Happy Halloween

Here are some lovely Halloween pictures from this year. I'd like to point out the badge was home made and distressingly, I already owned everything required for that costume to work.

12/29 resolutions

The internet seems awash with New Year's resolutions. Crazy Aunt Purl has an excellent list, but most seem pretty mundane a la "I wanna be skinner because thin woman = happy woman" and other such bullshit. Of course, I mock it but I'm sucked into it all the same. Mr. F and I are going to a big lesbo gala thing on January 7th, and frankly, it smells deliciously like a big gay prom. I'm stoked. I'm wearing this pretty dress:

But in this pretty color:

Frankly, I feel super hottt in this baby. It has a drape-y, Hollywood starlet back and the little sparkly things on the straps somewhat resemble snowflakes, which I love. I'm wearing the amazingly lovely ring and bracelet Mr. F. gave me for Christmas. I seriously cannot wait. I'm going with all my lovely dyke friends and it's going to be the best big gay prom/gala thing ever. Of this, I have no doubt.

So, while I don't have a New Year's resolution yet, I do have a 12/29 resolution. I am seriously going to try to go to the gym every day until the 7th. Clearly, I like my goals to be manageable. I feel so silly writing that - am I so brainwashed by the patriarchy that I can't just feel super hot in my pretty periwinkle dress? Must I go to the gym? Good work, patriarchy, nice job. Color me brainwashed.

Obsessing

All I can think about today is when I lived in Italy my class took a trip somewhere in the north. I seriously can't remember where. Near Como? Some other lake? Whatever. Anyway, there was a little old church in the middle of the little old town. Not too different than 1.4 million other little old Italian towns, right? Well, in the corner of this little old Italian church was a larger-than-life Jesus propped in the corner looming over the congregation. He was at such an angle that it eerily felt like I was getting topped by Jesus. Someone had, horrifyingly enough, put a brown wig on J.C. I've never seen such a bloody Jesus, such a huge Jesus, such a fucking scary as hell Dom Jesus.

I have no idea why that image keeps popping into my head.

high drama!

High drama this morning at The Law Firm LLP. A very nice, very tiny attorney brought in cookies his pastry chef sister acquired at a pastry chef cookie exchange. Sounds like heaven, doesn't it? That's what everyone on my floor thought until people started swelling and sliding into unconsciousness - three people are now in the hospital.

Of course, I had three of the scrumptious death treats. There were about ten different kinds to choose from, so I figure I still have a fighting chance in avoiding a trip to the ER. I'm all jittery - I just itched my hand, christ, does that mean I'm on death's doorstep? I'm kind of thirsty, should I alert my coworkers? I joke but I am rather on edge. From now on, I'll only imbibe prepackaged, fake, trans-fatty goodness here at work. None of this pastry chef bullshit from now on. Yikes.

OKC:
My mother's diamond lace shawl moves slowly, a little too slowly. I'm going to whip up some fuzzyfeet for her for Christmas; she'll get the stole after the holidays. My sister's handbag is done - it's lovely and the KnitPicks yarn felted beautifully indeed. My own design! Bitch better like it or we'll have words. I have a hat sitting in front of me for Mr. Fabulous' fabulous roommate, Miss May. I have nothing to do today at work so I have a potential of 7.5 knitting hours before me. What do I choose to do? Freak about potentially poisoned cookies and read the archives of I Blame the Patriarchy (a lovely read, I must say).

I just itched my elbow. Imminent death or dry wintry skin???

Brilliant, part 2

I just busted a gut at this little movie movie - go watch it now!!!

Christmas cards of the famous

Brilliant Christmas cards of the famous, generously provided by Mark Morford:

Infidels shall pay by the mighty hand of Allah! Saddam not returning to dishonorable courtroom! OK seriously, happy holidays and thanks to CIA for totally botching kangaroo trial. So funny! Saddam is way humored! By the way, Osama is living like a king just off Jersey turnpike on Karl Rove's dime. I have proof! By the way, I was brutal heartless dictator and even I ran my country better than U.S. Ha! "Nation-building" my big fuzzy butt! By the way, I know where WMD is located! Inside scary capri pants of Ann Coulter! Ha! OK, back to laughing in face of infidel judge. Peace out.-- Saddam

Yo my peoples. I been shot nine times. Please buy my horrible video game. Most overrated rapper of the year! But yo, I look mean and badass, yo! Can't dance like Usher can't sing like Kanye can't rhyme like Em, but yo I sure can gangsta bling cool! I been shot nine times. Check out my new line of custom-embroidered linens at Pottery Barn, in the Northgate Mall. I'll be there 'tween 3 and 4 signin' pomegranate-scented candles and Berettas, yo. Merry Xmas. Peace out. I been shot nine times.-- 50 Cent

It's funny because it's true.

