Climbing. Crafting. It's the same.

My favorite climbing pants, let me describe them to you...

They were green. They were Prana. They fit oh so flatteringly even when I had them rolled up my calves and stretched across my thighs while I tried to make overly ambitious moves up the rock. I did my first trad climb in these pants. I went on my first backpacking trip with Bubba in these pants. I ate shit on another backpacking trip when I decided to "ski" down a steep leafy trail instead of carefully descend, in these pants.

I love these pants.

Alas, they are not bulletproof. And during one fateful climbing trip, their last, this fact was proven without a doubt. Proven when I was about 30 feet off the ground, stretching optimistically toward a fleshy looking hold, thinking only about how one more inch on my ape index would be extra nice when, SSSSSSSCCCCCCCRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPP!

*Sad moment* Favorite climbing pants ripped from hip to crotch.

Note: I am not a fan of full-butt undies.

Note 2: I was climbing with a group of four guys.

Note 3: Two of which I'd never met before this day.

Note 4: One of whom was my husband who was laughing hysterically.

My choices were to either:

1. Fling myself back from the rock, wrap whatever is left of my pants around my recently exposed cheeks and hope to hell that Bubba had my belay.

or

2. Lunge for the hold, hope to hell I make it and then laugh and say, "Yep. That's my ass. Right there."And then finish the climb, descend, wear my fleece around my waist for the rest of the day and NEVER LOOK ANYONE IN THE EYE AGAIN. *Also, ignore creepy climber guy who kept making comments about my ass.

I went with Option 2 since the sudden pants rippage propelled me just enough to make the hold attainable.

Score! And, yikes.

Anyhoo...it is clear that these pants and I have a history. So, it's easy to understand why, when I came across them in my ruthless garage clean out this weekend, I couldn't toss them in the trash.

What to do though? Too thin to sew up (again, for the third time). Too ratty to donate. Too, ahem, breezy to wear to the park.

The answer: Climbing Apron

With a little interpretive sewing (read: using the ass rip as a convenient guide for slicing the pants in two) and some left over black elastic, I managed to salvage myself a ripper of an apron.

We like to call it the Extreme Apron.

And to celebrate, I extremely made some Chinese Barbecued Pork from the latest issue of Cook's Illustrated. Then we extremely ate it so friggen fast because it took an hour longer than I'd planned AND was EXTREMELY fucking good. So, story short, no pictures of dinner.

However, here is the Extreme Apron for your viewing pleasure:

Cable me this

After my recent bought with the cable needle I nearly vowed not to go back. There was a lot of whining and throwing of things and swearing that I'd never cable anything. EVER. Then I came to the realization that what I hated wasn't, in fact, the cable needle. No. It wasn't even the cable pattern, necessarily.

It was the fact that I couldn't keep track of which friggen row I was on, so I kept fucking up the pattern which caused loud cursing of the new technique, threatening of irreparable bending to the needle and lots of other childish behavior I'm not extra proud of.

But now I've changed my tune since I decided to bite the bullet and get a row counter. Yes, the mighty row counter. That thing that's constantly mentioned in the Notions part of every pattern I seem to pick up. That thing that I blissfully ignore while saying to myself, "Row counter? Bah! I'm an evil genius. What do I need with a row counter? I can count to eight! Only retards need row counters."

I now have two.

Does that make me retarded? Maybe.

The fact that I bought two row counters and neither fit the needles I used for my first "post row counter" project? I don't know - you decide.

All I know is that now I'm a full-fledged fan of the row counter and feel invincible against any scary Row Counter Intensive project. No more trying to count back rows or stitches to see if I need to bring the yarn forward or backward or if I'm even on the right row for cabling or if I'm even looking at the same pattern in the book.

To celebrate, I am finishing up the scarf you see above. This is the single cable scarf from One Skein. Not sure how many of you out there have this book, but this is the first time I'm actually cracking it open and making something from it. Despite the growing girth of the stash and my unquenchable desire to use up everything I have before I buy anew. I thought I was going to run amok with this book, using up every odd skein for every project in the book. Magically transforming my unwieldy stash into a collection of adorable fiber goods. Then I realized that I didn't want knitted cupcakes or any more little bags and cast the book aside. For me, a lot of the patterns are a bit, eh.

But now - oh no - now I'm on a damn rampage. I'm already planning on more cabley scarves - even the double up one. I might even go nuts and try to join up with these folks.

So, with the teensy outlay of cash for the row counters, I've managed to open myself up to a whole new genre of patterns and can dust off a book from the craft pile and put it to work.

Sqweet.

[Status] January InStitches Project

Dear Donk,

Your document duvet is HOT! In a sultry voile and red ribbon kind of way. I'm sure it won't surprise you that I have that same voile in my stash at home. Thexy.

And aren't you the overacheiver with your coordinating photo file, too. I'll admit, I didn't go there. As it turns out, I barely print a photo off the digital cam unless I'm immediately wrapping it with photo corners and sticking it to a card, so I'm not sure what I'd do with a file. But now looking at how cute yours is, I'm thinking I could make one and use it to store recipes instead. Am I blaspheming?

Meanwhile, I've looked at the Flickr gallery and there are a couple new entries - kick ass! That's good, too, since January is nearly over (WTF!) and the deadline for this month's project is 1/31. And, since I'm a fucking psycho, I've already started thinking about exactly which projects we should try for February.

You know, February, that month that has had the stores stocked with big red hearts and fatty candy since 12/26. So, for this month of chalky "Wuv you" hearts and ruffled balloons I thought we'd do a little bedroom-type theme and go for either the Sleeping Mask or Bedside Organizer.

