Fugly House 2007

Since stupid Daylight Savings happened I've been walking the dog in the dark at night and dealing with the complications of finding poo in the grass without a light source. You remember.

Well, as of the day after Thanksgiving, I have a new poo to hunt, and it is much better lit than any other poo I could care to find.

And with that, I kick off this year's Fugly House parade.

See, people, if you didn't know it already I spend the month of December taking pictures of every horribly decorated house I see so that I can put the pictures up right here and make snide comments about them for my personal satisfaction and perhaps your enjoyment as well.

And, yes, I realize that it is only November right now, but if people are going to be assclowns and start putting up ridiculous decorations the day after Thanksgiving when, I'm told, we are all to be out shopping, then I am going to take pictures of them while Jada pees on their blinking lawn decorations because if they are starting early with the shitshow, then I am starting early with the shit talking.

Besides, I'm already standing there anyway since it's easier to find her poo when it falls near a glowing Sant-y Claus or one of those stupid animated reindeer, so why not take photos in the mean time, right?

Yes.

To start this year's hot mess off on a thematic note, I thought I'd feature a montage of one of my most hated holiday decorations, The Always Crooked and Stupid Looking Light-up Candy Canes.

Seen here with extra barfy rainbow lights:

Seen here standing extra crooked and tall in front of house with rabid dog:

Seen here basking in the nuclear glow of an extremely overdone (and ugly also) front yard:

Seen here amongst last year's leftovers from the discount bin at Wal-Mart:

And this is from just ONE walk with the dog. Imagine the goodness that will come from 45 nightly walks.

Christmas is only 26 days away you say?

Pish-tosh, you know that no one takes their Christmas lights down right after the holiday just like they should and I pray for.

NO.

In fact, I could probably provide daily updates of illuminated neighborhood ugliness for the next 90 days if I had the inclination because that is how crazy this whole decoration mania has gotten. Ugly insanity if you ask me.

Anyway, expect to see a few more posts like this one. Where I capture the poor decisions of my neighbors and then speculate on their mental well-being. And if you should care to throw a gem into the ring here, I'm all ready to give your neighbors the same treatment. Just take a photo (whether your dog is currently pooping in their sidewalk patch or not) and sent it to finnyknitsATgmailDOTcom.

And if you don't like this little activity and would rather I go back to bitching about sewing even quilting lines or hemming over how to fit four billion loaves of holiday bread into my freezer, do not despair. There will plenty of that to come, as well, and I'll even try to tone down the swears, honeybear, for those posts if that makes you more comfortable, you big cry babies.

I kid!

xo

31:11:00

No, I did not run the 10K on Thanksgiving, in case you were doing some uneducated secret wagering or anything. I ran the 5K and came in with a 10 min/mile pace, which for me, is good and an improvement.

Especially given the obstacles the race organizers set before us on that great day of Thanks.

I will sum these obstacles up in a hackneyed holiday list of Thankfulness, yes.

I am thankful for:

• my ability to recognize the letters, "V-Z", from across a sea of sporadically bobbing ponytails and ballcaps, despite the inopportune placement of the registration area

• my ability to balance on one leg while simultaneously zip-tying a ChampionChip to my shoelace, dodging occasional blows from passing doublewide strollers (really, people?) and giving directions to the alphabetically challenged toward the registration tents which were LIKE RIGHT THERE CAN'T YOU SEE THEM?

• Bubba coming equipped with an enormous amount of patience so that when some old bag snarks at him for letting the dog pee on the grass in the giant park which is usually home to a thousand homeless people and their dogs, he does not hit her square in the jaw and remind her that she has probably already stepped in worse, you stupid woman
  
  
• the powerful brakes with which I apparently come equipped. Without which I would have 100% crushed a small woman hovering over the starting pad while she waited for space to clear ahead of her small self, thus allowing her to have a more advantageous chip time while the other 6,000 of us tried to advance at any pace in order to avoid said crushing
  
  
• the fact that I didn't realize there were any hills on the race course until they were upon me
  
  
• the 5K turnaround
  
  
• my wisdom in forgoing the cheesy race Tshirt and post race "goodie" bag because I think we all know that stuff is crap anyway
  

So, yes, the race was something of a shitshow which I'm sure was directly related to the extra 4,000 or so people that showed up, and for whom the race organizers were inadequately prepared.

Apparently the group organizing the event underestimated the staggering drawing power of the Thanksgiving Day Eat All You Want and Don't Feel Guilty About it in Your Stretchy Pants Free Pass, which is what got me there, lest you think otherwise.

I mean, it was 40 goddamn degrees outside and I was not there just to test out the CoolTech in my new long-sleevy running top. Even though, I will say that it was nice, as was my vest, and if my toes weren't little frozen nubbins until mile 2.5 when they turned to hot fiery toe coals, I might even say I was almost comfortable. Except for the toe thing. And the bruises I sustained while trying to dodge the doublewide strollers that did not heed the "Families and Strollers in the Back" rule.

Can I just ask The Universe one thing, here: Why do we have rules, Universe, if no FUCKING one is going to pay attention to them but me? Also, why do people wear those Batman tool belts full of Accelerade for a 3 mile race?

Thanks, Universe. That's all I want to know. Just because I know it clearly said in all the race materials that there were no headphones or dogs allowed on the race course and all the strollers had to be in the back of the crowd, but, like, there they were, all rocking and trotting and rolling around with the rest of us. As though they were allowed to be there, ramming into us and making a big stink about how come it's taking so long to get across the starting line when they're not even supposed to be running the race to begin with.

I'm just saying, you know.

After all was said and done though, it was a fairly decent way to start a Thanksgiving Day. Especially when I had specific plans about how many (four) desserts I was going to be eating and how little movement I was going to be participating in until faced with said desserts. Plus, we supported local charities and walked the dog long enough to justify a two hour truck ride to my folks'.

I was also very thankful for Race Fries and Bubba's steadfast dedication to the rule that all races must be followed by the consumption of Race Fries and their usual accompaniments (cheeseburger and DC).

Running update + Extreme Patchworking

I signed up for a 5K/10K Turkey Trot after finishing the half marathon a month ago. My thoughts at that moment: "10K? Pfffffffft - piece of cake."

And now the Turkey Trot is tomorrow and I'm thinking I'll run the 5K and then go to my mom's and have four desserts.

My thinking is this: most people in the US probably don't do ANY exercise on Thanksgiving, so I'm, like, ahead of the game. You know, even though I'm cutting my distance in half and having twice as many desserts.

Yes, your math is correct. I normally have at least two desserts on Thanksgiving, because duh, it is Thanksgiving. Oh, and I drink beers.

But whatever, it's the Turkey Trot's fault because they don't make you sign up for a 5K OR a 10K, you just sign up as a stupid general participant and then apparently decide how far you feel like running when you get there in your stretchy pants and long sleeves in the 40 degree weather and your mom (who is the best cook ever) has beers and a trough of mashed potatoes waiting on the other end.

Who, I ask you, would be, like, "Yes, I will forgo my Thanksgiving feast of beers by another half hour" when they (me) could just as easily be like, "I will just slam my way through the 5K and be on my way to drunken mashed potato eating in half an hour" instead.

WHO I ASK YOU? No one, that's who.

So, I will be running a 5k tomorrow morning (or trotting, as the race name indicates) and then hauling my ass (and Bubba and dog) to my folks' for some madcap mashed potato and pie eating with the small comfort that I just ran a race and can afford the extra one million calories.