I'm horrified

I saw this on Threadbared and found it so frightening, so heinous, so hideous, so truly awful that
I wanted to post it myself, too! Go read Threadbared's comments on this shit. Now. Trust me, it's hilarious.

work, etc.

This coming Thursday is The Law Firm, LLC's annual holiday party. I'm so torn - I went last year and the food, drinks, and decorations were amazing, but I was still obligated to talk to coworkers about non-work issues. I've come to the realization that I'm not so fond of my coworkers knowing anything about me. Actually, I'm weirdly secretive. I'm not in the firm's phone book of home numbers (somehow that's a deal here) and I avoid social situations with my colleagues like I would avoid ebola. It's not like I hate my coworkers, it's just that I have no idea what to say to them. I can shoot the breeze with a 45-year-old dyke with the greatest of ease, but what do I say to a 45-year-old straight woman who's wearing a sweater with reindeer, jingle bells and Santa exploding on it? I just look at them and think, I will never be you. Who are you anyway?

That said, I do like the food and drink and decorations. It is so wrong to silently drink the free wine and eat some shrimp in the corner table by myself? If anything, it'll just serve to bolster my rep here. And that's clearly something that needs bolstering.

Deja parle (sans accents, pardon)

I am the High Queen of Staticland. My reign is supreme and none doubt My superiority. Even so, I will generously give you proof of My staticness:

1. My hair is like Drew Barrymore a la Firestarter

2. I zap (Zap! Not shock. Zap!) everyone I deign to touch.

3. My clothes look like I have a full velcro bodysuit underneath and I've been in some unfortunate positions, hence, the clothing weirdness/cling.

4. My lineage is from a proud family of static-prone peoples.

All hail the Queen! Long live the Queen!

Statically yours,
Her High Royal Highness Elizabeth of Staticland

ugh. tuesdays.

So many people hate on Mondays, but aren't Tuesdays the very worst? At least on Monday you can warmly recollect the weekend's happy memories (or hazy, depending). But on Tuesday, you're in the thick of the work week - trapped. Wednesdays are Hump Days, Thursdays are the early start to the weekend, Fridays are the weekend. But Tuesdays are Trap Days. Ugh. Tuesdays.

Thankfully, I have St. Knitterifierous on my side. I'm knee deep in the holiday knitting. I've made the back and front of a handbag I'm eventually going to felt. However, I have 1.4 million other projects and the LSAT to study for. The next 20 days or so are going to be interesting, to say the least.

And two big trips are on the horizon: Aberdeen SD and Cancun Mexico. I like to mix it up. Aberdeen is this coming weekend. It's Mr. Fabulous' hometown. I've never been to South Dakota before (well, I went once when I was inchoate, so that doesn't really count). I'm excited.

Cancun is a fabulous dream - a friend of a friend owns a house there and is renting it to us for dirt cheap. Dirty cheap, even. Apparently this lady went down there this weekend to see if it was still standing and whatnot but if it's all clear, I'll be knitting on the beach in April! Whee!

In other things, Mr. Fabulous and I joined Weight Watchers together. It feels good to have control over something that seems so simple, like it should always have been in control. I think it'll go well - Mr. Fabulous is an amazing cook and is competitive like me about things like this. Although I've heard this a million times before, it really does help to have someone being annoyingly on target to keep you on track (and someone to feel morally superior to when they're off track).

p.s. Today's ennui and general sense of saturninity obviously makes my sentence structure very short. Weird.

yeah, what?!

quotation marks You scored 53% Sociability and 82% Sophistication!

There is a lot more to you than meets the eye. You certainly get plenty of "action," but you'd be happier if those who lusted after you were more selective. You hate being used as a general intensifier; haven't these people ever heard of underlining? Italics? And yes, you remember the cruel words Mr. Joyce directed at you. But you let none of this get you down; those who abuse you are destined for a "special" reward, sooner or later. You feel particularly warm toward periods, commas, exclamation points, and question marks, and usually wish to have them next to you. Parenthesis can sometimes trouble you.

shaft, by way of chaucer

enjoy, kiddies:

Wha be tha blake prevy lawe
That bene wantoun too alle tha feres?
SHAFT!
Ya damne righte!

Wha be tha carl tha riske is hals wolt
Fro is allye leve?
SHAFT!
Konne ye?

Wha be tha carl wha ne wolden flee
Whan peril bene all aboughte?
SHAFT!
Verray!

Alle clepe tha carl ane badde mooder-
SOFTE!
Speken of Shaft bene I.
THAN KONNE ALLES WE!

