had fallen off the trucks going past. We weren't really poor enough to need to eat fallen vegetables off the side of the road, but the game was fun nonetheless and I'm convinced that the thrill of finding them this way made the rutabagas taste better (and anyway, it's not like they'd go bad very fast lying out there, so why not?).
On Monday we dawdled around Exeter a bit (where I successfully Kinneared a guy wearing the most amazing Pink Floyd trousers and a t-shirt with fireworks over a cruise ship), then made our way at a leisurely pace from my mom's house to London to visit Peter's sister. Along country roads I let my eyes slide half-distractedly over the ditches in vain hopes of spotting something crunchy and delicious there. Peter had already said that he would not stop to pick up any rutabagas; he shares neither my enthusiasm for the joys of found produce or my love of raw rutabaga. Still, when I spotted a familiar yellow lump lying in the grass I shrieked in excitement, "stop! stop! A RUTABAGA!".
There followed a tense scene: him disdainful, me pleading, him: do you seriously want me to go back?, me: well, I guess not, well, yes! not if you're going to be mad though, but YES GO BACK PLEASE. I promised him he wouldn't have to humour me with any of my stupid shit for the rest of the weekend (this is at noon on Monday of a long weekend, mind you, and while my intent was sincere, I was forgetting that by these terms he'd only be exempt from humouring me for about twelve more hours). He said he thought the exemption should last the rest of the month. I agreed at once, ready to give in to any demands just so long as we could GO BACK AND PICK UP MY RUTABAGA NOW.
We turned around, drove back a full concession then turned again in order to approach the treasure spot from the same direction as before. As soon as I caught sight of that yellow lump I began to have doubts, and as we came to a stop a little past it I said, "I'm not sure that's really a rutabaga. It looks like it might be a piece of wood". Through gritted teeth Peter said, "go back there and pick it up we are bringing it home whatever it is EVEN IF IT'S A FUCKING DEAD RABBIT".
My friends, I present to you my bounty, thankfully not a dead rabbit. And now Peter does not have to humour any of my stupid shit for the rest of the month.
I can't wait until November.
July 20, 2008
mileage may vary
Story #1: Two days ago I was standing at the corner of University and Pelissier talking with Leesa Bringas (of Artcite, Inc.)and Sara Elliott (of CBC radio Windsor) when two little kids approached us holding Rubbermaid totes filled with miniature flags. As they rattled off their rehearsed spiel, we're selling these international flags to help send underprivileged kids to camp any size donation please help us aren't we cute I thought about how they must have carefully arranged the kids in these perfect pairs, one boy and one girl, one caucasian and one visible minority, one older and one so cute and little.
Leesa asked, what organization is this? The girl said, families for something-or-other-and-values (hmm). What kind of camp? A camp where they teach us stuff (uh-oh). What kind of stuff? Family values (GIANT ALARM BELLS). What kind of family values, I asked, not really wanting to know, clutching my satchel a little tighter lest any of my precious coins might find their way, through insidious cuteness of little kids, into the hands of the evil family values sector.
Their answer, sadly, is predictable. Values like fidelity within marriage, abstinence until marriage. . . we stopped them there. Sorry kids, see ya. Sara said to us, holy crap you guys with the questions! But this is how living in a place like Georgia changes you, I guess: you hear the phrase "family values" and you start sweating and your ears start clanging and the skin on the back of your neck crawls.
And, how stupid are these people, thinking that a good time to send kids out begging change for family values is during Pride weekend and the Fringe Festival, when downtown is crawling with people like me, people whose values most likely include everyone's freedom to marry whomever they love, women's rights to reproductive freedom and young people's rights to adequate sex education and pregnancy/STD protection? All the things the so-called family values brigade hate. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Way to send your little children into a shitstorm, people.
Story #2: Last night, walking home in a muggy drizzle from eating our supper by the river, I decided I was just too hot and too gross and it's too damned July here right now to have long hair and so I was going to give in to the temptation to cut my hair off short again. Once I'd made up my mind I had to do it immediately, in the fifteen minutes or so that we had before going out to meet friends at the pub. After goading Peter into agreeing to help me shave the back, I grabbed a handful of hair on the left side, twisted it up good and tight and chopped it. Then I chopped a second handful. Then I looked in the mirror and said, this isn't too bad right here! How about if I wear it like this for a while? Totally joking.
Peter said, do you want people to call you Sheena?
You totally just sold me on this haircut, dude. For now.
July 07, 2008
well, hello there.
For those who only come here for the hot sticks-on-string action who may be about to quit me for lack of a fix, here's proof I do still partake occasionally:
Half a Noro Kureyon knee sock, the product of a lazy Saturday spent with good friends and a few hours of car travel on Sunday. This Noro sock yarn is the last yarn I bought, pre-ordered in early December and delivered to me in February. I didn't ever get around to writing about it in much depth here, but I decided to knit from stash in 2008 and not buy any yarn or spinning fibre at all this year. It's been rather easy, as I've had to take a lot of time off to rest my wrist and recover from the damage I inflicted on myself in the frenzy that was the end of grad school. I think I'm ready to dive back in though. My stash isn't all that extensive compared to some people's and I got rid of a lot before moving back from school, but I've still got more than enough to keep the ol' RSI busy. I haven't attached a bunch of complex conditions or exemptions to my knit-from-stash guideline, I'm just not buying yarn, period. Yesterday I bought a secondhand sweater to unravel (if you ever find yourself in Arlington Heights, Illinois, there's a pretty good Goodwill there) but even that was the first time all year I've done so.
Speaking of the end of grad school, we arrived home from a 4th-of-July trip to visit friends in Illinois to find this in the mailbox:
Here's something funny and frightening that we saw on the weekend, at the Naperville Ribfest. This advertising image is not what it appears to be at first glance:
Do you see it?
Also, I don't know what the "exchange club" is but somehow I always thought exchange club was more about spouses than kids, and that it didn't really get going until after the kids were in bed.
April 21, 2008
in the business they call this a reversal
I said I'd be back to talk about yarn and stuff, but y'all should know by now that I can be a tad unreliable when the pressure's on. My
thesis written report is due on Monday. It's coming along just fine, and I'm not too worried. But I have a tensor bandage on my right wrist right now (the old RSI, a movable feast that flits from one arm to the other) and want to save all of my typing for getting this document finished. My oral defense is on Friday afternoon. Even though I decided that I wasn't going to be able to do any of my own printing until I get home (because of the move to the new building our presses are being taken away early and our students are, quite understandably, freaking out) there is still quite a bit of obligation printing to finish up as well. I teach tomorrow, then again on Thursday, and that's it. Final critique for my students next week. I'll be back soon, I hope on the weekend but possibly not until next Thursday, to show you the yarns I've spun recently (some of which will be knit up by then, another thing I need to finish up before I leave here in order to fulfill a swap), a more than halfway finished Straight Outta Brompton sweater, studio pictures and some better slides of my exhibition. Until then, wish me productivity and pehaps a small time warp.
April 15, 2008
Peter says that the only thing that makes the foreskin dream funny is who the person is, so I'll tell you. It was Midge Ure.
The thirty-five to forty-five crowd are going, ugh! while the younguns are all like, who? And that one lone middle aged knitter who was, no still is, a huge Ultravox fan is furious. I'd apologize to her but she's already hit "unsubscribe". Ah well.
March 16, 2008
penny candy on the brain
Last night I dreamed I stole a pack of Lik-m-aid from a store (no link, because I wasn't able to find a picture anywhere of what the packages looked like in the seventies when I used to eat the stuff; it had only two envelopes of powder, not three like it does now, and a picture of one kid with a giant head. Incidentally, while searching for a Lik-m-aid photo I discovered that you can still buy those Necco candy button things, remember those? Little dots of candy arranged in lines on a piece of paper you licked them off of, like sweet and colourful acid tabs. If that's not a gateway drug then I don't know what is, kids).
So anyway. Stole a pack of Lik-m-aid, then after I was in the clear and had a look at it I realized I'd grabbed the orange-and-purple powder pack that I never liked instead of the green-and-red one I adored. Then I thought, I'm a grownup now, maybe it's time I got over my dislike of fake orange flavour. And I forced myself to eat it (although I still ate up the orange first in order to use the grape to get the orange flavour out of my mouth).
Yes, I dreamed about rationalizing to myself about having stolen the wrong colour of candy. I know. Lame.
Speaking of old stuff from the seventies, today for the first time I had a look at the pile of old litho inks that sits unused on a shelf marked "oldies" in the studio. Some of them have never even been opened, and they represent five different iterations of Handschy's label design. I started taking pictures when I noticed the date on one of the cans was Nov 14 1984 (older than some of my colleagues!):
Then I noticed that the blue ones are even older.
It's hard to see, but the can at the bottom left says 1976. The two on top say Oct 1971. That's two months older than me, folks.
I had a look inside one of the 1971 cans and found that the ink is no stiffer than the brand new can I've been using of the same colour (you can see the mark where I stuck my finger in to check):
These will doubtless all be thrown out in the move to the new building this summer. I'm thinking about taking some of them home with me and using them, just because. Because we are the same age.
Courtney recently linked to an old blog post in which she described eating her wedding cake after it had been in the freezer for six years and it reminded me of this: my parents kept a section of their wedding cake that was made of styrofoam but had real icing on it, and they stored it on the top shelf of my bedroom closet, and when I was about four or five I found it. The day I discovered that treasure up there was like those finding (or stealing?) candy dreams: glorious and gluttonous. Over the next few months I slowly savoured every last bit of hardened white icing, every crusty, dusty rosebud. The taste of the bits of stale styrofoam still clinging to the inside of the chipped candy is still vivid in my memory. Eventually my closet snacking was discovered and although I don't remember it, I'm sure I caught hell, but y'all know it was totally worth it.
December 27, 2007
boxing day madness
My hometown was once a Royal Canadian Air Force training station. In the 60s it was decommissioned and sat empty for a while, eventually becoming the property of the Ontario Development Corporation, reconfigured into a booming little industrial park with attached town. You couldn't buy a house there when I was growing up; the town was an experiment, an attempt to draw industry with its conveniently located cheap rental homes for factory workers and its military sized airport. It worked really well all through the seventies, before the factories started moving to countries where they could more easily exploit their workers.
Now the houses are being sold (not the land, though; so the industrial park I grew up in is now a trailer park, and my mom, who now owns the house she formerly rented, pays lot fees for the land her home sits on). There are a lot of changes happening here, in a place that sat virtually unchanged from the late 1960s to the turn of the millenium. Houses that have looked the same for decades are suddenly having additions built on, sunrooms, southern-style wraparound porches. I've already watched the disappearance of many things I loved about my hometown, like the school (which had already been closed for a few years before half of the building burned down, and is now a boarded-up eyesore in the middle of a neglected field), the air force dormitories and tennis courts, and the airstrip where we used to play as kids and, as teens, drive out to the middle to do beer-addled doughnuts (the airstrip hasn't gone anywhere, but it's all fenced off now so kids can't get onto it anymore). So most of the changes happening to the houses don't bother me too much (except for that one particularly hideous one). But this is really lame:
Huron Park has been rebranded as "Huron Village Green". Blech.
Cleo had an exceptionally good Boxing Day this year. My dad's wife Sherry made little catnip pillows for everyone (my dad and his wife are crazy cat ladies; the kitty population in their home recently swelled to fourteen and now sits at eleven indoor cats and one outdoor cat). I don't think Miss Cleo has ever had catnip before, and she tore into it with abandon. We had to eventually take it away from her after she became so totally baked she was wobbling a little.
She started yelling outside our bedroom door at 5 in the morning, no doubt suffering from a killer case of the munchies.
September 01, 2007
shop updates (go dawgs, or whatever)
Today was game day madness here in living-on-campus land, the first game day of the season. For some reason parking services didn't block access to the parking lot behind our studio like they usually do, so I got to wade through tailgate parties on our loading dock to get in and out of the building. After two years here I'm still rather baffled at the football culture; I don't give a rat's ass about football, and where I come from most others don't either. Here the stadium seats nine times the student population and they fill it, every time. From early morning the air is thick with the stench of lighter fluid, charcoal briquettes, and charred flesh. All day long red-flag-bedecked cars whip up and down the streets, hordes of drunken teenagers squeeze into and flop out of the backs of speeding pickup trucks, young women in red and black dresses hobble up and down the sidewalks in spiked heels, and there are people older than my parents out on the loading dock at nine o'clock in the morning setting up a television and satellite dish so that they can watch football-related programming all day long while they wait for the real game to start, and they are all wearing red, their tents are red, their folding chairs are red. And they are everywhere and they are in the way and they will follow you and try to force you to shout "go dawgs" at them and THEY ARE WATCHING SATELLITE TV OUTSIDE, PEOPLE. And drinking beer on campus. I want to take pictures of them but something always stops me. They're too easy to make fun of, maybe.
I've been working away on some new items for ye olde etsy shop, because y'all know I had almost enough saved up for that Lendrum wheel and then spent it on other things. Fabric and living expense-type things, but still.
There are five different style of wee notebooks, with more to come just as soon as I get the edges trimmed on the next stack:
Today I printed up a batch of brand-new shirts, crazy multicoloured ones using some of the motifs that show up so often in my sketchbooks. I'm hoping to photograph and upload the new line to the shop tomorrow night, and in the meantime have knocked a third off the few remaining of my older designs in order to clear up some space. Here's a sneak peek of some of the new shirts in progress:
These are some crazy-ass shirts. I will be wearing one tomorrow (isn't it a nice surprise when the one whose shoulder you blob ink all over is one that's your size?), so if you're so inclined you'll be able to see a picture of that over on my other blog.
October 03, 2006
overheard recently on the north/south bus, university of georgia: they really ought to make those signs a little more explicit
exhibit "A", last week sometime:
silly girl: these seats, where it says "please reserve these seats for seniors and the disabled"? I used to think that meant, hey, like I'm a senior? And isn't it nice that the freshmen have to move to let me sit here? But, like, then I found out it means old people.
exhibit "B", yesterday:
first guy: up here where the sign says "office of the president", I thought that meant Jimmy Carter or you know, like, someone else famous. Not just, like, some president guy of a university.
other guy: .......
So, by "someone else famous", do you think he meant, oh I don't know, some other former president of the United States, maybe? Or just any random famous person, like Paris Hilton or Donny Osmond or some guy who won on a reality tv show? Because, I could so like totally understand why those people, or some dead former US president, would have an office on a university campus way before, like, some president guy of that university.
(is Donny Osmond even famous anymore, or am I just dating myself again like when I talked to my drawing students the other day about how even in black and white we always knew that Gilligan's shirt was red because of the intensity of the gray tone and the one mature student was the only one who didn't glaze over?)
I dreamed about this painting last night
One of my colleagues found this next to a dumpster behind the Vet School last year and hung it up in our studio hallway at Green Street. Later Audrey silkscreened the text on it as a test for this Hooper Turner painting.
So, I don't remember the context but this painting was in my dream last night. I think it may have been lying on the floor next to something red or partially covered with something red, but that's not really important to this story.
This morning at the studio, I came out of the computer lab to find Louise, our morning janitor, blocking the hallway with a garbage can (funny, it was a red can) and gazing at the painting, rapt. She didn't move the can out of the way as I approached so I walked up behind her and said, "I dreamed about this painting last night".
Louise said, "what was it doing?". I said I didn't remember and she said, "it stops me every time" (for full effect you must imagine this spoken softly in a sweet southern accent, it stahps me every tahhhm).
Every day, Louise stops in the hallway and stares at this painting. Should we give it to her?