And then maybe we arrive back home and the final pieces to the Extreme Patchworking Project will have arrived and I will be able to close the book on this Extremely unnecessarily complicated project.

See, when I finished with the project before, I was apparently also a little heavy in the Crazy department because I thought that I would make it extra special (and then also Extra Complicated) by going beyond the pattern and making it Useful as well as Finished. Two things that do not always coincide in my world of Just Getting the Fucking Thing Done.

The issue with this project was that, while cute, this bag was essentially useless to me as a purse and I couldn't really conceive of passing it off as a gift unless I could demonstrate its usefulness somehow.

So I consulted Bubba by holding the purse up at eye level and asking him what HE thought I should do. His idea was to take it to the grocery store and use it as a bread bag. Size-wise this makes sense, but insisting that Already Bitchy Safeway Cashier put my bread into the proprietary bag is about *thismuch* guaranteeing that the bread will be a smooshed useless wad rather than the perfectly packaged loaf of Bubba's dreams.

However, when re-evaluating the bag for potential usefulness, by holding it up to my own eye level and asking the question, "What size thing fits in here?", the answer came pretty fast: Knitting needles.

Like those big long annoying-because-they-don't-fit-any-of-my-needle-cases needles that you want to use but can't take anywhere because of their annoyingly long size that I keep talking about. But now there is a bag for just such annoying things. A bag that will let you take a project and a pattern AND the annoyingly ass long needles all at the same time and in a very patchworky fun way.

Oh and what if there was a matching patchworky needle case for the bag that would hold the long ass annoying needles? YES. We are there.

There = Finished and Newly Useful Extreme Patchwork Bag


So yes, it is finally done. Albeit not in the ultra supermost neato way I was originally imagining (there were secret pockets and fold out this and thats, etc), but in a way where I can give it as a gift without that someone looking at me with that, "Hey thanks for this thing I don't know what it is" look. Which I do get sometimes with my handicrafts.

So, someone, if you get this as a gift, now you know what it is and please don't look at me like that because I'll cry.

Happy Turkey!

The Pile

I know you have this pile.

It is a pile of things which you love but somehow haven't managed to work into your surroundings. So, they end up in a pile. Or a bag. Or tucked neatly into a hand-wrapped Moroccan drum and set on a high shelf with the other homeless but desirable things with the understanding that *someday* you are going to have the perfect place for them but until that day comes, they will just hang out in the pile/bag/drum while Bubba makes quiet but pointed comments about where is that cool thing that his mom brought back from Bali and did we ever unpack the penis gourd from our last move.

See, your life is just like mine. I knew it.

This past weekend I decided to face The Pile. Which is a scary idea since The Pile has things in it so varied and obscure that dealing with The Pile has become a task that I often approach but inevitably end up backing slowly away from while whispering, "I'm not ready. I'm not ready."

See, The Pile has things in it like a Moroccan drum, Costa Rican maracas, prayer rugs, African masks, a tradesman's knife, a cast iron elephant, embroidered tapestries, batiks, wax-dyed fabrics and the penis gourd. So, obviously, all things I love and cherish but also things that really need *a special place* in which to be properly admired or pointed at while going,

"What is THAT for? And why is there a saucy little feather at the end?"

I'm sure you can see why it's taken me so long to deal with these things. I mean, how long did it take you to unpack and properly showcase your penis gourd? See, I bet yours is still packed away in the penny saver wrap at this very moment.

But Sunday was the day. And it was the soonest possible moment that I could have tackled this project, I assure you, because the *special place* in which these treasures were to be showcased wasn't ready until then.

And that is because we finally had rewired and arranged the office just right, with my new white couch in just the right spot across from the new desk on top of the clean rug with the two bookcases and wasn't it all just perfect and ready. Because, as you know, I am crazy and OCD and want to have my cake and eat it too and then have it for dessert so I tend to obsess over things and not budge an inch to make them happen until I know it will be just right.

Imagine if you will, the picnic it must be to be married to me.

Thankfully the stars were properly aligned this past Sunday and I was able to unveil and arrange almost all of The Pile's treasures throughout our perfect canvas of an office, thus satisfying my inner crazy to the point where I was then able to relax and watch football while napping intermittently.

Oh the sheer bliss.

Of the items in The Pile that I was most eager to display was this gorgeous fabric that Kelli brought back for me from Africa a million long years ago.

When she gave it to me I knew a few things right off the bat:

1. I loved it very much and it was perfect.
2. It would become a very groovy set of pillows for my future sofa bed in our future office which would set off the future decorating that I would do. In the future.

You can imagine how much the "in the future" part of this equation annoyed my Crazy since I am a woman of little patience AND one who desires instant gratification. Such a hard, hard combo to manage. Just ask Bubba.

Thankfully "the future" was this weekend and the fabulous fabric that has been taunting me from its side of The Pile for so long was sliced and sewn and stuffed with pillow forms and arranged *just so* on the couch for all (me) to enjoy. I'd like to think that Bubba can appreciate the mind energy that has gone into bringing these pillows into existence, but he is closer to Normal than I am, so probably just appreciates them in the normal way one would usually appreciate a pillow. Like maybe as a cushion for one's back while reclining on a couch.

I don't know what normal people do, I'm just guessing here.

Anyway, my big vision for the office, The Universe and Everything is coming together nicely and thank god because if I had to stare at that fabric in its uncut and unrealized potential state for ONE. MORE. DAY. I probably would have spontaneously combusted from the energy it was taking to hold back the Crazy.

And if you're wondering where is the rest of The Pile and where did I put the penis gourd, well, you're just going to have to wait until it's all put away *just right* so that I can take a perfectly staged photo where nothing has dog/cat/my hair on it and I can pretend that we always live in a house so clean and perfect.

So, like, probably not real soon, but I'll work on it.

To add to the list of random things that excite me, I'm here to tell you that I currently have a crush on the fourth shelf in our hall closet.

Because it is almost empty.

Like, it only has a few smallish things on it and that's all. There is actual room for, I don't know, things. In the event that I need space for something linen-ish, or hall-ish, or whatever-ish - I have a space for it!

Give it a minute - the excitement will get to you, too.

Wait for it...

Whoa - see. That is rad. The feeling of available space. Ahhhhhh.

I will tell you that in our perfect-except-for-the-fact-that-it's-evil-small house, space is a commodity. Even one shelf can make a difference between keeping and Goodwilling something. And we're at the point where I've edited and sifted and cleaned out our stuff so many times that when I'm trying to compromise and make space I'm choosing between two things I really like rather than one thing I'm currently using and one thing that was purchased in 1983, still has the store tags and is so heinously ugly as to be unforgivable.

And if I ask Bubba to store one more thing in the garage he is going to divorce my ever-shopping ass.

So, how did I come to acquire something as rare and exotic as a free hall closest shelf (mostly)? Only buy buying the best sofa-bed known to man which has the most ingenious sofa-to-bed mechanism as well as a perfectly fabulous storage compartment within the sofa itself.

TAH-dow.

And don't you know that it was set up for approximately 17 seconds before I raced off down the hall (short race) to the closet to grab the spare comforter, pillows, sheets and mattress pad quick like a god damn cat.

SHOOOOOOOOOOOM!

That's how fast I was.

