So she has a fimo head and arms (completely authentic), a soft body, and tiny infuriating clothes.
Go see the rest of the challengers at CRAFT CORNER DEATH MATCH!
Friday, December 17, 2010
Craft Corner DEATH MATCH - fishwives
"Fishwife" isn't a term people use in our neck of the whatsit. Having no idea what a stuffed representation of the slang term should look like, I decided to start at the beginning, dig through history, leer at the "alluring" fishwives of Newhaven, and then try to make an old-timey doll without, oh, reading how to do it. Reinventing the wheel! Yay!
So she has a fimo head and arms (completely authentic), a soft body, and tiny infuriating clothes.
Go see the rest of the challengers at CRAFT CORNER DEATH MATCH!
So she has a fimo head and arms (completely authentic), a soft body, and tiny infuriating clothes.
Go see the rest of the challengers at CRAFT CORNER DEATH MATCH!
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Craft Corner DEATH MATCH - historical facial hair
[vaguely historical] Facial Hair:
Sometimes a bear just wants a pint. He finds his falsie, so as to look natural and not draw attention.
BEER. beerbeerbeer.
He has several alternate get-ups, so the bartender doesn't catch on.
Those dang limbs just come right off, don't they? Oh well.
See what the others are up to at CRAFT CORNER DEATH MATCH!
Sometimes a bear just wants a pint. He finds his falsie, so as to look natural and not draw attention.
BEER. beerbeerbeer.
He has several alternate get-ups, so the bartender doesn't catch on.
Those dang limbs just come right off, don't they? Oh well.
See what the others are up to at CRAFT CORNER DEATH MATCH!
Friday, December 10, 2010
a good dunking
Knitting accomplished. The kiddo picked the yarn, and I tried to follow the pattern in Handknit Holidays, which is evidently designed for people with tiny pea heads. Adjustments were made.
Rediscovered love affair with coffee pot necessitated holiday chocolate-spice biscotti. One of these in my cup and I will be considerably more cheerful in the mornings.
In the spirit of the holiday, we thought we would deliver some home-baked goodies downstairs to the grinchy neighbors, but they have not stopped fighting long enough for us to make an appearance. Might take a page from the original St. Nicholas, who lobbed golden balls at people, and just throw cookies at them when they come outside.
on the heart and mortality
In an act of betrayal and irony, the compass around my neck flipped polarization. The black needle no longer points sentimentally to my heart, but away from me, or down to my crotch. Lovely. I continue to wear it, partly out of stubbornness and partly to discover the source of the polarization-addling magnetic field I must have been exposed to at some point. Suspecting I will discover a cosmic portal and thwart the destruction of Earth.
I have issues. And food poisoning.
I was sly and semi-polite, thumbing at the borrowed iPhone between agenda topics until I figured out that the woman clacking away irritatingly on the keyboard next to me was one of my bosses. Went on to display pert attentiveness, and dutifully ate the plate of horrifying food set before me.
A few hours later, I was sagging against the car, trying not to hurl into the petunias on the parking lot median. Tried to walk off the meat-with-meat-with-meat-with-gravy in the mall, and passed the window to the coffee shop, where a man my age lifted his head and watched me go by. For a moment I glimpsed my reflection in the glass between us; a woman in a yellow button-up blouse and jeans, thumb hooked into a purse on her shoulder, hair loose, stride purposeful. Maybe I looked like someone who might be nice to talk to. Or stuff into a barrel. Ice spread from my belly to my outer limbs, and I hurried past. Went to Walmart. As I was checking out, a man loading groceries in the next aisle grazed eye contact with me, and did a double-take. I threw myself down into the candy display, out of sight. For all I smile at winking pensioners and pose for pictures with the husbands of my friends, men still scare the everloving shit out of me.
Have been suffering holiday despondency about mortality, and the fleeting nature of life. Watching the new episode of Bones last night, I broke into a silent Ugly Cry at the same moment as Emily Deschanel, and left a wet circle on the back of Mike's shirt as we lay spooned on the couch by the Christmas tree. He didn't notice. All adult life becomes regret, I feared. "Doesn't it bother you? Our lives unraveling from our hands and away from us faster than we can scramble to gather them up and hold on?" "No, because they're not." Either he's an idiot, or I am. It balances out, I guess, because I felt a bit better. I'm here, after all.