August 26, 2006
This is the recipe I was telling you about, from the first edition of the Better Homes and Gardens New Cook Book. Looks tasty, doesn't it? Don't worry if you're not really all that fond of processed cheese slices: that only LOOKS like cheese slices all over that attractive and convincingly moulded pineapple.
It's actually a delicious mixture of gelatine and mayonnaise.
August 24, 2006
Pluto, I feel your pain
Those jerky planets, they think they're so fucking cool. They never did let poor Pluto join in all the planet games. After a career of skulking around out back of the school, skipping gym and smoking cigarettes and selling the odd bag of weed to those two-faced jerks Uranus and Neptune (who always pretended to be your pals in detention but snubbed you when the popular crowd were around), you've finally been booted out of the social order completely. You've only ever been grudgingly invited to the bush parties, and now they're moving the parties to a whole new bush to avoid you.
Don't worry, P. I'll let you in on a little secret: those kids are going nowhere. It's the rejected outcast losers like you who turn out, fifteen years later, to be the cool people: the software company owners, the independant filmmakers, the influential scientists and popular political bloggers. Trust me on this. You'll be okay.
July 09, 2006
I have a big surprise for you, but first you have to look at the size of this cat
When I got my brother this kitten from Beryl all those years ago I had no idea that he was part cat and part armoured personnel carrier. He's named after Bobby Hill, but if he were my cat I'd change his name to Refrigerator. I haven't seen Bobby in four or five years, and suddenly my own obese cat looks kind of small to me.
What's that? He doesn't look so big? Check it out, with chubby girl for scale:
If I stretch my leg out next to him, he reaches from my knee to the bottom of my heel, not counting his tail (and look, NWJR, I'm smiling just for you).
July 06, 2006
pulling the pud
Here in our little love nest it is sometimes necessary to pause foreplay in order to shake our sillies out. Last night while we were getting down to the business of getting down, Peter made an offhand remark about his weenie. I replied, "weenie, schmeenie", to which he replied, "puddin' and pie". I started giggling because of the word "pud" in there; Peter didn't get it, so I had to explain that some of the boys I knew growing up used to refer to their weenie as "pud" (Peter had never heard of this, has anyone else? Or were we just backwoods losers who made up stupid words?).
We then mused for a moment on possible etymologies for the word "pud", until Peter said, hey, wasn't Pud that kid in the Bazooka Joe comics with the red turtleneck pulled up over his nose? And with that mental image, much hilarity ensued.
Sadly, a little internet searching in the sober light of morning totally burst my bubble and revealed that Pud was, in fact, the striped-shirted lad in the Dubble Bubble comics, and Bazooka Joe's foreskin-sweatered friend was named Mort. Dang.
June 28, 2006
A drunken frat boy frenzy
It's party time in our backyard right now, and I'm almost afraid to go out there. Even the Old Kitty, who's been around the block a number of times and knows how to fend for himself, didn't show up today for his (now pretty much daily) snack at my back door, preferring to hide out somewhere quieter until the party animals sate themselves and depart the premises. The mulberries in our tree have ripened, and all of the birds and squirrels from miles around are rolling around and squabbling and falling out of trees in gluttonous delerium, and the whole place stinks like a distillery (and no, it's not the distillery up the block I'm smelling. I know the difference).
This afternoon I was standing at the kitchen door, watching the revellers bouncing in and out of our lilies and yarrow, tossing fermenting berries to their buddies amid a good old-fashioned pub singalong (knees up knees up never get the breeze up. . . ) when I noticed a sparrow perched atop one of our two tomato plants, chirping away. Oh good, I thought, I guess that plant's going to live if it can hold his weight like that (the tomatoes have had it rough so far and last week I thought they were goners). Then the little fucker lowered his head and started merrily pecking at the plant. Hey! I shouted and flung the door open, stamping out onto the porch and sending the party flurrying up to the trees and wires (flinging drunken insults behind them). I examined my little tomato plant to find that all of the feeble little blossoms I'd only noticed yesterday had been et. I stood impotent, glaring up into the mulberry branches and muttering, "fucker. . . fucker" (why do we use this as an insult when it's something we all so love to do?). And thinking, maybe Peter's right, we need to cut that damned tree down.
Here's something to make me feel better. The hollyhocks have completely overtaken the area between the deck and the sidewalk, so much so that we now have to lift them out of our way and duck under them to get to the car and back. From behind here I can't even see the destruction that's going on in the rest of the yard.
Also: last day of school today for the neighbourhood kids. Which means I no longer have to listen to the lady from around the block who shouts her way up the side street twice a day and stands across from my house, waiting for the bus to first pick up and later drop off her oldest child, hoarsely bellowing at her kids the whole time like a trained seal who smokes too much. I am trying hard not to be a classist bitch about how crazy this young mother makes me, because I have talked to her on the bus before and I know that she's not very bright, and perhaps her kids are not either and won't have as many chances as other kids will have. But it will be lovely to sit on my porch at four o'clock tomorrow afternoon and not hear her.
June 24, 2006
excerpt from a conversation at milk coffee bar this afternoon: insult or compliment?
me: that time when I was a kid and we went up to Hudson Ontario, you know I'd like to go back there sometime, even though it was kind of awful and I had a bunch of bad, traumatic experiences, all involving fish, of course, like separate events, all traumatic, and also there was this clubhouse or bar or something at the campground we were at and we went there a bunch of times and by the door there was this stuffed real black bear and he had his hand held out like this so you could put your cigarette out in it and I had nightmares about that bear for a long time, well, there was a festival thing-
pete: ah, there it is. I was waiting for the punctuation to happen and the sentence to get around to the beginning again.
me: and dave won a goldfish there and the poor thing didn't stand a chance, its water got changed in every town and a thousand miles in a tupperware container in the back of a volvo station wagon in summer, we finally had to have a roadside ceremony and dump him in a ditch filled with water. He didn't swim away.
pete: you talk like Virginia Woolf writes.
June 19, 2006
What the NHL needs: more nipple
I think that after every Stanley Cup playoff game the players should exchange jerseys like they do in the World Cup. I mean, the games are exciting and all, but a little flash of nipple would make them all that much better. My relationship with hockey has always been tinged with lust: not lust for actual players, or at least not any player(s) in particular, but just the whole sensual experience of the sweat and diesel smell of an arena, the sound of blades scraping into ice, and the sweet, sweet cold of the air. It reminds me of the summers of my puberty years, those endless days of shivering in a mesh top and satin shorts in the local arena lusting after those cute, cute hockey school boys, hoping they would notice me. Watching the games on television takes away that delicious chill and the sweaty smells and the opportunity of hooking up with hockey boys over bottles of pop at Theo's Variety after the game, but that could all be made up for with a few flashes of bare chest, don't you think?
May 02, 2006
Always take your camera with you everywhere
That way you won't have to turn around and walk all the way home to get it when you find a big pile of free skanky ho shoes all neatly lined up next to the dumpster behind your local lavanderia.
No, I didn't take any. For someone who's digging the faux-crocodile-mule-with-shiny-circular-buckle look, though, this will be an awesome find, because that lucky fashionista can have the choice of yellow, orange or black. Score!
On my way home to get the camera I passed three young ladies who were heading towards where the shoes were, and I thought for sure (making grossly unfair assumptions based on the way they were dressed) that they would be really, really into these shoes, and as I hurried back towards the dumpster with camera in hand I was worried that they would have already upset the lovely tidiness of the shoes and mess up my photo. They also looked like the sort of girls who might beat me up if they caught me taking pictures of them trying on shoes behind a dumpster. Sadly, such a blogworthy shot was not to be had, they either passed on the other side of the dumpster and didn't see the bounty, or they didn't need any new shoes today.
Other blogworthy shots that got away forever these last few days include an ample woman with a gigantic, rock-hard yellow beehive wearing pink camouflage sweatpants and matching pink camouflage jacket and fuzzy slippers, a long horse trailer with four horses all wagging their heads out the windows in the breeze, and a bluejay overextending its jaw in order to carry a beer bottle cap on edge in its beak.
March 10, 2006
He was advertised on television as 'melting better than Cheddar'
So I'm talking to Peter on Skype right now, and I mentioned that I had seen The Velveteen Rabbit online. I'm a big sennamennal baby and can't read that story without crying, so of course Peter made fun of me, first because he just never loved the story of the little rabbit like I did, then insisting that the Skin Horse is creepy and made from human skin (the proof offered for this had something to do with Joseph Conrad and white man's burden, but I didn't pay close attention because I was pretty sure he was shitting me) and then saying, "why would anyone want to make a rabbit out of that awful fake cheese product?". Argh. I get no respect.
Well. There really is a Velveeta Rabbit.
March 08, 2006
Does anyone else think that John Travolta playing Edna Turnblad is just wrong? How much weight will he have to put on, for crying out loud?
February 11, 2006
If this milestone is actually going to get global media attention, then please, let it be santorum
From today's Globe and Mail:
Spreading the (English) word
From Saturday's Globe and Mail
It's a mighty milestone for something that's 1,500 years old and shows no sign of old age. Some time this year, the English language will gain its millionth word.
At least that's the calculation of Paul Payack, a Harvard-educated executive and language lover who says English has reached precisely 986,120 words and counting.
What will the millionth word be? Not bling-bling (flashy jewellery) or CrackBerry (nickname of the addictive BlackBerry), not podcast (a Web feed) or misunderestimate (a malapropism from U.S. President George W. Bush). Those terms, though all relatively new, have already become fixtures in the ever-expanding English lexicon.
Instead, the millionth entry will come from the flood of new words entering the English language. Perhaps it will be a word in Chinglish (a Chinese-English hybrid) or Hinglish (Hindi-English), from hip-hop or Web jargon, in any of the myriad new expressions that explain why English is the global powerhouse it is today. . .
January 05, 2006
I could have used this last week when I had all those Lotto 6/49 tickets
I got a special surprise in the mail yesterday. It was addressed to "RESIDENT", but I know it was meant just for me.
Someone wants to pray for me. How nice of them!
Inside was this Prayer Rug, which is beautifully printed on the finest newsprint and also Soaked with the Power of Prayer just for Me! There was also a lovely pamphlet telling me all about the other people who had been Saved or Healed! or Blessed with Money and a 6-bedroom House and a New Car. Also there was a nice personal letter (addressed to Dear. . . Someone Connected with This Address) telling me how to kneel on the rug and where to put it after and offering for everyone in their church to pray for me to receive any of the blessings I check off on their list, and all I have to do is pray on the rug and return it to them with a Seed Gift to the Lord! It only makes sense that a donation would be required, since most of the blessings they expect people to ask for have to do with money.
So I knelt on the rug just like they said to, and stared into the closed eyes of Jesus and prayed about sowing a seed gift to the Lord's Work. And his eyes opened and gazed into mine, just like the letter said they would! I felt blessed; I felt the warm light of Jesus shining down on me. Or up on me, actually, since Jesus was on the floor and I was kneeling on him. Whatever, don't nitpick my religious experience, okay? So I checked off on their list all the ways I want to be blessed (A Closer Walk With Jesus; My Soul; Confusion In My Home which I think might mean "my son says he's gay" or "my daughter wants to go to college instead of getting married", but since I'm so often confused about stuff I thought it wouldn't hurt to ask for a blessing to get rid of my Confusion), and now I'm all ready to send it back with my Seed Gift. I'm going to send them all my Canadian Tire Money, and the pecans I picked up out of the driveway. Because pecans are expensive, you could plant an orchard and bless a lot of people with the profits. Also, Everyone needs Hardware, Even the Lord.
People, I may just be saved. I'll keep you posted.
Block me baby, block me baby, all night long
Just for Sandy, who didn't really believe that I would finish one of my cardigans over the break, here's a picture of the Must Have Cardigan blocking. Now how long do you think it will take me to do the finishing? Maybe I should ask those people to pray for my productivity.
December 25, 2005
"Well, the Texas toast was okay, but. . . "
Happy fried chicken, everybody.
December 23, 2005
We're sorry. . .
I can't come to the blog right now, I'm far too busy playing Kingdom of Loathing. Hey, quit laughing. It's no more geeky than reading about people's knitting on the internet. But because I know that most of y'all are geeky that way, here's my slow progress on the knitting I brought home with me for the holiday.
I'm still languishing on sleeve island with the Must Have Cardigan, but I only have to repeat that big diamond motif one more time before I hit the home stretch of the shoulder decreases. I'm still not sure how to deal with the closure on this one, but I'm really leaning away from a button band right now; besides my fear of button gap-age, I really don't want to do that much more knitting on the thing. I was thinking of maybe finishing off the opening edge with an attached i-cord instead and throwing in a two-way zipper, but that means I'd have to learn how to do an attached i-cord. Is that easy? Is it excruciatingly slow?
I've been breaking up the monotony of Sleeve Island by working in the odd row on the back of the Urban Aran, which is pretty close to the armhole now. I haven't really been working much on either of them except for when I'm away from the house*, because I've got all these design swatches keeping me busy at home. Plus my sketchbook project, plus my silly online game. Whew! Life's tough when you're on vacation eh?
The good news is that Peter and I are all ready for The Holiday That Shall Not be Named, and we don't have to go back to the Infernal Mall again. Wednesday night's mall madness expedition was frustrating and painful, and we still had to go back again this morning. Ugh. Two more days, and the schmaltz-fest will be over. I can't wait. This picture pretty much sums up how I feel about the Season of Getting (TM):
How I've longed to knock the head off of one of those singing Santas.
There was a little bit of holiday festivity in our visit to the Infernal Mall this morning, in the gee-it's-good-to-be-home sense; here's about as all-Canadian a treat as you can get.
Tim's and a butter tart. Let the overeating begin!
*have you ever tried knitting with long straight needles while perched on the edge of an examining table in one of those blue paper gowns while waiting for your pap smear? Fortunately the doctor didn't walk in and catch me standing with the front of the gown flapping open while fishing in my satchel for another ball of yarn; that would have been just my style. Still, by the time the doctor got there I'd poked a hole or two in my gown with the needles. I'm classy like that.
December 04, 2005
Rats at the door
At least, they're too small to be wolves.
One of the closet doors in the Shack has these funny little footprints on it, from some kind of (very dirty) rodent. Yes, I've lived here for two months and haven't washed it off yet. I don't intend to wash it; I don't really care that much, actually, and also I think it's kind of neat. Peter and I were speculating that perhaps the rodent ran over the door while it way lying down somewhere, not attached to the closet, but I just now noticed that there are a few prints on the trim as well.
I know you're all dying for a rat-print close up, so here you go.
Obviously a rat didn't just climb up the door, but it doesn't seem all that likely that someone would hold a rat up there and let it scrabble its feet so many times. Also, who lets their pet rat get that dirty?
I suppose the marks could have been made by someone drawing on the door with a heated fork, but again, who would do that?
This happens to also be the closet I hang my clothes in, and I noticed this afternoon that when I open the door I can smell stale cigarette smoke from my wanker neighbour, who is a heavy, heavy smoker. So now all of my clothes are going to stink, and moving them to the only other closet won't help, since it's on the same wall (both on the other side of the wall from his living room) and stinks too. So I'm going to have to rig up some way to hang my clothes out in the room instead, which will be a splendid way to make this place seem even more temporary and grotty a living space. I'm fighting my passive aggressive desire to turn my music up just to punish Mr. Wanker for stinking up my closets, but he likely wouldn't make the connection anyway (never mind the fact that it would be CHILDISH! because, heh, I never act childish). Besides, I learned that this is an ineffective strategy back when we lived upstairs from Louie; no matter how loud I turned up my stereo, it never deterred him from stinking up our apartment by cooking pork all day, every day.
