L'Chaim!

I finally took a few minutes (well, 2 hours) away from that maddening trial, and writing my closing (we should close Tuesday afternoon or Wednesday morning), and worked on Silk Garden Reincarnate. I'm really enjoying knitting this, particularly now. The foundation of the pattern is 18 stitches, and multiples of 18. For those of you who aren't into Jewish numerology, 18 is the equivalent of the Hebrew word, Chai, which means Life, and 18 is a pretty lucky number. So, as the blanket grows, and I pick up 18 stitches, 36 stitches, cast on 18 stitches, I'm constantly thinking, this has got to be a good sign. Every time I turn a corner, and there is another 18 stitches, it's like crossing my fingers, or knocking on wood, or holding my breath . . . it's going to be really unfortunate if I lose this trial - because whenever I raise a glass, and say L'Chaim, I'll remember this trial, this blanket, and wonder where luck took a wrong turn, did I pick a wrong skein? Start a color repeat in an oh so wrong direction? 18 stitches forward will feel like 18 stitches lost, and one big unraveling moment.

One Week Down

Not quite a week, but the judge isn't sitting tomorrow, a little rest for the oh so weary. I'm still on Block 9 of Silk Garden Reincarnate

Daily News
Philly Inky

One Day Down

Openings are over, two days down, G-d knows how many more to go.

ABC News
CBS 3
Philly Inky
Daily News

I think the Daily News article was my favorite. I'm sure my parents are so proud of their little girl standing in front of 16 people (we picked extra alternates in case of a Septa strike on Monday - what a DISASTER that will be) talking about some drunk girl giving head. Wait 'til my closing when I talk about how there's only one way to give a blow job.

So, now I'm off to prep for my cross of the complainant. I hope to get to Rosie's tonight, because after she testifies it's all downhill until closings,

Ode to Silk Garden

Silk Garden Sweater, you have gone on to a better place. I wish I could say your time on this earth was worthwhile, that you served a purpose, that you were a comfort, and a steadfast friend. But, alas, you were nothing but a pain in the ass.

But, life is not really over for you. In fact, you have been reincarnated! You have ascended, and have risen again, this time, not as a misshapen, gauge challenged, problem laden albatross, but as a comforting, toasty, pretty pretty afghan. Behold! We have Silk Garden, the Rambling Rows I have no idea if an afghan is a higher caste than a sweater, but I know one thing, anything is a step above that Noro pattern.

And, the Rambling Rows pattern is very clever:
This combination of squares, rectangles and little squares is as intriguing as Lincoln Logs, as addictive as Leggo. I can't wait to add another block, because every time the thing turns, it looks different. No, I am not smoking crack. I'm not seeing dancing pink elephants, or floating stars and moons . . but every time I add another piece of the puzzle, it looks like a completely different blanket. Neato. Thank you Robin for the inspiration. And, this is technically not a violation of the no cast on rule -- because I always said that rehabilitating the silk garden suit was in the mix.

And, speaking of suits, my brother and my nephew came to visit this morning, while the women from my sister-in-law's side of the family took the girls to see Disney Princesses on Ice (I could have so much to say about that (nothing good, and we all know how much fun that is), but I'm tired, and I do have to try a case tomorrow . . .). He presented me with a check for $120 - he sold my old pink Ipod on Ebay. So much for trying to buy him a present. I quickly converted it into a suit from Ann Taylor Loft, and if you turn on the evening news tomorrow, you might catch a glimpse of my newly suited ass slipping out the courthouse door!

Maybe Leaving a Child Behind Isn't Such a Bad Idea Sometimes

So, I go over to court yesterday to do a guilty plea for one of my serial rapist clients. Of course, the DA isn't there, the sheriff isn't there, and just like every day, it's all about hurry up and wait. What else is a girl to do but pull out her knitting and make good use of her time? So, I'm sitting at the bar of the court, knitting my Rowan shrug, the one that will not be photographed, and in troops 20 fifth grade students from some elementary school somewhere. I raised my right eyebrow at the court staff. I put my knitting down, and pulled aside the teacher. I explained to her that I was doing a guilty plea on a serial rapist, that this plea was about the rape of an 11 year old runaway, that there would be a reading of the facts into the record - lots of penis's and vagina's floating in the air - and well, it might not be such a good idea for her students to sit through it, and wouldn't it be a better idead to go find a nice little drug case somewhere else?