And now I am going to watch the skies for flying toilet seats, as I have just jinxed my odds of surviving the day.
I have issues. And food poisoning.
I was sly and semi-polite, thumbing at the borrowed iPhone between agenda topics until I figured out that the woman clacking away irritatingly on the keyboard next to me was one of my bosses. Went on to display pert attentiveness, and dutifully ate the plate of horrifying food set before me.
A few hours later, I was sagging against the car, trying not to hurl into the petunias on the parking lot median. Tried to walk off the meat-with-meat-with-meat-with-gravy in the mall, and passed the window to the coffee shop, where a man my age lifted his head and watched me go by. For a moment I glimpsed my reflection in the glass between us; a woman in a yellow button-up blouse and jeans, thumb hooked into a purse on her shoulder, hair loose, stride purposeful. Maybe I looked like someone who might be nice to talk to. Or stuff into a barrel. Ice spread from my belly to my outer limbs, and I hurried past. Went to Walmart. As I was checking out, a man loading groceries in the next aisle grazed eye contact with me, and did a double-take. I threw myself down into the candy display, out of sight. For all I smile at winking pensioners and pose for pictures with the husbands of my friends, men still scare the everloving shit out of me.
Have been suffering holiday despondency about mortality, and the fleeting nature of life. Watching the new episode of Bones last night, I broke into a silent Ugly Cry at the same moment as Emily Deschanel, and left a wet circle on the back of Mike's shirt as we lay spooned on the couch by the Christmas tree. He didn't notice. All adult life becomes regret, I feared. "Doesn't it bother you? Our lives unraveling from our hands and away from us faster than we can scramble to gather them up and hold on?" "No, because they're not." Either he's an idiot, or I am. It balances out, I guess, because I felt a bit better. I'm here, after all.
And now I am going to watch the skies for flying toilet seats, as I have just jinxed my odds of surviving the day.
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
Another book signing
Nobody wanted a book signed. We sat at a tiny table sucking on complimentary iced lattes and making fun of the Nook salesman until he came over to show us his color touchscreen. We managed to make him turn red and mutter something like "family establishment" when suddenly the doors swung open and a crowd of firemen strolled in, like a herd of unicorns, and our straws dropped from our mouths. Z said, "Hey, I'm standing right here," from somewhere far away. His New Zealand accent is adorable.
(Sorry, Z. But this godawful picture is waaaay more flattering than the ones Mike took of T-dubya and me. Although at least I wasn't holding my junk in any of those.)
We made vague non-plans to get together at the fondue restaurant some time, the boys were rounded up, and the signing was done. We said goodbye and headed on to the brewery down the road.
After being introduced as, "my... ex-wife... girlfriend... something" to the brewer, I stomped off and tipped back a row of mini samples in the tasting room while the man patted bags of grain for an hour. A retired Seattleite winked at me over his wife's shoulder, Leif exchanged rocks from the parking lot with a tot who's mom was trying to procure a keg for his 2nd birthday, and Gavin organized his gaming cards, then fell off the bar stool and dumped them all over the floor. We left with a crate of beer ingredients and some overpriced 10oz. sampler glasses. The drive back to town was scenic.
That's what she said
And that concludes our publicity tour.
Saturday, December 04, 2010
Craft Corner DEATH MATCH - vermin
harpy vs. robots vs. yermits vs. apple
Inspired by people who make stuffed creatures on a far more regular and skilled basis than myself, I threw myself uninvited into their midst. (Mostly - thanks Apple for the shove in the bum!)
GO SEE THE REST OF THE CHALLENGERS HERE. They are stunningly awesome.
The challenge: yourself, as vermin. (Are they still vermin if you want to yank them up by the tail into a big squishy hug, heedless of the claws raking ribbons out of your face?)
Raccoon-me in work gear.
Fluffy bottom. A handknit cardigan; made without regard to gauge, pattern, or sufficient yardage, and from which a small child has eaten one of the buttons.
Amber jewelry. Too many earrings in one ear - which used to make her feel cool, but now just make her look as if she used to be trying to be cool. An old Trader Joes bag, stuffed with debris.
