Evil knitting. Evil.

So I've taken a bit of inspiration from some of my favorite blogs and decided to take up knitting again. Apparently it's quite trendy now. Go figure.

Upon following Kristy's blog (go he'ya: She just walks around with it) I became slightly interested. At least enough to dig up some old projects I never finished. Then I came across Aunt Purl (and he'ya: Crazy Aunt Purl) and that was enough for me. I was definately going to start scrounging around in my craft room and start dusting off THOSE boxes. The boxes that I have lugged around with me for years. The same boxes I lugged from my parents house to my first hole-in-the-wall studio. The exact boxes I've convinced myself that no matter how little space I had I would HAVE to - have have have to - make room for. because why? who knows. because I made the stuff and even though it's not finished I may one day decide to finish. And ha! HA HA! Today is the day!

In these boxes, admidst all the balls of yarn that I bought for no particular project but just because they were cute and soft and fluffy, there lay two unfinished projects. Two projects of, well, ahem, slightly large proportions. Two afghans to be specific. And you know what really sucks about this idea of mine to finish up some old projects? I don't really want to work on afghans because I don't really WANT any afghans. But what I don't want to do is continue to lug around friggin' boxes for all eternity only to never finish them. Because it would be much better to lug around afghans I never use. This is where the OCD rears it's ugly head. Must finish. Must, at all costs no matter how much I don't want to, finish.

So this is what I'm dealing with here:

And here is an picture with Bartlebeast for scale:


Wine glass at my side and an episode of Friends going in the background I settled into the couch for what I expected to be a highly productive and relaxing evening of finishing my damn projects.

Oh how naive I can be. how very very naive.

15 minutes into it: huh, there appears to be markers here for a reason. interesting. I imagine at some point that reason will magically make itself known.

25 minutes into it: still not sure why the markers are here, but um, well let's just keep going.

30 minutes into it: huh, it appears to be bumpy on the wrong side. crap. not good. crap crap crap. Ok, time to make an executive decision here about WHY what I'm knitting looks like it belongs on a DIFFERENT afghan.

32 minutes into it: wine

35 minutes into it: apparently I've majorly messed this up. should have trusted instincts about markers.

40 minutes into it: ooooookay...frog time - nothing like UNdoing work you just did when the goal is, really, to be honest, to MAKE progress.

55 minutes into it: alright, back to making progress.

65 minutes into it: knit 4, purl 16, knit 4, purl 16, knit 4, purl...oh for the love of...14? why do I only have 14 stiches left?

75 minutes into it: Grrrrrrrrr

80 minutes into it: SCREW THIS CRAPPY AFGHAN

85 minutes into it: where's the husband? why does the clock say 12:37am?

90 minutes into it: SCREW KNITTING. SCREW THE EVIL KNITTING.

Summary:
2 rows added
- 4 rows ripped out
+ 2 glasses of wine =
--------------------
NEGATIVE TWO ROWS

Final Score:
Mary: 0
Evil afghan: 1

My attempt at making progress on this unfinished progress has set me back 2 rows.

And I blame it ALL on my drug dealer:

You know you want more wine mom. yum yum wine!

I knew I never should have taught him how to use a bottle opener.

Oh the agony of decorating.

Friday evening, our trunk full of IKEA textiles, the husband and I drove up to the house with a short list of things we were dying to accomplish before bedtime because, well, we're sick freaks who get excited about things like curtains and wiring the new tv to the new computer. Just to get it straight, and to maintain some sense about our genders, I was excited about the curtains and the husband was excited about the new tv/computer - not the other way around.

We rolled in to Sacto at about 9pm and immediately retired to the boudouir.

And I ironed. and ironed. I think I pressed about 4000 yards of fabric. And the husband hung the curtain rods.

This is what married people do in the bedroom.

But hey - we watched porn while doing it!

Ok, so it was a porno documentary. But before you judge me for spending my Friday evening ironing curtains while watching a porno documentary, I'll have you know that it was really a big ginormous train accident that I couldn't pull my attention from. Actually it was really ginormous breasts the size of train cars if you want to be specific. If you've ever heard of Lolo Ferrari then you know what I'm talking about:

http://www.sex-freak.net/shows/shw.54.php

Ok fine, judge me - I would judge me too.