But we were told to come here, she says, and points to her schedule, which resembled a movie theater time table - now showing in Room 702, Waiver Trial in Progress. Well, I said, that's not right, we have a plea, and as I've explained it's really inappropriate for children. Well, I was told to come here. Yes, I know, look, I'll check out a few other courtrooms, why don't you go down to 706 - it's just a misdemeanor room. Well, I was told to come here.

Alrighty . . . I think this gives new meaning to no child left behind.

Rocky Needs a Wheel

Yes, indeed, I tucked that wheel under my arm, walked the ten blocks across town to my little house, and gave my little wheel a home.
Dexter, not to be outdone by the Bach beagles, had to check out his new roommate:
















Dex is a little skeptical, but he seems to be giving Wheel a chance. For whatever reason, he has accepted Wheel without a bark (he's a little yappy dog, he tends to bark - at EVERYTHING) or a little whiz on the treadle (he's 14, he's been known to have, shall we say, a little accident). And, he hasn't tried to devour the yarn (he's really not a chewer, shoes and other paraphernalia are safe in my house, however, the mail that comes through the slot at the bottom of my door is another story. Dex tends to stick his snarling snout through the slot in an effort to annihilate the mailman. So, my mail always comes with little teeth marks, and that's why I have my New Yorker delivered to the office).

Wheel, as I mentioned before, came in one piece, so I did not have to assemble it. But, when I checked out all of the parts after my trek through the city, I realized that the threading hook had fallen off. I didn't know if it was during the walk, or when we took it out of the box, so I ran back to the office hoping to get to the box before the cleaning crew. I arrived seconds before the box was going to be crushed. I told the maintenance guy what I was looking for - umm, it's about the size of a paper clip. He looked at all of the peanuts in the box, scratched his head, and then, literally, dove head first into the box. It seemed like hours before he emerged, sans hook. Oh well, there's always a teeney crochet hook. He was like, whatever, crazy girl, can I throw the box out?

So, I went home, and tried to get the wheel to spin, along with the flyer/bobbin. The flyer/bobbin, however, was not budging. I spent about an hour fiddling with the tension before I realized that the bolts on the motherboard had to be tightened. So, being the very prepared homeowner that I am, I could not find a screwdriver, and had to settle for a dime. The dime did the trick, and we had spin! I attempted to thread the thing with the crochet hook, and take off spinning, but that was an unmitigated disaster - let's just say the fur was flying, and I have tufts of wool all over my living room to prove it. So, I spent about an hour just practicing treadling. I think I've got it. By the way, does this count like a Stairmaster? Do you think I'm burning any calories, and I can therefore forgive myself for the oh so good slice of Joe's Pizza I had for lunch, and the Korean Barbecue I had for dinner (yes, that's where I was when I was missing knitting circle; a public defender can NEVER turn down a free meal).

And, so I have a whole box of wool to spin (at least a 1000 calories worth, don't ya think?): and, when spun up, it looks like this:













The bobbin is nearly full, so I decided to give it a rest for the night. Along with the wheel, I also got a set of carders, a lazy Kate with three bobbins, and another drop spindle - don't think I'll be using that any time soon -- it's like Rocky II grabbing the chicken - speed! we've got speed! (by the way, Rocky 6, or Rocky Balboa sounds like a REALLY BAD IDEA - he won't be hitting a side of beef, he'll be lucky to get a poke in at the Michelin man, he won't be running up the Art Museum stairs, he'll be shlepping down Broad Street with a walker. As Mickey once predicted, "you're going to eat lightening and crap thunder" - well, only with Maalox for this ol' head. And, when asked why he fights, Rocky replied, "Because I can't sing or dance." Yes, we know Sly can't sing or dance (remember that movie with Dolly where he just stares at her boobs over his geetar the whole poignant film), but it doesn't mean he's gotta get back in that bigscreen ring. And, if you must must must, why oh why kill Adrian - I'm sure Talia Shire could use the work. Yo Rocky - get a wheel!).

We've got speed (although, I hope I don't crap thunder), we've got yarn, we are so on are way! All Dex needs now is a niddy noddy to cuddle up to, and our happy home will be complete!