Debris: wad of yarn, no needles. A Diet Coke. The Idiot Mug. A library book by an author she privately enjoys but is slightly embarrassed to be seen reading. The library's copy of Dexter on DVD (good thing they are just a dollar; this one appears to only have 1 disc).
She doesn't have a phone, can't find her glasses, and forgot her wallet at home.
At work, she dumps the bag by her desk and gets a cup of tea in her Idiot Mug. She watches the other library vermin - rats, mice, a few mongooses, a squirrel with an out-of-state license looking for free internet - and yearns for a big surly badger.
Inspired by people who make stuffed creatures on a far more regular and skilled basis than myself, I threw myself uninvited into their midst. (Mostly - thanks Apple for the shove in the bum!)
GO SEE THE REST OF THE CHALLENGERS HERE. They are stunningly awesome.
The challenge: yourself, as vermin. (Are they still vermin if you want to yank them up by the tail into a big squishy hug, heedless of the claws raking ribbons out of your face?)
Raccoon-me in work gear.
Fluffy bottom. A handknit cardigan; made without regard to gauge, pattern, or sufficient yardage, and from which a small child has eaten one of the buttons.
Amber jewelry. Too many earrings in one ear - which used to make her feel cool, but now just make her look as if she used to be trying to be cool. An old Trader Joes bag, stuffed with debris.
Debris: wad of yarn, no needles. A Diet Coke. The Idiot Mug. A library book by an author she privately enjoys but is slightly embarrassed to be seen reading. The library's copy of Dexter on DVD (good thing they are just a dollar; this one appears to only have 1 disc).
She doesn't have a phone, can't find her glasses, and forgot her wallet at home.
At work, she dumps the bag by her desk and gets a cup of tea in her Idiot Mug. She watches the other library vermin - rats, mice, a few mongooses, a squirrel with an out-of-state license looking for free internet - and yearns for a big surly badger.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Yarn and baby poop
For when you are trying to nonchalantly put distance between yourself and the Holiday of Shame.
12 hats in 24 days: a knitting challenge
This did not work.
Onward to baby poop. Sorry.
The poo fairy takes a day off, is replaced by spoon
The infink was finally displaying charm and humor in front of my mother. He had a habit of greeting her by getting miserably sick with whatever seasonal grossness his brother brought home from school, and my mother had taken to grunting skeptically whenever we insisted that he was not normally a complete jerkface. It went well for two days, and I got to bask in smug-parent-smugness after his adorable bathtime antics and perfect bedtime routines. Then it all went very wrong, and he spent most of Saturday screaming on the toilet over a log of concentrated Thanksgiving that was refusing to vacate his tiny body. His doctor offered him a spoon (a SPOON), and then - when that was gently declined - a spoon filled with laxative instead. That evening, there was much fanfare over the resulting brick in the potty, and the man was set off on a nostalgic diatribe about the Biggest Poops I Have Ever Seen (which it turns out boys in locker rooms have a lot of experience with), until we kindly told him to shut the fuck up.
On Sunday, cheer needed to be re-asserted, and that cheer needed to involve a lot of chocolate and brandied eggnog, so the tree was set up two weeks early.
The gargoyle cat menaced our feet from her foot-blind.
(Bonus glimpse at last year's grocery store clippings - we maintain our waistlines because we cannot afford to eat)
My mother flew back to Oahu the next day, and I realized I had been laying down her presence like a comfortable padding of fat over my seasonal unease. As I drove back toward the mountain, the insulation tore away and I cried into the steering wheel. I'm a sucker for tradition, you know.
12 hats in 24 days: a knitting challenge
This did not work.
Onward to baby poop. Sorry.
The poo fairy takes a day off, is replaced by spoon
The infink was finally displaying charm and humor in front of my mother. He had a habit of greeting her by getting miserably sick with whatever seasonal grossness his brother brought home from school, and my mother had taken to grunting skeptically whenever we insisted that he was not normally a complete jerkface. It went well for two days, and I got to bask in smug-parent-smugness after his adorable bathtime antics and perfect bedtime routines. Then it all went very wrong, and he spent most of Saturday screaming on the toilet over a log of concentrated Thanksgiving that was refusing to vacate his tiny body. His doctor offered him a spoon (a SPOON), and then - when that was gently declined - a spoon filled with laxative instead. That evening, there was much fanfare over the resulting brick in the potty, and the man was set off on a nostalgic diatribe about the Biggest Poops I Have Ever Seen (which it turns out boys in locker rooms have a lot of experience with), until we kindly told him to shut the fuck up.
