The Monkey on My Back is Dead

Praise Jesus, or praise something, just praise that this thing is finally finished! If I had to knit one more row of intolerable garter stitch, I would have had to go to my friends, the Messrs J. Walker and J. Daniels, to make it through. After a few months of seemingly interminable garter stitch, the Log Cabin Baby Blanket is complete. Melissa better love it, and the soon-to-arrive Leo better appreciate a lovingly hand-knit, slaved-over blanket the only a way a baby can: by drooling over it.
Pattern: Log Cabin Blanket, by the folks at Mason-Dixon Knitting
Yarn: Koigu KPPPM in P127 (greens and blues) and P612 (reds and purples)
Koigu KPM in 2169 (deep purple)
Needles: Inox 3.00 mm circular needles
Notes: Since the pattern is more a general guideline than a strict pattern, I can hardly take credit for any changes. The blanket's about 33" roughly square, but I would have liked to have added another ring of blocks- but by that point I was running on scraps of the two multicoloured yarns, so nice. I must have woven in about fifty ends, so next time: Russian join everywhere. And I will try to bind off more loosely. Also: I will not knit a garter stitch blanket with fingering-weight yarn on 3.00 mm needles, because hopefully I've learned not to be a complete dumbass. Next time: Lion Brand Jiffy held doubled, on 20 mm needles, knit by Fred the robot.

I'm just glad this project is finally DEAD. Now where are those friends? I think a celebration is in order.

" I may be a liar, but at least I wasn't the only bitch in the room."

My guy Smitty, too damn cool to be a show dog.

Alright, so it's a day after my baby blanket pics were supposed to go up, and there is still no completed baby blanket up in this blog. Pour quoi? Because it's still an embarrassing mess of ends and slightly wonky borders, one I'm too ashamed to photograph and put up. I did finish the knitting, but I was convinced it was too small. I'm not very experienced in the ways of the baby, so I really had no idea what size a completed baby blanket should be. I felt it was a little small, and I would have added at least another round of log cabin blocks, but I was out of yarn. And one of the colours is discontinued. And frankly, sometimes trying to find another ball of a particular ball of current Koigu is such a pain in the ass that trying to find a discontinued skein would probably lead to a trip to the loony bin or maybe a trip to Michael's for some Red Heart and a stop at the bar. But after consulting the dimensions of the Big Bad Baby Blanket in Stitch 'n Bitch and the ever-helpful Frankie at the Stitch and Niche, I decided it would just be large enough, with some aggressive blocking. So, pictures tomorrow after all the fiddly ends are taken care of (note to self: Russian Join from here on in) and the whole thing is dunked in a bath.

And time for another confession: I went to a dog show today. No, I don't have any photographic evidence of this event, nor documentation of the elusive species known as the "Crazy Dog Show Fanatic", because I didn't bring my camera. For two reasons: my family came to help Smitty's breeder and lend moral support, which would have been difficult with a camera banging around, and secondly because dog show people are positively bonkers. Taking an unauthorized picture would have probably led to some snappish lady with an "I Love My Pembroke Welsh Corgi" t-shirt stabbing me in the neck with grooming shears. I did regret not taking my camera when I spotted an old man sleeping with his feet up next to a grooming table, where his Chow Chow was sleeping with one fuzzy paw stuck out. People who show dogs are usually seen as one rank below child pageant mothers on the weirdo scale, which isn't necessarily fair. Some, like Smitty's breeder, are nice and refreshingly sane. And then others, like some lady whose dog only won fourth, sit ringside telling their dog how they're "always the ugliest dog in the ring" and "so ugly". Which, two things, crazy lady: your dog can't understand English, and your dog is much better than that. Some one's the bitch in this scenario, and this time it's not the dog. Honestly, anyone want to try a canine rescue with me?

