Suddenly, September

Oh look, it's not summer any more.

I'm not going to lie, I couldn't be happier. Have I mentioned I'm not all that fond of summer? Probably. It bears repeating, though. I turn into a lump of uselessness during the summer. Heat, humidity, too much sunlight, headaches, constant sweatiness. Anywhere you go there are too many people. People trying to cram in all their fun before September, before they have to go "back". I want to hibernate, close my door, lay under a fan and sleep until the cooler evenings come.

Blah. Give me a cool September breeze and the crisp autumn smell of leaves any day. This is the time I love. This is the time of year I come back to life.

How to sum up the last three months?

I was in Boston in mid-June. It was lovely, as much fun as one can have by oneself when they are at a conference.


Entrance to to a T station in Boston, Summer 2011


A perfect day for a carousel, Boston Common Frog Pond, Summer 2011

I visited my parents for a couple days right after the conference, which was great. We drove around and hung out. We needed that.


Dad's Swamp, Pennsylvania, Summer 2011


Childhood memory, Conneaut Lake Park, Pennsylvania, Summer 2011

I taught in July and August. It was not fun, but it was a job, and not as painful as I was expecting for a course I had never taught before. I didn't get to go to Pennsic due to the time constraints, not even for a few days, and that made me exceedingly cranky. Overall, I tried not to die of heat exhaustion. There were a few days when the heat and humidity weren't so oppressive and I was able to get out, walk around, take some pictures, and remember what an amazing city I live in.


Nathan Philips Square, Toronto, Summer 2011


Cathedral Church of St. James, Toronto, Summer 2011

I've needed to pour myself into work a bit these last couple months, while at the same time hide away and restore my soul. We have been officially cat-less since July 6. I haven't really been able to talk about it much yet, let alone write about it. Ford had a great last few months with us. He went out on his own terms, and I was with him. We miss him. That's really all I can muster, even now, over two months later. So, pictures.


Ford in the park, Summer 2011


OHAI, IZ YOU THERE? (Ford meets the IPad camera) Summer 2011


One of the amazing emails I received from my guys while I was in Boston, Summer 2011

BLOG ALL THE THINGS!!*

My honey made crepes last weekend. By God, I love when that man cooks. When he cooks, I know all is right with the world. He is the creative one in the kitchen, I'm more of a "throw that shit in the oven on 350 for 35 minutes and it's done" type (I do make a mean chocolate chip cookie, though).

We finally got a barbecue this summer, and it is good. See? This was a couple months ago when we put on the first real steak. It was documented for posterity. And beans on the side burner. Because beans are awesome.


Beans and MEAT

He did this impromptu thing on the barbecue last week with the sweet potatoes where he added maple syrup and cinnamon. NOMNOMNOM.

Enough food prøn. Enough of me feeling like a lazy slacker who doesn't know how to work or get shit done. Let's look at the things I've done recently that don't fall into the SUCK category.

My first foray into entrelac, two of these 8x8 squares for group blanket projects.


Malabrigo worsted in the so-obnoxious-you-have-to-love-it "Lime Blue" colourway

I finished knitting the hat that I bought awesome trim for in mid-June, and finally got around to thinking about blocking and finishing it. One problem: it fit fine before blocking, but when I took it out of the water and tried to block it with a balled-up towel, the yarn stretched like crazy, and the hat suddenly ballooned to a size that comes halfway down my face. I now have it drying flat, and spent a lot of time fiddling with it to try and block it back down to the proper size, but I'm not sure I was all that successful. If I have to, I'll frog it and do it again in the smaller size. It's not that difficult a knit. I'm also now wondering if it's maybe worth lining the final hat to help keep its shape in the future. Of course, that involves sewing. *grumblegrumble*


The amazing expanding hat. Yikes. We'll see what I end up with when it's dry, but I'm betting on huuuuuuuge.

The new Liesl cardigan is flying along, surprisingly. I'm almost done with the body. I'm very much enjoying working with the Cascade220 Heathers wool.


Sleeves soon! It's almost like an insta-sweater.