Of course, what you choose to store in your Organizer or what activities proceed the donning of the Sleeping Mask are up to you, but I have a few ideas in mind that I won't go into right now.

NAUGHTY.

Ok, doll, back to the wholesome discussion of sewing. You choose the theme. I am already excited to get started.

xo
Finny

PS Bubba will get a big hello from you tonight. That's all I'm going to say...

Meme Friday : Weird Finny

Ari tagged me for the 6 Weird Things About You meme. I'm going to not take this personally since I tout my weirdness with quite a bit of gusto on a regular basis. It's only fair that I'm being held to it in a public forum.

THE RULES: Each player of this game starts with the 6 weird things about you. People who get tagged need to write a blog of their own 6 weird things as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names. Don't forget to leave a comment that says you are tagged in their comments and tell them to read your blog.

1. I floss in the car.
   Bubba finds this disgusting. People driving near me probably think that I'm brushing my teeth (I use one of those Reach flossers). But, it makes my commute all the more efficient, and ultimate efficiency is my dream. Meanwhile, my beloved dentist has had nothing but good things to say about my gum health. Take that.
   
   
   
2. I will only buy shoes three pairs at a time.
   I'm not sure if this makes me weird, but it certainly does get the eyes rolling at the office when the big Zappos box shows up. Although, it doesn't keep the girls from coming over to see what's in the box. My theory is that I probably won't love every pair, so this gives me good odds of ending up with at least one pair I will covet.
   
   
   
3. I keep a big box of dog biscuits in my desk. I don't have a dog.
   So, I'm sure you've heard of "Crazy cat ladies". Well, I'm the "Crazy dog girl" in my office. When I hear the jingling of collars and leashes, I put a few dog biscuits in my pocket and roam the halls "for coffee" when I need a break. Then I rendezvous with all the dogs that have come into work that day and bribe their love with cookies.
   
   
   
4. I love black licorice.
   I have just been told that this is weird. Personally, it seems normal to me.
   
   
   
5. My secret dream career: Professional Closet Organizer.
   I may have a great job that I love - but I won't lie, when I see the California Closets van on the highway, I have lewd fantasies that involve me, a tape measure, a lot of shelving and a big messy closet.
   
   
   
6. I listen to Howard Stern every single day.
   The reactions I get from this range from stunned to suspicious to horrified to the blatant crossing of fingers in the manner that one might use to address a vampire. Still - I see nothing wrong with listening to, what I consider, the last honest broadcaster on the planet. There's no BS here. Just a bunch of people sitting around a really nice studio, now on satellite radio saying exactly what they want with absolutely no pretense or hidden agendas. I know that he'll ask all his interviewees questions that no one else has the balls to ask. I know that he'll share the most embarrassing minutia of his life with his audience. I know that he'll call anyone out for any stupid thing they do. And I love it.
   
   

Call me weird.

Six future memers:

Shelley
Barb
Caro
Michelle
Lera
Regina

I had a brief, but eventful, separation from my sanity today.

When I came back to my senses I had signed myself up to run a 10K.

Panic.

Granted, this is something I've been threatening (mostly myself) with for a while now, but deep DEEP down, I never thought I'd actually go through with it. Knowing that if I never actually signed up for one, I wouldn't have to hold myself to it.

Sidenote: I hate flakes. And since going back on a registered event definitely qualifies as flakiness, I am morally bound to do anything I sign up for.

So today, during a weak moment in which I was at once feeling strong from a successful morning run, sympathetic to a local tragedy and egged on by my unforgivably upbeat cubemate - I signed up.

Then I realized what I had done and immediately threw myself into an all out breakdown. In fact, it's possible that I'm still aglow with anxious perspiration and clutching a handful of my cubemates hair.

Even after doing the math and realizing that this 10K is *only* 3 miles longer than my usual run, which should be attainable, there is some actual *training* involved in a 10K run and that makes me nauseous with anxiety.

I mean, as it is, three miles is no picnic. I'm not one of those smiley, gleeful, has a dreamy look on my face to the point where passersby want to throw their triple venti mochas on me, kind of runners.

No.

I'm much more the, oh my god someone call 911 because I think that girl is going to collapse on top of herself despite her snazzy North Face hoodie and GPS watch kind of runners.

I admit, I like gear. This condition has only gotten worse since my blissful matrimonials a few years ago when I married The Ultimate Gear Weenie. So, when I started running regularly, I got a lot of stuff to do it, even though it is way less gear intensive than any other sport I do, and is at it's core, a relatively low-tech activity. I'm a little ashamed of myself, since Bubba and I have spent plenty of time making fun of the new climbers we've run into in the park who are hiking up the trail to the rock already wearing their harnesses (with store tags fully intact), slick scratchless helmets and a full rack of shiny new carabiners slung across their chests.

Regardless, I did make a few superfluous gear purchases for the sake of running. And now I have to make good on my purchases and actually use these Pieces of Wonder.

So, the plan is to take this handy dandy training schedule I ripped off of Runners World and my shamefully exotic gear and go trotting off into the sunrise 4 days a week until 4/1 when the race happens and I can finally shed myself of this convulsion inducing commitment.

Oh please cross all your fingers for me. This could very well get ugly. In a snotty, hacking, wobbling, tantrum throwing kind of way.

Quick reminder: I am a dork

Dear Donk,

This is your friendly reminder that your friend Finny is a dork.

Shocker, I know.

Case in point: My Document Duvet for our InStitches-along. It's done.

I KNOW! I'm a total dork!

I couldn't stop myself because there has been a bit of fabric in my stash, courtesy of our friend Caro, that has been calling my friggen name ever since it showed up with my kick ass messenger bag (Caro - what would I do without you!?).