He be a man konne unnethes
Namo save is mayde konnes im.
JOHN SHAFT!

i am that weird girl at work

It's official: I am the workplace loon.

I'm broke (as usual) and in desperate need of a haircut. I also loathe split ends. So, for fun, I grab small chunks of hair, peer intently at the ends, and snip the split ends. I do this with the door wide open, people. People walk past my office all day long, and I have zero doubt they all note the crazy girl staring at her hair with huge office scissors in her hand.

I realize that because I'm fairly quiet and work with a limited group of people here at The Law Firm, LLC, my reputation is entirely based on my quirks. From cutting my split ends to laughing for an inappropriate amount of time at an inappropriate level at emails my (wholly inappropriate) friends send me. Think about that - I'm quiet walking around, but they all hear me laughing maniacally behind the closed door. And I'm always printing/photocopying knitting patterns. Actually, I'm also "The Knitting Girl."

Ah, the sad thing is that I really can't help it. It's so soothing to divorce myself from my split ends. Knitting keeps me sane. And as for the laughing, I just have funny friends. What's a girl to do?

vive shame

So I met Mr. Fabulous' parents this weekend. It went wonderfully - we picked apples at the apple orchard, got lost in the corn maze, ohh'ed over pumpkins in the pumpkin patch. Mr. Fabulous' dad loved me. I got a little q-t with his mom, and that went great, too. She bought me pumpkin butter. Seriously the best meeting-the-parents trip ever.

And then I puked. All over.

I had been feeling a tad iffy all day long. I hadn't eaten very much and taken some medicine that morning. When I thought I was about to pass out, my dear Mr. Fabulous bought me a brat. I had some crackers. I thought, okay, this will settle my stomach. I'm just starving from all the walking + no food. Okay, I'm good, I thought. I WILL be good.

Then we got into the car to go home. Mr. Fabulous was listing off the various places we could go to dinner ("Chinese, Italian, Indian, Mexican, Thai...") I looked over at him as he was talking and said, "I am very carsick."

He took one look at me and yanked the wheel over to the side of the road and I opened my door and retched into the grass. Retched! In front of his parents! While sitting in the front seat of their car!!! Thank god I didn't do it IN their car - they were driving from Minneapolis to Sioux Falls back home to their wee South Dakota town. If Mr. Fabulous hadn't pulled over, they would have driven in a Puke Car. And we all know that the puke smell never, ever comes out of cars. Ever. It's like cat pee - although I think I could argue puke is much more disgusting.

Thankfully, his mom is a nurse and his dad is a farmer, so they're pretty down with the throw up. They were totally nonplussed, which I appreciated more than I can say. Unfortunately, we went for seafood for dinner immediately afterwards. I'm sure I was more than a little green all night, but after some ghetto (but good) fish and fries, we went back to Mr. Fabulous' for some cards. It ended well, but I have zero doubt I'll forever be That Girlfriend Who Puked.

Sigh.

I suppose it could have been worse, right?

Yeah, I think not, too.

Ugh.

It seems grossly unjust to not have an unlimited amount of PTO time from work to knit at will. I realize that statement is both whiny and annoying, but a girl can (indignantly) dream, right?

In other minor (and whiny) news, boys are hard. Not a new sentiment, but it always manages to catch me off-guard.

Today's happy picture - a baby alpaca.

no.

Is it weird that Lion Brand patterns make me angry? Why do they insist on amazingly, shockingly ugly patterns?

I think Lion Brand secretly hates knitters. Sure, we're the hand that feeds them, but you know they just want to bite. Hence, their shitastic patterns.

you know what i like? cheese.

Well, besides cheese, I also like being in mad crazy love, and knitting until my hands numb. Mr. Fabulous, my plucked-from-the-depths-of-perfection genderqueer honey has been occupying my brain and my time, hence, blogging has sadly fallen greatly behind. I've been a knitting fiend, though, and although my fabbo new cell phone takes pictures, I have no clue how to upload them.

For those like me with overactive imaginations, here are some descriptions:

1. Waterfalls scarf
Knit length-wise in light blue new wool thick-and-thin yarn, I put in some shots of a darker blue randomly. The fringe at the edges have both colors equally. The overall effect is water running around my neck and down my back. I get a lot of compliments on this baby, and threats of thievery from my sister. I like that.

2. Rainbow/Kind of Gay-Pride-y Hat
Black 2x2 ribbing shifts into a variegated rainbow thick-and-thin yarn (yeah, I'm on a kick). The rainbow is a little darker, so it's more subtle gay pride, rather that I'm Gay! Yay! kind of hat. Not that I'm Gay! Yay! is a bad hat to have, but you know what I'm saying.