Finally, an Audrey update! I'm hoping to re-start Audrey the Indigo-Sig Vat for her third season of dyeing. She's been sitting outside in her bin all summer during the heat wave, while I've been sweating too much to even think of dealing with her. One would think that I'd try to get her going again when the weather is possibly hot enough to keep her warm naturally, but that would be too easy. Today was a lovely cool day, and I finally had the energy to do what I've been wanting to all summer, namely strain off the liquid into the spare jar and get rid of the inch or so of muck on the bottom before trying to start her up for the season.

Let me lay this out plainly. This afternoon, I spent 30 minutes carefully transferring nearly 2 gallons of very stale, bacteria-ridden, indigo-infused piss from one jar to another, in the process straining out the rotted remains of 3 years worth of dates, plums, bananas and settled-out urine sediment, using a tea strainer and an old teacup. All clear? OK.


Audrey in her natural habitat, surrounded by Morning Glories for company.

The thing that worries me is that... well... she just wasn't very stinky today. I mean, there's smell, but it's nothing like the normal mind-blowing stench I've come to know and... er, love? I don't remember the smell being this tolerable before... unless, Jebus and FSM help me, I'm actually getting used to it. At any rate, I'm not entirely sure if she'll come back this year. We'll see. I checked her pH (between 9-10, which is just right), added some more stale urine (ask not from where it came - it's FOR SCIENCE!!), fed her some mushy bananas, and turned on her heating pad.

After today's handling, she's now thoroughly oxygenated, so it'll be several days before she even starts to settle down, and a good 7-10 days before we can expect her to be dye-worthy. And then I might still have to add some indigo. You can see some of the mushed-up banana floating here:


Tucked in for the night. I feel like a nervous Mom. Or perhaps, a nervous mad scientist.

Let's see, we've gone from food to knitting to straining pee. All in a week's work, I'd say. Next post: Pennsic loot.

*Translation here. Read and weep tears of joy and recognition at your own life.

If it were E.T. phoning home, I'd be more OK with it

I press a button near my ear. There's a little *bleep*, and a digital female voice says, "Say command."

"Call home," I reply.

"Did you say, 'Call home?' "

"Yes."

----------------------------------------------------------------

The province is introducing a law at the end of the month prohibiting the use of hand-held devices while driving. Cell phones. MP3 players. As of the end of the month, you have to be able to operate them hands-free if you're behind the wheel.

If only they could prohibit pedestrians from using the same distracting hand-held devices while crossing the street, we'd be all set. I had two separate potential my-fault-accidents walk out in front of me — without looking, against their signals and into the middle of downtown traffic — while talking on their phones this Friday afternoon. But I digress.

I get it, I really do, and I fully support the law. I don't use my cell phone in the car that much, but I'm certainly guilty of taking and making calls once in a while while driving, and it's a convenience that I'm not willing to give up. What that means, though, is that I'm being dragged kicking and screaming into a little more technology in my daily life than I am completely comfortable with.

I'm of that in-between generation. The internet started to become more widely used while I was an undergraduate in the early 90s, but the web didn't come about for several years after that. I was an early, if slightly reluctant, internet user, but it quickly became integral to how I communicated with friends. I could telnet into a MUSH and talk with them in real-time when I was on the other side of the ocean. Email was a necessity. When the WWW came in, I was in my early 20s, and I acclimated just fine. These days, I check my email compulsively and usually have my laptop nearby. I'm a Mac girl, through and through.

It took me longer to get a cell phone than an ISP. It seemed... too much connectivity. I finally broke down in 1998 after a car accident in Western PA, and we realized how much issue it would have been had we not had family right there with us to help out. Only a handful of people have the number, and to this day, my cell plan is the cheapest one I can get that includes voicemail. I do not have an IPhone or a Blackberry, it's just a basic cell phone. It has a camera, that's kind of cool, but whatever. I do not have data or text messaging. Honestly, I have three email addresses and I check them 50 bazillion times a day. I'm not hard to reach. I have to draw the line somewhere.