In tooth news, I can now eat crunchy things again (only chewing on the side opposite the gaping wound, of course). The hole is closing fast, and already it's just a weird deep divot instead of a huge gaping chasm. Today I didn't take any painkillers. Whee! Also, my TMJ (same side as the bad tooth) seems to suddenly be a lot less troublesome.
It's pouring rain outside, which just doesn't seem right for the fourth of December. This afternoon was so warm that I opened my kitchen window for a few hours to let in some air. Peter was pretty unhappy when he heard that; he thinks the weather is conspiring against him (because it's always beautiful here, except for when he visits) and of course, I'm rubbing it in. But really, I'm tired of this. I can't wait to get home to the snow (six more sleeps!). How much would you like to bet that the snow back home will all melt by the time my plane touches down in Detroit on Saturday evening? Because the weather, she conspires against ME.
There's a brand new Knitty out tonight, and it's freaking huge. On my must-knit list: the utterly adorable Kate; Mandy's gorgeous lacey scarf; the Tubey sweater (why do I always like the things that look good on the skinny girls when I know they will cling to my love handles like blubber to a seal? too bad, I'm making this anyway).
November 09, 2005
Keep a positive mental attitude
Okay, I was going to 'fess up to y'all today that yesterday's yearbook picture was a fake, that the photo of me was taken in June just two days before this photo, and that in 1976 I was only four years old. But then this morning I got this spam blog comment telling me all about what happens in my testes and prostate gland when I masturbate, and now I'm all confused. Maybe I really was kicked off the Reach for the Top team for smoking on school property, and my memory of being hauled out of home ec. class for the same offence is a false one? Because that boy in the yearbook picture didn't really look like the kind of boy who would take home ec. with a bunch of girls, he looked more like the type who'd be in the War Games Club. Or maybe the Rocket Club, those were the real dorks.
So according to my most thoughtful spam commenter, who clearly is deeply concerned for my spiritual well-being, here are some steps I can take to overcome temptation:
-sleep with a book of Mormon in my hand
-never, ever be alone. ever.
-imagine myself masturbating in a tub of worms and also eating them (yeah, that one always works for me)
-tie my hand to the bed frame (I don't know about anyone else, but that doesn't tend to get me LESS excited, if you know what I mean)
-if reading scripture or the Book of Mormon doesn't put me to sleep, I can try reading "How to win friends and influence people"
-snack in the middle of the night instead of masturbating, and don't worry about gaining weight (does this mean that masturbating can help me lose weight? because it hasn't been working thus far)
Just for kicks, here's the spam in its entirety. Please be advised that the opinions expressed in the following passage do not reflect the opinions of jodi's weblog or www.jodigreen.ca, and in fact we here at jodi's weblog think you should masturbate as much as possible, whenever the fancy takes you, alone or with friends, without worrying about whether or not you will lose or gain weight as a result. Make every day a Black Day!
~~Steps in Overcoming Masturbation~~ By Mark E. Petersen, Council of the 12 Apostles
Be assured that you can be cured of your difficulty. Many have been, both male and female, and you can be also if you determine that it must be so. This determination is the first step. That is where we begin. You must decide that you will end this practice, and when you make that decision, the problem will be greatly reduced at once. But it must be more than a hope or a wish, more than knowing that it is good for you. It must be actually a DECISION. If you truly make up your mind that you will be cured, then you will have the strength to resist any tendencies which you may have and any temptations which may come to you. After you have made this decision, then observe the following specific guidelines:
A Guide to Self-Control:
Never touch the intimate parts of your body except during normal toilet processes.
Avoid being alone as much as possible. Find good company and stay in this good company.
If you are associated with other persons having this same problem, YOU MUST BREAK OFF THEIR FRIENDSHIP. Never associate with other people having the same weakness. Don't suppose that two of you will quit together, you never will. You must get away from people of that kind. Just to be in their presence will keep your problem foremost in your mind. The problem must be taken OUT OF YOUR MIND for that is where it really exists. Your mind must be on other and more wholesome things.
When you bathe, do not admire yourself in a mirror. Never stay in the bath more than five or six minutes — just long enough to bathe and dry and dress AND THEN GET OUT OF THE BATHROOM into a room where you will have some member of your family present.
When in bed, if that is where you have your problem for the most part, dress yourself for the night so securely that you cannot easily touch your vital parts, and so that it would be difficult and time consuming for you to remove those clothes. By the time you started to remove protective clothing you would have sufficiently controlled your thinking that the temptation would leave you.
If the temptation seems overpowering while you are in bed, GET OUT OF BED AND GO INTO THE KITCHEN AND FIX YOURSELF A SNACK, even if it is in the middle of the night, and even if you are not hungry, and despite your fears of gaining weight. The purpose behind this suggestion is that you GET YOUR MIND ON SOMETHING ELSE. You are the subject of your thoughts, so to speak.
Never read pornographic material. Never read about your problem. Keep it out of mind. Remember — "First a thought, then an act." The thought pattern must be changed. You must not allow this problem to remain in your mind. When you accomplish that, you soon will be free of the act.
Put wholesome thoughts into your mind at all times. Read good books — Church books — Scriptures — Sermons of the Brethern [sic, Cistern too?]. Make a daily habit of reading at least one chapter of Scripture, preferably from one of the four Gospels in the New Testament, or the Book of Mormon. The four Gospels — Matthew, Mark, Luke and John — above anything else in the Bible can be helpful because of their uplifting qualities.
Pray. But when you pray, don't pray about this problem, for that will tend to keep [it] in your mind more than ever. Pray for faith, pray for understanding of the Scriptures, pray for the Missionaries, the General Authorities, your friends, your families, BUT KEEP THE PROBLEM OUT OF YOUR MIND BY NOT MENTIONING IT EVER — NOT IN CONVERSATION WITH OTHERS, NOT IN YOUR PRAYERS. KEEP IT OUT of your mind! The attitude of a person toward his problem has an affect [sic] on how easy it is to overcome. It is essential that a firm commitment be made to control the habit. As a person understands his reasons for the behavior, and is sensitive to the conditions or situations that may trigger a desire for the act, he develops the power to control it. We are taught that our bodies are temples of God, and are to be clean so that the Holy Ghost may dwell within us. Masturbation is a sinful habit that robs one of the Spirit and creates guilt and emotional stress. It is not physically harmful unless practiced in the extreme. It is a habit that is totally self-centered, and secretive, and in no way expresses the proper use of the procreative power given to man to fulfill eternal purposes. It therefore separates a person from God and defeats the gospel plan. This self-gratifying activity will cause one to lose his self-respect testimony becomes weak, and missionary work and other Church callings become burdensome, offerings. To help in planning an effective program to overcome the problem a brief orientation is given of how the reproductive organs in a young man function. The testes in your body are continually producing hundreds of millions the vas deferens to a place called the ampulla where they are mixed with fluids from two membranous pouches called seminal vesicles and the prostate gland. It is normal for the vesicles to be emptied occasionally at night during the emptying of come from the central nervous system. Often an erotic dream is experienced at the same time, and is a part of this normal process. Instead ourse, the reproductive system is operating at a more rapid pace, trying to keep up with the loss of semen. When he stops the habit, the body will continue to produce at his increased rate. As one meets with his Priesthood Leader, a program for overcoming masturbation can be implemented using some of t Remember it is essential that a regular report program be agreed on, so progress can be recognized and failures understood and eliminated.
Pray daily, ask for the gifts of the Spirit, that which will strengthen you against temptation. Pray fervently and not lout when the temptations are the strongest.
Follow a program of vigorous daily exercise. The exercises reduce emotional tension and depression and are absolutely basic to the solution of this problem. Double your physical activity when you feel stress increasing.
When the temptation to masturbate is strong, yell "STOP" to those thoughts as loudly as you can in your mind and then recite a pre-chosen Scripture or sing an inspirational hymn. It is important to turn your thoughts away from the selfish need to indulge.
Set goals of abstinence, begin with a day, then a week, month, year and finally commit to never doing it again. Until you commit yourself to "never again" you will always be open to temptation.
Change in behavior and attitude is most easily achieved through a changed self-image. Spend time every day imagining yourself strong and in control, easily overcoming tempting situations.
Begin to work daily on a self-improvement program. Relate this plan to improving your Church service, to improving your relationships with your family, God and others. Strive to enhance your strengths and talents.
Be outgoing and friendly. Force yourself to be with others and learn to enjoy working and talking to them. Use principles of developing friendships found in books such as "How to Win Friends and Influence People" by Dale Carnegie.
Be aware of situations that depress you or that cause you to feel lonely, bored, frustrated or discouraged. These emotional states can trigger the desire to masturbate as a way of escape. Plan in advance to counter these low periods through various activities, such as reading a book, visiting a friend, doing something athletic, etc.
Make a pocket calendar for a month on a small card. Carry it with you, but show it to no one. If you have a lapse of self control, color the day black. Your goal will be to have "no black days". The calendar becomes a strong visual reminder of self control and should be looked at when you are tempted to add another black day. Keep your calendar up until you have at least three clear months.
A careful study will indicate you have had the problem at certain times and under certain conditions. Try and recall, in detail, what your particular times and conditions were. Now that you understand how it happens, plan to break the pattern through counter activities.
In the field of psychotherapy there is a very effective technique called "aversion therapy". When we associate or think of something very distasteful with something which has been pleasurable, but undesirable, the distasteful thought and feeling will begin to cancel out that which was pleasurable. If you associate something very distasteful with your loss of self-control it will help you to stop the act. For example, if you are tempted to masturbate, think of having to bathe in a tub of worms, and eat several of them as you do the act.
During your toileting and shower activities leave the bathroom door or shower curtain partly open, to discourage being alone in total privacy. Take cool brief showers.
Arise immediately in the mornings. Do not lie in bed awake, no matter what time of day it is. Get up and do something. Start each day with an enthusiastic activity.
Keep your bladder empty. Refrain from drinking large amounts of fluids before retiring.
Reduce the amount of spices and condiments in your food. Eat as lightly as possible at night.
Wear pajamas that are difficult to open, yet loose and not binding.
Avoid people, situations, pictures or reading materials that might create sexual excitement.
It is sometimes helpful to have a physical object to use in overcoming this problem. A Book of Mormon, firmly held in hand, even in bed at night has proven helpful in extreme cases.
In very severe cases it may be necessary to tie a hand to the bed frame with a tie in order that the habit of masturbating in a semi-sleep condition can be broken. This can also be accomplished by wearing several layers of clothing which would be difficult to remove while half asleep.
Set up a reward system for your successes. It does not have to be a big reward. A quarter in a receptacle each time you overcome or reach a goal. Spend it on something which delights you and will be a continuing reminder of your progress.
Do not let yourself return to any past habit or attitude patterns which were part of your problem. "Satan Never Gives Up". Be calmly and confidently on guard. Keep a positive mental attitude. You can win this fight! The joy and strength you will feel when you do will give your whole life a radiant and spiritual glow of satisfaction and fulfillment.
November 07, 2005
How to tell if somebody is an asshole (in case they aren't wearing a sign that says "asshole")
Overheard on the North/South bus this afternoon:
Guy #1: (shouts to guy #2 who is boarding the bus) Hey C___! Come here, I want to show you something. Look at that guy, the one with the headband (points to a guy on the sidewalk who is wearing a headband and a very sweaty t-shirt and is carrying a squash racquet).
Guy #2: (sits down and looks out the window) Why would anybody wear that?
Obviously to keep sweat out of one's eyes while playing squash is not a good enough reason.
Guy #1: That headband is like an asshole marker. When somebody wears something like that, you can tell right away they are an asshole. They don't even have to wear a sign or anything.
Guy #2: Yeah. Tell me about it.
So, what kind of marker is it when you sit on the bus and shit-talk someone for having the nerve to wear sports attire to play sports? Because I don't think these two guys were wearing any kind of signs.
November 06, 2005
This is the sort of fascinating conversation you can hear while standing around on UGA campus on a September afternoon. That's right, I overheard this conversation back in September and couldn't get arsed to tell y'all about it, but suddenly felt the need to tell it now. Clearly I need some kind of, you know, life. Or something.
So. Standing at the bus stop across from the student centre in the blasting heat, and two silly girls come and take up positions perilously close to my own personal space, on account of I'm standing in the only square foot of shade and it's a hundred and fifty degrees outside.
Silly Girl #1: It's soooo hot.
Silly Girl #2: Oh yeah, it's soooo sooooooo hot. And, there's no shade! (Silly Girl #2 is very observant)
SG #1: They should have left some big oak trees in when they built that bus stop.
SG #2: Oh, there used to be trees?
SG #1: I don't know. But if there were, they should have left some.
SG #2: Yeah! Or they should have put in a big fan or something.
Because if they were going to take out all the trees (which may or may not have been there) the least they could have done was put in a giant fan. Outside, blowing on the bus stop. I mean, come on. That's just so practical, after all.
SG #1 was trying to get downtown, and SG #2 advised her to get on the North/South bus. Fifteen minutes later the bus comes around again and off steps SG #1, walking back over to SG #2 and saying, "that bus doesn't go downtown!". Because it turns and doubles back a block from Broad Street, so to get downtown you would actually have to get off and walk a block. Instead, she stayed on the bus and came all the way back around. The saddest part is, the bus went near downtown, then came back past here in the other direction, but she stayed on for the whole circiut and went past us twice.
Then SG #1 says: All I want is to get a coffee! (giggle)
SG #2: There's a coffeeshop in the student centre.
SG #1: Yeah, but I want Starbucks!
People. The Starbucks is a FIVE MINUTE WALK from where we are standing. And she continued to stand there, waiting for a bus downtown.
November 04, 2005
Sorry for inconvenience
Until you people learn some respect, you're going to have to pay for any air you consume while in this store. Sorry about that.
I've been collecting found drawings and letters for years; you can see pictures of some of them on my flickr page.
Thanks for all of the compliments on Durrow. It appears from the comments that the ladies really dig Josh; I'm sorry to have to break it to y'all that he's taken. I also apologize for the cable charts not being up on the pattern page yet; I don't know what's happening with that but I'm sure they'll get it ironed out soon. In the meantime, I can send the charts to anyone who needs them, just e-mail me.
October 27, 2005
On wankers and stupid people
(the wanker is my next-door neighbour; the stupid person is me). But first, new hat!
This was finished two days ago but it took me that long to get a decent enough picture. Okay, almost finished. It still needs some pompoms on the ends of the strings, just as soon as I can remember how to make them.
It's the Kittyville hat from Stitch 'n Bitch, worked on size 4.5mm needles in Lamb's Pride worsted. I think I'll block it a bit bigger so my massive hair fits under it better, but other than that I'm pretty happy with it. And I'm suddenly obsessed with making hats, when just last week I said I looked dorky in them. I guess dorky can sometimes be kind of cute too, I just needed to find the perfectly cute amount of dorkness.
Speaking of kitties, last night I dreamed of a tearful and rather stressful reunion with the Fats. Tearful, of course, because I miss them terribly, and stressful because they were afraid of me and trying to run away. Fat girl in particular acted like she had never seen me before, like I couldn't possibly be the person whose bed she was born in and who fed her fat ass for eleven years, and she scratched my boob and it bled. The scratching part wasn't that unusual, she does that all the time. But, I really want to go home. And see if those fatties even remember who I am.
so here's the stupid part
Let me tell you a story about what a techno-dumbass I am (Norma, you are not the only one! My microwave has a dial on it too, and I can't even operate a tv remote). So the other day I was using my laptop in the computer lab at school (I bring my laptop because I am terrified of the Macs the school has) and I needed to print something. I e-mailed the document to my Yahoo address, unplugged the network cable from my laptop and stuck it back into the Mac I stole it from, logged in to the Mac, opened up my document and hit "print". When it only printed one page I thought maybe the printer was out of paper, so I asked the undergrad guy who's the lab monitor how to put paper in it (that's right, because I can't figure out for myself how to open up a drawer and stick paper in, okay?). Anyway, that wasn't the problem. So we futzed around for a while trying to get it to print, until finally it told us it wasn't connecting to the printer.
