Sunday, March 27, 2005


Seems like a lot of needlecraft folks are in a tizzy over the rag that Martha Satan wore for the beginning of her Second Coming. If you're not familiar with said garment, you lucky person, here's a picture to enlighten:

She's back and now she wants our SOULS!

Craft sites were overflowing with stupid posts about how gorgeous the poncho is and how much people want the pattern and blah blah blah. Many of these folks had terrible grammar, and thought that the Dark Lady had made the thing herself, which is not true. I will say that the real crocheter, a fellow inmate of Satan's, obviously has a fair amount of skill. But frankly, people, it just ain't that great. Ponchos are ten a penny these days, and most of them, including this one, look like something I'd use to wash my car. What really gets my goat is that the inmate, according to CNN, spends most of her days crocheting with yarn provided by the prison. Federally funded yarn and all the spare time in the world? Sign me up for Camp Cupcake.
Speaking of yarn, I was burrowing through my stash the other day, and I found a disturbing amount of unused skeins. I bought yarn here and there for projects, but never got around to starting them. Some of these projects-to-be have been sitting around for at least a year. And some of them have achieved Mystery status, meaning I have completely forgotten what I'd planned to do with the damned yarn when I bought it (this is now DeadWeight Yarn). So, until most of these are done, no new projects for me. I'm going to work on these projects on a first-bought, first-knit basis.

How can I complain about Martha posts when I am doing one, too?

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

Super-sized update!

This poor blog is languishing.... languishing in the desert of my neglect.
The other day, I made the mistake of unwittingly timing my errand-running to coincide with the day's release of the public school kids. So of course the library was cluttered with brats of all ages hogging the work spaces and computers, and being generally noisy. I managed to bully off some kids who were using a computer to play games, but half a dozen prepubescent boys crowding around the computer next to yours, shouting out game tips, and jostling for play time can be pretty distracting. I soon gave up and left, fuming about stupid parents who consider libraries to be a daycare center for their stupid offspring.
The grocery store wasn't much of an improvement. (For god's sake, kids! If you don't have anything better to do than wander around the produce aisle, then go the fuck home!) Walking to the self-checkout, I passed this spherical little son of a chunk who was buying a date with Little Debbie. As I walked by, my senses were totally assaulted by the withering smell of a human who believes bathing is the original sin. After suppressing my gag reflex, I held my breath and had an imaginary conversation in my head:
Me: "excuse me, but the deodorant is in aisle 9. By the way, have your parents had The Talk with you yet?"
Stinky McBaron: "you mean, like the birds and bees and stuff?"
Me: "No. Hygiene."
Parents, please teach your kids about basic grooming and cleaning habits. Forget drugs and STDs, 'cause believe you me, if you kid smells like a sauna in the Wilderness Men's Hunting Lodge, he's never even gonna have social interactions, let alone get a chance to swap genital cooties.
Speaking of grooming, our society has stipulated that women need to be smooth and clean-shaven. Well, I believe that men should be expected to at least do some basic fur trimming. It's so unappetizing to see what looks like Bigfoot's pubic region burgeoning from a man's armpit. I mean, eww.
Okay, change of topic. In knitting news, I plunked out a baby hat for my knocked-up coworker. I have no idea how big a bay's head is; to check if the hat was anywhere close to the right size, I tried to borrow an infant from some woman at the mall, but she didn't take too kindly to that. So here is Pengo modeling it instead.

I'm thinking of making some baby booties to match. But I probably won't.