Which brings us to today, me sitting in a cafe with a bizarre-looking earpiece sticking out of my ear. I figured I'd try this hands-free cellphone thingy out when it's not critical, so we set it up and I went out to do some errands on a Sunday afternoon. I'll admit, the voice-dialing thing is neat. I knew the phone had the feature, I just never used it.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I was heading out the door, and realized that I look like one of those people that annoy the living shit out of me - earpiece sticking out of their ear, you never know when they might stop talking to you to take a phone call that you didn't hear coming. They talk loudly, and apparently to themselves, in the coffee shop or in the line instead of ordering or paying. I'm reminded of one of those stories where everyone is plugged into their technology all the time and it takes over their minds. I sighed.

"I look ridiculous."

DH stuck his head around the corner.

"Hey, just pretend you're like Uhura. 'Captain, you have a call...' "

I grinned. You know, I hadn't thought of it that way.

"Captain, Priority One message for you from Starfleet," I said in my best phone-professional voice.

"There you go!"

Sometimes, he really knows what to say to make me feel better. If Uhura can have that thing sticking out of her ear and still be awesome, I'm good, right?

----------------------------------------------------------------

"Did you say, 'Call home?' "

"Yes."

The line begins to ring on the other end, and my husband answers the phone.

"Starbase 5-8-0-0 here."

"Hi, honey."

"You broke the ship again, didn't you?"

I break into peals of laugher. I love that man.

Ceci n'est pas une toque

There's something to be said for instant gratification, but I'm certainly not getting any of it. My bit of secret knitting project #1 is done, but project #2 is still hanging around, and unlikely to go away soon. Same with project #3. That one's going to be a while.

And then there's the double-knit hat. The energizer double-knit hat. The hat that's still going.

For nearly 15 years, as long as I've lived in Toronto (and by extension, Canada), I thought I knew what a toque was. I understood that a toque was a kind of knitted winter cap that wasn't a tight-fitting beanie or skullcap. But according to DH, this and even this are not toques. Neither is this standard Seaman's cap, which I consider to be quite respectable and toque-like. DH was very specific: In a toque, there should be a gap between the top of the head and the crown of the hat. He says this pocket of air is warmed by the heat coming off your head, and this then helps keep your head warm, like insulation. Above all, it is not snug. Apparently, this is his idea of a perfect-fitting toque. The tassle on the top, says DH, is optional, though it's the only time that he will be willing to wear a tassle.

I was a little confused when he told me this, but then I started really watching guys old and young on the subway (all in the name of research, of course), and I realized that yes, for the classic "toque look," there is a gap between the top of the head and the crown of the hat.

I would call this a "badly fitting winter hat," but it just goes to show what I know.

So, the never-ending double-knit hat will be a DH-defined toque. Which means I have quite a few more inches to go.

Sigh.

Yarn gnomes. It's the only reasonable explanation.

This craptacular pile of yarn barf represents my Saturday and Sunday evenings' fibre-related work, and has absolutely nothing to do with weaving. Whoops. I pulled out a brand new ball of Brown Sheep Cotton Fleece to swatch something, and hilarity ensued.


DH congratulated me on my debacle (pronounced "de-ball-cle". HAH.)

I have continued to work on the group-project woven pillow with the hand-dyed, hand-spun weft. For all my time, I haven't made a lot of forward progress, and not just because of the above distraction. At one point, I had about two feet of the pillow woven (2/3 of the first half, 1/3 of the whole thing), but then I realized that I hadn't staggered rows of the new skein with the previous one when I started the second skein of weft. The point where the second skein started was an obvious shade change. So a couple weeks ago I ripped out over a good foot of weaving.

When I started again last week, this time staggering the two skeins in alternating rows, I had some problems with the edges. On one side, the final warp thread wasn't being caught by the weft. I ripped out about 6-8 inches again, and figured out that on the right side I needed to run one shuttle of warp thread under the other before throwing it, so that it would bind the right edge. I still don't really understand how warp edges behave in weaving. I want to go back after this and really figure out double weaves on my rigid heddle, beyond just reading a pattern draft. I'm pretty sure that will help me to understand this problem.