Because, I started printing the document and then immediately unplugged the network cable and put it back in my laptop.
(we will pause a moment, while the laughter dies down)
Norma, I think I have you beat. I am that stupid. That poor boy probably breathes a thankful sigh of relief every time he comes in for his shift and I am NOT here.
the wanker part
Did I tell you guys that my neighbour has an electric guitar? And he plays nothing but wanker music. Seriously wanker music, like Smoke on the Water and Crazy Train. Sometimes he gets up and plays his wanker guitar music at four in the morning, and it's like sleeping next to a twelve year old Eddie van Halen. Argh. Actually, I'm betting that Eddie van Halen was a better guitar player at twelve than this guy is; he's probably some kind of wanker prodigy, don't you think? Thank goodness I didn't make the room right next to his apartment my bedroom; in the next room over it's quiet enough that sometimes it doesn't wake me up, although I do hear it in my sleep. Ew.
In case you're thinking that I'm just being mean about the guy's guitar playing and he's really not that much of a wanker, here's a story that Jenn told me (she lives in one of the little shacks behind mine). The only time Jenn ever talked to my wanker neighbour was one night when he knocked on her door, after trying all the other shacks and being turned down, and tried to sell her and her roommate a package of meat for five dollars so he could buy cigarettes. A package of meat that had been in his fridge for the gods know how long, and then carried around outside for a while, maybe getting all warm and soft in his hand as he tried to convince the other shack-dwellers what a great deal they were getting. So now I'm studiously avoiding my neighbour's eye any time I see him outside, lest he try to get me to buy some gross old meat, or something worse.
October 23, 2005
If I had a smartie launcher
I was a little alarmed to see these laid out on the wine table at our show Friday evening: Rockets, lots and lots of Rockets. That in itself isn't alarming, after all Hallowe'en is next week and pigging out on Rockets is kind of a yearly tradition for me. But look: these Rockets are called Smarties. They look exactly like Rockets, they taste exactly like Rockets, and the packaging is exactly the same. Except that they don't say Rockets.
Apparently Rockets can be called Smarties in the States because they don't have real Smarties here. I know, I know, it's sad, isn't it? So if I were to say "do you eat the red ones last?" to someone here, something I might actually do since my head is packed full of jingles from 1970s commercials, they wouldn't know what I was talking about. Kind of like when I said "hey you kids, get out of that Jell-O tree" to the kids in my practicum. Yeah, I know, the next tattoo I get will be a big "L" on my forehead, okay?
I'm confused about the so-called "Smarties" being made in Canada, though. If they were produced in Canada first, why can't they just import them to the States under the name Rockets? Shit like this keeps me up at night, I'm telling ya.
In other news, new hat!
I am much happier about my new hat than I appear in the picture. Love you, Manos! All I want for Christmas is more more more Manos (howdoyoulikeit? howdoyoulikeit?). And I think I don't look too dorky in it, either, which only proves that Manos del Uruguay is MAGIC.
October 20, 2005
Use it! Zip it! Toss it! (this episode of jodi's weblog complies with CRTC Cancon regulations)
Okay, first, about the yogurt. Please remember that I'm Canadian and thus it's part of my genetic makeup to complain about the States. I didn't mean to imply that ALL American yogurt is disgusting. Just that the stuff I can get at my neighbourhood grocery store is. I live next to the BiLo, people. I actually tried the BiLo store brand, because it was the only gelatin-free kind there, and it was beyond disgusting. It was lumpy and runny at the same time, and the jam layer at the bottom was a solid, rubbery slab of jam, and you know how when you put watery jam on a piece of white bread and let it sit, the jam and bread sort of mix into a wet spongey thing? That's what had happened to the yogurt where it was sitting right on top of the rubber jam-slab. So. Gross. I have tried Stoneyfield and it's very good; it's just that I don't have a car or a bicycle so it's kind of a pain in the arse to get out to where I can buy the good stuff.
Lunastrixae, Astro definitely does not have the consistency of lube. I like my yogurt firm. The reason they use gelatin is because of the "low fat" craze; they take out all of the milk fat so that they can market the product as low fat, and without the milk fat it falls apart, and yes, is probably a lot like lube. So gelatin goes in to firm it up again. Personally I'd rather have the fat, which is obvious to anyone who's ever seen my love handles. Also, I am a little freaked out by all the growth hormones and antobiotics and pus and grossness that is in milk (which I don't drink anyway, since I'm allergic to it), so I probably should be sticking with the organic stuff.
So. Let me tell you about my Wednesday evening. After a long and miserable trip to Atlanta in which the bus was 45 minutes late (fortunately for me and my fellow Greyhound travellers, entertainment was provided by a teenaged girl screaming her head off while resisting arrest on the floor near the pop machines, making the wait seem a lot longer but, at least, not boring), another imaginary friend was verified to be flesh and blood. And look at how cute she is.
Don't worry. Steph's fingers didn't really get eaten by the sock puppet. It may have consumed a considerable amount of her whiskey sour, though; it was acting a little crazy.
Hockey Mom and I picked up Steph and we went out for some Ethiopian food, which I've kind of been craving. Unfortunately I would give the restaurant we went to about a three out of ten; the mesir wot (red lentils) was good enough that I asked for more, but the yekik alich'a (split peas) was cold, they didn't have the cabbage, one of my favourites, and there were a couple of dishes I'm not familiar with that were boring. Also, they had videos playing on a big screen t.v. instead of music. But lucky for me, the company more than made up for the ambiance. Hanging out with Sandy is always a blast, and Steph is a really sweet, fun and funny person. And you wouldn't believe how homesick I was for a Canadian accent, ANY Canadian accent.
Supper was followed by drinks and knitting in the bar back at Steph's hotel (in case you were wondering, I'd also give the hotel bar only about a three out of ten, because nice booths with high sides for privacy just don't make up for running out of Guinness as soon as I get there). But we had a great time anyway. Here's proof that knitting happened:
Okay, they may just be pretending to knit for the camera. But almost as much stitching as bitching really did get done, and both Steph and Sandy tried knitting a few stitches on my current project (knitted with strips of cut-up garbage bags, and visible on the table there next to my pint) and proclaimed it really gross-feeling.
Sandy can't believe how small Steph's needles are. I can't believe they let her on the plane with them; don't you know you could jab a dpn into someone's eye and right into their brain? Sheesh.
There was also some picture-taking going on. And gift-giving:
Steph brought us some lovely stitch markers that she made (Sandy's excited, now she has enough markers for Clapotis), and I gave her a bunch of my shrinky-dink beads to use for more markers, so hopefully we'll see pictures soon of what she does with them. Steph didn't bring the marble slab or the Russian matchbox, though; for that I went into a total stranger's house tonight just to use his belongings as a cool backdrop for the markers. Really, I did. I couldn't get my laptop connected on his cable internet, though, so I had to come back home to post the pictures. Plus, total-stranger-guy's dogs kept licking my keyboard.
Steph also brought me this, because she knows how small my bladder has become in my old age (gone are the days when I could work an eight-hour shift and hold it, only having to close my store to run and pee once all day. Now I seem to expel three teacups worth of pee for every cup of tea. How does that happen?).
It's a bag you can pee in, full of some sort of crystals that turn your pee to GEL so that it won't leak all over your hands and trousers while you're looking for a garbage can to throw it in. And it's biodegradable. Because it's a sin to spill your pee on the ground when you could put it in a disposable container first. Come on, this is America, people! Everything is better in a disposable container, even pee. (Before you guys get all crazy-mad on me, let me just say that Canada is just as bad for excessive packaging as the States is.)
October 15, 2005
Why is it always about lust with me, and sleeping around and stuff?
Googling "jodi needs" will give you the following:
jodi needs a ticket to ride
jodi needs to excuse herself from the table and leave through the nearest exit
jodi needs to focus on men somewhere in between being married and having never been married - a good old divorced man
jodi needs deliverance from lust, unforgiveness and the mental attacks and strongholds of the enemy, she promised she would go to church sunday. . .
jodi needs someone experienced to work with her. she is slow to trust.
jodi needs to do well because she would be the next to leave
jodi needs lessons from you on how to treat a woman and let her follow her own fate
jodi needs a hug
jodi needs to bring the fam to chicago and take us all out to dinner
By the way, I never promised anyone I would go to church tomorrow. A Christian church? As if! I only go there if someone's getting married, and even then I dress as slutty as I can get away with for a wedding if I know it's in a church. I certainly wouldn't go there to get delivered from lust, my favourite cardinal sin. Oh, and I already have a divorced man.
October 14, 2005
"Forced to wear soft angora sweaters"
I see from the search stats that Glen (or Glenda) has been to my website again, the perv.
You guys are in TROUBLE
I love my internet friends, and I think you guys are usually pretty good at looking out for me. So how come, when I was caught up in the huge life decision of choosing a graduate school, not a single one of you thought to warn me that I was considering moving to a state where vibrators are illegal? Come on, people. This is important information, and y'all held out on me. Didn't you know I'd be too scared to bring one across the border, lest our car get searched? Especially after that time they grilled me about the "craft products", and I thought they meant I was trying to smuggle Kraft products into the U.S. (they just meant my knitting). I think maybe somebody needs to atone for this gross oversight by sending me one in the mail (in an unmarked package, please, I don't want to lose my student visa and get deported). I'm kind of partial to the ones that have a really realistic shape but are a crazy colour. Oh, and while you're at it, send one to Snowball too, because I see she also lives in a backward, uncivilized state that bans vibrators. I just have to say one more time, what is wrong with these people?
For those of you who still think this blog is about knitting
Here are the superexciting knitting pictures I promised; sorry about the quality, but my shack is surrounded by trees and english ivy. Not a lot of light gets in.
Here's the body of the cardigan I started the night I stayed over at Sandy and Bob's. The red is merino, the brown (it's brown! not black, although I was going to do black until Sandy very wisely reminded me that my sweater would be "way too UGA". Good call, Sandy) is lambswool. Both are recycled from secondhand sweaters.
Because I was gullible enough to believe a filthy, lying gauge swatch, I now have to block this bad girl to within an inch of her yarny life in order to make her stretch around my chub (my chub is new, improved and bigger than ever since coming to Athens; what the hell am I climbing up and down all these damned hills for every day if it's just making me MORE CHUBBY?). Sheesh. Anyway, the sleeves will have the stripey switch to brown at the same height as in the body, and then I'll pick up the neck stitches for a (brown) hood. I decided to use the brown because I didn't think I'd have enough red for a hooded sweater, and then while I was getting ready to move I found a motherload of the red. Ah well, matching scarf I guess.
Here's all I've done on the first sleeve of Arisaig. See, Anna? I am way behind you. I'm not quite as far behind as I look, though, because I'm doing 3/4 sleeves instead of the long ones the pattern calls for. I love sleeves that come down past my wrist, but the sleeves on this sweater are so narrow that I know they will interfere with my bracelets (which I never take off) and make me mental. So I started the increases right after the garter stitch edge, and will just hold it up against my arm to decide when to start the armscye decreases.
The yarn is (say it with me, kids) recycled, 100% cotton with two strands of different pale olive greens. I haven't decided what colour to use for the contrast edging yet, but was thinking maybe orange, tan or brown. Or if I cop out and use something from stash, it'll likely be black.
No pics yet of Sgt. Pepper, because I'm embarrassed at how little I've done for something that knits up so fast. It's just that, well, did I mention that the yarn turns my hands black? I think I'm going to have to knit up all the body pieces and then wash them with the sleeve yarn before I knit the sleeves, because I'm afraid to put white yarn anywhere near this stuff in case it leaks black dye all over the white cuffs the first time I wash it.
Super extra bonus feature: Norma's terrible secret revealed*
From this week's search query stats: "pictures of the legs of Norma's legs". Um, Norma's legs have LEGS on them? Big legs, or little ones? Do they stick out, do they show in trousers? How does she fit them all under her little court reporter desk?
I guess now we know why we only see pictures of Norma from the waist up. Norma, I'm so sorry. But I still think you're totally cute, despite the extra legs.
*I figure, if Snowball's going to kill me, Norma'd might as well kill me too.
September 30, 2005
You have entered the culture-free sector
City orders art removed: Controversial 'American sector' sign gone from riverfront, The Windsor Star, Thursday, September 29, 2005, A1
The controversial piece of art that informed viewers of their departure from American soil has been taken down -- just days after its installation in Windsor's riverfront sculpture garden.
City workers removed Vancouver artist Ron Terada's 'You have left the American sector' sign Wednesday morning and delivered it to the Art Gallery of Windsor, leaving only wooden posts where it had been placed in the park at the foot of Church Street last week.
"I don't think there are any people on city council who have looked at art," said Robert McKaskell, the independent curator commissioned by the gallery to organize an exhibition of Terada's work.
"There's absolutely nothing anti-American about the sign. It's just a very bland observation of the obvious."
The piece was fabricated at Terada's request in the city's sign department and consisted of an official-looking green sign with white letters bearing the message in English and French.
McKaskell said the work was originally scheduled for display until January, to coincide with the duration of Terada's exhibition at the AGW.
Calling the sign "an integral part" of the exhibition, McKaskell said the piece is "site specific" and will not be shown in the gallery.
McKaskell said his understanding is that city council voted behind closed doors to remove the sign. "This is probably one of the very few cities in Canada that doesn't have a public art policy. So decisions are made in council without consultation."
But Mayor Eddie Francis stressed that the issue wasn't on the agenda for the closed portion of council's meeting on Monday.
"This wasn't done in camera," he said. "One thing to keep in mind is this issue never came to council to begin with. The decision to put up the sign never came to city council."
Francis said an e-mail discussion developed among council members regarding complaints about the sign they were receiving from visitors, residents and local businesses such as the hotel sector.
"It was being perceived by some as a City of Windsor sign," Francis said.
"There was no indication to people that this was an art exhibit.
"There was no indication that this was prepared by an artist. It looked like a city sign, it was made by the city's sign department. People believed it to be the city's position. That's the issue we're dealing with."
Francis said that in order to avoid confusion and to protect the city's interests, it was informally decided that general manager of client services Michael Duben would approach the AGW and request that the sign be moved to gallery property.
But Gilles Hebert, AGW director, was unequivocal about who decided to take down the piece. "It wasn't our decision, it was the city's decision," he said. "We made it clear that we would co-operate, of course."
Hebert said he isn't aware of the gallery receiving any negative feedback about the piece, and added that this situation highlights the need for a forum on public art.
"We had gone through the process, bringing this to all the right parties at the city in the summer. It's not like this just came up last Monday," Hebert said.
"We need to establish a policy around these kinds of projects."
Coun. David Cassivi, who supported the piece's removal, reiterated his concerns regarding its artistic merit.
"I certainly don't claim to be an art critic. But I know when something is questionable as to its art value," he said.
"Just because someone says it's art doesn't make it so. I can put up anything -- most people would say that's not art."
"If it's construed as art in your mind, then keep it on your property."
Sigi Torinus, an assistant professor of visual arts at the University of Windsor who witnessed the dismantling of Terada's sign, said larger cities would recognize there are institutions that study art on a professional basis.
"It actually makes me think of Windsor as a very provincial place," she said. "You know, small-town thinking. I find it quite amusing, really."