I had to use it. It's wicked cute.

Plus, it's green.

And it's just been sitting all bundled up cute in my organizey craft closet giving me those come hither looks every time I went in there to get something off the printer.

Anyhoo, here it is, done. I know we have until the end of the month, but you know how I am. In a word; Aggro.


It's been coming to work with me for a week now:


I'm having a minor love affair with it. No longer are my "Bills to follow up on" and "overdue thank you's to put in the mail" shoved into a ratty manila folder in there. No, now they travel in style. It makes me less angry when I have to call Real Simple about their negligence (and it is significant) when I can pull my six months worth of correspondence with them from this beeooteeful bag.

Anyways, that's the update. Now I have to call Real Simple. Otherwise now known in our house as Real Stupid, Real Annoying, Real "Simple", Real Complicated and Real Fucked.

xo
Finny

P.S. I did post to Flickr despite my mild retardation with using that thing.

I love you, Cable Needle, but only by comparison

My sister made me a kick ass pair of wool fingerless gloves for Hanukkah that are so beautifully cabled and ribbed that I have pretty much taken them off only under threat of death or in the case of bathroom activities.

I loved them so much that I managed to convince myself that the pattern in Holiday Knits, for which I originally purchased the book after seeing them pop up on Lady Lino's blog all perfectly knitted up (duh, obviously), was within my grasp if I would just sack up and use the cable needles languishing in my needlecase (thank you, Caro - I love this thing lots).

So, after fortifying myself with holiday-shaped sugar, I sat down with a handful of #3 DPNs (they say to use #1's, but I only had #3's, so sue me) , green cashmere from the stash, a half dozen needle markers, an NFL game on the tube and the dreaded cable needle.

A few fated days and an entirely new vocabulary of four letter words later, the gloves materialized as though there was no struggle at all:


And now, just a short week or so later (after much blocking) I've almost forgotten how I swore (loudly and while flipping off my cable needle) that I would never make these ever again, and am almost ready to pull out the other cashmere stash balls and make up a pair for a friend of mine in chilly and faraway Arkansas as a thank you for the holiday hospitality.

Have I sustained a head injury? Perhaps. We'll see how those cables come out this time around. Either way, I will never hate the cable needle as much as the Grommet Puncher. No, not ever. That thing is fresh from the threshold of hell.

I Hate You, Grommet Puncher

Dear Donk,

I remembered today why I haven't used the grommet puncher in over five years - it sucks ass.

Beware - if you're using one like this:


be prepared for bone crushing pain as you squeeze those handles together with all your might trying to get the male grommet to curl neatly around the female grommet.

It sounds romantic, but I assure you it's not. Unless your idea of romantic involves a lot of swearing and a 28 year old woman throwing a tantrum.

I had to ask Bubba for his man strength on this one. Of course, the grommet puncher was no match for the likes of his man-paws, which is just another reason to love him.

Just a little heads up that you might want to offer a margarita to any hot dudes walking by your apt in exchange for a few strong squeezes.

Sexy.

xo
Finny

InStitches A-Long

Dear Donk,

I'm turning over a new, lazy, irresponsible leaf this year. I'm not making resolutions. I've resolved not to resolve. I'm not sure how I landed on this or why, but it's a little unsettling for someone as list oriented and anal retentive as I.

So, in order to quench my not-resolving thirst I thought, what if, for Project #1, we choose either the Document Duvet OR the Fabric Organizer Baskets? That way we can all choose the one that would organize us best - thus satisfying the "Get Organized in the New Year" un-resolution on my non-list.

Oh - and let's give it some extra clean-slate-for-the-new-year flavor by Using What We Have on hand for the theme. Since cleaning out the closets/stash/craft shelves are always on my non-list and the fabric store has a shoot-on-site order for me after my last rampage through the remnant bin, restricting me from procuring any new fabric until they've hired some new teenagers to enforce Remnant Etiquette.

Let me know what you think and we'll open the crafty floodgates to everyone taking part.

Meanwhile, I made up a badge that we can put up on the blogs. Che fancy, no? Be nice.

The power of the A-long is in your hands...execute at will.

xo
Finny

In 2007, there will be sewing...

Dear Donk,

You are an evil genius. And, ironically enough, I have also been eyeing my fresh new In Stitches book and thinking inappropriate thoughts about a few of the projects therein.

*Sigh* I, too, wish we could wander our afternoon away at the fabric store and then drink ourselves merry putting together one project after another at your sewing table, but alas, we do live states away and that would require a very long extension cord and a handful of miracles, so maybe it would be better if we made the sewing party virtual (although the drinks can still be real, calm down.)

Plus, then we can bring in all the crafters that, like us, have been drooling obscenely over this new release and we'll all have an excuse for adding yet another book to our crafting libraries. We're all in this denial together, right? Say yes.

I definitely have a few projects in mind and a few themes, too - shall we get this party started?

I can already see my sewing machine throbbing with anticipation.

{Are you interested in joining us in the In Stitches Sew-Along? Leave a comment and let us know! You won’t regret buying this book, even if you’ve never sewn. The projects are signature Butler — creative, simple, pretty and fun. We’ll soon post project #1, along with January’s theme. Photos of the completed projects are due to finnydonksewalong at gmail dot com by the end of the month and we’ll throw them into a Flickr gallery for all the world to see. Of course there will be a sew-along button, and I’m thinking prizes too!}

xo
Finny

PS. I like prizes. Let's do that. Virtual planning party over margaritas?