Very late Thursday night, while at a friend's place for our weekly Thursday Night Crafts, I figured out the edge thing and wove 8-9 inches again. I need to get the front side of this pillow, three feet of weaving, off my loom some time Monday, so that it can go to the embroiderer, who will most likely be visiting that evening.

I also continue to work on the Double-knit Hat from Hades. I haven't ripped out anything on it recently. Keeping my fingers crossed on that one. It's amazing, though - I sit down to do a single row, and I'm asleep before I'm half-way through. Who needs a sleep aid? I have the double-knit hat.

Finally, I've started a few new super-secret knitting conspiracies.



More details eventually. Mwa Ha Ha. Just as soon as I finish untangling the rest of that skein.

Seriously, how does that happen? I have no good explanation.

Whoever coined the phrase "warp speed" apparently didn't have cats

So. I warped the loom. Again. After the unfortunate incident with the red warp yarn that we dyed, I picked up five balls of lovely, red, strong DK-weight alpaca.*



I warped this up the weekend before last onto a 10 dpi heddle and wove a few inches, only to realize that the loom was assembled wrong. This bugged me something fierce, so I took the warp off, fixed the loom, re-tied it and wove about five inches that Sunday night.

Monday I looked at the resulting fabric with a critical eye. The fabric was coming out a little too airy, and was not going to be as weft-faced as we want it. Since the weft yarn is our group's cochineal hand-dyed handspun from raw fleece, we want it to be prominent.

So, I took the whole warp off last Tuesday, and Wednesday night I re-warped it onto an 8 dpi heddle. I was all set to have DH help me wind it onto the loom that night, but that was not to be:


The union stages a sit-in.


Negotiations commence: Whose need is greater?


Negotiations are concluded for the evening.

In the interest of not interrupting an obviously necessary nap time, we wound it on early the next morning, before he left for work (DH is a very good assistant warp-winder-oner, no matter how much he doth protest), and I tied it up Thursday afternoon. I spent much of last Saturday sitting behind a table collecting entrance fees from people for an SCA event.


A knitted SCA combined Arts & Sciences badge. Made quickly a couple weeks ago at the request of the event head cook, to her specifications, to be used as part of a serving presentation during the feast.

During the afternoon dead time at the event, after everyone who was coming had shown up but before we could officially close down the gate, I got in some good weaving time, and had help from at least three others. In the spirit of a truly group project, I'd like anyone who wants to weave a few rows to get a chance, so I taught a few new weavers as well, and Sunday I did some more at home.


Who's happy? That would be me.

It's coming out beautifully. The natural variegation of our handspun wool shows well, and the little bit of warp that shows adds just enough red to brighten it up.


Qapla'

From the first 79 foot skein of weft yarn, we have well over a foot of fabric, 18.5" wide. We're getting 9.5 rows of weft to the inch. We need a little over six feet of fabric - two 3-foot pieces - and then it goes off to others for embroidery and finishing.

And as I finally finish this post and check the date, I realize that it is officially our 14th wedding anniversary. Happy anniversary, love.


* Which begs the question, from a historical re-enactment standpoint, can alpaca yarn be considered within the SCA period we're aiming for, i.e. loosely pre-1600 (1650-at-the-latest) Europe? The answer is, maybe. Alpacas are a South American animal, domesticated there for thousands of years. The Spanish were slaughtering conquering the Incas in the 1500s, meaning they would certainly have had access to alpaca. But did the European conquerers actually use alpaca? Um, probably not. Rather, the Spanish brought in their own herd animals, and it's possible that nearly 90% of alpacas were wiped out during the Conquest, the rest being saved by the natives who took them up into the inhospitable higher altitudes. All modern alpacas come from these surviving herds. Alpaca wool was not really used in Europe until the 19th century. (Note: please don't use me or these random web pages as a reliable scholarly source!)**

** All of which begs the further question - Do I care?***

*** Which brings us to the answer: Nope. I have warp yarn of the right weight and colour that will not break on me. It is not synthetic, and is in fact from an animal that was domesticated well before 1600 and known by Europeans at that time, even if they were too dense to bother using alpaca for fibre. Blows raspberry in the general direction of any authenticity police.