Drunk on Mint Julep Yarn

Last Friday, I had been getting tired of blogging about the same two projects. Fortunately, my boredom coincided with Mother's Day. And what better way to combine knitting, frugality, and daughterly devotion than a pair of hand-knit socks? My Mom wears all the socks I've made her religiously, even the pair that are accidentally different sizes. I decided to cast on for the Father and Son socks in the Fall'06 issue of Interweave Knits, since they have cables, a pattern with diagonal lines, all the things my Mother loves and that are easy enough to whip up. So, I cast on in some vintage Paton's Nylox 3-ply that had been marinating in the stash for a while. It was bought at a fly-by-night discount liquidation store that was open for all of a few months, a place where a stash of vintage 60s yarn appeared for some reason one day. A better daughter would have bought new yarn, or at least yarn of less... sketchy provenance. I learned my lesson when I realized, after the first chevron, that the yarn was just too damn thin for the pattern. It looked like hot, steamy ass, riddled with holes. I could have done the math and switched needles, but I told myself I couldn't spare time for math. I ripped it out, and decided to sacrifice some soft green Jawoll for my dear Mother. I had been saving it, selfishly, for a pair of delicate socks for myself, probably from Knitting Vintage Socks.

So, if my Mom is reading this, I hope we can both agree that this act of SELFLESS GENEROSITY makes up for all the hours of epidural-free labour I put you through, eh?

Because I love this yarn. Some people only knit with Koigu, and some swear by Lorna's Laces, but the Jawoll is for me. It's very soft, and delightfully squishy, and comes with an adorable spool of reinforcement thread in the middle of every skein. Those crafty and practical Germans. Now I don't want to give her the socks. Maybe I can give her some basic socks in Kroy and still call myself a devoted daughter... a week after mother's day, and with only 3/4 of a sock to show.

In all fairness though, I did start these only the night before I went to Toronto last Saturday. I got some knitting done on the bus, but the whole day was a rush. I went to H&M and clomped around the skinny and tall fashion queens, buying a seersucker halter dress and a white blouse. Then I met up with my friend Kat for bubble tea, and we went shopping some more. We went to Pages on Queen, where I bought some campus smut as a birthday present for a friend, and a Mother's Day card for my Mom. I had to go to Fluevog, of course, and there I tried on these Fiats, and couldn't help falling in love with them. Too bad they're way out of my price range, and the bank just won't give a loan for crimson patent leather flats. Then a bunch of other stores and lunch at the Rivoli, drinking Steamwhistle outside and being entertained by dancing Harajuku girl-wannabes. We went to Kensington Market, and I managed not to feed my vintage button addiction at Courage My Love. Kat bought vintage and new clothes, and I... looked at them. I even dragged her into Lettuce Knit, and (applaud my self-control here) only walked out with one Cookie A sock pattern, the German Stocking. I even remembered my Dad, and picked up an apple custard square for him at the bakery. Then I visited Kat's house over the Don Valley Parkway. After that, everything went Pete Tong, as the kids say, and after two hours of walking, half of which was spent being stupidly lost, I missed my bus by 15 minutes. Fifteen. Minutes. Just enough time to be famous, and just enough to have to leave an hour and a half later. If it had been VIA, I would have been able to catch the 8:00 train- when it lumbered in at 8:45.

So, not much knitting was finished as I stared out of my window at the 401, exhausted and wondering whether I should just move to Mississauga to make things easier. Then, a whole bunch of banal business throughout the week, including seeing Spider-Man 3, perhaps the most banal thing of all. Theaters: making the movie really loud will not detract from the reliance of the plot on the most useless butler of all time, Peter Parker's oily bangs of emo, and the general incoherency of every aspect of the movie. I've never been a huge fan of the Spider-Man series, but liked them well enough. This was a disappointment, however, and so much of it seemed like flailing on the director's part. Bruce Campbell's cameo as a french maitre d' overstays its welcome, shockingly proving that adding Campbell does not make everything better. It should, but it doesn't. Harry Osborn's character gave me whiplash with his constant reversal of mental health and motivation, largely represented by how much Scotch he swills. Both Bryce Dallas Howard and Kirsten Dunst get limited chances to act. Some of the fight scenes were fun, at least, and J. Jonah Jameson was still great. And hey- at least it was better than Batman and Robin. But that doesn't make things better for my green socks, abandoned and still only a sock after a whole week. At least I'll be able to show the finished log cabin baby blanket tomorrow, to take every one's mind off this sad state.