Here is a document from the Art Gallery of Ontario with a little bit of background on Ron Terada's work, and describing the piece at the centre of the controversy, Checkpoint Charlie. Also check out Mita's post on Checkpoint Charlie from last week, before the piece was removed (she's also posted a picture). I was surprised and pleased when I read this post last week, and should have known that it was too good to be true.
And to give you some idea of the sort of public art that the City of Windsor approves of, have a look at some of the works in the Odette Sculpture Park (click on the artists' names to see images of the sculptures; the big white hand holding an apple and adorned with red fingernail polish is a must-see). I find it laughable that this site claims the Sculpture Park has some sort of curatorial "philosophy", when in reality every sculpture in the park is purchased and donated to the city by one wealthy old man named Bud Odette. Our city's public face is determined by one old man, and the city doesn't have to pay for the art.
For extra laughs, check out the works for the Windsor/Detroit "CarTunes on Parade" exhibition, celebrating the rich heritage of music and automobiles in the Motor City (and its feisty little cling-on, Windsor). I've linked you directly to the portfolio of sculptures, to save you the agony of the horrible music on the home page (you should thank me, really). Artists were given a stupid-looking cartoony car form to decorate, which had been carefully designed not to look like any particular car (wouldn't want one of The Big Three to think that the sculptures looked too much like one of the competition's models, and, you know, not donate money). Artists were required to find their own sponsors in order to pay for materials and installation, pretty much ensuring that anything at all critical of the cities or the auto industry would not make the cut. Many of these pieces simply have music notes painted all over them. There is a particularly hideous one near my house, sporting gigantic fuschia and green lilies and three roughly jigsaw-cut plexiglas jazzmen with saxophones sticking up out of the roof, that sadly doesn't seem to be pictured on the website. Maybe I'll try to get a picture of it for you when I'm home, but with any luck it will have been vandalized by then anyway.
September 29, 2005
This just in
Moving on Saturday, whether I can arrange to get the bed right away or not. Right now I think it would be worth it to have to sleep on the floor for a night or two in order to be able to get up on Sunday and walk to the studio, rather than being stuck out on the edge of town with no bus to get me there. No more wasted days.
It's amazing how much of a mess I can make in a month and a half, especially considering I only brought half a vanload of stuff here, and a third of that went to the studio. The floor in my room is already covered in prints, fabric, yarn, papers, pencils, clothes and shoes. And knitting needles. Gah. I bet Peter's got our house all cleared out like the minimalist bachelor pad of his dreams in my absence, but it's comforting to know that it will only take me a few weeks to make it look like a herd of kindergarteners stampeded through.
Here's one for the Making Fun of Americans file: I set up my new account with Georgia Power yesterday, and the lady there asked me, "why don't Canadians have Social Security numbers? How do y'all pay your taxes up there?". Heh. Peter said I should have told her that we don't pay taxes in Canada, that the government makes enough money from operating the moose hatcheries that we don't need to. I wish I had told her that the Governor-General comes around with her fleet of dog sleds once a year and takes a portion of our seal hunt. Damn. I need to learn to think faster.
September 26, 2005
Seek and ye shall find
More misadventures from this week's search query stats:
"uga white slacks with bulldogs all over them": go away. There are enough fashion crimes committed on this campus already, and that is two in one, my friend.
"shaved armpits": sorry, we don't go in for that kind of kink around here. The sex appeal of hairy girl-pits is boundless. I did, however, use a depilatory cream on my legs for the first time ever last week. Not sure if I like it yet, it smelled okay and took out all the hair and didn't sting, but the hair-return factor (both speed and strength) has yet to be determined. I'll be sure to keep y'all posted, because I know the suspense must be keeping you awake at night.
"my roommate is a big fat slut cast": I have no idea what a "slut cast" is. But I'm betting your roommate is not a slut, she's just comfortable with her sexuality. You, on the other hand, may have a problem.
"jodi hates me I was so good to her": dude, what are you, a fucking stalker? Get over it.
"why are school is better than yours wisconsin madison": because at OUR school, we learn how to spell.
"greatest journal chicken pox chubby girls": uh, yeah. No idea. I guess I'm kind of chubby. I had chicken pox when I was 13, and I have a big white scar on my chest from it, right next to a matching white scar from a cigarette burn. I can't even remember which is which anymore, they look exactly the same and it's been twenty years. Oh, and when you get chicken pox, make sure you GET PROOF so that you don't have to pay eighty five dollars later to get immunized against something you're already immune to (no bitterness here).
"sex toy barbage": if barb left any sex toys behind, I haven't found them yet. Unless you count all of the soiled white sports socks left behind by her teenaged sons. Ew.
"a little piece on the side": get in line baby. Everyone is looking for that. Send me a cv, head shot and five-minute video and we'll talk.
"does walking in the yard kill grass?": usually I just jump on the silly or dirty searches and leave the normal ones alone. But the total elimination of all lawn grass everywhere is of such importance to me that I'll make an exception. Walking on the grass takes too long. Do like I did and put tarps all over the yard, or unroll a big roll of tarpaper on the ground. Be sure not to leave any cracks where the sun can get in. Leave it for six months, et voila! Another patch of prime gardenland reclaimed from the evil fescue.
"green lady huron county": the Green Lady of Hay Swamp's reputation is such that I once saw a guy puke all over an arcade floor just because his friends said they had seen her on the way into town. Remember the urban myth about the guy with the hook who kills the kids out screwing in a car in the middle of nowhere? Where I grew up it was the Green Lady who did that, and there wasn't any hook; instead she killed the boy, severed his head and impaled it on the car's radio antenna. Later on my pal D. told me that the Green Lady was actually MaryAnn K.'s grandmother, who used to walk along the side of the roads in Hay Swamp dressed in a green garbage bag, stopping cars and asking the drivers for empty beer bottles. And I don't care if that story is true either, I will repeat it forever because I like it so very much. And if it IS true, it means that there are only two degrees of separation between me and the Green Lady. Hah!
So. Enough of that. I shook off my long and frustrating week with a fine, relaxing weekend; Saturday I went in to the studio and piddled around a little, then Sandy picked me up and I went out to their place for an evening of good conversation, knitting, fine food and lots and lots of Guinness. I stayed overnight, and on Sunday I got to go to Sandy and Bob's oldest son's hockey game before coming home. It's been a long time since I've been in a hockey arena, and man! did I miss that smell. The smell of ice and diesel and sweaty hockey clothes reminds me of the summers of my puberty years, spent freezing in our local arena wearing the sluttiest clothes a small-town 12 year old girl could get away with in 1983, longing for a hockey school boy to pay me some attention. Fortunately, now that I'm old enough to be their mother, the lust for the 15 year old boys on the ice is very much gone.
I had a cup of the hot chocolate just to make the arena-going experience complete, but the hot chocolate was actually kind of yummy instead of watery and gross like I remember it. Probably the fact that it didn't come out of a machine that also sold coffee and soup out the same spout had something to do with it.
Moving right along: last week I got a package from Krista and I forgot to show you the totally fab hair clips she included:
Glitter pvc skull and bones. Too cute. You can get a pair at pixiefashions.com, go there right now and tell her I sent you.
Yes, my hair is almost half yellow and half roots now. That would be why it's been months since you saw a picture of my head. It's just now getting into the really godawful-looking stage of growing out, so I plan to cast on for some hats this week even though I don't think I'm one of those girls who looks cute in hats. I'm actually one of those girls who looks completely stupid in hats, like I'm trying way too hard to look cute. But desperate times call for desperate measures, friends. And surely the Kittyville hat will break my head's apparent hat-curse, because I don't think it could look non-cute on anybody (don't disillusion me, please, I'm clinging to this belief instead of going crazy and chopping my hair back). Shit, here I am blogging about my hair again. Lame.
September 18, 2005
Something I've been meaning to tell you
Several somethings, in fact.
internet fame is mine! mwahahahaha
A few weeks ago I received a "hey there" e-mail from another Jodi Green, inspiring me to Google my name again and have a look. Not only did I discover that I'm now the number one Jodi Green on the internets,
(thank you, thank you so much for this honour; I'd like to thank my parents and my agent, and my web designer Peter, and Martina, my hairstylist, and Sally Ann my wardrobe consultant, and all my internet friends who linked to me, and. . . and Aloys Senefelder, and Mrs. Blackie, and. . . I couldn't have achieved this great honour without all of the little people. . . )
but I also found this blog post in which the blog's author, Arieanna, discusses having been quoted in a Vancouver Sun article without her knowledge. And, lo and behold, I'm in there too, in a reference to my April 23rd entry, Why I love Canada. Huh.
aliens gave me migraines
About seven or eight years ago I had a strange and scary experience; it was my first night home from Pennsic and I'm usually a little disoriented for the first few days after having gotten used to sleeping in a tent with the sound of drums and dancing going on all night. Some time in the middle of the night I sensed a presence in the room and awoke to find a man standing at the foot of my bed, looking down at me. He was wearing some kind of long black coat or cloak and a wide brimmed black hat, and had long dark reddish hair and a beard. I said, loudly, "who are you, and what the fuck are you doing in my tent?". He didn't answer, and I gradually realized that I was not in my tent but back in my bedroom at home. My bedroom in those days was in a walk-in closet, just wide enough to fit a mattress in so that there was a wall on each side of the bed, and I had to reach to the foot of the bed and about four feet up the wall to get to the light switch. I slowly sat up and reached for the light, terrified because I had to get pretty close to the guy in order to do so, and I could see his face now, his eyes; I was close enough to have felt his body heat, if he had had any. Of course, when my hand finally reached the light switch and turned it on, he wasn't there.
The other night Peter sent me a link to a New York Times review of a book which discusses alien abduction experiences. NO, I don't think I was abducted by aliens, nor do I think I saw a ghost. But it definitely wasn't a dream. One of my school chums insisted I'd had a visit from my "guardian angel" but even if I believed in that kind of crap I don't think I'd be too keen on having a guardian angel who looks like the Undertaker (this guy definitely didn't have the flashy belt though). Anyway, just for fun, here's some of my chat conversation with Pete about it:
peter: hey, remember the dream about the guy in your bedroom... the one you thought was really there?
jodi: oh god. yeah. did you see him?
peter: check this: "Dr. Clancy's accounting for abduction memories starts with an odd but not uncommon experience called sleep paralysis. While in light dream-rich REM sleep, people will in rare cases wake up for a few moments and find themselves unable to move. Psychologists estimate that about a fifth of people will have that experience at least once, during which some 5 percent will be bathed in terrifying sensations like buzzing, full-body electrical quivers, a feeling of levitation, at times accompanied by hallucinations of intruders."
jodi: what are you trying to tell me? I wasn't abducted.
peter: it's a nyt book review
peter: the topic is alien abduction, but her analysis isn't entirely limited to that
peter: it reminded me of your dream, mainly because of the realistic nature of your experience
peter: i don't know if you had any of those other symptoms
jodi: oh yes, it was real. but i was not paralyzed, i don't think.
jodi: i mean, i was able to sit up and turn on the light, although i was momentarily too paralyzed by fear to do so
peter: well, i don't think it was "real", although i don't doubt you experienced it as real
peter: and perhaps the paralysis actually preceded the fear?
jodi: i am not saying there was a real man in my room.
jodi: or that it was a real ghost
peter: i know
peter: i know
jodi: but something was there and it was real. even if it was just someone else's memory, or a ripple, or something.
jodi: but, i have had some of those other symptoms at other times. specifically the buzzing and full body quavers. a feeling of being close to leaving my body but unable to go all the way
peter: suppose what happened, to an external observer, was that you awoke in a state of sleep paralysis, which included a hallucination of an intruder; you attribute the paralysis to fear because, in your experience, you become aware of the paralysis and the intruder at the same time. The paralysis fades sufficiently that you can move and you immediately throw on the light
peter: and i don't think the paralysis is complete, although i'm not sure about that
jodi: well, i was not abducted by aliens.
peter: i know... but you're not interested in aliens, particularly, or worried about being abducted; traits that abductees typically display before their experience
jodi: i am worried about male intruders in my bedroom!
peter: the author is arguing that these are two factors that make a person prone to an abduction experience
jodi: and i was prone to a man in the bedroom experience
peter: so lots of people are interested in aliens, but only a small percent of people experience sleep paralysis
peter: 5% of the pop at least once in their lives
peter: you also have a very vivid imagination, which i'm sure helps
jodi: i think 5% is kind of a lot.
peter: so it's not uncommon
peter: who knows, of course, if this is exactly what happened to you... but it's consistent
jodi: i believe the temporal lobe stimulation theory whole heartedly. but maybe only because i heard that same ideas program three hallowe'ens in a row
peter: well, the temporal lobe is undoubtedly involved
jodi: hey, is that near where my migraine is?
jodi: oh, it was aliens! aliens abducted me and gave me migraines!
peter: you and the gang of four
peter: "This heaven gives me migraine"
peter: only he pronounces it to rhyme with Ygraine
peter: Arthur's mum
jodi: why would he want to sing about Foot's wife?
jodi: i mean, she is a nice lady, but. . .
peter: i told you it was Arthur's mum
peter: and not arthur atkinson de kyrkshawe
jodi: and foot's wife!
peter: different chick
jodi: oh yeah. i was racking my brain on the kyrkeshawe, it sounded familiar
jodi: woops, i didn't mean to change the spelling, how medieval of me!
peter: i noticed!
jodi: just trying to be all "period", and such.
peter: what's the connection between migraines and periods?
peter: gang of four?
jodi: are you losing your erection over all this?
Yeah. So it all kind of goes downhill from there. But, have any of you guys ever had an experience like that where you saw someone that wasn't there (professional wrestler look-alike or not)?
September 14, 2005
A little bit cunty (a little bit rock 'n' roll)
Yoni B. Goode. Oh yeah!
The Clorox bleach pen is my new best friend. This worked out so well that now I want to bleach every piece of clothing I own.
(Get a load of the cellulite on that arm. Rrrowr! You know it's sexy).
I finished the bus socks yesterday:
This represents about a week's worth of riding and waiting for the bus. But in that time I also knit the first sock down past the heel turn before realizing it was far too wide, so actually a week on the bus will net two and a half socks. Too bad after I finish the graduation pom squad socks I'm out of good sock yarn, because I still have two more weeks of riding this bus. I might have to break out the ugly-ass Kroy in desperation.
Last night was knit night at Anne Marie's, where I also finished the back of Peter's sweater. Sorry, no pictures (soon! I promise).
Okay now, on to other business:
Fiber has returned from whatever witness protection program she was in, and tagged me for a questionnaire. I usually don't like doing these, because come on! The questions are hard! But for Fiber I'll do it, as long as she promises to not go disappearing without a peep for another three months.
So here goes.
7 things I plan to do before I die
1. finish the damned attic OR sell the house, whichever is easier
2. see above, scratch "attic" and insert "garden"
3. finish school and become a real grown-up (I plan to do this before I'm 40)
4. travel across the continent and crash on the couches of every single blogger and internet friend foolish enough to offer (so watch what you say or I might show up on your doorstep!)
5. get matching tattoos with my brother Dave
6. burn down the malls
7. find more things to aspire to so questions like this aren't so hard
7 things I cannot do
2. dance (well, I can do the Korobushka, but that's not really one you can do at the clubs. . .)
3. sing in public. Now, I heard a rumour that some of my new knitting pals here in Athens love them some karaoke. I just want them to know right now that it ain't happening. I will be happy to attend karaoke and be the designated picture-taker and Guinness-drinker, but that is all. Unless they have Bat out of Hell, and you have bought me much, much Guinness first.