3. Baby Sweater
Dark green mercerized cotton with some sort of crazy cool border/bottom. It's a top-down raglan, but I haven't decided what to do with the bottom yet. Nicky Epstein's Knitting Over the Edge has some cool ideas, but I haven't committed to any yet. We'll see, we'll see.

4. Washcloth Bonanza
My sweetie was all jealous of my friend Liz's knitting for her gf Kim. I asked him, "Well, what do you want?" He paused, looked seriously, and shyly said, "I really want washcloths." What a weird, practical bunny. So I'm currently in washcloth no. 2. He's getting some dishtowels and possibly a double-knit hot pad too, because I don't just do washcloths. He doesn't know what he's unleashed. Bonanza indeed.

Of course, my self-designed sweater (that looks eerily like the sweater I bought in Eddie Bauer three years ago) is moving slooowly along. I'd like to front and be all, "that baby'll be finished before Christmas!" but I know it won't. The Christmas knitting is already a tad overwhelming. Hence, I've found great amounts of solace in this: 1-877-767-5648 (toll-free in US and Canada). I love the Yarn Harlot. I really do.

More on Mr. Fabulous: sexy, normal (NORMAL!), funny, and super, super hot. Did I mention normal? And hot? I'm deeply excited about being with someone who has friends and their own life and goals and I can bring into public without being ashamed. I'm super proud to be dating him. He's Mr. Fabulous! How could I not be happy? I'm going to start volunteering because I seriously feel like I need to pay back this karmic debt. It's a little scary to be so lucky.

AND two nights ago I taught him to knit. HE WANTS TO KNIT. Seriously, I think I just came a little bit typing that. He's really good and we're going a'shoppin' for circs and some worsted so he can do a ribbed hat. Yes, he's ready for that! Amazing, I know.

uber hot

why aren't today's knitting patterns presented in porn format? i feel cheated.

the first horseman of the apocalypse

gaze upon the horror with your own eyes!

disturbing, yet soothing

Choice tidbits from Minneapolis' Star
Tribune article on My Little Pony fanatics:

"Tamara Forsyth, 22, isn't the type of woman you'd expect to dress up like a pink pony. Forsyth has tattoos and piercings and her haircut is post-modern shaved.

"She's very alternative, as you can see," said her mother, Anna Simmons, of Winona.

But on her long train ride from Beaverton, Ore., to Winona, Forsyth cut little pink hearts out of cloth and sewed them onto a pair of pink cotton pants. In Winona, while visiting with her mom, she fashioned a mane and tail out of pink yarn. She became a punk rock version of her favorite pony.

Crossing her tattooed arms, Forsyth announced proudly: "I'm Snuzzle."

A cynic might think a punker like Forsyth attended to poke fun. She did not.

"I love the ponies," she said. In fact, she has more than 300 of them, most collected in childhood. She was partly drawn to them because of her aversion to Barbie dolls.

"I hated Barbie," she said. "Barbie creates an unrealistic role model for young girls. But for a little girl to play with ponies? It's not like they expect to grow up and be ponies."

She still plays with them on occasion. "I set them up in scenes and take pictures of them."
Not all her friends appreciate her hobby. "One friend said, 'They're scaring me, man. They're staring at me.' " "

Uh, yeah. She sets her ponies up in "scenes??" Sisterfriend, don't act like everyone's not into the SM lingo. What a dirty, dirty pony lover.

Also a favorite - a boyfriend of a pony fanatic says:

"I figure, if it makes her happy, I don't have any problem with it," he said. "I mean, it's just a toy. It's not like she's collecting severed fingers or something."

Why do I feel like he's said that many, many times? Maybe repeated that last bit over and over to himself? Sorry dude, your girlfriend is a whack job. Hopefully she's hot, but still, kind of crazy.

I realize those comments come from a girl who knits obsessively and loves Latin - but I just think that further enables me to recognize a fellow freak when I see one!

soooooo dirty

compliments of my friend Rich:

You know that someone in the editing department had a good, long laugh over that. Dirty. I love it!

on my way to urban legend

Distressingly, I've had hiccups three times today. I know that statement ought to be filed in the navel-gazing-pretentious-wanker realm of blogging, but good jesus, when I get hiccups I get scared. I worry, am I going to end up like that mysterious dude who had hiccups for seventeen years or whatever? What a complete pain in the ass that would be. I would really like to avoid that fate, or at least, fueling that urban legend by becoming it!