Busy Beaver

In the past few days, I've gone to Toronto, had a great time there, gotten lost on the way back to the bus station, walked around for two hours, then missed my bus by fifteen minutes, gone home, started a sock, and gotten vomitously sick. I'll write more tomorrow. Unless something else weird happens.

From the Good News Department:

Finally, something unsuckular! I'm going to Toronto tomorrow to visit my friend Kat, and generally tool around the city. Hooray! A place nonGuelph! With LettuceKnit, the Silver Snail, and the Asian Chocolate Store.

Foibles, Episode Two

So, today I go to the job center, to apply to some more jobs, in an effort to erase yesterday's disaster from my mind. And what do I do? I forget my wallet, with all my age-verifying I.D., at home. Clearly, I am too stupid to live. Oh well.

I do take a break from knitting sometimes. Then, I sew. But not terribly well, so I'm trying to improve my sewing skills since I'm home anyway this summer, and my Mom is a product of the "Sew Your Own Clothes" generation. She can do all sorts of amazing things with her sewing machine and fabric, my personal favorite being the hot dog costume, with condiments, she made me when I was 10. So, I dragged her on a fabric gathering expedition/ bonding experience to Len's, a discount store with a healthy fabric mecca. Here's the tiny haul we brought home:

Don't blow up the picture, as it is criminally fuzzy. Excuse my lazy photo-taking abilities. Start the highlights reel, Jimmy!

Two fabrics to make a circular needle cozy, much like the one in Stitch and Bitch. It's hard to see in the picture, but the one on the right? Is printed with a garter stitch pattern! Serendipity! Actually, Len's had a whole line of knitting-themed fabrics, but they were all fairly pricey, so I decided to use only one. The other is a sort of vintage-looking blue and white stripe with stylized flowers printed on it.

Fabric to make my own small Amy Butler Chelsea bag. I made a successful Rural Messenger bag, so here's hoping this pattern goes as well. The flowers will be on the outside most of the time.

The fabrics I picked out for my Mom's Chelsea bag. The fabric on the right sort of looks like knock-off Amy Butler, don't you think?

Foibles, Epsiode One

Today I decided to take a risk, since people (read my mother) are always telling me that I need to take more risks. So, I apply to a job at a place I really like. Now, this is a job I really don't have any hope of getting unless I ace the interview and charm the proverbial pants off of the employer, but I thought I would give it a shot anyway. Even though merely walking in a store to drop off a resumé gives me the shakes. But, god damn it, I am going to take a risk. So, I do it.

And it goes terribly. I mumble, I stutter, and generally come off like a relation of the Unabomber. And then I get outside, and I realize that I probably did the whole thing with my shirt unbuttoned in the most unsuitable of ways. This is why I don't take risks. They make me naked.

I'll post pictures of anything once I stop hiding in my room out of shame.

Job Searching Blows.

Seriously, it does. It doesn't help that I'm the best at blathering like an idiotic while nervous, either. I saw an ad for exotic dancer in the paper... AND BRIEFLY CONSIDERED IT. At least the job interview wouldn't involve much talking.

Top 5: Songs that Represent My Last Five Years

There are a handful of songs that represent years in my life so completely that lsitening to them becomes oppressive, in that I'm suddenly remembering solving integrals in my dorm room or walking home from my high school with my Discman in my pocket. I have a bad habit of fixating on songs, and playing them over and over again. This habit only got worse once I got my iPod, Old Greenie (now on its last legs), since no one would then be privy to my secret shame. Particularly when the songs were from twenty plus years ago, and I was dancing in my room in some odd combination of jerking and voguing. Here they are:
1. (Grade 10): Nick Lowe- Cruel to be Kind
2. (Grade 11): Modest Mouse- Float On
3. (Grade 12): Roy Orbison- I Drove All Night
4. (Uni Year 1): The Pet Shop Boys- West End Girls
5. (Uni Year 2): Camera Obscura- Tears for Affairs

Looking back on this list, it's really sad how few of my favorite songs were popular at the time. Heck, only two were semi-contemporary, and only one could be considered broadly popular. And then American Idol had to go and run Float On with this ad... thing for cars that defies all description. Gah.