The version of "The red warp story" with at least 85% less cussing

I originally posted this story on Ravelry the other day, in a forum where my occasional extreme potty mouth is not only accepted but expected. I think I'm now sufficiently calmed down enough to post it here with significantly fewer strings of naughty words.*

The background: I’m working on a project with a group of friends that started out a secret, but now is not. I've been babbling on about different parts of it for months. We’re weaving a pillow on my loom, which will be embroidered, finished and presented to some fine folks by the group. Since this is for an SCA (historical re-enactment) thing, we’ve made the weft yarn and the embroidery thread from sheep to finish - some members of the group attended the shearing, we all dealt with the raw wool, some dyed it, some spun it. It looks great and is working out just fine.

Since the weaving will be done on my loom, I made the call several months ago that we should go with a commercial yarn for the warp. It will be under tension on the loom and we didn’t know until recently how the lady-with-the-wheel’s handspun would hold up. To be a little more authentic, we bought a cone of white 2-ply commercial Shetland wool and dyed it red ourselves with cochineal.

Last Saturday, I started measuring it out on the warping board. By Sunday evening, I had it 3/4 measured.



At that point, I hit a snag in the yarn, so I sat down to pick it apart. I absent-mindedly gave it a good tug.

The yarn snapped apart in my hands.

Surprised, I pulled out another bit of yarn and did a tug test. It snapped like candy. No kidding. Wanna see?



I twisted two pieces together, tightly, hoping that if I doubled it up it would be OK. Nope. Snapped like a dry twig. This is bad. It can’t possibly stand up to the tension on the loom. I have 900 yards of red warp thread that I don’t dare waste my time threading onto my loom - it will break the minute I put any tension on it at all.

Here is where the strings of cussing came in. I have edited it down to a single word that sucinctly expresses my feelings:

FUCK.

This yarn? Is crap. It is weaker than my own handspun singles. Alas, the label neglected to mention that. I thought I gave it the old tug test when I first looked at it, but maybe not. It was sold as weaving yarn, from a weaving shop, so I just trusted that it was fine. I don't blame the shop, though.** It's also entirely possible that when I bought it, I neglected to mention that I was planning to use it for warp, and they assumed I wanted it for weft. I’ve been handling it for months and never noticed, never thought to check - and since we dyed it all, I can't be totally sure if it was this weak when I bought it, or if we ruined it in the cochineal/tin dyebath or subsequent hand washings.***

Total cost? Not much. $13 for the cone and about $8 for the dye materials. And several days of mine and a couple others’ time and sweat - mostly mine. I have no idea how I didn’t notice this before now. I honestly don’t know if this yarn is useable for anything.

As I was sitting there stewing and cursing under my breath, DH, who was quietly typing and observing the whole scene from a safe distance of a few feet away, asked if there was anything I needed. “Red yarn,” I said testily and with probably not a little sarcasm. “Wool, about this weight, that won’t fucking snap when I look at it funny.”

“Anything I actually have?” he asked, with infinite patience.

Pause. A few seconds passed. “A big fucking glass of port. This seriously requires alcohol.”

I rarely drink. I’m no tea-totaler, but booze gives me heartburn, one standard glass is enough that I can’t operate machinery, and my usual reaction to being even mildly drunk is to fall asleep. But DH didn’t even blink. He pulled out the bottle of port and emptied it into my glass.

Yesterday, I made an emergency yarn run and found some useable warp yarn. It’s not really a big deal. I am moving on. But sometimes you just have to say, "Screw it. Bottom’s up."


* Yes, I know anyone could look me up and find the original post on Ravelry. That's fine. Go for it. I am not embarrassed by it, nor is all the language edited out here, obviously. I'm simply providing a buffer between my in-person full-on rants and any readers with potentially more sensitive ears. Er, eyes. Whatever. It's just a courtesy.

** I will, however, be making a trip up there next week with a friend to check the cones on their shelves and see if I'm imagining it or if it really was this weak when I bought it, and to let them know, if they don't already, that it is absolutely, positively not suitable for warp.