Me, only I'm not a white dude in a suit. The Twilight Zone-esque background is thoroughly correct, however:

ah, ick

From cnn.com regarding Rep. Rick Santorum's (R-PA) new book:

In the book, Santorum makes the case that abortion puts the liberty rights of the mother before those of her child, just as the rights of slave owners were put before those of slaves.

"This was tried once before in America," Santorum writes. "But unlike abortion today, in most states even the slaveholder did not have the unlimited right to kill his slave."

Let's not forget the excellent noun, santorum, as coined by the lovely Dan Savage:

Santorum (n)
the frothy mix of lube and fecal matter that is sometimes the byproduct of anal sex

Rick is just so gross. I feel sorry for that frothy mix of lube and fecal matter - it's getting a raw deal by being hooked up with this asshole.

knitting is even tougher than i had hoped!

I want everything these people have to sell.

On a completely unrelated note, I've had so many salt water taffys today I can feel my eyeballs vibrating in their sockets. Apparently I should cut back. Duly noted, eyeballs, duly noted.

beautiful

Beautiful.

While our boy Karl may not have sold us out to the British, he sure as hell is worthy of a Benedict title if he did, indeed, gave out Plame's name in retribution for her husband's NY Times article.

Treason

(from yourdictionary.com)

1. Violation of allegiance toward one's country or sovereign, especially the betrayal of one's country by waging war against it or by consciously and purposely acting to aid its enemies.
2. A betrayal of trust or confidence.

[Middle English, from Anglo-Norman treson, from Latin trditi, trditin-, a handing over ; see tradition.]

Now, while I'm not sure that he violated definition number one (unless he secretly loves theIraqi insurgents), he sure as shit is knee-deep in definition number two.

oh london

I heard about you, London. I'm thinking about you - I wish you guys the best of health and safety today and while you sort out this horrible mess.


I heard on the BBC this morning that the streets are filled with people, and that the feeling in London is dazed and surreal as everyone walks about in the streets without cars or buses, everyone on their cell phones, assuring their families that they're okay. That sounds exactly like New York on 9/11. I am so, so, so sorry to hear that scene is repeating itself. What a horrible history to repeat.

This is from that big design show in Milan this year. A knit fence. There are no words.

sweet.

You are DNA. You're a smart person, and you appear
incredibly complex to people who don't know
you. You're incomparably full of information,
and most of it is useless.


Which Biological Molecule Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

pride and shoes full of blood

Minneapolis Pride was this weekend. It was surprisingly lovely - on Saturday I joined my father at Loring Park (he was manning the Multiple Sclerosis booth), and he and I walked all around, looking at the booths. He spotted and instantly feel into deep love of the Utilikilt, which I told him not to buy, "because Dad, you can't come to Pride with your gay daughter and go home with a skirt. You just can't. Mom'll kill me." However, I think he's slowly breaking my mother down into accepting the kilts someday presence in the family manor. Funny, considering this is a man who resolutely avoids pinks, salmons, purples, and anything vaguely "girly."

Sunday I volunteered for the Red Door Clinic and lured people in for the candy, and made them stay for the free HIV and syphilis testing. Really, really fun.

That said, aside from all of the fun and pride and condoms and whatnot, my feet declared war against me. ME, of all people. Don't I lovingly rub them nightly with that peppermint foot cream from Bath and Body Works? Don't I gently use my foot brush regularly to keep them clean and pretty? Don't I exclusively buy them Dansko and Born and other expensive shoes?

Yes, yes I do all that, but apparently it's not enough for the little fuckers. My sandals cut so deeply into my feet from walking around on Sunday, I have two angry gashes that require neosporin (or however that's spelled), bandaids, and flip flops (so nothing rubs against the gashes, neosporin, and the bandaids). Really, they look brutal and feel even worse.

I just don't know what to do with my feet anymore. They insist on cutting themselves like teenage girls and filling up their (expensive) shoes with blood. Maybe I should try counseling, or new peppermint lotion.

impossibly charming

I sincerely love my nieces and nephews.

However, because there are SIX of them (three girls, three boys), I'm always anxious before they come over. Frankly, I dread their arrival.

It always gets better once they burst through the door though. The youngest are twin girls, and it's just incredible how aware they are of each other. They're still babies, but they will reach out and hold each other's hand. If I'm standing next to my older brother (their father) holding Twin1 while he's holding Twin2, Twin1 will inevitably reach out and rest her hand on her sister's shoulder, or maybe pat her sister's back. It's so fascinating to see them doing these seemingly learned behaviors like holding hands and patting backs, and realize that it's innate. And admittedly, they are very, very good looking babies (I think being born via C-section and not through the birth canal helped to not squish their heads into weird shapes).

But if they start talking in some whacko twin language, I'm going to be seriously disturbed.