A Finny Holiday

The holidays take on a special twist at our place. Special like alternative and slightly bizarre, not special like frilly antique ornaments and Christmas carols around the fire. In fact, we're so devoid of holiday-ness at our house that the non-denominational but festive nonetheless wreath on the front door seems like it might have been put up on the wrong house.

Until last week.

Every year this happens. I submerge myself in blatant denial of holiday festiveness from the first moment I see plaid bows going up in stores until the last few days before Christmas. Then, out of nowhere, I suddenly feel this unyielding desire to become the merry being that I've been almost running down in the Target parking lot for the previous two months.

I think it's all the sugar.

Anyway, holiday cheer sprung forth this year in the form of a lot of baking.

For friends and coworkers:

For neighbors:

But, really, what could possibly contain enough sugar to sweeten this maniacally Scroogey soul? Something so fantastically indulgent and so unforgivably extravagant that it could only come from the most magnificent point on the globe: Rome, Italy.

Oh yes. Behold the greatness of it's very existence. The 3Kg (6.61 lbs) Holiday Bathtub of Nutella. Straight from Rome by way of Washington carried carefully and lovingly by one of my dearest friends.

Please note how it towers above the wee tape dispenser. Remark upon the golden sheen of it's lid. Observe the festive gift box inside which it is carefully stowed for gift giving.

I ask you, how could one not inflate suddenly with holiday cheer upon receipt of such an overwhelming holiday bounty?

One must.

And so here I sit - ass on couch, in front of the warm fire, listening to the lewd Cialis commercial playing between quarters of the Pats game, feeling extra merry because I'm full of foreign sugar and free to stare at Bubba's face for a whole week while we're off for the holidays.

Suddenly, I don't hate the holidays so much. And I'm grateful for my big spoon.

Fugly House 2006

I was getting a tad panicky because Christmas is less than a week away and I've hardly scratched the surface documenting the illuminated hideousness surrounding my neighborhood.

Yes, there are some people panicked about buying Christmas gifts, and then there's me - worried about making equal fun of all the tards in my neighborhood. I realize I'm going to hell, no need to remind me.

After my short panic, I realized, with great ironic relief, that just because Christmas will pass, it will not mean that people will immediately run out into their yards with ladders and dumpsters to get rid of the "decorations" on their houses. No matter how much I wish it to be so.

Phew!

I mean, Damn it!

I am conflicted.

So, anyhoo this charade on the blog may go on past Christmas, since the array of animated lawn creatures and multicolored strings of lights won't cease to exist in any significant manner until well after the New Year around these parts. Just to warn you in case you show up after 12/25 and see me still marching around the blog with my middle finger in the air.

For now though, let us rest our merry steaming eyeballs on a few candidates for this year's Fugliest House:

This gem was sent in by a non-blogging friend who reads up on the blog from time to time and felt compelled to out her neighbors and their "Visible from Space" compilation of candy canes, window signs and haphazardly arranged lights. While we both admit it's a little hard to discern exactly what is going on in this photo due to low light, I can assure you that, even in person, it makes no organizational or thematic sense. No, it's just a giant shitshow which emerged, we're sure, from an enormous Wal-Mart shopping bag.

I had aimed to get a better shot of the house when I went over to attend my friend's holiday open house this weekend, but it was raining when I got there and I wanted a drink. At least you'll be happy to know that I've branched out to other neighborhoods so that the merry-finger pointing can be shared all around.


All I want to know here is who, exactly, is manning the sleigh. If Santa, and what I assume is Ms. Claus, are hanging out on the patio, how is it possible that the reindeer are taking flight? Are they trained to deliver gifts on their own now? Does Santa just sit his fat ass on the porch and wait for them to return and give him the hooves-up? It looks like even Christmas is being outsourced now.

Oh, and net lights are stupid.

When I see displays like this, I can't help but wonder why the person didn't finish at least ONE of the objects they were trying to adorn instead of spreading the lights halfway across five different vertical objects. I assume this work was done by someone approximately 6 feet tall, with limited patience being trailed by someone about 5'5" carrying a big wooden spoon. What I'd like to see once, just once, is a tree that is covered with lights from the base of the trunk ALL THE WAY to the end of each branch. Then, at least I'd know it was a tree, and not some bizarre lawn sculpture keeping their giant broomstick waving snowman company in their front yard.

Or, if we're in the time saving mood, I could just swing by with a blowtorch and do everyone a favor.

I've got a news flash for these folks, Santa is NOT stopping here. (See the sign? Yes. We all do.) Even though they have the runway clearly marked and the arbor announcing Merry Christmas for all the western hemisphere to see. As it turns out Santa is leery of nuclear testing grounds and the glowing trees are a dead giveaway. Even if he does decide to come in for a landing, he's going to have to shoo the Snowman Family off the runway or pummel them with reindeer hooves. It will be a Christmas massacre for the books.

For now, that's what I've got. But this weekend, I fully intend to take a long dutiful walk around the area and get shots of the worst offenders. I've gotten some anonymous and some blatant direction on where to conduct my search. It appears that there are other hellfire sinners out there who would rather slyly slit boxes of inflatable Santas at their neighborhood Target with keychain pocketknives than endure a city block of fossile-fuel sucking yuletide cheer.

See, it's not just me.

[BOOK CLUB] The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid, Bill Bryson

I won't lie, I *may* be over Bill for the time being.

In true Finny fashion, I binged on the too-good thing and gave myself a stomachache. Like when I was about 10 and decided that a good afternoon snack would be a bowl of Oreos covered with Cool Whip. Eaten with a spoon at hand-in-the-cookie-jar speed, I made myself sick enough so that I didn't go near an Oreo for a good decade. And I've never looked twice at Cool Whip since. Thankfully, my last dose of Bill in the Thunderbold Kid was pretty good and I had some good laughs, but it was no Walk in the Woods or Sunburned Country. So, in the end, I didn't barf, but I'm not going back for more, at least not now. I feel like I'm not yet at the Cool Whip stage with Bill, but I'm definitely approaching the Oreo stage.