4. use American spellings. It's just lazy, people! It was really, really tough for me to type "Fiber" up there instead of "Fibre", and the only way I can do it is by telling myself it's a name, not a word.
5. do one of these questionnaires without bitching about the questions. Seven is a lot of things! Come to think of it, I can't fill out any kind of form without asking a bunch of dumb questions, or getting help.
6. what I'm told
7. get anything finished without a deadline
7 things that attract me to the opposite sex
2. a finely boned wrist. You might be the hottest thing on the planet, but if your wrists are thick like trunks? Don't touch me. God I'm shallow, aren't I?
4. a sort of refined sloppiness (not contrived though)
5. I'm attracted to people who think, and who care about ideas. There's nothing worse than being with an otherwise attractive person who has nothing interesting to talk about.
6. guys who think I'm totally sexy? That's a real turn-on for me, I must say (yep, shallow AND vain)
7. there's a certain jawline contour that makes my knees weak when I see it. Maybe it's because when I see other guys who have it, it reminds me of Peter, or maybe it's one of the things that attracted me to Peter in the first place. But it's definitely the reason I like him better without his beard.
7 things I say most often
2. Jesus Murphy
3. get outta town
4. yay! (oh, that drives Pete nuts)
5. I'm sure
6. harder! harder! (just kidding, Mom)
7. wah-wah (like Pingu)
7 celebrity crushes
Okay, here's where I have to cop out. I just don't have celebrity crushes. I don't really give a rat's ass about celebrities, I mean, it's not like they're real people. But I guess I could think of some artists and writers I sort of have crushes on:
Alice Munro, who is Canada's greatest living writer and would be a strong contender for the Nobel Prize in Literature if only short stories got the same respect that novels do. She is a master of the beautiful turn of phrase that dazzles you and then kicks you in the stomach while you're distracted.
Di Brandt, a fine Canadian poet and fascinating flake. She taught my Canadian literature course in the last semester of my undergrad, and she's just totally fabulous and charming and weird. I hope she doesn't mind that I called her a flake.
Betty Goodwin. I want to be her.
And I guess that Krista will out me if I don't admit that I would like to shag Bob Geldof; also I want to prove to y'all that I don't just get crushes on older women. Or just on Canadians. He's got nice wrists, and the casual disregard for hygeine, coupled with the elegant clothes, mmm.
Also: if cartoon characters count, I totally have a crush on Bobby Hill. "Mine's all sloppy, and no Joe!"
Okay, so that's not seven. But it's the best I can do.
August 01, 2005
Homoerotic dreams, fake contests and a little reminder of the rules
Hi everybody, I'm back. The website was down over the weekend because of some bandwidth problems which I hope to figure out soon. Although I don't think that this alone is what caused me to grossly exceed my bandwidth allotment for July, I'd like to remind readers of what I consider to be proper linking etiquette. If you wish to reproduce one of my photos on your website, please feel free to do so as long as the following conditions are met: do not alter the image in any way; credit me as the photographer and provide a link back to my website; and save the image to your own server or use a free service such as Flickr to host the image so that I am not paying for the bandwidth every time your site is viewed. If you wish to quote from something I have written and comment on it, please link to my website; please do not reproduce my writing in full on another website unless you have obtained written permission from me to do so.
On Friday night, before I found out that my site was down, I composed this blog entry at Peter's mom's house, then hooked the laptop up to her dialup service to discover that I couldn't upload it. So here's the weekend's post, a little late.
It's Civic Holiday weekend, a made-up holiday that's an excuse to have a three-day weekend. Because summer doesn't last very long in Canada, so we need an extra day off. Since it's also my Gramma's birthday weekend, and my Gramma's a total rock star, let's have a made-up contest for a made-up holiday.
So. I want to know your answers to this: if a Nobel Prize for rock and roll were created, who do you think should be the first to receive it? Don't say Phil Spector; while he may have contributed greatly to the development of rock and roll, they don't give the Nobel Prize in Literature to publishers and editors. Who is the Jose Saramago, the Gabriel Garcia Marquez of rock and roll? I want to know who you guys would choose, but I also want to know who you think I would choose; first person to correctly guess my choice will get some kind of amazingly cool prize. Maybe a t-shirt. (Anyone with whom I've already had this conversation is not eligible).
Speaking of rock stars: this morning after the clock radio came on, I was still asleep and hearing the CBC morning show in my dream, and someone was being interviewed (I can't remember any of the conversation now). I was watching a film from the seventies, and the setting was a classroom (not really anything like the institutional green grade school classrooms with large square desks you could keep your stuff in and children's literature lined up along the window ledge that I spent that decade in; more Welcome Back, Kotter-style, with harvest gold walls and those high-school desks with the little arm across). A question was asked, and the questioner stood up from one of the desks; it was one of my (straight male) professors. A certain (straight male) rock star stood up from the desk in front of the Professor and turned to face him. Before answering, the Rock Star bent down (he is much taller than the Professor), took the Professor's face gently in his hands and kissed him, passionately. Thene he answered the question, and the Professor grinned like a goon for the rest of the interview. Like a smitten goon.
And another thing: that Jesus Murphy guy shows up in my search query stats almost every day now. Has anyone ever stopped to wonder if he's related to Murphy the Molar?
July 27, 2005
Answers to some vitally important questions
I'm feeling somewhat better, although I've still got several days worth of antibiotics left to swallow, which means several more days of everything tasting like metal. A metallic taste in the mouth and a fridge full of Guinness don't go together very well. And the amount of different drugs I'm on right now makes me feel like an old woman, but I won't list them all for you. Because I'm not an old woman yet, damnit. Just teetering on the edge of middle age.
Just for fun I'm posting from my brand new laptop, to try and get myself used to this crazy, tiny, so tiny keyboard. It's driving me nuts, I feel all scrunched up here with my hands so close together, and why is the back button so small and buried? Don't they know how often I need to use that? It should be big, and also raised. For dopes like me who constantly type the wrong word.
Okay kids, sit back and get ready for question and answer period. Here, here's a little rocking chair for someone who likes to rock, and an armchair over here for two more to curl up in. Make yourselves comfortable. I'd like to take a moment to address some of the recent search queries that have brought people here. I'll skip the truly dirty stuff, since I seem to be some kind of magnet for people looking for p*rn, especially those types of p*rn of which I disapprove.
So: to the person (people) who came here looking for sofia loren weblog, lovely armpits and are hairy armpits sexy, yes, they are, and I suspect that the sexy hairy armpits are the only thing that Sofia Loren and I have in common. And sadly she doesn't appear to have a blog.
who was the girl who was in the picture pretending to be nancy drew of the crook who stole the book: go to your library. Go to the reference desk. Ask them to show you how to use a search engine.
agnetha's ass: for crying out loud. How come nobody ever goes looking for Frida's ass? She's pretty cute too, you know.
caroline mortimer blog: ah, here's one I can help you with. Link's right there in the sidebar, under friends.
magic 8 ball voice: perhaps you'd better get back on your medication. Immediately.
who is jesus murphy: just some Irish guy. I'd be careful around him if I were you, I think he might be from Lucan. And you know what they say about people from Lucan.
solid yellow line highway ontario: sometimes I wonder how the hell these searches lead to me. I can tell you this: if you happen to see the yellow-line painting truck going down the highway painting a brand-new yellow line, don't try to write your name in the paint with your finger. It's not the same as fresh cement, and you will only end up with a finger scraped raw and a stinging wound that is filled with yellow paint. And I learned this in Ontario.
drawings of motley crue: you must be kidding.
naked pictures polly montreal: to the best of my knowledge, Polly has never been to Montreal. During the twelve or so years we've been together she's pretty much stayed in London and Windsor. She doesn't talk much about her life before we met, though, so it's possible it was her you saw there. I do know that before she moved in with me she spent a few years locked in a scout hall attic in Waterloo. It upsets her to talk about that time in her life, so I don't bring it up. And she does spend a good deal of her time naked.
meaning of the word bushmill: I think it means something like "good for removing nail polish" or "you will surely vomit".
pittsburgh salad: it's nice to see that I'm still coming up pretty high in that search, because I feel it's my role in life to warn all the little children of the world away from such awful food. Do. not. eat. the Pittsburgh salad. You will surely vomit.
zombie jesus ohio: it's just a statue. I don't think it's really a zombie. I mean, I took all those pictures of it and didn't see it eating any brains or anything. It's possible that it was Jesus Murphy from Lucan that you saw eating brains in Ohio. People from Lucan are wacky that way.
jodi's curse: boys and girls, I think we'll save that story for another day.
June 18, 2005
a little collection of unrelated things
Look: China is the new America. I'll get back to you on this later; for now I'll just file it away in the anti-buffet arsenal.
Here is the Barbage photo I wanted to show you before. Sorry if it's a bit of a letdown after the big buildup.
Although I found the picture in our attic, it was not taken in our house. I do have that exact same phone though; my Gramma had her old black rotary phone forever and when it finally stopped working she refused to get a touch-tone, instead badgering the phone company until they found her a brand-new, white rotary wall phone down in the basement somewhere. Right after that they changed the service to her town so that only touch-tone would work, and Gramma had to embrace the new technology. So now I have this great old phone that is brand-new. I need the wall bracket for it, if anybody's got one lying around.
Some search terms that brought people here yesterday:
and I can't get enough nylon weblog: listen, I do NOT have a nylon problem. I can quit nylon anytime I want. I can quit tomorrow. Right after I've finished this pack, I'll quit.
pictures of little turquoise school house: sorry, I have no idea. I've never seen a little turquoise school house. But there is this tiny little shed-sized turquoise house on Highway 4, with a matching tiny little barn, that I always imagined must have an incredibly big basement that takes up the whole property. I was convinced that it was a fabulous underground palace, and the little turquoise house was just a disguise to keep people away. I think it's still there, maybe next time I go up to my Mom's I'll take a picture. Don't all pee yourselves in anticipation, now. I know it's hard.
back yard bully bowling balls: ow. That's mean.
And to the person who came here several times last week searching for we will rock you we are the champions same song, yes. They are the same song.
Look! More presents in the mail!
This is the Morehouse Merino Bijoux scarf kit that I won in a contest on jillz's blog. This yarn is so gorgeous I've just been holding the skein in the crook of my arm and petting it. And how did she know I've been hankering for a funny little dog I can dress up in pink sweaters and punk t-shirts? Oh, must be because I'm over 30 and childless. Can we say midlife crisis?
One last thing: does anybody know what kind of bird this is?
It lives in the Carolinean forest. Yeah, I could go look it up myself, but that's work.
June 16, 2005
Dig, if you will, a picture. It's midafternoon, you're travelling along the interstate highway through The Middle of Nowhere, Ohio. Dull, boring, endlessly flat Ohio (it's flatter than a pancake here, flatter than Kansas even). You have to pee, and you're not sure how far the next rest stop is. It's hot and muggy, your car doesn't have air conditioning, the water in your water bottle is hot enough to brew tea. You didn't sleep all that well in the hotel last night, the gin and tonic and country-western karaoke gave you a headache, and you're tired. Maybe you're just beginning to doze off a bit, maybe the heat and boredom are causing you to hallucinate. . .
Is that something? There, in the distance? It looks like something. . . not flat. We're not in Ohio anymore, Toto.
What the fuck is that?
It looks like a man. A really big man-statue. No, a really big half-a-man-statue, sticking out of the ground. Paul Bunyan? John Henry? Andre the Giant?
Christ on a cracker.
It's a really big Jesus. A really big half-Jesus. Jesus rising from the waves. With a really tiny cross, sort of like those teenage boys you see riding down the street on those little tiny trick bicycles. How do they get anywhere on those little bikes, with those little tiny wheels? Is that little cross big enough to hold that really big Jesus?
Look at the cars. Look at how big Jesus is compared to the cars. It's a bit of overkill, if you ask me.
Is this the biggest half-Jesus in the world, do you think?
May 31, 2005
Local girl makes it big
Every day last week someone kept coming here by searching google for various phrases having to do with Agnetha's hot ass. I'm sorry to inform you that there are no hot-assed pop superstars here; however there is one very hot supermodel whose name used to be Agnetha until she got all high falutin' and changed it to Pandora, probably on the advice of her agent. This little girlie was born in my bed and is the sister of Benny, better known to you as Fat girl (two guesses what Benny and Agnetha's brother and sister are called). Like all proper superstars Agnetha/Pandora has a somewhat chequered past, and at times we questioned her mental health, especially when she would meticulously arrange dead mice and birds on the sidewalk with frighteningly perfect symmetry. Turns out she just had a natural flair for decorating, and look! She even has her own magazine, just like Oprah.*
We're leaving tomorrow to drive down to Athens to meet with some people at the university and find me a place to live. I'm really looking forward to the drive down, because we're going to go through Smoky Mountains National Park again, which means going through Pigeon Forge/Gatlinburg. I freaking loved (hated) this place so much the first time we were there; it's got to be the tackiest place on earth. It's miles and miles of crazy tourist traps all crammed up against each other, every crappy country singer has a restaurant (the Alabama Grill is right next to the Louise Mandrell Dinner Theatre, what an excruciating choice!). The strangest thing about this place is that if you turn off the main highway like we did, all of a sudden you're in some sleepy little dickwater, tiny falling-down churches and houses and a horse in the backyard grazing right under the laundry line, then turn back onto the highway and it's Mine Your Own Gemstones! Muscle Car Museum! Real Bears! Live Bears! See Them Touch Them Torment Them! The awfulness defies words. Luckily we'll have a digital camera this time, so words won't be necessary. Do you think I can convince Peter to get off the main highway and do a drive-by so I can at least see Dollywood this time? Hah! Not on your life. Last time I had to be content with taking a photo through the windshield of the sign that said "Dollywood that way".
And guess what else? Thursday night we'll be crashing at Hockey Mom's place! I'm so excited, she'll be the first blog friend I've ever met for real. Finally I'll find out if all these internet people really exist. My co-worker last night was totally weirded out about me staying at the house of a "stranger" I met on the internet. If I'm not back by Monday, better check Hockey Mom's freezer.
May 26, 2005
My arse made it down under before I did
Well. Caroline sent me a newspaper write-up of her current show, and there was a picture of one of her photo collages.
And yes, that's a picture of my arse in the top right corner, mooning all of Australia, or at least all those who read that paper. With a scrumptious-looking bruise from falling down the stairs. We took that picture right in front of D. the janitor; I think he was kind of embarrassed but it's hard to say, he might have just been drunk.
Did you notice that Caroline's name is a link? Because I've now managed to
bully talk another friend into joining me in wanking self-indulgently on the internets. That's two now! Two!
(cue lightning and thunder and large flashing number two)
We spent a sunny afternoon lounging outside today, and Benny has figured out that there are very potent drugs planted in the back yard. She's partial to culinary herbs and anything else stinky, but likes the powys castle artemisia the best.
Maybe she'll get hooked and start acquiring some of that heroin chic. Let's hope so anyway, because she's been on a diet for a year and has only become more portly. Luckily her physique doesn't get in the way of her elite athlete status; I think all of Canada will be proud to have the fats representing our country in the synchronized lying-down event of the Kittycat Olympics, don't you? I hope none of our garden plants turn out to be banned substances; I don't want Benny to be the next Silken Laumann.
They also excel in the synchronized running to the food dish. Maybe I can get some good shots during tomorrow morning's training session.
May 21, 2005
Something itchy down there
For days now, "squirrel scrotum" has been the frontrunner for search term of the week. But then yesterday somebody found my site by searching "mohair and angora sweater only over my cock", blowing all other competitors aside. The best part? I always have to try these crazy search terms myself to see how high my page comes up, and I am number fourteen. But Jenla comes up number nine! So of course I clicked through to their blog so that mohair and angora sweater only over my cock will come up in their site stats tomorrow.