The Wheel Has Landed

So when I walked through the lobby of our building today, on the way to a sentencing, I noticed a box the size of a small barn by the security guard's desk. I stopped in my tracks. I didn't get too close to it - I suspected, but I wasn't sure. I resumed my tiptoe through the lobby, not wanting to wake our ancient security guard out of his stupor, and I casually glanced at the address label as I kept moving. Yep, it was the wheel. It was shipped in one piece, not disassembled. I continued walking. Hmmm . . . interesting, and I'm going to get it home how? After my client got banged for 4-8, I continued to think about it on the walk back to the office. While mulling my numerous options (or none), I got a call from the building manager. What did you order? she said, a refrigerator? I'm working on it, I said, working on it.

So, I decided the only option was to take it out of it's packaging and see if it could be transported in pieces But, this was a job for more than one person - and my fabulous secretaries and my bemused officemate, Lori, pitched in with the peanuts:














And, a wheel was brought forth into the world from the box:
I'm sure I'll be quite the conversation generator when I walk home with the wheel under my arm.

How Many Seconds Does it Take a Nice Jewish Girl to Change a Lightbulb?

Welcome to the Knitting Nook! It's time for Christina's Fall Knit-O-Rama!
Canoli's always welcome!


















I have to tell you, I haven't been doing that much knitting, or even thinking about knitting. On Saturday night, I was completely and utterly paralyzed by the Penn State game.















How could we lose in one second? One second? You can't even run a play in under 5 seconds (although Michigan, apparently, can run a play in 4 seconds, yeah, whatever, not that I'm bitter or anything). So, I've been thinking a lot about the seconds of our lives. How many bad decisions have I made in one second? How many seconds would I like to get back? How many hours of regret stem from one second of bad play calling? Which is just a bit of a preview of the case, I have to try next week. So, if I don't post too often, or my posts aren't a laugh a minute, it's because I'm deep in trial psychosis (which usually means that you've convinced yourself that you're going to win a case that you should lose, but in this case, I've convinced myself that I'm going to lose a case I should win. Everyone always asks me, "how can you represent someone you know is guilty?" That's the easy part - representing the innocent is the hard part. Those are the clients you lose sleep over, those are the losses from which you never recover. I'm not saying I don't give it my all for all of my clients, but those innocent guys doing time for my own bad seconds at trial . . .it's a hard thing to have on your conscience). And I'm very busy lining up my suits for trial. Jurors are not allowed to talk about the facts of the case until they deliberate, so most jurors talk about the most pressing things that are going on in the courtroom .. . what the lawyers are wearing. I've been told that my closing suit, a nice plum number, is dandy.

Anyway, luckily, knitting with friends is never a second gone bad, and we knit . . . all day! Oh, did I mention we ate too?

Robin worked on her Koigu Rambling Rows blanket, which is due, oh, I mean the baby is due, in early December , and she is forbidden from eating, sleeping, or touching her other project, this Rowan slip stitch sweater altered a la Grace until it's done(by the way Grace, if you're reading this, good luck with all of your new endeavors!)

















And, speaking of Robin, remember when I wrote this way back in August "But, if you shouldn't knit for a baby that doesn't exist (and let's be clear, you shouldn't), should you show up for dinner for a relationship that doesn't exist? I guess we'll have to wait for the update next week, but my feeling is that they're one in the same - both lead to disappointment, and, sigh . . . sex." Well, I'm not one to say I told you so, but don't set the table any time soon for a relationship that has already completed dessert. Sex, than disappointment . . . Wesley has been dealt with. And, if anyone is missing Robin on Wednesday night, it might be because she has a date . . . By the way, just because dinner isn't such a good idea, keeping the jewelry is. No reason to throw good Tiffany out with the dirty dinner dishes . . .

And, Alison was knitting away with Kid Silk Night, however, I didn't snag a picture, so you'll just have to admire her recently completed shawl, which is made out of something, from some pattern somewhere:.
