Thunderbolt Kid was an amusing look at what it was like for Bill to grow up in Des Moines starting in the 1950's or so. I didn't get a lot of history or drama, but I did get a good idea of what it would have been like to go to school with a perpetual pants pooper or be a paper boy in a nice midwestern neighborhood.

I liked the nostalgia of drive-in movies, his first experience with a billboard, his quest to touch boobs and the way he described how his uncle flocked fellow diners while he ate potatoes, but beyond that, I didn't really find myself gasping for breath from laughing like I had in the past.

I thought it was because I'd gone from reading his new material to reading his old material. I thought for sure I'd pick this newest work up and immediately be thrown to the floor with hysterical laughter. I thought I had just gotten turned in the wrong direction and was about to right myself with a brand new book, hot off the presses and full of hilarity.

Darn.

I think the thing that I never fully latched onto was the weaving of his childhood fantasy of superheroship at random intervals throughout the story. I'd have rather him just made fun of a few more passersby than waste precious page space trying to tie his childhood experiences together with intermittent references to the zapping of neighborhood dogs or stories of imaginary destruction and devastation while wearing a raggedy old thunderbolt sweater.

But I won't be a total downer. Especially since it was my idea to go straight to another Bryson book after The Lost Continent, and I dragged you all down with me. I did have some good chuckles and I do really like his smiling picture on the inside flap of the book. So it's not a total loss. And I was, at one point, laughing on the couch loud enough for Bubba to call out from the office to see if I'd gotten my hand stuck in the dustbuster or accidently squooshed the cat. Which is more than I can say for the majority of books I've read in my lifetime. So, at the end of the day, Bill has set the bar so high that I'm not sure even he is up to the challenge. But the good news is that he has a quiver full of fabulously entertaining books - some just more than others.

So, I hope you all were able to enjoy the book, smile a bit and then look forward to something a little different, perhaps something with more riveting historical flavor.

Perhaps written by someone who's untimely death in the Nazi concentration camps left her masterpiece unpublished until 60 years later when her daughters uncovered it and released it for printing. Someone who knows what it's like to flee ones homeland for uncertain fates.

I'm imagining humanity, drama, introspection, honesty and a good look into the day to day experiences and struggles of people ousted from their lives in the face of an invading war.

I have high hopes.

Suite Francaise

Join me, won't you? Let's meet back in the New Year - say 2/1/07. I'll bring my big fat mouth and a G&T.

Oh yeah - don't forget to vote (and comment) on The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid, (poll at right). Then get to reading and having yourselves nice holidays and all that.

Cheers.

Legend of Winter Blackberry Pie

Sure, we've all heard of blackberry pie. Most of us have probably had it and loved it. Maybe in summertime with some vanilla ice cream melting ambitiously on top. It's pretty fricken good.

But have you heard of Winter Blackberry Pie?

Because at Finny's house, it is something of a phenomenon.

About six years ago when I started dating Bubba, I started this phenom by innocently freezing the remnant filling from my regularly scheduled blackberry pie. Because I have an issue with waste. Because as I was staring at this last few cups of pie filling all I could think of was sweating my ass off on the hottest day of the year (every year I manage to choose the hottest day somehow) so I could make this pie. Because I could, then, not bear the thought of watching it slide down the garbage disposal.

So, despite lack of space in our freezer (this was back in my Green Box days, a story I'll recount another time), I wedged the bulging Ziploc between the ground beef and a tower of Green Boxes for futures.

Futures came sometime in February when, due to an extreme lack of funds, I was staring helplessly into my freezer for something, ANYTHING, to make/bake/fake for dinner. It was then that I spied the bag of purplish goo frozen into an obscene shape hanging out in the back of my freezer. It was lying next to a discarded frozen pie crust.

Fate!

So, after a long-ish dip in a sink of hot water, the blackberry filling went into the crust (this was before the pastry-cutter came into my life and changed pie crust forever), pie went into the oven and the real reason Bubba asked me to marry him came into being. And, yeah, we ate pie for dinner because that's just how we roll.

Winter Blackberry Pie = Your normal blackberry pie produced in the rainy doldrums of winter when it can be truly appreciated and upheld as the ultimate winter dessert and reason to propose marriage to its creator.

So, now, every summer when I come home with a TJ's bag full of Ziplocs each containing the approximate amount of berries for pies and batches of jam, I clear out a little space in the freezer for the fateful bag of leftie-over filling from which will be produced the ever-famous Winter pie.

Because Bubba smiles real big when I make it and I get to reminisce about summer while it rains and the fireplace warms Rocket's ass.

Finny gets Freaky

Tag, I'm it.

Despite my year+ on Blogger, this is my first meme-tagging moment. Call me a late bloomer.

And to make my tagger feel better after her recent admission of acronym-itis in the comment field of this post, I should say that I felt compelled to look up the true definition of "meme" online (an idea, project, statement or even a question that is posted by one blog and responded to by other blogs. Although the term encompasses much of the natural flow of communication in the Blogosphere, there are active bloggers and blog sites that are dedicated to the creation of memes on a regular basis.) True, "meme" isn't an acronym, but it's something of a nerdy-online kind of word that I wasn't 100% clear on. So, whatever. I'm a dork.