Okay, Glen or Glenda, you win the prize this week. Send me your mailing address and I'll search my closet for something appropriate to reward you with. And I hope your prize doesn't make you itch too much, down there.
In gardening news,
we have sprouts!
By Friday (one week from planting) only one echinacea seed had sprouted, and I was beginning to worry. But this afternoon I got home from work to find little baby basil, coriander, strawflower, love lies bleeding, bergamot, one red hollyhock, and lavatera. I swear none of these had sprouted yet this morning; they all came up while I was out on the side of the highway with Nancy, sweating through the crotch of my corduroy trousers in the blazing sun and blowing up six hundred balloons to build six 15-foot towers for a car dealership (yes, I went back to working at the party store; I thought they had me replaced but now everyone's on vacation so I'm filling in for June. And after this month, I'll never work for minimum wage again, I promise).
The lavatera is particularly exciting, because I have no idea what this plant looks like; it's one of the seeds Rob stole from someone's garden and mailed to me, and he knows us and our gardening style and preferences pretty well, and also has fabulous taste himself, so I'm sure it will be something amazing.
May 11, 2005
Let's quit with the potty talk around here
Because this is getting ridiculous.
There is nothing to be found on this website on most of those topics. All of the nurses around here wear prim blue uniforms and starched aprons and sturdy shoes. Speaking of which, AS IF I write about my shoes. Please.
Instead I'm going to tell a cat story. Because we know that everyone who knits and has a weblog loves to write cat stories.
When Peter's son Dylan was seven, his favourite song was "Lost in the Supermarket" by the Clash, and when Pete played it on his guitar and sang it, Dylan had actions he would do along with the song. Essentially it involved pretending to push a grocery cart around our apartment and put things in it, but it was quite funny.
So yeah, how is this about the fats. Tonight Peter was playing and singing "Just like honey" by the Jesus and Mary Chain, and over on the armchair the fats were doing the actions: Fat girl was lying on her side with her leg in the air, and Fat boy, well, in the interest of keeping the Google searching pervs away, let's just say he was doing the actions to the "licking up" part.
May 10, 2005
Somebody dropped off a scrotum?
My little next-door neighbours, K and M, are 5 and 3. When the weather's nice they play outside watched only by their ageing dog, who doesn't seem to mind them knocking on my door six or eight times a day to bug me while I'm working (my kitchen stovetop is covered in rocks that they brought to the door over the weekend, saying "this one's for you, and this one's for the boy!").
The third time they hammered dingdongdingdongdingdong on my doorbell this afternoon, I was all ready to give them a lecture about how rude and annoying it is to wail on the bell like that, but when I opened the door they were jumping up and down looking panicked and shouting at me something about someone dropping off something in their yard that sounded like scrotum, and that their mother had said to leave it for daddy. "Somebody dropped off what?" I asked; "a scodo!" "a scrowowtay!" "a scowotoe!" (the just-turned-5-year old doesn't enunciate very well, and isn't any easier to understand than her little sister). Even though I know it's a mistake to come out on the porch, because they will think I'm coming to play and that they can run into my house and terrorize the fats, I felt I'd better investigate.
They led me to the front of their porch steps and pointed behind the bushes, screeching the whole time.
It was a squirrel tail. Or part of one, at least.
I actually went in for my camera, but thought better of taking a picture; even if their mother didn't see me taking pictures of rodent parts on her property, the girls would be sure to tell her. And for now I think my neighbours still like me.
May 08, 2005
Nobody here but us fully clothed people
Ahh. What better way to spend a sunny afternoon than out on the deck with knitting, bare toes and a sleepy kitty?
A recap on the week from heck: I got my submissions done for the magazine: four designs, three of which have three or more variations, so lots of options.
I gave my conference presentation yesterday, and it went pretty well despite the fact that I was totally unprepared and only started putting my notes together the night before (and even then I ended up watching about 4 hours worth of the Live Aid dvd with my houseguest instead of doing my work, and finished up my notes in the morning). Fortunately I have the gift of the gab, so I don't really need notes in order to talk and talk and talk. All was good. My talking even made sense for a change.
The Big Girl Knits sample is almost done. I'm going to work on it some more tonight, and it will definitely be put in the post tomorrow. And then, since the weather's finally warmed up, I can get on to the yard work that needs doing, and starting some slutty summer knits.
Does anybody know if cats can get stomach flu? Fat boy puked all weekend; I had to get out of bed twice last night when he woke me up gagging in the hallway (better to deal with it in the night than to have forgotten it's there by morning).
Oh, and I did a Google search for live nude girls, and although a search within the results shows that my site is there somewhere, I looked through about the first seventy pages and I'm not there. And yet "live nude girls" shows up in my search query stats almost every single day. Who the hell are these people, who have the time to slog through so much p*rn and still find me? Why don't they just go buy a magazine?
May 06, 2005
Live nude girls!
For some reason my website keeps getting Google hits for "live nude girls" and "young nude girls". Listen buddy, there are indeed nude girls here, but they're all me, and no matter what exotic and unusual talents I may possess, I don't think I'm the kind of girl you're looking for. And I'm not that young.
Another common Google search that will find you here is "masterbation blog". I'm thinking of going back and fixing the misspelling that Farrah left in my comments last fall, so that at least I will only come up on "masturbation blog" searches from now on. Because I like my pervs to be able to spell.
*I am not trying to imply that qpaukl is the one searching for live nude girls. The picture is gratuitous. Masturbatory, even.
May 05, 2005
One day the machines will awaken and devour us in our beds
It's been a very cold spring here in the so-called "Sun Parlour", so cold that we're still running the furnace almost every day. Since we need to leave our bedroom door closed all day to keep the cats from making off with our socks, and the room gets rather cold, we like to run the little electric heater in there for a while before we go to bed so that the room's not too freezing to have sex in. We've got it set up on a table so that it warms the surface of the bed, because I am a wimp about getting naked on a cold bed.
So Tuesday night, this is what we did. About an hour or so after we had turned off the heater and gone to sleep, we were awakened by flashing lights and whirring motors and flailing panic--the heater turned itself on. All by itself. Just like Maximum Overdrive, but thankfully without the AC/DC soundtrack. Poor Peter had the thing about two feet from his face, but in the panic that ensued he managed to get it shut off before it could attack.
Needless to say, we won't be leaving it plugged in any more.
May 02, 2005
Keeping girls in their place
I bought this charming little book at a local church rummage sale the other night, thinking my stepmother Sherry (a nurse) would get a kick out of it.
Here are some interesting things I learned from the nurse book: all doctors are men; all nurses are women; all patients are men, except for children hurt in accidents, who are always girls. Nurses "are always cheerful and smiling", even if they are tired, even if they have to clean up someone's shit, even if they've just sustained a serious back injury trying to lift a flailing old man into a bed, even if they hate their crappy job and their stupid uniform. Nurses will bring you your breakfast and sing you to sleep, because they are just like another mommy.
It's a "carefully planned book which will help to answer the many questions that lively children ask".
"Mum, can I be a doctor when I grow up?"
"No dear, you're just a girl. You can only be a nurse."
My favourite part:
Because, after all, they will only be working as nurses until they can find a husband and become baby factories themselves.
On playground accidents:
The message here: girls should not roughhouse in the schoolyard, because they are more delicate than boys and when they fall down they may break a bone (on another page, the child hit by a car while riding a scooter was also a girl; clearly they should just stay safely indoors and dream of the day when they can become nurses and find doctors to marry).
Before you write and remind me that this book was published forty years ago, let me say that I don't think a lot has changed in the way that children are subtly influenced to view themselves: the son of some friends of mine recently said to me "I have all the trucks, and my sister has all the dolls. My mommy said boys can't play with dolls, and girls can't play with trucks". And remember, "math is hard".
One thing I did like in this book was the spiffy endpaper:
I'm thinking of trying to talk Sherry into getting a tattoo of that prim little nurse with all the parts of her uniform labelled. Sherry, I'll get the telephone if you'll get the nurse; we can go together! Deal?
Here's where "careful planning" went a little wrong:
When you are asleep they can do anything they want to you and you will not know about it. Reassuring, no?
April 19, 2005
Oh, are you guys here to read about knitting?
Well, there hasn't been much of THAT going on around here, at least not that I can tell you about. I've finished writing up the pattern and drawing the charts for my Big Girl Knits project and I'm pretty much going to be working on nothing but knitting up the sample until it's done, but I can't show you pictures of that. I've also been reluctant to show progress on Peter's birthday sweater, partly because there hasn't been much (BGK is a higher priority) and partly because it's so exciting I thought you all might pee your pants if you saw it.
Four by two ribbing! Careful, don't pee!
Since I know you can't handle this kind of excitement, I'll try not to show every inch of progress. It's Jo Sharp Silkroad Aran Tweed, which is beautifully lofty and a joy to work with, except for all the little bits of grass. The sleeves will have a cable on them, kind of like Mariah only a better cable, but don't expect to see them any time soon, I've got other things to do first. And it's exam week, not that I've done any studying.
"The Incinerator" might not be such a good idea for a wrestling persona
Remember the Iron Sheik in the attic? Well, he wasn't the only pro wrestler living in this place. I found this mortally wounded wrestler doll gasping his last in the backyard today:
The previous owner's delinquent teenagers must have torched this guy and left him for dead, and what do you think it says about the way I keep my backyard that we've owned the house for almost two years and I only found him today? (yes, Sanford and Son live here. In the attic, with the four little children we keep up there).
After a bath and a photo shoot, I think he's finally dead.
Peter sent me a link to this game the other day. This does not bode well for my chances of avoiding the RSI that's been courting me.
April 17, 2005
Lick[e] my what?
Seen on our walk yesterday:
God forbid you get caught still wearing your jumpers. How incredibly gauche.
And this gem:
Licke my but. Mmm.
I guess the Xs in boxes mean: check here if you want to LICKE MY BUT.
April 15, 2005
More fun with site stats
To the person who got here by googling "do skirt wedgies hurt the most": no. Pants wedgies do.
April 01, 2005
If only Bobby Bittman was a Vatican spokesperson. . .
At noon, Vatican officials break the news: "April Fool! He's been dead all morning! Ha! We had you guys praying out there for HOURS!"
Hysterical knee-slapping ensues.
March 05, 2005
All those pot growing pit bull owners
Overheard on the #2 Dundas bus in London yesterday:
Guy #1: Did you teach those horses to read or could they read already?
Guy #2: Horses are smart animals.
#1: Smarter than dogs?
#2: Well I never heard of a horse starting a war.
[dogs start wars?]
#1: Here's what I don't get: if diamonds are a girl's best friend, and a dog is a man's best friend, where do horses fit in?
#2: (no answer)
#1: Hey, they got something new now: dog jail. Pit bull death row. Yup, dog jail.
#2: It's the owners that should be in jail.
#1: Yeah, they all got grow operations anyway.
[Dude, it's nice to see you read the paper this morning, but I think those were two different stories.]
March 01, 2005
Ueber hot pants
Feast your eyes on another sassy little number from the vaults:
I can't decide which I like more, the pouchy, bunchy shorts or the split skirt that draws everyone's attention to your crotch.
February 27, 2005
Clap on, Clap off
One down, eight to go.
Behold Clapotis. Of course, the last thing started is the first thing finished; this won't make the rest of my challenge easier.
I finished Clapotis in the car on the way to Madison, and also finished the back of the Must Have and got a little past the armhole on the left front. Clapotis hasn't been blocked yet because I've decided I hate the colour, and I think I'll dye the whole thing blue so it will match my hair. But not Blue Moon Berry Kool Aid blue:
Eeeew. Looks more like my blue hair when I let it fade to a horrible teal (like it is right now). Fortunately I got smart for once and did a test before throwing the whole shawl into that ugly dyebath.
So. We're home from our trip to Wisconsin, and exhausted from the drive back. Poor Peter had to work today; I on the other hand get to sit on my arse at home. The trip was fun--we got to visit with some friends that we otherwise only see once a year, when we all camp together in Pennsylvania in August. Some highlights:
I was working on Clapotis and Ghita's son Donny asked me if I was knitting, I said yes and he said "are you making a baby?".
Hah! Not on your life, kid.
Michael and Elyse took us to International Exports in Milwaukee. I can't talk about what went on there, though. But I can tell you this: there are no spies in Canada (honest!).
We got to meet Elyse's lovely daughter Angelique and adorable two-year-old grandson Kiernan. Kiernan is an absolute doll; after he got into the purple gouache paint and smeared it all over the workroom floor, he came up to me and put one purple hand on the couch and one on my leg and said "come see my mess!" with a big, gorgeous you-know-I'm-too-adorable-to-be-mad-at smile.
I think the paint will wash out.
On the highway between Milwaukee and Chicago there is a place called the "University of Lawsology". This is where you learn Natural Law. It looks like a classy place too; the barn is hardly falling down at all. I wonder if Doug Henning teaches there?
On the same highway we saw a sign that's a good reason not only to take your digital camera everywhere, but to keep it on, draining battery power but poised and ready to shoot all the time: Bong Recreation Area. (It's also a good reason to get a driver's licence, because if you're relying on someone else to drive you all the way to Wisconsin and back then you really don't have a lot of choice about whether to stop at the Bong Recreation Area or not. Peter's choice was not.)
I wonder if they rent out bongs for those who forget to bring theirs?
[a note to any U.S. Immigration officials who may be checking up on me before giving me a student visa: I don't own a bong. I don't know how to use a bong. We didn't even have that kind of technology where I grew up. And I don't know anything about spies in Canada either.]
Peter just e-mailed to tell me that Madison isn't farther north than my hometown after all: Madison, 43deg 4' 45" N, Huron Park, 43deg 16' 59" N. Windsor 42deg 17' 59" N. Huh. Geography has never been my strong point, no matter how much I think in pictures and love maps.
Wait a second: does that mean that my hometown is only twelve feet farther north than Madison? I think I can handle Madison, then.
I did get one good picture on the highway:
Although not as plentiful as in Canada, apparently the northern States have moose hatcheries too! Maybe it isn't such a foreign country after all.
*added later: woops! I forgot to add links and while rectifying that I found out that Doug Henning is not teaching at the University of Lawtology, because he's dead. Who knew.
February 23, 2005
Bitch took my money and she went to Chicago
So we're leaving in about twenty minutes to drive down to Chicago to crash with our friends Ghita and Tom, then tomorrow we're going to Madison to visit the school. We're bringing the camera and a borrowed laptop, so I might be able to blog from the road (what? take time off? as if).
Just a little note to the person who got here by searching "blowjob London Ontario": good luck. Most people in London are way too uptight to give blowjobs. Well, I'm not, but I don't live there anymore. But if you write me a 1500 word essay on why you think you deserve one, then maybe we'll talk.
February 16, 2005
Why fish make better pets
You know it's going to be one of those days when you're pulling 18 inch pieces of poo-covered yarn out of your cat's arse before you've even gotten out of bed in the morning.
February 07, 2005
Second thoughts about desperate men in cars
Peter, like Elabeth and Alison, thinks that the lunch guy probably just sincerely wanted to have lunch with me and wasn't mistaking me for a prostitute. Maybe you guys are right. I'm just so used to being taken for a whore around here that I assumed that was it. Just so you guys know, I wasn't MEAN to the guy or anything, okay?
I really did look like a pig though, and it was 3:30 in the afternoon, a little late for lunch. Maybe he just wanted someone to go watch the American football match with, but if he did then I'm afraid he still picked the wrong girl.