It was nearly a religious experience tucking the comforter (with new groovy duvet donchaknow), sheets and pad into the storage compartment and sliding the bed closed like nothing ever happened.

So, the first time I tried to overstuff it. Yes, obviously, because that is who I am, The Queen of Forcing It, but when it became obvious that two pillows AND a KING comforter AND a mattress pad AND a sheet set weren't going to fit in there I surrendered gracefully (ie. no crying or throwing of scissors) and moved the pillows back to the high shelf in the hall closet. It was a hard moment for me *tear* but I made it through.

It was the knowledge of having at least one shelf free that carried me through. And also that when the time comes to put the sofa bed together, I won't have to go hunting all over the property for the sheets and then the comforter and then where are the damn pillows and wait these sheets are the wrong size and what about a mattress pad and then let's just see if they mind a sleeping bag in the yard.

Plus, there's the chance that next time I need to store something I won't have to go weeping topless to Bubba begging for a little space in the garage because I'll just be able to slam it into the fourth shelf in the hall closet and call it a day.

Exciting! And a little sad for Bubba, I guess.

So, now you know that I like/like a shelf in our hall closet and that I've worn out my welcome when it comes to Bubba and his man-space, The Garage Mahal.

The big question remains, however: how long until I fill up the shelf and OH WHAT WILL I PUT IN THERE THE ONE OPEN SPACE IN MY WHOLE HOUSE WOW?

I have come across another annoying side effect of Daylight Savings Time (because there are so many, I have begun to take note). And that side effect would be my inability to see poo in the dark.

Yes, people. My life is very glam. I am, at least twice during my day, seeking out a steaming pile with a blue plastic baggie over my hand. If the dog comes to work with me, which is fairly often, those occasions increase in frequency since we go out for walks during the day so that she can make piles and I can experience these things that I hear people calling "breaks".

I'm not sure how the dog is able to create so many piles throughout the work day (only during break-time, mind you, she is very well behaved and house broken, etc) while she limits herself to only two piles during non-work days when she stays home and avoids the cat - but whatever. They happen and I expediently dispose of them thanks to the aforementioned blue bags that have become a must-have accessory in my wardrobe.

But then Daylight Savings Time happened and suddenly our morning walks, which were strategically orchestrated to end up in a well-lit park, are now light as high noon and our evening walks, which were willy-nilly affairs where I would wander aimlessly through the neighborhood avoiding the spastic Weimaraner that enrages Jada, are now dark as all get out and it's causing me problems in the pile collection department.

Why don't I just change up my routine and walk her to the well-lit park at night, you ask? Because that would mean an upheaval of my established routine and I won't stand for it.

No, instead I hunt around in the dark, narrowly missing the piles with my feet, so that I can adhere to my passionately coveted routine and also not have to go to that park at night when there might be, *gasp*, children there. SCARY.

Last night was particularly dicey as the dog made her pile in the darkest dark lawn I've ever had the occasion to walk past. I believe it was not a lawn, but instead a tear in time itself where all light, mass and everything were sucked into the tear producing a void I refer to as "way dark".

And then when she was clearly done with her pile-making (as evidenced by her victory lap and immediate "sit/stay for treat" positioning) I set out to bag the business. But I couldn't see it! All I could see was the "way dark" and then a house with well-lit windows where potentially suspicious neighbors were probably lurking waiting for me to leave the pile unbagged on their lawn in an unneighborly way.

I had a momentary struggle of ethics which went something like,

"Dude. I can not see the damn poo. Where is the poo? If I can't see the poo, how can I bag the poo? And if I can't bag the poo, what will happen? I'll have to leave the poo?"

"Dude. You can't leave the poo. That would be shitty. Ha ha ha..."

"Fuck you. Find the poo."

"Dude. I can't. It's too dark."

"ARGH! This sucks. I hate looking for poo. Is this my life?"

"Yes it is. And you better find the poo. Because if you don't you're going to be *that guy* and then you won't be able to bitch at all when someone leaves a pile on our lawn. And what would you do if you couldn't bitch?"

"Dude. I would die."

"Yes. So, find the poo then. I suggest you remove the dog's collar with the blinky thing on it and use it as a spooky blinking flashlight."

"TAH-dow! I will do that."

"Do you smell something?"

And so I proceeded to put the dog in a stern and serious Sit/Stay which consisted of me piling up a lot of treats on the ground, telling her to Sit and Leave it while I took off her collar (with the blinky thing on it) and turned my back while she sat denuded and unrestrained in the most cat populated area in the Bay Area.

DICEY.

But, I'll tell you what, I found the poo (FINALLY), bagged it, put the collar back on the dog without her killing a single cat, let her eat all the treats and then tossed the bag into the "way dark" lawn owner's trash can which was conveniently set out at the curb for this morning's trash pick up.

Phew.

And yes, I have gotten past the whole "don't use a neighbor's trash can for the dog's luggage" thing because I remember an attorney that taught a class in college telling us that trash at the curb is public property, which makes rifling through it (and probably putting things like bagged poo in it) OK.

Don't you judge me.

Anyway, it was such an ordeal that I've resigned myself to ever-embracing my Inner Dork by wearing my headlamp when walking the dog at night from now on.

I just can't be hunched over people's lawns questing for poo in the dark. That would make me look crazy.

Oh, and yes, I did just write a whole post about poo.

Like nothing I've ever seen

I came home last night with a very clear vision of my evening.

I would take Jada for a long walk along whatever lit streets I could find (stupid Daylight Savings Time you know) and then make a big fat salad and White Bean Soup from my South Beach cookbook to wolf in front of MNF while Bubba and I caught up from the day.

Oh, the innocent and naive dreams I harbor. Aren't they nice?

I got part of the way through this grand vision by taking Jada for a walk and coming home alive despite the darkness and poor driving abilities of people in my neighborhood. Perhaps it was the blinky thing on Jada's collar that saved us. Who knows? Either way, the beginning of my Big Evening Vision was progressing nicely.

Until I opened the door and smelled a smell that I will forevermore associate with a Pain in My Ass.

This smell was not what you're probably thinking. It smelled good. Nice. CLEAN. Which was not at all what I was expecting to smell since we're on an off week for The Cleaning Lady and we spent Sunday night drinking a lot of cocktails with friends without doing lot of cleaning up.

I thought that *maybe* it was just the faint waft of detergent from the load of towels I'd tossed into the wash pre-walk that I was smelling.

Mmm, sorta.

It was the DEFINITE waft of detergent from the load of towels I'd tossed into the wash pre-walk.

Turns out that during our successfully realized walk, the washer had been sending out a distress call that I did not receive.

I imagine it sounded like: WOOB WOOB WOOB CRASH SLAM BANG GLUB GLUB GLUB

It seems that I *might* have overloaded the washer a bit. I mean, I put it on the "Large Load" setting and all, but apparently I need a refresher course in the difference between a "Large Load" and a "Load So Large It Can Send the Washer Into Convulsions" because the towels (and sheets, fine I admit) had gotten a bit, let's say cozy, in the washer and had bound themselves into a mass that altered the centrifugal force to a point where the machine WOOB WOOBed its way away from the wall so violently that the washer emergency stopped itself right after sending a full GIANT handle of liquid detergent crashing down from the washer shelf onto the laundry room floor.

Oh, and have I ever mentioned my genius method for keeping the cap of the detergent from glooping up the bottle? Yeah, I just throw the cap into the wash with the laundry. The clothes get clean, the cap comes out ungloopy - everyone wins! I seriously thought this was a fabulous strategy for efficient neatness until last night at 7pm.