This meme, as it were, asks me to pick up the nearest book in arm's reach, flip to page 123 : line 5 and put the words from the next three lines into my post:

..."previously set free-for drug-related offenses and parole revocation in particular-were instead locked up. Between 1980 and 2000, there was a fifteenfold increase in the number of people sent to prison on..."

I feel compelled to put some context around the above three lines which are in Freakonomics: A Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden Side of Everything, by Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner.

The theory they are writing about, which the aforementioned three lines work at explaining, is that the drop in crime rate during the 90's was explained, by some, to be the effect of incarcerating more criminals for drug and parole related crimes. This, however, is not a theory shared by the authors of the book.

In fact, the theory they present is much more controversial and definitely worth a read through. I think I whipped through this book in an afternoon and did find many of their theories to be at least provocative enough to consider if not totally rational and acceptable.

I won't lie though - conservative thinkers should come prepared with helmet. Some questions are asked in this book that are probably illegal in our redder states.

Now comes my turn to tag - please forgive me for this chain letter-esque activity. I figure, at least it's book related, which I do enjoy, and you three always have shit going on that I find interesting. PS, no hard feelings if you don't meme-along.

Laura in AK - I would love to see what book you have nearby since it's probably something wildlife related, or perhaps sleddog-ish?
Africankelli - since Shelley put me down for getting her into blogging, I think you deserve the same treatment you big enabler, you.
And Farmgirl, even though I know you don't have time for this since you're probably out in the back 40 managing the sheep or busy at the stove with one of your recipes that I will copy and pass off as my own.

The End.

Let the games begin

For those of you who were with me last year, you might recall (maybe with great joy like I do) the new holiday-time tradition that I devised to soothe my aching eyerolling muscles.

I won't lie, some people have called me mean-spirited, grinch-y, a bitch - because of this new (fun, hello) tradition. But I won't be dissuaded from speaking my true feelings.

Those being that I FEEL like people are a skoshe too liberal with lights, ornaments, lawn decorations, inflatable holiday characters, the use of generators to maintain their festive metropoli and, in general, a mite careless with the consumption of fossil fuels to charge these displays.

Plus, they're usually really ugly.

Sure, I imagine that there are some people out there that have even the most marginal tact and taste and, despite all odds, are still inclined to bedeck their homes with colored lightbulbs and seasonal frippery, so I acknowledge the fact that there *may* be homes out there that are not, in the typical sense, FUGLY, but I don't care about those. I care about the ugly ones. Because they are everywhere and they bug me.

So, let us kick off the '06 round of "Which House is the Ugliest?" with a teeth-grinding comparison of last year's fugliest house:

with this year's updated display:


Notice the addition of the two enormous inflatable candy canes.

Stand in awe of Harley Santa and Sidecar Snowman on their green inflatable motorcycle.

Rejoice in Jack in the Box Santa lingering diminutively next to Penguin atop Igloo unlike last year when Santa towered above man, beast and churning snowglobe alike.

And, finally, appreciate the whimsical carelessness with which the pastel-hued twinkling lights were strung to highlight only the widespread lack of parking space in the driveway.

Year over year, this house can be counted on to be a true gem of fugly house decorating. Which is why I was willing to swerve haphazardly across two lanes of traffic and park, albeit momentarily, but illegally across the street in order to photograph it on my way home from the store the other night.

I was actually pretty inspired during my drive home and ended up abandoning most of my honed safe-driving practices in order to capture some of the more offensive techniques in the neighborhood. And before we part ways and go off in search of fuglier examples to celebrate this, my now one year old, fabulous tradition, let me leave you with a couple more good examples of Fugly, for reference purposes:

Example: Psychedelic funhouse Christmas

Example: We can't decide so throw all the lights at the house and see what sticks

Feel free to send me the most glaring Fugly examples so we can all point and laugh from our own remote locations: finnyknitsATgmailDOTcom.

Happy hunting.

City Swap

After multiple trying endeavours with the various shipping facilities in my area, I have finally managed to ship my City Swap gift.

Let me just say - fucking phew.

Ugh. I won't go into the specific details of my encounter with the individual at The UPS Store, but let's just say that I will not be going back. Ever. Since it appears that these stores are manned by people from a far-off land so distant that they are completely unfamiliar with normal shipping practices, the materials used in the process of shipping and really just human interaction in general.

To put it in perspective, at the end of my UPS Store experience I was actually looking forward to my trip to the post office and was considering any uniformed USPS officer as my personal savior. That takes some serious damage.

However, to get back to the real reason for this post, I would like to put some method behind my City Swap madness so that the poor soul paired with me will understand the contents of the package and not think that I totally missed the point of the swap.

The point of City Swap was to find the unique bits of your city and shower those bits upon your swap buddy. Sounds simple and lovely, no? Especially if you are from a city as glorious as, say, Rome, Sydney, New York, Milan, etc.

No such luck.

As much as I love where I live (San Jose, CA) I can't say that there are a lot of bits that are uniquely San Jose that I'd want to shower on anyone. I mean, yeah, we've got the Sharks, but who really gives a deuce about hockey? I live approx one mile from their stadium and hadn't even been to a game until two weeks ago for godssake. And after that, what IS San Jose besides obscenely sprawling, crawling with traffic, home to some of the biggest tech companies in the world and jam-packed with geeks?

So, this left me with the issue of finding something -anything-unique and pleasing in San Jose so that I could represent my fair home proudly on an international stage.

I gave up on the Sharks as my answer because nobody wants a Shark's head on a keychain anyway. And anything computer-ish and dorky was out because, well, I'm not ready to admit on paper that I live and work amongst the geekiest population of people on planet earth.