Heather learned a three needle bindoff ,

















and sewed up her cute as a button jumper:



















Lori . . . Lori Lori Lori. Lori is knitting a humongous sweater for her boyfriend of all of ten months, who she lives with, who she met on JDate. I don't know about the rest of you Jdating women, but these are the guys that email me on Jdate:







And, you know, I hesitated before making fun of my jdate experience - what if one of these guys' sister or mother knits and reads my blog? -- but you know what, if they do -- tell your brother or your son to get a better damn picture! I don't care if you're a nerd, fat, or goofy, Dude, you have got to have a better picture! There has got to be a picture of you out there doing something fun, or with your friends, or something SOMETHING besides the above nightmare, which, when you open your email, hoping for Mr. Right, you get, Mr. You Paralyzed My Face Into This Hideous Gasp Called Oh The Horror, I Have Got to Cancel My JDate Subscription. Whoever you are, you may win us over with your stellar personality, but you gotta get the date first! And, you may also want to tell you brother or son, that you may want to try emailing people your on age, it's always a better conversation starter.

Anyway, we all gasped -- the dreaded boyfriend curse! No no, stop knitting!!!! So, I didn't want to further the effects of the curse by photographing all of that loving knittng that may go the way of the boyfriend ditchout. I only knit for one boyfriend, and we did indeed break up. I took a FairIsle class, and to practice, I knit a hat -- Augie (O.k., maybe it wasn't the knitting, maybe it was the name) was going skiing, he would need a hat - perfect! Well, my tension was crap, and the snowflakes on the hat looked more like floating turds. So, I decided to felt the thing, make it all better. So, I threw it in the washing machine. Unfortunately, there wasn't enough time between the ski trip and the washing for the hat to dry, so I handed over a soggy, smelly hat that looked like a vomit catching bucket. So, maybe it was the knitting . . . it was really hard to say "it was the thought that count" about that hat and get any sympathy. . . Anyway, good luck Lori - you've already had better luck with Jdate than I have, I'm sure the knitting will work out for you too!
And, what was Theresa up to - she's in a knitting funk, so she pulled out the trusty Manos blanket - Lovely lovely! Hopefully, between the cheese explosion bread and Robin's caramel brownies, she is out of her knit-funk. Did I mention we ate at this gathering?
And our hostess? What was she up to? Well, as usual the Bach beagles were stealing the spotlight. Here, guy models the dryer lint scarf:














And Molly (or is this Maggie?) was having none of mama finishing her Silk Garden sweater:.

And, as the 8:00 hour drew near, and our television schedules diverged (West Wing v. Cold Case) knit-o-rama came to a close. And, this blog took all of 49 minutes to write, only 2,940 seconds! Time, hopefully, well spent.

Huge Sigh of Relief!

I'm sure that you will all be sooooo relieved to know that I am going to Kol Nidre services tonight in a proper pair of shoes, and underwear.

Keep the applause down - mom might hear you!

Where's the Tree?

It's Christmas in the middle of October! (Ok, I said it would be really annoying to have a serious discussion about a White Christmas in the middle of July, and I certainly won't be bringing Xmas up at the watercooler this morning and, not that I really get any Christmas presents because I don't celebrate Xmas, so I guess this was really just a pisspoor lead-in to this blog), because I got my Secret Pal Gal package today!























And you know what's so awesome? That so much of it is homemade - homemade soap, lotion, stitch markers, and a handstamped pad. I didn't even know that people still made their own soap - for this city girl, that would be like going to the barn and churning up some butter. But, it's just so thoughtful - thanks so much Secret Pal Gal!

And, I don't have to feel guilty about getting a present, because I finally finished Dad's socks! (Ok, I said Rosh Hashanna, it turned out Yom Kippur -- I really did have a 10 day grace period there to keep myself in the Book of Life), so the bag that had one sock, now as two! So, while it may be a long slow football season this year for Eagles' fans, at least Dad's feet will be warm and cozy in front of the t.v.

And, let's not forget Mom - her birthday was Friday. Now, Mom's knitting is really coming along. She's actually almost done the seed stitch coat that I did in Noro (she's doing it in the Lion Brand, but we're working on that) - I convinced her that just because it's big doesn't mean that it's hard. So, now that she's coming to the end of the road of her first big project, I feel like she needs to graduate, and try really special yarn - Anne Anne Anne . . .

Oh, yeah, and that dreaded Kid Silk Haze. And, of course, she needs a project (Rosie's Allison Scarf) and like all stylish knitters, a Lantern Moon bag to put it in:.















All she needs now is a fabu lipstick, and she's ready to hit the town!