No, last night at 7pm I found my efficient strategy for neatness pooling in very inconvenient and hard to reach places around my laundry room and kitchen floors. You know, like under the washer for instance. Oh, and under the dryer. And under the catbox. And under the rolling cart that holds my collection of Swiffer cloths. And under the cat bowl. And under the big rolling cart that holds the cat/dog food. And under the recycling bin. And under the cat.

To describe this as a mess would be an impressive understatement of fact. This was a disaster of monumental proportions. Which was amplified by the fact that I had no method by which to contain the wreckage. It was, in a phrase, the Tide Valdez in my house.

I had liquid Tide (or All, or whatever we got at the store that was on sale last) just plain UHverywhere because aside from pooling all around the floor, it also sprayed an ambitious path of cast-off on its way down. And because our house in the size of a pin, I have a lot of stuff neatly organized in the laundry room, which provided nice receptacles for the slippery soap. Things like the inside of my wellies and the inside of the cat box, for instance.

The discovery of such a heinous catastrophe can only be met with one reaction: Paralyzing horror.

And then some giggles, a little wide-eyed wonderment, a few more giggles and then mad grabbing for every rag, towel (not the ones in the wash, those were clean thankyouverymuch) and dishtowel in arm's reach. Plus I think I said, "Oh noooooooooooooo." a hundred times, which is my standard response to situations that are exceedingly bad and messy.

And then a frantic call to Bubba where I begged him to get us a mop on the way home.

Why don't we have a mop, you ask? Well. That is a funny little story that begins with me swearing off mopping forever because I hate it SO MUCH and ends with me getting a Cleaning Lady because I also hate dirty floors SO MUCH. So, we have no mop and in times like these where you have goo squirting and running all over the place, the exact tool you need is a mop and I was feeling pretty dumb for not having a tool as simple as this when I have a tool as complicated and useless as a Scooba.

However, in my haste to call Bubba for help (and the emergency mop), I neglected to recognize my Big Bag of Rags in the laundry room as obvious mop alternatives. I mean, didn't they like used to use rags to clean floors in the olden days or some such nonsense? Anyhoo, approximately 30 rags/dishtowels/beach towels later the soap was corralled and the washer/dryer both sat upon the cleanest floors they've ever had the pleasure to know.

Also, the cat had a brand newly scrubbed shitter and everything that had been awash in the detergent tsunami was freshly rinsed or hosed off, as appropriate, and returned to its original home.

And then Bubba showed up (no mop though, I called to cancel after finding the Big Bag of Rags) just in time to hear my mind-numbing recount of the whole scenario amidst multiple outbursts of banshee-esque laughter. Much like you are now (imagine the laughing part as you will).

And not to let an opportunity pass here, let's all recognize the fact that nowhere in this fabulous re-enactment did I mention anything about swears or throwing things or screaming or tears. Which, for me anyway, is a pretty big leap from my days of slaying my bedroom wall with a pair of sewing scissors.

It appears I have something of an hysteria threshold where, if things get bad enough, I go from Maniacal She-Beast into Quietly Insane Crisis Manager rather swiftly. Something I suppose is good to know for futures when I find myself in OMG Is This Really Happening territory and start to reach for the nearest spear-like object.

Sidenote: All I can smell in my nose is detergent. It is not right.

InStitches: Nov/Dec

Dear In Stitches Participants,

Hi there! Wiping your brow? Exhausted? Sipping margaritas sewing machine-side after a brutal two-month assignment? We hear ya. We know the patchwork bag wasn’t easy, but hey! We learned a thing or two. For example? Make sure your lining is going the right direction before you sit down to sew that sucker in by hand. This is a mistake that will make you angry at yourself for days. And patchwork looks much, much better once you sew all those suckers together. OR, once you throw it in the trash and start over with a single piece cut to size because you are a patchwork loser. In pieces on your kitchen table? It pretty much always looks like a disaster in the making. Hell, some even skipped the patchwork (see, “some”, not just Finny) and plodded forward with beautiful pieces of fabric as is. (Hence the new mantra for the September/October project: Cheaters never win? Nah, Cheaters Finish Bags.)

But you did it! Many of you completed the bag and learned right along with us. Bravo to you! In celebration of your fabulous tenacity, we are rewarding every patchwork bag submission with a prize because that is how we roll around here - pressies for everyone, even people who hate patchwork. Please email us with your mailing details by November 10th to claim your fabulous prize: africankelli at gmail dot com, finnyknits at gmail dot com

If that wasn’t enough good news, we are sending a handful of submissions during the last year to Ms. Amy Butler herself to pick a few grand prize winners. Ms. Butler will be sending along fabulous goodies from her line to reward a lucky few for their sewing prowess. We are thrilled! (And we will be super jealous if she sends you some of her new fabulous patterns. Hello, Spring wardrobe.)

November/December will once again be a two-month project with the holiday time crunch in mind. It’s dealer’s choice: pick any project from the book and share your mad sewing skills in our Flickr pool. Make it a holiday gift or not. Make a dozen, or just one. It is totally up to you!

Thank you again for playing along. We are excited to announce our new 2008 sewing monthly project January 1.

xoxo,
Finn and Donk

Mr. Asshole Halloween

Every year stupid Halloween sneaks up on me in an annoying and predictable way.

I usually decide sometime in the middle of the summer, during a random moment of inspiration, what I'm going be for Halloween. Then I'll scream "That's it!" from the couch (I'm usually lying on the couch when this happens) and will repeat it over and over until Bubba gives up and asks me what is "it". At which point I will laugh mysteriously and tell him that I know what I'm going to be for Halloween as though it were the answer to Life, the Universe and Everything, which it is not. Then he will go back to what he was doing like I'd said nothing at all, meanwhile pretending that I am the normal wife he once fantasized that I was even though it's pretty obvious to everyone that I'm a kook.

I'll admit, the fact that I have these yearly exclamations is kind of weird since I really don't like Halloween that much aside from the Mad Candy Eating and then the In Between Trick or Treaters Candy Eating and then Leftover Candy Eating and eating a hundred cupcakes at work because they have orange frosting that you can only get at Halloween, hello!

Anyway, this summer when I was watching Rob & Big (which, have you seen this show because if you have not, please go look at this right now and then come back and laugh with me because it is my favorite and you should love it, too.) I had my Halloween epiphany during a Wendy's commercial.

Hazah! I will be a Wendy's person! Not, "I will be Wendy" herself, but a Wendy's person - someone who is "Wendy's - That's Right!" which you know they are because they suddenly appear with the Wendy hair while everyone else remains normal.

Oh yes, this is the perfect costume. I get to wear all my normal clothes and makeup (meaning no super uncomfortable shoes, ill-fitting or weather inappropriate outfit or probably poisonous makeup) AND I get to wear a wig which is the only thing in the Halloween store I'm ever interested in. Just find me a fun wig and I'll be happy. I'll build my whole costume around it - except I don't have to because it IS the costume.

Tah-DOW.

See, now you know why I had to exclaim it so dramatically. Because it is obviously the most awesome costume ever. The perfect combo of great, timely character AND super low maintenance and comfortable costume.

I am/was a genius.

Then I had an unfortunate run-in with reality.