I finally decided that the best thing about San Jose was the one thing that convinced me to move here from the more scenic Peninsula in the first place, my little neighborhood of Willow Glen. See, San Jose on the whole is, IMHO, not all that glam. Yeah, we have a fancy pants shopping center, an international airport, a homeless problem, some passable restaurants and a museum that people are always yamming on about, but that is not enough for me to want to associate it's zip code with my mailing address. However, my little corner of the city is.

We came down here about five years ago for a 4th of July BBQ at a friend's place and when we left, we vowed we'd buy our first home here. Perhaps we were a little lit from the festivities, and had unrealistic expectations about what we could actually afford (um, nothing) in the area, but we were determined to live on one of it's tree-lined streets within walking distance of the cutesy downtown so that we could walk our future dog to our future coffee shop and mow our future lawn while chatting it up with our friendly future neighbors and do (A LOT) work on our future Craftsman house. It was all very pie in the sky and ridiculous, I'll admit.

But after killing ourselves to make it happen, I can say every day that I'm glad we did. We walk to our current coffee shop along the tree lined streets on the weekends and chat it up (so much) with our current friendly neighbors and its just generally love fest all around.

That is what I wanted to share with my swap buddy.

So, I did what I like to do best around here, I walked the tree-lined streets. For hours. And took pictures of all the good stuff. Hand painted bus benches, steel-wrought rhinos on street corners, dog grooming shops, yoga studios, the place I get the best falafel in the world, houses decorated for the holidays, houses decorated for the invasion of aliens - you know, the youge.

And with the photos, I made stuff like note cards, gift tags and a shopping bag so that my swap friend can appreciate this place without having to figure out what to do with a life size shark carcass, random bits from a computer hard drive or a dose of Silicon Valley smog.

During an especially inspired moment I weeded out photos of shop signs and put them, as a collection, on the shopping bag. It's almost too cutesy to openly admit.

Anyway, I hope she is able to get some use and amusement from the cards, tags and bag - and that she can see why I live in this geeky city rather than our hoity-toity neighbor 45 mins north.

Yearly ritual

In the absence of having actual holiday traditions (which are openly loathed in my grinch-y household) I have yearly rituals that happen to occur around the holidays.

This way I don't have to watch Bubba's eyes roll back into his head while he sighs meaningfully and pretends to skewer himself with my chef's knife. And I don't have to feign interest in the true meanings that surround the conveniently placed holiday.

One of my yearly rituals is the taking down of the year's correspondence and starting over for the next year when the first holiday card arrives in the mail. I decided a while back that I loved all the cards that I got throughout the year; for birthdays, anniversaries, thank yous, babies born, marriages vowed, etc, that I didn't want to just let them flop around on the bar or fireplace mantle. And I really didn't want to have to replace them when they blew over or were swept aside by the tail of a passing land beast we call Rocket.

So I pin them up. Not in a fancy way, just to a ribbon that is pinned up at the corners, with some old clothespins that I don't use anymore because I can't figure out a way to shoehorn a clothesline into our teeny laundry room. And throughout the year, starting with the first holiday card we get, I continue on my merry way pinning and stacking and strategizing ways to get all the cards collected on the ribbon without it peeling away from the wall and crashing down all over our entry. This event, too, causes much eye rolling and faux self-impalement, so we try to avoid it.

And, for 2006, I can say that we have started anew upon the receipt of our first holiday card. Which, ironically, comes from the person I'd least expect to have the time, energy or inclination to put together a holiday mailing (particularly the gorgeous one she sent) since she's, at once; packing an entire house by herself, selling most of her earthly belongings, changing jobs, moving across the country and carrying her second child. All this while her husband is thousands of miles away caring for their first child and working his rear off at a new job in the new city. If you have those friends who seem to be able to manufacture time and get an outrageous amount of stuff accomplished in addition to their very busy work lives, you know what I'm saying here. It blows my mind. And here comes this beautiful card sailing into my mailbox on 12/1. Incredible.

Anyhoo, this card gets the highly coveted top/center spot on the card holder thingee and starts off the annual ripping down and starting over of the whole process.

Before:

During:

After:

And this year, I decided that merely admiring the nice cards for a full year while they hung on the card holder thingee (I've stopped short of giving it a real name) is not enough. No, I need to reuse them somehow. So, if you receive a gift from me this holiday season, odds are good that it will have a weird looking gift tag attached to it with some abstract something or other on one side and your name on the other. That is because it was punched (by way of a Sizzix) from a card someone sent me this year that was too pretty/fancy/weird/ugly to throw away.

I'm aware that these gift tags will just perpetuate the common feeling amongst my family and friends that I'm mildly off my nut and I just don't care. But, I'll tell you, I finally don't feel guilty about throwing away greeting cards and that is a great, strange relief. And don't sit there and tell me that you don't have a twinge of guilt when you throw away a birthday card or thank you note because I won't believe you. And I might start not liking you a little bit because you are clearly a stronger, and saner, person than I.

Morning fright

I'm sorry, but I have to divert from the normal baking, crafting, diy-ing to cover a topic that has been filling my mornings with fright and confusion for nearly a full year now.

I think some of you remember my reacquaintance with the gym earlier this year. It's been fine, you know, being back on my morning regimen of QT with the tready and pre-dawn wrestling matches with vicious sports bras. I've even gotten Bubba used to the routine to the point where he swears he doesn't even hear the alarm go off five times before I haul my ass from the bed. (He lies so sweetly.) So overall, it's been a merry little experience.

Except one thing.

Ok, there's probably more than one thing I can kvetch about (this is me we're talking about here), but this one thing gets me every single morning - men in spandex.

Or, more specifically MAN in spandex.