Now THESE girls,
they look like the kind of girls you'd pick up on the street and take for "lunch", don't they? She's got her thumb out and everything.
I'm kind of sweet on the red pantsuit in the middle, but I think it would be nicer if the jumper and pants cuffs were plaid, like the Bay City Rollers.
February 01, 2005
Reunited at last
Krista gets the bonus points for identifying the Iron Sheik on my dining room railing, even though she had a hint: she's been to my house a thousand times and seen his tag team partner, Nikolai Volkov, glaring out from behind my bathroom pipes (by the way, chica, he was behind the toilet--were you peeing like a boy? heehee).
I have a soft spot for these two characters because of their roles as products of American xenophobia. The World Wrestling Federation's creation of these guys as villians was such an obvious play on Americans' fears of Russia and the Arab world--some people get taken hostage in Iran, and instantly this Iron Sheik shows up, and hey! let's pair him up with the Russian dude! Duh. Of course, they got their asses kicked by all-American characters like "Sgt. Slaughter", a mean, crew-cutted bully in fatigues who pushed his weight around all over the world. Simplistic, but interesting.
I guess if I want to go live in the States next year to work on my MFA, I'd better stop saying these things, eh? Freedom of speech might not extend to people on student visas.
I'm starting to sound like a big wrestling fan, but I'm not, really. There's another reason why I love Nikolai and the Sheik, though: the Volkov doll used to belong to my little brother and I've had it for years. After we bought our house in June 2003, I was cleaning up some of the tonnes of "Barbage" (junk left behind by the previous owner, Barb) from the attic and I found the Sheik lying smothered in a batt of insulation. What a happy tag team reunion! Obviously, we bought the right house.
Yesterday in the comments, Susan asked if the Magic 8-Ball was supposed to be garbled. It actually says "cannot predict now", but it's hard to read because there are bubbles that cling to the letters and they're impossible to shake off.
January 20, 2005
Slap the beaver
So I come up number one now if you Google search "beaver jodi".
Small pleasures, folks.
In other news, my wrist feels much better; I've been taking some time off from knitting and going to bed every night with this castor oil poultice my dad told me about, which feels really good. I've also started lifting weights again.
Because of the time off I've been giving my wrist, I haven't had anything to show (hence the recycling of old stories). I have done some work on the printmaking front, but so far it's all just naked pictures (of me) on the computer, and sorry, you're not seeing those. I hope to get in to the shop and work on something tomorrow, though.
Rogue is still not quite put together (the sleeves still need to be put in, that's it!) but I finally got the hundreds of ends woven in on my Cathode and wore it to class yesterday.
Now I'm off to Google "slap the beaver" and see what happens. God, I'm a geek.
January 18, 2005
Why I eat at the P.O.
Well, because of my hand, I haven't been knitting or printing, and I don't really have much to show. But I did exchange some e-mails with Christiane this morning about the big party I attend each year in Pennsylvania, and that brought to mind this vacation story.
This past summer, Peter, Claire (that's Mariah Claire, the sweater's namesake) and I went for lunch at the P.O. Diner in beautiful downtown New Castle PA. We picked it just because of its name, of course; we're big Eudora Welty fans around here. So we're ordering our food, and I have to be a freak and ask how many fryers they have, because I can't (won't) eat anything that's been fried in the same grease as fish (incidentally, the only place I've ever found that cooks their fish in a separate fryer is Bill's Sandwich Shop, also in New Castle). So after learning that they have only one fryer, I order a salad.
After a minute the waitress comes back and says "I guess you don't want the fries on your salad, then?". A salad comes with fries on the side? No, she says, the fries are on the salad.
Fries ON the salad? Like, where salad dressing will get on them?
The waitress says "you're not from around here, are you?", and proceeds to tell me that every place around here does it, and she even went to Florida last year and they had fries on the salad there, too.
Is this true? Has anybody ever heard of this? I've eaten in plenty of places in this area of Pennsylvania, and I've never before heard of fries on the salad. I mean, come on, it's gross.
Here's Claire and I looking at the waitress in utter disbelief; I think this may be the moment where I was saying "you put salad dressing on them?".
I bet she was making it up, just fooling around with the foreigners; it's all some kind of plot, and next year I'll go to the P.O. and ask for my salad without the fries and they'll think I'm crazy.
By the way, since I just can't believe that nobody wanted to know what the Amish guys had in their suitcase, I'll tell you: Wonderbread. The suitcase was jammed full with Wonderbread.
January 15, 2005
A Bill Bixby moment
I was about twenty-six years old when I figured out that Bill Bixby and Lou Ferrigno were not the same person (okay, I didn't really figure it out. Someone had to tell me). I mean, I knew who they both were, but somehow I thought that when Dr. Banner turned into The Hulk, that was just Bill Bixby in makeup. It just never occurred to me to wonder how they got him to look so much bigger.
Have you ever had one of those moments where something you really should have known all along suddenly becomes clear? I had two Bill Bixby moments today:
I was chatting online with my cousin this afternoon and she mentioned in passing that our family used to be Mennonite. I said "what! you're making that up" and she said "Pennsylvania Dutch". Well. I thought Pennsylvania Dutch just meant German. Okay, I knew they were Mennonite. But I guess because our family was Lutheran, I thought that some Pennsylvania Dutch were Mennonite and some were Lutheran. Well, I was wrong. Not that anyone's religious beliefs really matter that much to me, except for mockery purposes (but I'm trying my best to quit that, lest some higher being decides to break my blog again for spite). So I won't even talk about what horrible things Amish men who take the Greyhound to Bowling Green, KY carry in their suitcases. That could get me into trouble.
The other Bill Bixby moment happened in the pub, where instead of the usual crappy tweedle-dee-dee music they had the Detroit classic rock station on: I never understood why you always heard Queen's We Will Rock You and We Are the Champions together. Pete said they are the same song, and I laughed and laughed, and probably called him a mean name. Well. They are the same song.
In other news, we've had a fairly successful graft:
You can see the graft, but I think that only a knitter would really notice. Actually, I know a lot of knitters who probably wouldn't notice (not you guys though, you guys are hawks). Now that I feel like I'm racing, I've got the hood done and one sleeve sewn up. But, true to form, halfway through seaming I started something new.
I bought this sweater secondhand; it's cheap acrylic, but I liked the mix of red, black and white, and there's a cable in it that you can't see in the picture (a boring rope cable though, don't get too excited). When I tried it on it made me look like a middle aged former football player--huge shoulders, beer gut. So I cut it off, and I'm making a skirt. I'm not even sure I'll like it as a skirt, but we'll see.
January 12, 2005
Back to the grind
This here is one of my favourite tools. If I ever become a professional wrestler (and you know it's a possibility) I would base my wrestling persona on this tool: THE LEVIGATOR. Say it with me in your best pro wrestling voice and hear how tough it sounds. What kind of special grappling skills does The Levigator possess? Well, she's heavy. And abrasive. And she spins like a banshee (I know, don't write and tell me that banshees scream, not spin, okay? because I think that anything worth doing with gusto can be done like a banshee).
Just picture it: I slam my great heavy roundness against my opponent, knocking him sprawling on the mat. I sprinkle carborundum, heretofore concealed in my spandex shorts, all over him ("ladies and gentlemen, there's a foreign object in the ring!") and flop! down, belly first, spinning on top of him with gusto. My opponent is flattened, and smooth as a baby's bum.
Oh, yeah. Move over, Chyna.
So my litho stone had a spa day today; after all the times I've left her crusted with thick layers of ink and cobalt dryer in the last year, she deserved a little pampering. She had her edges filed down and everything. Remember those butt-ugly prints I was working on? The ones with the nasty colours and silly frou-frou bullshit? That image is gone, daddy, gone. A victim of The Levigator.
January 04, 2005
An imposter bites the dust
I have a bad habit of watching the ground whenever I walk anywhere, because I'm convinced that I'm going to find some kind of treasure some day, just lying there on the sidewalk. Of course, I have found some treasure, but I've also fallen off curbs and walked into poles (yep, I'm a thing of grace).
The other night Peter and I walked down to Milk and on the way back we picked this oddly squishy figure up off the ground.
It was pretty dirty, but we suspected that this was a rare gummy representation of that elusive yet talented superhero, Mazurka Man. Look at him boogie. He's even doing the devil horns:
Clearly Mazurka Man knows how to rock and roll.
[As an aside, and because I'm a little link-happy today, here is something interesting that I found while looking around for a picture of the mazurka to show you: Kromski Wheels (scroll down a little to see the Mazurka). Lovely, isn't it? If anyone comes across a spinning wheel named after the Korobushka, let me know, I think I'll get one.]
Imagine our dismay when we gave the thing a bath, only to discover that it was just a cheap gummy Spiderman, trying to weasel his way into our house by covering himself with mud and pretending to be something better than he was (because, after all, who would want to pick up a gross dirty gummy Spiderman toy off the ground? but Mazurka Man, well, that's different).
The smarmy bastard. There was nothing to do but throw him to the lions.
December 30, 2004
Come on, Santa, light my fire
Why did they put the wick THERE? (is Santa just happy to see me?)
These are the things you do to amuse yourself when you work in a party store. Look at these fabulous novelty items we sell, and the directions for use:
It takes a whole paragraph to explain how to frighten people with a fake mouse on a string (it's important to remember to keep this trick a secret, because that way people will never figure out that you have a wire attached to the mouse).
Apparently everyone already knows how to install a toilet seat squirter, so no explanation is needed.
Just in case you were wondering, there aren't any directions provided for the fake rubber cat puke. I'll spare you the picture.
Christiane asked for a closeup of my armband tattoo, and I'm happy to oblige.
The design is mine, and the work was done by Trevor at Addictive in London, Ontario, in the summer of 2003.
December 24, 2004
The season of getting is upon us
Our friend Mita always does something way cooler than holiday cards. This year she made peace cranes, and look, ours not only has knitting on it, but handknitted socks!
Whatever holiday you're celebrating, I wish you peace.
December 23, 2004
Jesus freaks broke my blog
Okay, they didn't really. But you shouldn't delve too deeply into the other pages in that last link I provided yesterday; it's really, really scary (see, now that my blog's fixed I'm getting ballsy and mocking the Jesus freaks again just to see if there are repercussions). I hope nobody thinks I'm ripping on Christians, I'm only ripping on the scary weirdo ones. If you really want to get into the scariness of the Lake Hamilton Bible Camp people, here's a good one: check out what they say about puppets.
(What do you think these people would say about my good friend Sock Monkey?)
So now that my blog's not broken anymore, let me show you the presents we got in the mail.
Whee! Skull 'n' bones polar fleece scarves for me and Peter, plus evil kittycat hair clips for me. Thanks, Krista!
Here's a closeup of the ubercute kitties:
And here's a blurry action shot of Pete's scarf:
Since I love to plug my friends, let me do so one more time: you can get this stylish gear over at pixiefashions.
And I can show some Cathode progress; although there hasn't been that much progress what with all the unravelling and all, she's finally on the right track.
Yesterday we performed some neck surgery:
Then I frogged that bit of collar and added it to the torso, which is now six inches long, like it's supposed to be:
Much better. I'm back in the home stretch now, just ribbing and weaving in ends to go. And when I make my next Cathode, I'm using store bought yarn to avoid all these hassles. But I'm only a week behind schedule; I'll be wearing it on Christmas day, and to prove it I'll take some pictures of me wearing it in my home town, so you know I'm not fooling ya.
December 22, 2004
Not your regularly scheduled blog entry
Well. We got presents in the mail yesterday (thanks, Krista!) and I was going to show pictures, but Movable Type is being a bitch and not letting me upload them.
So instead I'll give you a little story. Yesterday I read a really disgusting story over here, and thought I'd tell a disgusting story of my own.
Because I couldn't get a tattoo on my birthday, I went and sat in my favourite coffee bar with my knitting for a few hours instead. I overheard Bob the painter who lives upstairs telling this story: seems about a month ago a local woman met a guy, went home with him and gave him a blow job. Sounds very nice so far, eh? She wakes up the next day with horrible sores and boils all over her mouth, goes to the doctor where a few tests are done, and is told that the sores are caused by embalming fluid. Because the guy was having sex with dead people.
So then the girl who works at the bar chimed in that she knew the woman involved (not very well of course, just through friends, is this starting to look like an urban myth to you, too?) and that the guy's parents own a funeral parlour here in town. And that there was a lawsuit, and they settled out of court (which means that the story would not make it into the newspaper; do people always settle out of court in urban myths?). What, no criminal investigation? She got sores on her mouth but there weren't any sores on him? As if.
So I did a little bit of Google searching, trying to find out if any of the websites about urban myths had this story. I found this: http://urbanlegends.about.com/library/weekly/aa010699.htm, which is close, and the story I heard is probably a variant of this one.
The scariest thing? When searching ["embalming fluid" mouth sores fellatio] on Google, the only site that came up was this one: http://www.lakehamiltonbiblecamp.com/man/massdm5.htm. Oh, dear Jesus.
December 21, 2004
Jesus Murphy, can't we quit picking on the Irish?
I was looking through some old knitting magazines that a co-worker brought in to work, and I found some treasures to share.
Get a load of these stylish separates, knitted in the "traditional Irish manner". Um, honeycomb and moss stitch notwithstanding, I don't really see much in this outfit that's traditionally Irish. Oh yeah, all those poor bloated, drowned fishermen who could only be identified by the patterns in their bellbottom pants. . . and whether they were the traditional fuschia or the traditional purple.
(I'm not Irish. But I work in a party store and so in March I have to sell a lot of cheap plastic products intended for people who want to pretend to be Irish by getting really drunk while wearing some dumbass green plastic hat. Because that's how you can tell someone is Irish, right? It seems like the only people it's still okay to make fun of anymore are dwarves, fat people and the Irish. How come the rest of the world doesn't have a holiday where they dress up and pretend to be North American by acting crass and bigoted? I'm just sayin'. . . )
Anyway, yes, I photocopied the pattern too and no, I'm not going to knit these. But if anyone else is brave enough to admit they want to make them, I'll be happy to share. But I get to mock you.
I'm sure you're all asking, what happened to Cathode? Well, I had to rip out the bottom ribbing because it was too tight. Not too small for me, but too tight in relation to the main colour section, making it look like a poofy 80s sweater. So here's what I'm going to do: sacrifice about three or four inches of the collar in order to get some more yarn for the body. So it won't be quite as luxurious, but I won't look as stumpy. I'll also knit the bottom ribbing on a slightly larger needle. Too bad I already did the collar ribbing and I had to rip that out too.
I promise I'll have pictures in a few days. And I'll be wearing it home for (seasonal holiday family obligations), and it's going to look hot hott hottt.
We don't really do any holiday decorating in our household; here is my only concession to the season, and I suspect even this one decoration bugs Peter a little:
I just can't see the point in putting tacky crap all over the house and then taking it all down again, when I'm not Christian and it's not my holiday (and you can see from the picture that there is enough crap all over our house without adding any tinsel and reindeer). So this is it, a ribbon to put our paltry amount of seasonal holiday cards up on. And most of them are actually graduation and birthday cards for me; the three Christmas cards we have are from the realtor who helped us find our house, an old former chum that I haven't spoken to in fourteen years, and Kay (a lovely Irish lass who wouldn't be caught dead in a purple knitted pantsuit).
November 16, 2004
Look what I just found on my front lawn.
Creepy. I was just talking with my studio neighbour Ellen the other day about my plan to make a page on my website to put up scanned images of the funny found letters and drawings that I have. I thought I had a strange little collection, but nothing in there is as strange as this.
I sure hope it wasn't one of the kids who hung out on my front porch all summer who drew this.