I ordered the wig way back at the beginning of October when I thought that "geez, I have SO much time before Halloween gets here I'm going to be super prepared and NOT scramble around in the broken bin at that Halloween store at the 11th hour by getting everything squared away way in advance."

It was a great moment that I was very proud of and made me feel like I beat Halloween at its own evil game for once.

Not so.

As soon as I clicked "buy" I got an email that said "out of stock". Touche, Halloween. Touche.

But then I got a message that said, "Will arrive by 10/22". Ha! Score one for me.

And then 10/26 rolled around and I called the wig place who told me, "Sorry, back-ordered again. Oh, and so sorry we didn't call you. We weren't sure you needed it for Halloween."

Really?

A bright red, "Clown Red" to be specific, wig with bangs and braided pig tails with ribbon ties? Is this what all those balding men seeking wigs are buying these days to cover their shiny noggins? Because it looks so natural? Just stop your lying.

Anyways - in case you lost count there - that was the match point in Halloween's court. And I'm sorry if that doesn't make any sense as I'm not a fan of tennis but whatever it means that Halloween beat me again and there I was back at zero with five days until Halloween at the most Halloween celebratingest company in the whole wide world -DAMN.

But, ho HO, Mr. Asshole Halloween - I had a backup costume lurking in the depths of my evil genius mind. And all I needed was a red with white polka dots bandanna which I'd seen at Michael's so far back in the day that I knew it wouldn't be there anymore but I still raced over there just in case and it was gone. Boo.

No worries though, I found it on Saturday at Asshole Hancock Fabrics while I was there buying all of their cheap and fabulous fleece despite all the mean store clerks yelling at me and now I'm properly outfitted to Halloween enough of my ass off at work so that I appear acceptably excited about a holiday I believe should be reserved only for children under the age of ten.

And, no, I'm not dressing up my dog for Halloween. Just in case you were about to be the one hundredth person to ask me that while simultaneously making gaw-gaw noises at Jada and trying to feed her chocolate cupcakes. She will only be wearing her normal backpack filled with enough candy to get me through the day so that I don't kill anyone or their shameful Chihuahua dressed as a hotdog.

Glow-ish

You might remember my hot date with the dudes at the fly fishing store.

It was spicy - Gore-tex, sticky rubber, straps, laces...they told me how small and rare a creature I was. They were excited to dress me. It was all very self-serving yet awesome and I bought a lot of high-end special for women fishing gear with my "oh, you're too kind" voice.

Then I went home and pined for it. It all had to be ordered from the far off fishing land where women cast actively alongside their mens rather than here where women apparently just stay home and nag their husbands about all the "Damn fishing" they're doing instead of spending time with their families or whatever.

This was something of a conversation piece for them and the reason, as they tell it, one guy doesn't have a girlfriend and the other guy never gets to fish even though he runs a fishing shop.

Tortured lives.

Anyhoo, my waders and boots arrived a few short (long) weeks later and, despite the near 3-digit temps and lack of AC in my way-old house, I immediately came home from the shop and put on my whole rig so that I could pretend I was fishing in my living room while attempting to also sweat through Gore-tex from the inside out.

Yes. I agree. My life is verrrrrrrrrrry glamorous.

Then, sadly, I realized that my calendar was booked solid for about two months and I wasn't going to be able to put on my waders for anything more meaningful than the mandatory fashion show for Bubba any time soon.

Boo.

All the fabulous lady-specific fishing gear and not a single free day to put it on and go stand in a river. *Sad* I felt like a big loser taking my brand new and extra fancy gear out to the garage just to fold it up and put in the fishing tote for future use. Like getting a new convertible and just parking it in the garage because it's raining out. I believe I said goodnight to my waders three times before I finally shut the lid.

That was two months ago.

This weekend was the first time I was actually able to break the seal on my new boots and waders in a setting that did not involve hardwood floors or pretend casting over the back of the couch.

Out on the river I went! Fully rigged and ready to catch some shrubs and sunken tree trunks!

And oh the childish glee and excitement that comes from freely and, without fear of bone-chilling dampness, striding out into a rushing stream/river without worrying "OMG are my pants getting wet" because HA HA you are wearing waterproof pants that go up to your armpits. I had a brief moment of "what am I doing" when I first stepped out into the water, trying not to splash and all, but that quickly gave way to "hey! look at me! I can walk way out until the water's all the way up here and wait a minute this river is moving kinda fast and SHIT I better walk back toward the shore a bit", etc.

In sum, it was kick ass.

But I'll save you the suspense; I didn't catch anything - technically. I did get a couple bites - but because I am a novice loser, I wasn't fast enough to set the fish and, therefore ended up landing nothing more than a very annoying log which I eventually marched over to (thank you waders for going all the way up to my armpits) and relocated to a faraway place so far downstream that I wouldn't possibly be able to cast to it.

See, sometimes it pays to be lame.

My big glory moment came when I got a fish on hook and yanked part of the way out of the water. Then it got wise to my beginner-esque shenanigans and hopped back into the river from whence it came. I spent the rest of the day trying to lure him (or, really, any other fish retarded enough to approach my fly) back out so that I could go home not feeling like a very overdressed swimmer, but it was not to be.

However, I'm holding on to that one shiny moment (I remember *exactly* what that fish's silver belly looks like) as justification for buying the extra fanciest gear because *obviously* I need it for my very professional level fishing exploits. You can't just be barely catching fish all day in run-of-the-mill waders and low-end boots without the stickiest rubber soles can you?

No. No you cannot.

And you can't really be tripping over your own stupid feet (and a big pointy rock) in sub-par gear before you dive backward into the river trying desperately not to get your sleeves wet per orders from your experienced fisherfriend if you're not wearing the best of the best. That would be silly.

So, that's that. I went for a nice swim in my waders (for the record though - no water got IN the waders, so I consider that a success) this weekend for the very first time and it was fab. Next time I hope to reel in an actual fish so that I have a photo of me with a fish rather than me with the car.

When I am wearing waders I feel happy.
(FYI: I have hair, but it's a ponytail under my hat where I can't catch it with my very talented casting.)

Giovedi

When I was in Italy last, a good portion of a fun side-trip to the mountains revolved around finding castagne - chestnuts.

It was fall, we were in the mountains, we had access to an open fire so, of course, why wouldn't we want to roast some chestnuts on it? You see.

We went on a trek. An epic and unfulfilling trek where I learned that produce delivery days vary from town to small Italian town and trying to find produce as seasonal and bizarre as chestnuts on an off-day was a laughable idea. This was evidenced by the looks of sarcastic disbelief on the faces of store clerks when we asked them if they had any chestnuts, on this the day of no produce.

This is also when I learned the word, "Giovedi". As in, "No! Non abbiamo castagne! E' Giovedi!" As in, "No! We don't have chestnuts! It's Thursday!"

Oh, well obviously. How silly of us. Forgetting that Thursdays are the international holiday of No Chestnuts.

Anyway, their tone implied that we must be out of our damn minds to:

A. Think they'd have chestnuts on a Thursday, and

B. Not know that in this minuscule mountain town produce day was, perhaps, Friday, and they'd be out of everything on a Thursday, obviously you idiots.

I would have just taken this as another intricacy of the Italian world and their sarcastic tones as an affront to my obvious American know-nothingness, except that my fabulous native hosts were just as taken aback by the whole thing. Like, how are we to know that there's no produce on Giovedi in this teensy town? What, do we all have countrywide produce schedules in our back pocket at all times?