*** ETA: I have since found two samples that the shop sent to me before I bought the cone. They are the same yarn, in red. We decided after getting them that we would use that yarn, only dye it ourselves. I tested one of the samples and it, too, snapped with little trouble. So I'm now pretty certain it's the yarn, not our cochineal/tin dyebath.

The garbage has been upgraded

DH got home from work at the usual time today.

D: Come for a short walk with me. Just down the street, a couple houses south of the service station.

Me: Huh? I'm making a latte. Need coffee.

D: Is it iced? It'll keep. Grab your camera. Really, I want to know if I'm imagining this.

Me: But... coffee. It's after 5, and I haven't had coffee today. Need coffee.

I hit the button, and the espresso machine begins to cheerily grind beans.

D: C'mon, it'll only take a couple minutes. Indulge me.

When he says these words, I know he usually has a good reason, darnit. The magical machine purrs happily, pouring two shots over ice. I sigh wistfully in its direction.

Me: (slipping on sandals and jacket) *grumblegrumblecoffeegrumble*

Here's what he wanted to show me, and he was right. It made me laugh like crazy:


Okay, now I really need that latte.

DH points out that it's interesting how easily these things slip by us. You're used to all sorts of crap stenciled on these bins, so you barely notice. The only reason he noticed was because seeing the bin reminded him that garbage day was coming up, and then he looked at it a second time. I had walked by that very place twice today on the way to and from the grocery store not an hour before, and I didn't notice it. Even staring right at it from across the street this evening, it didn't clue in right away.

Apparently, we were a few months late to the party. Here's someone who beat us to it. We're pretty sure this is the same location.

I really love my neighbourhood.

Perhaps I should also keep an eye on the garbage men?

It's official: We have a zombie plan. Thanks, JoCo.

It's only official when the folder is in the household business filing cabinet.

What do you mean you don't have a zombie plan? That's just crazy talk. Every family should have one.

I'm sorry, I can't divulge the contents of our household plan to survive a potential zombie apocalypse. Secrecy is key.

We were reminded of the need to formalize our zombie plan after last Wednesday's Jonathon Coulton show, with Paul and Storm, at Lula Lounge:


Will you be a fast zombie or a lethargic zombie?

We had a dinner reservation - our table was very close to the stage, which delighted us. The food at Lula, btw, is stunning. Amazing. Excellent. Also: the mojito menu is longer than the regular menu, and the food is so good, you won't notice. How can you argue with that?

The show was magnificent, with much audience participation. There were water jokes, zombies, fuzzy lobsters and lots of piratical "arrr". The digital video cameras were out in force - those kind souls who shot and posted footage have accumulated some good citizen karma for helping make the rest of my week that much more bearable. There were so many wonderful moments of the evening, I couldn't possibly list them all. There were a lot of favourites, but this serene cover, with Paul and Storm, of Birdhouse in Your Soul stands out.

And speaking of Paul and Storm, their opening set was a blast of awesome to set up the evening. I would go see them again in a heartbeat. Among the highlights was a new song, "Live" (high-tense-front-vowel-i) for the first time live (high-lax-front-vowel-i).


Such a tender ballad, it brings a tear to the eye

At least when I skip band practice, it's for a good reason.

The Power of Dad

Things have been surprisingly busy around here. Mom and Dad visited last weekend. It's always great to see them of course, but even more so when they come here, because Dad comes bearing power tools, years of building fixit experience, and a burning desire to Not Sit Still. In this case, he also brought us the second half of our housewarming gift: a 16-17 ft. telescoping stepladder (the cordless drill was Part One).

A ladder is absolutely essential around here with our high ceilings. Even with a stepstool, DH can barely change a lightbulb without risking serious injury. For me there's no chance. Heaven help us if the smoke alarm had gone off in the last six months. I was considering a nerf crossbow.

Come to think of it, that's probably still not a bad idea. scribbles a note

Dad is the type of guy who has to be kept busy. He loves puttering around drilling and fixing things and generally being extremely helpful. It's his idea of a vacation, if you can believe it. So, to encourage him to visit (we do also enjoy his company, after all) and lest he end up knocking down and putting up walls (it's been known to happen - not here, though... yet), I keep a small list of short-term projects he can play with when he visits.