And, my brother, you ask - his birthday was a few days before my mother. I say a few days, because from now on, I'm just going to pick a different day every year - because when I called him on the 3rd and wished him a happy birthday, he laughed. I said, what's so funny about turning a year older? He said, "It doesn't happen until tomorrow." So, since I'll inevitably screw it up again, I might as well pick a different day than everyone else to wish him a happy birthday so he has a whole birthday week. Anyway, my brother has forbidden me from buying him or his wife any more gifts since I unload a bundle on his kids. But, I can't not give him anything, that's just not right. So he got my used Ipod. Used? Congratulations! you're thinking, you must have upgraded to the Nano, sweet! Nope, it's a sad sordid tale of my pretty pink IPod. So, the story goes like this - I went to a Phillies game with one of my guy friends, and one of his friends, whom I had never met. When it came time to leave, I hopped into the back seat of the truck of the friend of the friend. I sat in the middle, next to the child's seat, and to give me more room, he put the other seat which had been in an upright position, down, trapping my leg under the seat. Stuck stuck stuck. When I had to get out of the truck, neither one of these "gentlemen" helped me -- I flailed, I tugged at my leg, I struggled - I dumped my purse, I scrambled for my lipstick. I climbed over the front seat, out the front door. And the boys? Laughing -- it turns out that I was wearing a shiny red thong, and with all of my machinations in the back seat, I was putting on quite a show. Another very important New Year's Resolution - never sit in the backseat of a truck with a miniskirt when the escape route is uncertain. For some reason, I totally forgot my IPod was in my purse, didn't even check for it, and the friend of the friend took off with my Pod. Months and months went by. I flew overseas, I exercised, I took train trips, all without my IPod. Lazy friend just didn't understand the importance of retrieving the IPod. So, of course, a month after I sucked it up and bought a new IPod, the day before the Nanos came out I might add, he returns the original. Sigh, men.

But, maybe I shouldn't have worried so much about the damn lipstick . . .

I Am Woman, See Me Knit

So, last Saturday I once again found myself in Atlantic City. But Stitches was the week before, the knitting was over, you say, why oh why would you go back to Joisey? For the big hair, cheesy clothes? The tacky casino decors (oh, now just calm down if you designed your living room around the Taj), the bloated buffets? The Tony Danza stage show? Oh no, we went, as it turned out, for the - karaoke! It was a long road to Karaoke . . .

My former roommate, Carla, works for IBM, and leads a life more glamorous than a Cosmo Magazine. Because she's a consultant she bounces from project to project - country to country - bar to bar (the only way you know that Carla has switched countries is because in her photos the labels on the beer bottles change) - and, well, you know -- all that goes along with it. She spent a couple of years tucked away in Switzerland working for Nestle, not learning French, eating fondue, and making international friends, like Nam. Nam, a Korean Swede, was working at Nestle at the same time, and she and Carla bonded over beer on weekdays (most Swiss stay home during the week - in fact, there's a noise curfew - no laundry past 10:00 p.m., or you get a fine), and kept in touch. When Nam visited Carla a few years back, we ate our way through Philadelphia - we started at the Reading Terminal with pretzels and dumplings from the Amish, and it was just downhill from there - cheesesteaks, Copa Margarita's, everything on the menu at Dmitri's, the mussels at Devon, ok, I'm getting sick reminiscing. To return the favor, when I visited Switzerland this past summer for the Montreaux Jazz Festival, Nam returned the favor. Here we are eating fondue on top of a mountain in Gruyere:
Let me tell ya, it's a long way from Switzerland to Joisey -
Yep, we've got our Jersey gear goin' on! Nam, welcome to Jersey! Can I tell you I still have a rub mark on my breast bone from the straps of the halter. It takes a mighty tight knot to hold me up --by the end of the night (which was, at oh, 5:00 a.m.), I was ready to drop the halter, and let the girls hang out -- it was Jersey afterall, but after all I had witnessed, I refrained. Dignity, always dignity.

We started out at Red Corner at the Trop - here are Carla's cousins in the vodka locker:

For$1000 you too can also be a Joisey supasta! For $1000, you get to store your very own vodka bottle in Red Corner's freezer (not that you don't have one upstairs in your room). Oh, but of course, it's not really your very own, you have to buy the vodka at Red Corner - starting at $300 a bottle. Hmmm . . . it was at this point I started thinking about knitting . . . how much yarn could I buy for $1300?