To quote my wise Italian friend, "Boh."

Anyway, we ended up sans chestnuts but in the presence of a Brontosaurus steak and a lot of wine and bizarre liquor of an origin I can't recall, so it all worked out and none of us went blind.

And I told you all of that to tell you this, I went fishing on Saturday and on my hike up from the stream, encountered my very first productive chestnut tree. Well, actually, Bubba first found the chestnuts by picking up something big and bulbous off the ground and going, "Dude. What the hell is THAT do you think?"


To which I said, very knowledgeably thankyouverymuch, "That, my love, is a chestnut."

And it was! (I was actually not 100% sure. But, like, what else could it have been, right?)

It wasn't long before I was grabbing them off the trees and ever-so-satisfyingly peeling back their bumpy skins from the shiny nut inside. Really, so fun. I thought about it a lot as I stood in the river up to my waist and caught not a damn thing all day long.


The trees are a little Dr. Seuss-ish with their long gangly nekkid branches dangling these big pear-shaped whatthehellarethoses. I didn't laugh right at the trees, but they were a little silly compared to the Regal Chestnut Tree picture I've had in my head since elementary school. Something about the circumstances of every chestnut tree in my Scholastic Reading library had them pegged as these big mythical Sycamore-esque beings rather than these squat, awkward pear danglers.


Again, whatever, it was a fun surprise and I picked half a sack full (see, those grocery totes come in handy even when I'm not fighting with the cashier at Safeway) to do something with when I got home. I didn't know *what* that something would be until I got home and flipped open this month's issue of Sunset and found this recipe for chestnut soup right in there.

TAH-DOW!

Yes. I plan these things. I am in sync with the earth's rhythms. I find mystifying produce (note: it was NOT Thursday) and the world provides a recipe.

Woooooooooeeeeeeeeeeeooooooooo ~ mysterious.

I'm just glad the recipe cropped up since I was worried I was going to have to explain what half a bag of chestnuts were doing in my car in two weeks when they started to go bad and Bubba was back there looking for a bottle of water or something.

Um...that's nothing. The dog did it.

And anyway, can chestnuts even go bad? I'm not sure. Either way, I think I'm going to attempt to make this soup even though I basically just met a chestnut two days ago and am not totally sure if they're ripe or ready to cook or about to give us the poisoning of our lives or whatever.

Pointers/warnings?

[UPDATE]

I'm pretty retarded.

So, I went home and made this soup. I peeled the nuts. I chopped all the vegs. I did the bit with the immersion blender. It really looked very good and nice all in the bowl with the sour cream and parsley fresh from the garden on top.

And it tasted like a horses ass.

Know why?

Those are not chestnuts. They are buckeye nuts.

Best part is that buckeye nuts are, in fact, POISONOUS TO HUMANS, as I found out as I searched the web for "how do I know when chestnuts are ripe" and found photos of chestnuts that looked nothing like the pear shaped dandies you seen above. I was starting to doubt the legitimacy of my chestnuts. They had been very bitter and much unlike the chestnuts I'd tasted in Italy only one year ago.

I started to wonder if I had perhaps stumbled upon some lost variety of California chestnut. What a find! But no, I had, in fact, stumbled upon a buckeye tree in full fruit-mode and had been charmed by a lustrous nut poking out from behind a smooth husk rather than the much referred to spiny husk mentioned in all the chestnut articles.

Oh.

Well, if it isn't a chestnut, I wondered, what could it be? I searched my fingers to the bone looking for "smooth husked chestnut" and a variety of other nonsensical terms and somehow I managed to come upon an article about horse chestnuts with a tiny mention of the buckeye nut and its poisonousness.

At that moment I knew. It HAD to be a buckeye nut. Because that is the kind of person I am. The kind that gets all excited about "oh I'm going to live off the land and make dinner from found vegetation!" and then dies at the dining room table from an overdose of bitter almond cake or buckeye nut soup.

You may (or may not as the case may be) glad to know that Bubba and I only needed one small taste of the soup to know that it was 100% inedible despite the pleasing aroma and how nice it looked in the bowl. We dumped it and the leftie over part still in the pot and made for the remains of the Sunday night dinner I prepared without any death defying ingredients.

And then I went to the Internet. Why, oh why, I take chances with random found nuts rather than just go five feet down the hall to the office to look it up on The Internets is really beyond me. Bubba says it's adventure. I say it's at least mainstream stupidity.

Either way, we're alive, not hungry (wuv you left over pot roast and old soup from last week) and better educated on what IS and IS NOT a chestnut and buckeye tree.

On the bright side, my whimsical imaginings of The Regal Chestnut Tree have been restored since it looks like this in real life and not like the tree you see above.

See, I know some things aren't right when I see them. I'll just endeavor to keep my deciding skills to my eyeballs rather than my tastebuds. That way we don't have to go out and get purple sheets and matching Nikes.

What? Too soon?

The best timing...so far

Baby Bolero
Yarn: Blue Sky Organic Cotton Yarn, Sage
Needles: US 8 circular, Tapestry needle
Pattern in OneSkein, Leigh Radford

I started a Baby Bolero sweater from the OneSkein book a few weeks ago when I realized that everyone I knew was pregnant.

I figured I'd get started on a project that I could hopefully replicate in different colors fast enough to keep time with all the babies showing up.

So far I'm on track to keep up with at least the babies currently brewing. Although it appears there will be more babies and I'll fall behind my baby sweater making schedule since every single day someone new tells me they are pregnant or "trying" or implies some other forthcoming baby situation that requires hand knit recognition.

Sure, I could go to their registries for gifts, but I don't know what any of that crap is and feel weird ordering boob cup attachments for breast pumps that are going to be touching my friend's naked tatas.

I'd rather knit.

Maybe they'll hate me because I'm doing that ignoring of the ever-precious registry thing that everyone gets all pissed off about (not that I bitched about this a lot when I got married and people gave us ugly vases instead of the white plates I'd registered for or anything - I'm just saying) but the only things that ring any bells on there are car seats and Butt Paste (obviously awesome) and most of the time these things are either wicked pricey or already taken, respectively.

Sidenote: I did come across a friend's registry recently that had both of these items miraculously unpurchased so, probably due to the initial shock, got both and tried not to look directly at the nippley gadgets in the category above the Butt Paste. Really, people, what happens to your boobs and asses? Nevermind. Let's not discuss this.

Anyway, screw your weird registries of plastic shapes I don't recognize - I'm making baby sweaters. That's not bad, right? I mean, I assume babies do not like being cold any more than I do (one could argue that my Ugly Librarian Sweater is just a huge fugly adult version of these sweaters with a zipper) and a sweater would be a practical gift for the hundreds of people having babies in the winter months.

And, apparently my No Rest for the Childfree knitting schedule is working because I got an invite to a good friend's out of state shower happening this weekend and had, TAH-DOW, a freshly hand-knit and adequately blocked Baby Bolero ready to wrap and send.

Oh yes. It was a grand moment in my life of searching for efficiency and uniqueness. Usually I settle for being one or the other: showing up well-rested with a store-bought gift OR showing up with yarn in my hair and bags under my eyes from staying up most of the night to finish the very cute and personal hooded baby blanket (or whatever) craftily wrapped in tissue and ribbon with cute Care Instructions on recycled paper pinned to the corner.