On Sunday, cheer needed to be re-asserted, and that cheer needed to involve a lot of chocolate and brandied eggnog, so the tree was set up two weeks early.
The gargoyle cat menaced our feet from her foot-blind.
(Bonus glimpse at last year's grocery store clippings - we maintain our waistlines because we cannot afford to eat)
My mother flew back to Oahu the next day, and I realized I had been laying down her presence like a comfortable padding of fat over my seasonal unease. As I drove back toward the mountain, the insulation tore away and I cried into the steering wheel. I'm a sucker for tradition, you know.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Clink clink clink
Shut up, everyone, I'm talking.
It's good to see you all here again this year. A lot has happened since the last time we sat at this table, and most of it was, actually, pretty great. There was the house, the car, the trip to New York, the holidays with friends and family - oh, stop toasting yourself, Nicholas Sparks, I know how your stories end. As soon as I figure out where you hid the script, I'm handing over my life story to someone who knows what they're doing. Put your hand down, Cormac. Anyway, yes, friends and family, good stuff. I'd also like to raise my glass to my mother, who had a spectacularly horrible year, healthwise, but still came out of it with her new bike gang jacket and her most fantastic bronze sculpture to date. You're amazing, mom. Cormac, stop looking at the cat, you can carve the turkey in minute - I'll help hold him down. Just kidding Sparks! Geez. So, right. To my beautiful sons, you are wonderful and I love you. Mike, thanks for being good this year. At least as far as I can tell. I'm still trying to figure out how to get the geolocation tracker on your phone to tell me if your pants are on. But still, I only had to write one angry email to another woman, and didn't have to slap you at all, so that is a marked improvement there. Koontz, if I see you slip one more piece of ham to that goddamn dog, I'm going to make you switch places with Sparks. Who invited you, anyway? Fer Christ's sake, Mike, how many people do you think fit on an airbed? I don't have enough english muffins for this. You all better have birthday presents for me tomorrow, I tell you what. So yes, it is Thanksgiving, the food looks fantastic, and I know we all can't wait to dive in face-first, so I'll wrap this up. To the people I love, I - erm, love you. To the people who can't be here, I wish you were. To Ms. Apple over there waving from Skype, yes, Thanksgiving was a month ago, I tried to tell them but they all came anyway. Oh, stop sniggering, Sparks, grow up. KOONTZ I AM SERIOUS IF I SEE THAT DOG ONE MORE TIME - oh, he can use cutlery, that's ok then, make him sit at the kiddie table. So yes, everyone raise your glasses, grasp your forks, and let us FEAST!
Sláinte!
It's good to see you all here again this year. A lot has happened since the last time we sat at this table, and most of it was, actually, pretty great. There was the house, the car, the trip to New York, the holidays with friends and family - oh, stop toasting yourself, Nicholas Sparks, I know how your stories end. As soon as I figure out where you hid the script, I'm handing over my life story to someone who knows what they're doing. Put your hand down, Cormac. Anyway, yes, friends and family, good stuff. I'd also like to raise my glass to my mother, who had a spectacularly horrible year, healthwise, but still came out of it with her new bike gang jacket and her most fantastic bronze sculpture to date. You're amazing, mom. Cormac, stop looking at the cat, you can carve the turkey in minute - I'll help hold him down. Just kidding Sparks! Geez. So, right. To my beautiful sons, you are wonderful and I love you. Mike, thanks for being good this year. At least as far as I can tell. I'm still trying to figure out how to get the geolocation tracker on your phone to tell me if your pants are on. But still, I only had to write one angry email to another woman, and didn't have to slap you at all, so that is a marked improvement there. Koontz, if I see you slip one more piece of ham to that goddamn dog, I'm going to make you switch places with Sparks. Who invited you, anyway? Fer Christ's sake, Mike, how many people do you think fit on an airbed? I don't have enough english muffins for this. You all better have birthday presents for me tomorrow, I tell you what. So yes, it is Thanksgiving, the food looks fantastic, and I know we all can't wait to dive in face-first, so I'll wrap this up. To the people I love, I - erm, love you. To the people who can't be here, I wish you were. To Ms. Apple over there waving from Skype, yes, Thanksgiving was a month ago, I tried to tell them but they all came anyway. Oh, stop sniggering, Sparks, grow up. KOONTZ I AM SERIOUS IF I SEE THAT DOG ONE MORE TIME - oh, he can use cutlery, that's ok then, make him sit at the kiddie table. So yes, everyone raise your glasses, grasp your forks, and let us FEAST!