We suffered through an extremely expensive dinner listening to Carla's ugly boyfriend (who she refers to as Yabba since he looks like Fred Flintstone) of the month whine, moan and complain. About what? Everything. Uch.

After dinner, we then went upstairs to the karaoke bar, because Carla's cousin, the one in the middle of the picture with the magenta hair, felt like channeling Barbra Streisand. The horror! At least 3 batchlorette parties, the place was packed packed packed - with all these Jersians, wearing mullets or the Bon Jovi, clamoring for the mic.

Now, my friend Pete poo poo's my distaste of karaoke - here Pete, you are now a BLOGSTAR!:
(Pete and I have brunch every Saturday, and he's been highly insulted that he hasn't made the blog yet - so here's to you Pete!) Pete says that maybe I might be "too cool for school," when it comes to Karaoke, and Pete's personal favorite, piano bars. No, no, no. I am not too cool for school, I am a NERD. I just can't bear watching people humiliate themselves in such a public manner - no one, no one, no one was any good! And the songs are just awful -- Killing Me Softly, You're the One that I Want, and the worst, the worst, the moment I really just had to mentally remove myself from the whole sordid scene - when this middle aged woman, who was clearly in the midst of a crisis, a breakdown, took the stage, and started belting out "I Am Woman." Top of her lungs, her arms outstretched like Rocky on the Art Museum stairs, so off key that for the first time in my life I thought, Where is Helen Reddy when you need her! Why do we want to watch a public nervous breakdown! It's the equivalent of Gladiator - watching people commit public suicide as a spectator sport.

So, I started thinking about my knitting - see NERD, not TOO COOL FOR SCHOOL. What do I have on needles, hmmm . . . I have the new slip stitch cardigan:




















The Rowan shrug (which I just can't get to photograph well in my house):












And a closeup:














The Cashsoft Cardigan from Rowan Classic:











Of course, the sad sad sad Silk Garden:

And, there's the one lonely sock who needs a mate:
So, that's it (ok, forget you saw that baby stuff earlier in the year - that doesn't count), and I have endless yarn in the closet that is intended for something or other. And, well, at that moment in time, I hadn't made any New Year's Resolutions, but just as I knew something had to be done about leaving the karaoke bar, I knew that I had to take control of my projects, spinning out of control!

So, like I said, when I ate the chopped liver, and couldn't breath, I started formulating my just say no resolutions - of course, Just Say No to Karaoke (sorry Pete, that includes piano bars), and Just Say No to Casting On. And, I know, I'm already making plans to break that, as new projects crop up in my head all the time. But, here is my resolution that I really will try to keep - I will not cast on anything new until I have finished the shrug and the slip stitch cardigan. Then, I will rip the Silk Garden, and start to rebuild. And, that's the plan. I think it's a good compromise.

And, how did the Jersey evening end - not as well as that Swiss evening on top of the mountain. Jersey ended at the Chelsea Pub - an all night bar. Who ever thought an all night bar was a good idea! Sometimes, you need an excuse to take the drunk home -- sometimes, closing time is the only answer. Uch. So, I suffered through a drunk married guy (did he say he was married, no - he just referred to his home as a "cage") trying oh so hard to pick me up, until I bolted in a cab back to Carla's house in Brigintine. The fact that Nam and Carla's cousin brought the married drunk and his friend back to the house 20 minutes later, so did not make me happy.

And, the night in Switzerland? Ended up on a boat, watching the sun come up over Lake Lausanne:

And, that night, my friends, is a story for a different day.