Mother, MAY I- Whoah.

Stupid May. Winter hung around for so long that it seems a little presumptuous of my calendar to tell me that it's May already. I've done the tour of all the Guelph stores, and am almost caught up with my appointments. Orthodontist down, driver's license replaced, and doctor's appointment booked. Next: dentist, hair and job. When you're an undergrad, the times you go home sometimes feel like you're a car going in for a tune-up, and you come out of the whirlwind of mechanics better-dressed, tressed, and fed. I've been opening my parent's fridge in wonder since I got home. Not only is it big people-sized, (the appliances in my apartment look like refugees from a Fisher -Price playset), but it's full of food. And not just No-Name juice from concentrate and yellow mustard, but real food. I try not to sneak in the deli meats, but the capicolo is too delicious to resist.

In one of those bouts of cruel justice the world brings down on us, Guelph got two decently-stocked knitting stores after I left. Well, one is technically a quilting store, Greenwood Quiltery. But it doesn't just sell lovely Kaffe Fasset and Amy Butler fabrics now, but also Fleece Artist, Mission Falls, and Blue Sky in a back room. Between the fabric and the yarn they got a hefty chunk of my paycheque last year. Actually, the quilt you can see Oliver (whom I miss terribly) lying on in this picture was made with fabrics largely purchased from there, and the fuzzy green sweater yarn was bought there too. That sweater hasn't been completely abandoned yet, and I finally slogged through rest of the body and worked a bit on the sleeve. I want an excuse to start something new, so I'm going to hunker down with it and some of my favourite childhood movies for a terrifying nostalgia trip cum knitting bee.

You know what? Writing about Greenwood has reminded me how much I want to work on my sewing skills this summer. Clothes cost a lot for a crap product I rarely like, so why not learn how to make my own? They can't suck any more than what's at Old Navy this season. And I can include wee hedgehogs! The other knitting store is rather new, and I do believe it's called the Stitch Niche. It has a small but well-edited selection of yarns. My Dad also taught the store's owner, but then again it sometimes seems like he's taught half of Guelph. They're always glad to see him, and yet he's still convinced that he's a bad teacher. Whatever. He went with me on my mini yarn crawl the other day, and witnessed me having inner strength. I passed through Greenwood easily, but finally gave in at the Stitch Niche, and bought some Debbie Bliss Aran Tweed in a pretty teal colour to make a replacement for the Glaistig I lost last semester. That one was made in a pink tweed, and I hope a less-delicate teal will have better juju behind it and stay in my possession.

Back in Guelph

After a last-minute packing extravaganza, and an exhausting car ride, I finally made it back to Guelph yesterday. My Dad came and visited me in Montreal for a day before we left, and even though it was a touch water-logged, we had a good time. I showed him around St. Catherine's, including a detour in Ogilvy's, and then we walked to St. Laurent where we had tasty Portuguese rotisserie chicken at Coco Rico's. I love their sandwiches, just chicken and spiced sauce on a chewy Portuguese bun, and the chicken fat just drips off the back as you eat it. Hardly health food, but oh so delicious. I showed him Les Chocolats de Chloe too, a tiny chocolate store nestled behind a cobalt blue front on Roy. You can see them make the chocolates in the back, and the entire store smells good enough to eat, and looks it too- they use adorable line drawings and wonky set fonts for all their signs. The honey chocolates are particular favorites, followed closely by the almond paste-filled ones. I even converted my Dad to the Fleuvog way- he now has a very un-Dadlike pair of two-tone, buckled shoes. My Mom is convinced he's going through a mid-life crisis, as he was recently spotted wearing denim.

Frankly, I'm still too tired to realize that I'm now back in Guelph for another four months, but I'm sure homesickness for Montreal, and Montreal food, and even the particular rudeness of Montreal transit employees, will set in soon.

Edit: Choco store is on Roy and not Rachel. I apologize for my idiocy.