Within two hours of their arrival, before DH got home from work, Dad had the bathroom fan out of the ceiling, cleaned and back in, purring nicely, a far cry from its previous wake-the-dead-rattle. When DH got home, we unloaded and moved a piano.

The next morning, Dad assembled six drawers for our Ikea wardrobes. We saved those for him (Ikea = DadLego: last time he spent a morning happily assembling our cheap Ikea shelving in the basement). After that, he and DH tackled the air-conditioner, which wasn't running since over the winter something chewed through the wires outside that connected it to the thermostat. It was a 2-person job to run the new wire, so it went onto the DadFunList. I now have air-conditioning again (they both received many hugs and kisses for that, in addition to a fresh round of iced tea).

Then Dad found the loppers and cultivator, and he and DH (bearing the weed-whacker and push-mower) went to town on the jungle growing in our backyard and started plotting the demise of some excess foilage. As the day wound down, he was devising ways of helping me keep up the heat on my indigo vat.

It's OK, he left us a few things to do - the smoke alarms need to be replaced (and now can be, thanks to The Ladder), and we need to get up into the crawlspace and put down some insulation before the fall. Of course, once DH showed him Google Sketch-up, they started excitedly brainstorming ways to tear apart and redo our kitchen. The two of them together are... scary.

I am the luckiest girl ever. I know this. I supply building materials, food, and a constant flow of iced tea, and things happen around me. It's like magic. It's the Power of Dad.

And did I mention I now have my piano?


1978 Baldwin Acrosonic spinet, French provincial style

This is the piano I learned on, ca. 1978. My sister has the piano she learned on (from my grandmother's house). Not to be outdone or without keys, Mom has her "pet rock": a Petrov grand (early on, Dad heard and parsed "Petrov" as "pet rock" and the name stuck). They were so pleased at the notion of recovering some floor space that they loaded the spinet into the trailer and delivered it personally. They've been waiting for me to have a place for it for nearly 15 years. It went into the house much easier than expected, and without serious injury to any person or property.

Now if only I could find all my sheet music. I am missing Chopin, and yet I have two copies of the Bach. It's inexplicable.

In spinning news, I recently scored some lovely new spindles from Butterfly Girl Designs. They are, from L-R, a pair of interchangable carnelian stone whorls on straight shafts, a murano foil whorl on a dark wood shaft, and a black lip mother-of-pearl whorl on an asymetrically carved shaft.



I made a special request for these spindles: shafts without hooks. I've discovered that I prefer using a half-hitch to secure my yarn to the spindle rather than a hook, and BFG was more than happy to help me out. At some point, I would love to get one of her openwork Italian resin spindles, and another multi-whorl set in a nice stone.


The carnelian whorls being used together. Wool is DorsetX, as thin as I can spin it.

I love these paired sets - the whorls are interchangable. Each one can be used separately or together, anywhere on the shaft (high, mid, low), and they would make great supported spindles. No sooner had I bought the carnelian pair than she listed a stunning blue goldstone pair. In the past, she's also had paired sets of rose quartz and hematite. But more spindles will have to wait for a while, I think.

Finally, the first full skein, 135-ish yards, of plied worsted-to-bulky "Berry Berry Nice" yarn: my earliest spinning (the pink tin-mordanted/brazilwood-dyed wool) plied with DorsetX. There's still an equal amount of pink singles left, and I'm spinning more DorsetX to probably make another skein of this.



Whew, that was a lot. I say naps all around are in order:


VAMPIRE CAT SLEEPS DURING DAY

The only knitting request he's ever made...

...is finished. Here's the completed Season 12 Dr. Who scarf. I wove in the last few ends and put on the tassels Tuesday evening. It has already been slept on by the cats, so I guess it's officially done.