It is a rare and glorious day when I get to give a handmade gift that doesn't try to kill me in the process. And aside from the puny eyelet pattern that I had to rip out 10 times (really, at least 10) because I refused to stop drinking my wine long enough to decode the not-hard seven line pattern, this was a pretty fast and easy little sweater.


We will not be talking about the one hundred ends I had to weave in after assembling all the parts because I think we all know that sucks so I don't need to rehash it even though I have plenty of swears I could use to describe the process of thinking one is done "weaving in ends" when one is, in fact, only halfway there. And I love that it just says something like, "BO. Weave in ends." like it takes five seconds when in fact it takes like two hours, but you know.

For those of you about to take yarn to needle for this pattern, I will share a few of my personal shortcutting notes:

• Changing from size 8 - 9 needles at random intervals per the pattern instructions seemed like a tedious waste of time and I did not do it. My sweater does not look any different from those who have done it this way and I now feel vindicated in my rebellion. I encourage the same descention.
• Despite what others have told me, this pattern did not leave enough yarn left over from the One Skein to make a baby hat. I've decided these people are all liars and that my decision not to change needles had no impact on the amount of leftover yarn and I do not care to hear otherwise.
  
• "Provisional cast-on", as is indicated in the first line of the pattern, is, I decided, a made up method of casting on that I ignored in lieu of my normal casting on method because figuring it out was going to mean digging out my Vogue Knitting book that was all the way in the office and I didn't have that kind of time nor did I want to be separated from my beloved couch. It may very well be a real thing, but I still haven't looked it up because my normal casting on method (maybe it's a provisional cast-on? Who knows?) worked fine and I was able to retrieve the "waste yarn" they speak of without incident. So, feel free to blow it off, too, if you like to live on the edge or also don't like to leave your couch unsat upon.

That's about all the wisdom I can impart on such a small and simple pattern, but if you want to read more of my ramblings, find me on ravelry and this pattern in my Projects.

I'll probably post photos of a few more of these sweaters since I have another one in the works right now (started and finished the body last night - woo fast!) and another skein waiting in the bin.

So, ya'll, if you're pregnant right now, my friend and having a baby in any month other than July or August, expect a sweater similar to the one pictured above. And for godssake, take care of your T&A and don't tell me about it.

InStitches September/October: Done+

Donk,

It is a good thing that all forces conspired for me to sit down and work on this bag because OMG there was a lot of tedious BS that went into it and had I had even one other thing I could have been doing, I probably would have abandoned this project in the bin and just let you all call me a big loser.

For one thing there was all the quilting. I have never used so much thread to make such a small project. I must have used miles of it. And some of it in the form of useful stitches! So much just gets ripped out and wadded up on the floor or left clinging to an inappropriate place on my clothes (thread pasties, anyone?). It is a sad but amusing waste that keeps Bubba entertained while I yell swears at the sewing machine/pattern/rotary cutter.

And oh, COME ON, how many pages of instructions were there? Um, so many. I almost passed away when I turned the page a second time only to find out there were a full two pages of instructions left in the pattern. What tha? Are we sewing housing complex onto this bag or something? So, so many words.

And, oh, last but not least, all the hand-sewing in all the land just waiting all quietly at the end of the pattern like some feral cat ready to spring out and attack your face and infect you with gnarly kitty cat germs. Real nice, people. Go to the trouble of writing ten pages of friggen pattern instructions only to leave attaching the liner to you and your trusty hand-sewing needle. I will put this out there one more time:

This is work a machine should be doing.

IS THERE NO WAY WE CAN WORK OUT PATTERNS TO AVOID HAND-SEWING BECAUSE I HATE IT MORE THAN WET JEANS CLINGING TO MY LEGS OR NOT BEING ABLE TO FIND THAT THING THAT IS STINKING UP THE WHOLE HOUSE, OK?

Thank you. That is all I ask.

Ironically, I think this is the nicest thing I've ever sewn. Have I said that before? I can't remember. Either way, I'm resetting the clock now because, despite the full-blown hassling of this pattern, the bag turned out pretty nice. Like, to the point where I'm not ashamed to show you pictures of it from all angles, not just the angle that doesn't reveal all my measuring and cutting and sewing mistakes.

Oh, what? Like you just randomly pick an angle from which to shoot your projects because OH they're all so perfect? I don't believe you. No, I choose to believe that everyone, like myself, finds the one angle from which it appears you made zero mistakes instead of showcasing the part of the whatever where the seams don't line up and, damn it, why is the quilt batting sticking out right there?

So, for the first time ever, shots from every angle of this, my most satisfyingly not heinous project to date: (Meanwhile, please don't make mean jokes about the fabric matching. That is not my strength and I readily admit to sucking at it.)

Side 1: Notice the normal rectangular shape.

Side 2: Notice again, the normal rectangular shape.

Side 3: Notice that the zipper seams to be 100% attached with no uneven stitching or errant thread dangling this way or that.
Side 4: Notice again how it all looks according to pattern without any alarming bulges.This is the same as Side 1 and is just a glory shot. Nothing looks fucked up! Woo!

Now, I know that there is a rather obvious lack of patchwork on my Patchwork Bag, but I assure you that I did as much patchworking as is physically possible for me without turning out a big pile of patchworked crap. Ok. I'm just not good at matching fabrics, measuring or cutting to size. I didn't even get to sewing together the original (fugly) patchwork pieces due to the horrible derailment of the project by that point, but I know it would have been awful and just gone on to prove how ill-equipped I am at the patchworking business.

Anyway, since I'm so enlightened about my own lack of talent with patchworking, I decided to simplify the whole thing and take to heart the part in the pattern where she says something to the effect of, "Create your patchwork pattern in whatever way that suits you as long as the final piece measures whatever X whatever."

So I did. I sewed five strips of fabric together and called it patchworking. Call me a loser, but I'm more pleased with this than I was with the patchwork business I tried to create before.


And I did, for the record, sit down and hand-sew (loathe) the lining into the bag. But I set that part aside to do later in the evening while I was desperately searching for a way to distract myself from the pending race. It did the trick for sure - I focused intently on making straight even stitches instead of agonizing over the looming 13 mile run.

Now that this thing is finished and I'm more than mildly pleased with it, I've decided that I can make it, and its awkwardly long and boxy shape, into a perfect something for a birthday coming up in December. The idea came to me as I was stitching in the lining (by hand, remember the pain and sorrow) and trying to figure out for what this bag's bizarre proportions could possibly be used. Bubba suggested I use it with my other fabric shopping bags and just present it at the grocery store as "The Bread Bag and please don't squeeze the bread when you put it in its proper case right here, thank you."

I have decided to go in another direction. When I've created it, I will revisit the topic here and I promise it will be a shorter post.

Anyway, Donk, thank you for talking me through this project (Finny - you will love it, I'm sure of it!), my race (Finny - Stop freaking out - you are going to rock it!) and just life in general.

Wuv you!

xo
Finn

P.S. I have an idea for the November/December project.

2:35:28

Well then, I ran and I finished. Not as fast as I originally planned (unfortunately I added my predicted finish time when I was running 10 minute miles OH so long ago and before injury), but I'm not hurt or blistered or all that hobbly today.

It's a nice feeling, you know, to not die from doing something you signed your own self up for.

To quote a wise man (Bubba), "This was your big stupid idea."

But I won't lie and say it was super easy. I mean, it's still 13.1 miles of running. Let's not kid ourselves about that. Running, for any distance, is never just easy like Sunday morning. I have just discovered that when considering distance running, there are different activities that coincide with the mile markers.