In Defense of the Doll

It has come to my attention that there is a misunderstanding in blogland about the Wacko of the Westwing. Wacko is not slow, retarded, developmentally delayed, underprivileged, or homeless. She does not leave her shelter, her group home, or her hospital to attend knitting circle. She is intelligent -- I myself was subjected to a 10 minute discourse on traditional Jewish fasting holidays, and how they can be applied to fasting in support of other disenfranchised groups of today. When I say she is talking to herself I am being kind; what she is doing is is listening to a conversation, picking up on a few phrases, interrupting, and trying to change the conversation to something that she wants to talk about. She is not speaking in tongue in a corner by herself. Wacko arrived on the scene maybe 2 months ago. Without introducing herself, or asking any of us our names, she asked someone to teach her to knit. So, someone tried to help her out - this was met with - well, I don't think that's right, that's not the way I do it. Week after week, it's the same thing. You think you're feeding a kitten, only to be bitten by a tiger. There is nothing wrong with her -- she is the same annoying person that you are confronted by at the coffee machine first thing in the morning, who wants to know why the little packets of Sweet & Low sometimes get crunchy, but they don't appear to be wet, she is the person who stops by your desk at your busiest moment in the middle of July to have a serious discussion about whether or not we're going to have a White Christmas. And, at some point - ya just can't take it anymore.

I've been working with the mentally ill for years. Just yesterday, I represented a streaker, who for months has been flashing her neighbors. "There goes the naked lady," is a constant phrase heard on that particular block. I spent an hour convincing her husband that maybe medication is a good idea. I had one client, who when he was supposed to get up in front of the jury, and plead Not Guilty, got up and started screaming that he wasn't gay, and that anyone who thought he was a homosexual didn't believe in Allah. Obviously, the trial broke down at that point, and he was found incompetent. When we were set to go to trial again, I spent quality time at the prison having him practice standing up and saying not guilty, over and over again - because that's the only thing he had to do. Believe me, I would never intentionally make fun of someone less fortunate, or emotionally crippled by something beyond their control, like mental illness or mental retardation. With that said, to do this job for, oh, ten years now, I've also learned that you have to have patience and a sense of humor, or life is just impossible.

So, I apologize if I offended anyone, but really, this is just an annoying girl, who after 2 months has become intrusive and disruptive, that the only way to really deal with it is laugh about it, or leave, and I'd rather laugh about it.

Going Once, Going Twice - Sold to the Pretty Little Lady in the Corner!

There she is - my new baby - hot off of Ebay. It's a little used, but it looks like it was maintained with love and care (and if it wasn't, I'm screwed), but the price was right (over a $100 less than retail) - a perfect starter wheel, the Ashford Traditional Single Drive Wheel. Sigh. Can't wait 'til my bundle is delivered! Then, we can make beautiful yarn together. Me, my doll, and the wheel.

With A Little Help From Our Friends

Sigh. I know we all experience bouts of loneliness. And, when friends are lonely, I think it's incumbent on us to help our friends out, and listen to them complain about their long gone boyfriend/girlfriend for the billionth time, their lazy husband, their sorry ass jobs, their general malaise, etc., and we welcome them into the West Wing with open arms - come, sit, stay! (well, for a limited period of time before we must exercise tough love and just slap them silly). But, if you're a Wacko, and you plop yourself down in the company of strangers, pick your face until it bleeds, contribute the most bizarre non sequiters to the conversation (well, actually, if you're talking to yourself, it doesn't really qualify as a conversation) and proceed to read a paperback in the middle of a knitting circle after throwing out there that you're thinking of fasting in support of vegetarians in Mongolia, you really just need to stay in the comfort of your own home - and if you have no friends, well, there's now a company that can make you one:
Yes, for $79.00, you too can become your own best friend. And, in fact, if you don't like your face, you can choose another:
I know, I know, it seems creepy - but I think for the Wacko of the West Wing, it's the perfect solution. In fact, when Janet was passing the catalogue around our little group, I earmarked a few pages for her, and, just as I was about to pass her the catalogue, she was once again asked to move, as she had plopped herself down right in front of the skeinwinder. Now, if she had a special friend, like I do:
that special friend would definitely tell her "never to sit in front of the skeinwinder!"

You know, this company gives a whole new meaning to masturbation, and I think that ol' Wacko would be better served with a little of that, than picking her face among cashmere and alpaca lace.

Ahem, so, I know you're all dying to know how my spinning is going - much improvement indeed! Voila -
It so much better! Thanks Merrill - I've now got the pinching and pulling down (and no, I wasn't practicing on my special friend).

Along with my improved hand technique, I think this roving was easier to work with. I don't know if you can see from these pictures, but the pink (as pink is wont to be) is much fluffier, and was much easier to tease into the twist.


Teasing, twisting - no no! I promise, I don't really have a special friend!