Sláinte!
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Thanksgiving 2010
Prelude: the infink is subjected to horror and indignation.
Early in the morning, the man scooped up the boy, I put a blanket over him as he blinked blearily at us, and he was stuffed into the car for a trip to the pedodontics.
This seems like an unfortunate thing to have to put on a sign over your business.
But not too bad, right? Maybe dentistry is fun!
No. It isn't. But the infink did not need to be velcro-wrapped into the "burrito", because he is stoic and awesome. Suck it, mom of the 4 year-old who got trussed to the table! I win!*
So at the expense of my poor tic tac-toothed child, I had a few hours to myself in the morning before work, which happens so rarely that I stood in the livingroom trying to figure out what the hell it was that I always wanted to do with some spare time. Prepped some pies, threw in some towels with perfume-free laundry soap so as not to kill my mother when she arrives, and then tried to get the pee smell out of the floor.
The pee smell.
I bought a little bag of M&Ms to bribe the infink into using the potty (which could have had something to do with his dental woes - had he actually earned any) and it is clear that a further bag of Dove chocolate or mini liquor bottles will be necessary to bribe the man into directing the infink to the effing potty. Or at the very least, steer him away from the couch, the rug, or the computer - which small angry penises can point at when dad is refusing to let their owners bang on the keyboard. The computer is now in the shop, the mac nerds scratching their heads as to why the insides smell funny since it just "up and died for no reason which in any way disqualifies our warranty", and we are tinkering away on a whirring old beast that likes to quit applications and shut down at random. I got onto my knees and sniffed out the spot on the floor that reeked, spritzed enzyme cleaner on it, stared at the spatter of bubbles for a moment, and then twisted off the cap and dumped the rest of the bottle out onto the rug. Take that, floor.
*I'm so sorry.
Early in the morning, the man scooped up the boy, I put a blanket over him as he blinked blearily at us, and he was stuffed into the car for a trip to the pedodontics.
This seems like an unfortunate thing to have to put on a sign over your business.
But not too bad, right? Maybe dentistry is fun!
No. It isn't. But the infink did not need to be velcro-wrapped into the "burrito", because he is stoic and awesome. Suck it, mom of the 4 year-old who got trussed to the table! I win!*
So at the expense of my poor tic tac-toothed child, I had a few hours to myself in the morning before work, which happens so rarely that I stood in the livingroom trying to figure out what the hell it was that I always wanted to do with some spare time. Prepped some pies, threw in some towels with perfume-free laundry soap so as not to kill my mother when she arrives, and then tried to get the pee smell out of the floor.
The pee smell.
I bought a little bag of M&Ms to bribe the infink into using the potty (which could have had something to do with his dental woes - had he actually earned any) and it is clear that a further bag of Dove chocolate or mini liquor bottles will be necessary to bribe the man into directing the infink to the effing potty. Or at the very least, steer him away from the couch, the rug, or the computer - which small angry penises can point at when dad is refusing to let their owners bang on the keyboard. The computer is now in the shop, the mac nerds scratching their heads as to why the insides smell funny since it just "up and died for no reason which in any way disqualifies our warranty", and we are tinkering away on a whirring old beast that likes to quit applications and shut down at random. I got onto my knees and sniffed out the spot on the floor that reeked, spritzed enzyme cleaner on it, stared at the spatter of bubbles for a moment, and then twisted off the cap and dumped the rest of the bottle out onto the rug. Take that, floor.
*I'm so sorry.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
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