And halvsey tops.

And fanny pack.

And socks pulled up just below his knees.

And if you're thinking to yourself, "I don't know why she thinks her gym is so special, all gyms have these freakshows parading around in plum smugglers. What's the biggie?", I'll tell you what really gets me.

This dude is in the most amazing shape. He's probably in his early 40's, sort of tallish, pleasant-faced and friendly (he chats up the gym bunnies regularly) and is in incredible shape. Seriously, if it weren't for a receding hairline and obvious ignorance of acceptable athletic attire, I'd guess this dude was in his twenties. And maybe a baseball player or something.

Which is why the spandex and belly-shirts totally bug! Plus, oh I didn't even tell you yet, halvsey tank tops. Those kind like the dudes wear in the Strong Man contests that have the skinny straps and the gigantor armholes that are all baggy. The fact that these tops are then cut off at the midriff and paired with spandex man-pris and a strategically placed fanny pack just gets my goat.

I do not know what to make of this guy.

My first thought was that he was gay. But then I dismissed that for multiple reasons, one of which being that of all my gay friends I'd never known a single one to be caught dead wearing spandex of any variety or participating in any similarly horrifying fashion faux pas. Second being, that this Man of Spandex enjoys chatting it up with the ladies while he struts away on the stair machine (Not the stair master, but one of those machines with the actual stairs you climb. I don't know why making that distinction is important here.) and has been overheard making overt flirting gestures to said ladies while sweating up his yellow belly-top.

Plus, it seems that he doesn't feel the least bit out of place parading around the weight room, amongst other less conspicuously dressed members, as though his shiny navy blue shorties were the most normal things a man could pull from his dresser.

My second thought was that he is just your average dude, wildly out of touch with modern workout society, and going about his merry life dressed totally normal outside of the gym where no one he works with realizes that mere hours before their morning conference call this oddball was swaggering around the free weights section in his stretch-pants showing off his (admittedly honed) breadbasket for all the world to see. I bet some of the women in his office even think he's a "hunk".

The final straw was seeing him leaving the gym one day, dressed all friggen normal just like I'd hypothesized; in jeans, running shoes, t-shirt and ball cap. And he did look cute! Like a normal cute guy. Actually, he sort of reminded me of my friend's dad who all the high school girls used to lust after. And who, I should note, DID NOT wear spandex. This guy however, he is the Spandex Superman of the gym! He goes into the booth (locker room) normal and comes out fully clad in primary-colored spandex (substitute fanny pack for the cape). Then, after he has conquered the evil-doers (Calories? Flabby thighs?) he races back into his booth and changes back into Clark "I'm so normal" Kent and walks away like nothing happened.

What kills me is knowing that one day he'll meet that special woman (he doesn't wear a ring, so I assume he is not married) and she'll think he's all normal in his jeans, ball cap and shapely physique and then she'll stay the night and see him leave for the gym in his stretchy pants and babydoll tee and realize that she's been conned by his Normal Man by Day/Man of Spandex by Dawn double lifestyle.

And it is this continuing mystery that keeps me entertained while I bound away on the tready, whittling down my 30 minutes so that I can go over to the free weights and embarrass myself with the 10 lb barbells or try to sneak onto the lat machine before Mr. and Mrs. We Wear Weight Belts Even Though We Spend 90% of Our Time at the Gym Talking to Our Other Oldish Friends and Being Blissfully Ignorant of our Cellulite commandeer the upper body machines.

I'll get into those hammerheads another time.

Exactly what I want

I can't be the only one sad to be back at work after the long four day weekend. Although everyone around here acts like there's nowhere else they'd rather be than behind their laptops, clicking away at email and listening to their cubemates cell phones going unanswered.

Not that I don't have a big red heart for my job, but my long weekend was so blissfully full of exactly what I wanted to be doing that the jolt of being back in the office is startling and its making me already miss everything I did over the last four days. I *KNEW* it was going to fly by, and it did.

I love how I act like I was changing the world or making vast personal improvements or something.

Not exactly...

In fact, at this time yesterday I was padding around in my kitchen putting a pork shoulder into the crockpot for a pulled pork dinner and thinking, "Gee, at this time tomorrow, I'll be at work."

Now I'm sitting at work thinking, "Gee, I should have been spending more time trying to invent my time machine instead of wrestling with pork shoulder."

Grrr...

So, instead of doing exactly what I want to be doing right now (Taking a long walk? Howling with laughter as Bubba puts pretzel rods up his nose? Knitting a ski hat in front of my fireplace? Who can say?) I'm elsewhere thinking about all the sweet shit I did over the long weekend.

Sweet = baking a lot of loaves. 30 to be exact:

Pumpkin chocolate chip bread, lemon poppyseed cake, lemon pound cake, fresh orange cake - all personally taste tested for deliciousness by Bubba himself (see pre-porno photo of him above with the Lemon Poppyseed.)

And then I made some pulled pork sandwiches with pickled cabbage, fresh rolls and fries for dinner. You know, because we didn't eat enough at Thanksgiving. And because my oven was bored from disuse.

Sweet also = wrapping all my holiday gifts. Oh yes, all of them. I won't go into detail, but I will say that there is a very impressive stack of gifts wrapped up in un-Christmasish paper on a shelf in my newly organized closet.

Shivers.

It is so swell in there.

Another sweet thing = This new Bryson book started getting funnier toward the end, so I'm almost done with it. Although I'm having a hard time thinking of the next book. Ideas?

Yet another sweet thing = The latest live Foo Fighters album.

Oh.

Grrrrrrrrr.

It is so [better word for fucking awesome].

I am become the Foo.