At first, as you're watching this morbidly hilarious "documentary" you're thinking - what have I come to that I find this sort of thing worth my time? Then you're thinking - I need more wine.

But as you continue to watch the film, and consequently down more wine, you begin to realize that Lolo was just an insecure woman looking for love and seeking acceptance by surgically growing her breasts to the size of small children. Can't we all really relate to that? It seems clear that she was really onto something here.

So I continued to watch (encouraged by more wine) and ironed. Then came the hemming of the curtains part which sounds easy, looks easy, and probably SHOULD be easy but I assure you it's not. Take for example the hemming tape they give you with the curtains. You're supposed to just fold the fabric over it, press down with the iron, and the tape magically turns to glue and holds the hem! But how is this supposed to work if the iron keeps turning off when you walk away to go pour more wine?

And measuring the hem - oh now that's a joke if you ask me. At first, it seemed the smartest thing to do here was to measure how much you want to cut off the end being that it's the shortest distance.

Ok, 15 inches sounds good, but let's measure twice to be sure. "Measure once, cut twice" I always say.

Wait.

Well anyway - who needs some stupid addage.

Measurement #2 - 16 inches. Huh...well, I'm thinking that the whole idea of measuring twice is to make sure you get the same measurement BOTH times.

Third time's the charm? Measure #3 - 14 inches.

Oh my god the curtain is growing AND shrinking as I'm STANDING here.

"honey - better get me some more wine, I'm going to have to stand here and ponder this for a bit"

Must learn more about Lolo.

Surprise surprise, the insecure, self-loathing woman died of a drug overdose. But if you ask me, she died because her boobs crushed her internal organs. But that doesn't look very good on the autopsy report and I'm sure the coroner just felt sorry for her mother. "Drug overdose" is much more calming.

Oddly enough, by 1pm I had actually managed to hang all the curtains I had set out to hang. And they are actually hanging evenly. Either that or my husband went and adjusted the curtain rod when I wasn't looking to make them appear that way. Hmmmm...should probably inquire.

As for the new tv project that the husband was planning on working on that evening - well, that's what we watched the porn documentary on.

wine + me = slow and inefficient, but highly amusing and entertaining

wine + husband = pretty productive considering he has the decency to wait until AFTER his project is finished to drink so that he can sit back and watch me thrash wildy with 4000 yards of fabric.

I must bring the ghetto with me.

The husband and I finally called it a night around 12pm last night. But apparently that was just the beginning of monkey hour for some or our neighbors. Being that I'd lived in Downtown San Jose for about 5 years I didn't really care. Being lulled to sleep by the sound of sirens, glass breaking, and Rap music is all very typical there. But then it occured to me that we just MOVED out of downtown into the more "peaceful" suburbs and the loud screaming me-mes I was currently hearing were, well, supposedly out of place.

Nothing like the tranquil sound of "leh me go, leh me gooooo, ohmygod - leh me gooooo mofo!" to relax you into a good night's sleep.

Then the glass breaking.

For those of you who live in less than savory areas you know that this is the queue to jump up and...go to the window. Some of you might have considered calling the po-po at this point (that's what we call them in the ghetto...the "po-po"), but that requires way too much involvement. I've witnessed enough domestic disputes in my neighborHOOD to know that if you call the police you are automatically involved and have to stay up until a resolution is reached so you can give a statement. In the beginning I used to feel guilty about not calling the police - but if I really believed that what was ensueing was more than a simple dispute then I'd be on the phone.

So here we are, in our supposedly more "calm" neighborhood, peering out the window trying to figure out the details of the Jerry Springer-esque drama unfolding before us. From what I gathered we had WifebeaterGuy and his girlfriend living in an upstairs apartment across the street. Living with them is a kid who likes to yell "daddy NOOOO" a lot. Then there's OversizedJerseyGuy. WifebeaterGuy doesn't like OversizedJerseyGuy very much - we discerned this because he liked to call OversizedJerseyGuy "mutha fucker" and "cock sucka" a lot. Now we're just assuming animosity here - maybe those are pet names, but I'm thinking no. For about 10 minutes WifebeaterGuy and OversizedJerseyGuy stood really close together with their chests all puffed up saying really interesting things like "wha'd you say mofo?", "huh? huh?" and "come on bro - come on!" while pounding their chests.