Like, miles 1-3 always suck ass. In an "I don't understand how I'm supposed to go on for 13 miles if I can barely barely breathe without snarfling or set a pace that feels right" kind of way. But I knew this. I have never gone on a run where the first 2-3 miles weren't just a total pain in the ass. This is when I always doubt that running beyond 3 miles is actually possible or going to happen.

Miles 4-6 are usually my best. I tend to check my watch a lot at the beginning of any run waiting to pass the 30 min mark because I know that beyond that, for at least a few miles, I'll be in my comfort zone where I breathe in a regular way while still running at normal speed (read: not running in that super slow way where bystanders are thinking, "She knows she's not running right? Because that is not running.") I also spend this time trying to situate myself in a pack of not-gross people so that in later miles I won't spend my extra energy hating their American flag shorts, being grossed out by their inexplicably bare cellulite or baffled by their protruding beer bellies - all while we run the same speed and I wonder how I got lumped in with all the weirdos. And, also, what is wrong with me (has my ass jiggling increased to the point where I can only belong with the other gelatinous runners?) and I should be ashamed of myself for thinking mean thoughts about people who are at least as equipped to run this race as I am.

Miles 7-10 are my slow and steady miles. This is when my speed (however minimal in the first place) takes a nose dive. I settle into my "survival" pace. I start to pick landmarks in the distance to focus on. I do a lot of checking in with my parts to make sure that there's no blistering, aching or stabbing pain going on. I look longingly for the "Sports Drink Ahead" signs and I make up names for other runners to keep myself entertained.

Miles 10-12 are when I put those perfectly appropriate names to good use. This is where I came to know (and avoid) "Farmer-Blow", "Big Farts", "Someone Give That Woman a Tshirt", "Bitch Who Talks on the Cell Phone", "Walks and Sprints But Don't Worry Because I Always End Up Ahead of Her", "Flag Shorts" (yes, he was there) and "Nice Dreads". I have to occupy myself so that I don't think about the fact that my legs each weigh two hundred pounds and if I stop or slow down even more (not possible) that I'll probably never start running again and will get to the finish line dead last.

The last mile. The mile between exhaustion and relief. It is a gloriously desperate mile. It is the mile where I stop seeing "Farmer Blow" and start imagining the finish line banner everywhere I look. There are more spectators over the last mile and, thank god, because this is where I'm most likely to bring shame upon myself by collapsing in a gooey heap of giving-up, which I will not do with so many people watching.

It is an interesting method of self-preservation, my vanity. At the end of the day, I'm a very self-involved and vein individual that prefers solitude when behaving disgracefully and will continue to behave appropriately as long as there are people watching.

Meanwhile, I ignore the much faster runners who are long since finished and strolling lazily along the sidelines with their finishers medals, wearing flip-flops looking all, "Hey, we already finished and don't you wish you didn't slow down at mile 7 because you could be me right now eating a plain bagel and trying not to vomit."

It is an emotional mile and one where I'm acutely aware of the look on my face and my posture because now is when I know spectators are looking for the tortured faces of people who never should have tried to run a half marathon. I'm determined to look like I meant to do this. I put on my best, "I'm totally loving this and living in the glory of the moment!" face while I try to figure out which of my internal organs is shutting down.

13.1. And, btw, when did a tenth of a mile hurt so bad? Geez man. Seeing that big 13 mile marker and then realizing that I had to turn a corner and hit the gas for .1 miles to the finish line really tried to kill me. I was determined to do The Big Finish to the finish line but I'm sure it didn't look like a Big Finish to anyone but me. I'm sure it looked more like a "Hey, she's still breathing, that's something..." kind of finish to most spectators, but inside I felt like I was sprinting. While dragging tugboats behind me.

Crossing that finish line was the best feeling ever. Well, not as good as *walking* around aimlessly looking for an orange wedge and a bottle of water with my wobbly legs, but pretty fucking good. Also very good was managing to see Bubba and The Dog at the starting line, Mile 4, Mile 10 and the finish line cheering and wagging, respectively since I know that they probably traveled as far as I did just to make that happen.

And then I had Celebratory Cheeseburger and Race Fries to restore my salt balance and allow me to properly absorb the water in my Sprite.

See, I'm very technical.


P.S. I am signed up for another, albeit shorter, race.

Running update: Knitting instead

Baby Bolero
Yarn: Blue Sky Organic Cotton Yarn, Sage
Needles: US 8 circular, Tapestry needle
Pattern in OneSkein, Leigh Radford

I'm trying not to think (read: stress the hell out) about the race on Sunday by doing some first class procrastinating. Apparently my life has turned into one big Do Whatever You're Not Supposed To Be Doing fest.

I should have been working on my InStitches project; quilting its many sides (who knew rectangles had one hundred sides?), patchworking its many pieces, handsewing its stupid lining, etc. But I'm not. Because I can't sit on the couch and sew, and couch sitting has been my priority during Taper Week.

So, instead of sewing, I've been knitting Baby Bolero sweaters for all my pregnant friends. The pattern is fine, despite its annoying CO With Waste Yarn this and Remove to Stitch Holder that going on every four fricken lines. I think I just have unrealistic expectations of every pattern in the OneSkein book and those expectations always lead to disappointment. Specifically, I expect that any pattern that uses only one skein or less of yarn should take, like, no time at all, which is obviously not true since I've been working on this sweater for most of the week and it still has no sleeves.

This pattern has taken me the better part of my evening couch sitting this week and I haven't even sewn on the dumb sleeves yet. And it's not like the time is being spent knitting feverishly an enormous torso or big ass sleeves or a king size duvet or anything. I mean, the sweater is positively tiny. It's for a newborn, so, you know, it's real small.

Of course, I did spend one evening after a dinner consisting mostly of four glasses of wine, knitting and frogging and knitting and frogging a hundred times the stupid seven (7) line eyelet pattern for the back of this thing because I couldn't get it to look like the picture. And let me just say that this eyelet pattern is really not hard at all. It's like a couple of YOs and you're done. Except that mine looked like crap about 10 times and I was getting woozy trying to YO and sit up straight on the couch.

Funny how when I returned to the scene the next night I was able to rip through the Scary Eyelet Pattern in, like, a flash and Blah-DOW it was done. Oh.

Note for futures: Awesome Cabernet and Easy Eyelet Pattern do not mix. Perhaps that is why this pattern does not include a cup holder. Who knows?

Anyway, I'm glad that I can blame the repeated failure (but eventual success, yay) on the wine because I was going to have a hard time going on with this whole Finny "Knits" thing if I couldn't manage a friggen seven line eyelet. I will just go ahead and say it, I'd much rather be called a drunk than a bad knitter.

During a moment of shiny optimism I went online and ordered two more skeins of this nice yarn so that I could continue torturing myself with two more boleros. Because if picking up 67 stitches while carefully removing waste yarn and then 20 more from the stitch holder and 1200 more from the BO edges doesn't make you crazy the first time, doing it two more times will definitely seal the crazy juices right in.

Tomorrow I will be tackling the remaining 600 steps in the Patchwork Handbag pattern while I sit on my dead ass and REST as I've been so instructed by my personal running coach. And, at this moment, I may or may not be taking in my pre-race carbs in the form of Nutella on a toasted hot dog bun.

Don't you judge me.