Who ever said guys were bad communicators?

This dance went on for a bit and was occasionally interupted by OversizedJerseyGuy pushing WifebeaterGuy and then RUNNING the other way. I'm not kidding here. He would push, then run. This would be followed by WifebeaterGuy yelling "that's right sucka - you run bitch!". This apparently hurt OversizedJerseyGuy's feelings and so he'd stop running, turn around and start coming back to talk to WifebeaterGuy. They'd walk in circles some more - push, run, etc.

Then the girlfriend, who is on the balcony, got the grand idea to throw a wooden folding chair down at the two of them. I think she intended to only throw it at OversizedJerseyGuy, but who knows, maybe she didn't like WifebeaterGuy so much either. WifebeaterGuy starts going up the stairs because he's SO done with OversizedJerseyGuy and wants to get back to watching COPS on tv. OversizedJerseyGuy decides that the (now broken) chair makes a great weapon and starts pitching pieces of it up the stairs at the girl and the kid. We're talking PITCHING here, like pitching a baseball. Seriously, this guy had an arm. It was right about here that I considered calling the "po-po". The kid was in danger at this point and, oh I don't know, I just didn't trust his mother to protect him. But then WifebeaterGuy started charging down the stairs after OversizedJerseyGuy and he took off running. Running like a scared little girl. WifebeaterGuy hits the pavent and starts in after OversizedJerseyGuy when all of a sudden gravity got really really BAD and he fell.

Yes, he fell.

Right on his fat face.

Up until now I had grown a little bit of respect for WifebeaterGuy. He was doing a pretty good job of defending his territory. And OversizedJerseyGuy just reminded me of a Chihuahua with an attitude problem (more so than usual). But that was just sad. Sad in a hilarious sort of way.

But he rebounded! He got up and ran after OversizedJerseyGuy down the block. Meanwhile, the girlfriend took this opportunity to grab an armful of clothes and run to her car. Without the kid I might add. Mother of the year contender right there.

What fun. What a great way to wind down the evening! We crawled back in to bed and kept an ear perked for anymore live Jerry Springer action, but none came. We've been in our new place for only 3 weeks and already a domestic dispute. What a nice way to make us feel at home! I really must send WifebeaterGuy and his girlfiend a fruit basket.

Maybe I really do bring the ghetto with me.

...and one more thing!

Ok, so maybe I do have a few things to write (bore) about.

What is with people and the email ettiquette? I'm speaking mainly on the subject of people you send an email to at work and why they find it necessary to rather than hit "reply" and type you a quick note back they feel compelled to call you on the phone or better yet! walk over and talk to you in person.

Let me just clarify something here. If I'm writing an email to you it is for one of two reasons:

1) I need the information documented so I can refer back to the content at a later date. But mostly so I can cover my ass and point the finger at you later.

Or,

2) I don't want to socialize with you.

It's not like I emailed you from 4 cubes away because I broke my foot and contracted laryngitis. Take the hint and just write me an email back.

I've succomed. I've finally succomed to blogging.
What can I say - I was never the early adopter type. And all I can chaulk it up to is laziness tainted with a little disinterest. Not to poo-poo on any fellow (I can say "fellow" now right?) bloggers but I just didn't see what all the commotion was about. But like with all toys, gadgets, clothes, foods, planes, trains, and automobiles that I eventually came to embrace in my life, I have come to find interested in and, gasp, adopted blogging. At least, we shall see how that works out. Will it stick folks? Eh, who knows. I've often thought that I needed a writing outlet for myself to regurgitate regularly all over. I like writing, but writing and I have never exactly been joined at the hip. But maybe, MAYBE, this time it will stick.

So here I am, with my very own bit of internet to play with.

I'm not exactly sure what I'll entertain the masses with yet. Perhaps a little perspective on my average life toughing it out in a little known place called the Bay Area. Or maybe I'll dabble a little in some charming story telling about my cats.

There we go, a few nuggets about me. And aren't they enticing? I mean, really, what could be more intriguing than following along the story of a woman and her two cats. Ok, I'll work on livening it up a bit more. Maybe I'll throw in elicit drug use and wild sex parties.

By the way, Mom and Dad, if you're reading this...it's a bummer you and dad moved to CO, it was an awesome drug party we had last weekend.