Total unblocked knitted length without the tassels and not under tension: 15' 6"

The tassels add about 4" on each end, and when worn, its own weight will always cause it to stretch some. On DH, it's wearable by looping twice, unless he wants to trip over it:


He really prefers to be behind the camera, but he's a good sport

I've requested that he not wear it dragging on the ground, as is traditional. This is not about it getting dirty or damaged, because that's going to happen no matter what, and patches on a Dr. Who scarf are traditional. However, he does take a bus, subway, several escalators and an elevator to work. Under those conditions, a dragging scarf could be... unfortunate. I don't think I'll block it. It doesn't need any help to stretch, and it looks more authentic like this.

I continue to spin the black superwash merino/golden-brown tussah silk batts into laceweight singles. I tried out my new tulipwood nostepinne to wind the first spindle-load into a centre pull-ball.



At least I finished something, even if it wasn't my Big D proposal revisions, which were "due" a week ago. I vaguely remember a time when deadlines meant something...

You've won this time, double-knitting! But I'll be back!

A couple weeks ago I was pondering idly as I trudged along on the double-knit hat I started for Daniel last month, wondering what simple, even, repeatable pattern of contrasting colourwork I might start in another inch or so. As I thought, I realized that I had cast on 142 stitches. Divided by two, because this is double-knitting, meaning half the stitches are the outside layer and half are the inside - this gives 71 stitches in each colour: a beautiful prime number which is not evenly divisible by anything.

I sigh. So much for an even, repeatable pattern, I think. I wince a little due to my inner OCD, but whatever, I think, it’s not critical, and I’m not ripping it out. I've done too much of it, and it seemed to fit OK when he tried on the headband the day before.

I mention my little quandry to Daniel, intended (non-knitter husband) recipient of the hat. "Uh-huh," he says, eyes focussed on his computer screen, reading.

A couple minutes of companionable silence later, and he looks up at me. “Can’t you just, you know, add in like two more stitches in there or something?" he says. "That would give you 144. Then you could do an eight-stitch pattern. A couple more stitches won’t really change the size, right?”

“Er, you mean increase,” I say, blinking at my knitting stupidly and mentally smacking my forehead. “Um, yes. Right. Thanks, honey.”

Well, I’ll be. He doesn’t know knit from purl, but I guess he does listen sometimes!

Two M1s later (one in each colour), which would conveniently be hidden by the brim that folds up, my cheeks were somewhat pinker, but I now had 72 stitches in each colour, a nice, divisible number. My OCD was satisfied.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Fast forward a couple weeks. I have ripped out and restarted the double-knit hat. Once I was 6 or so inches in and had him try on the headband again with the brim flipped up (oh, but for the camera! There were balls of live yarn hanging off it and peach acrylic through the live stitches!), he reported that it was a little tighter than he liked. I was afraid of that.

I used a long-tail cast-on, and I had repeatedly started with too little yarn. With this method, you cast-on with the main colour 2x the number of stitches needed for one side of the hat, and then you divide the work into front and back by starting a second ball (of, say, the contrast colour) on the first round, purling every other stitch and keeping the yarns separate as you normally would in double-knitting.

By the third try at casting on long-tail, when I finally got 142 stitches on the needle and still ran out of yarn, frustration kicked in. I figured screw it, that should be good enough, I'll see how it goes, right? I also wasn't completely happy with how the long-tail cast on looked at the brim edge of the hat, which I plan for him to wear folded up. The cast-on edge stuck out strangely:


Using long-tail cast-on, a very visible cast-on edge

So I sucked it up and pulled it all out before I got any further. There is honour, I remind myself, in fighting valiantly but admitting defeat and readying oneself to do battle again another day. At least I now know what doesn't work.

One month on the needles, 7 inches of tube double-knit, 10 minutes to pull it all out and re-ball the yarn.

And then, three tries over five hours one evening last week to get it cast-on again the way I wanted. My brain and fingers could not work out a provisional cast-on to a spare cable, and that seemed like the best way to proceed, since I was going to pick up the stitches later, right? Bah, I finally got it on to some waste yarn. Guess I'll have to practice that.

This time, I did 84 stitches in the provisional cast-on with a needle one size larger than before. This should make it sufficiently bigger, but not monstrous, and I can come up with a 2, 6 or 12-stitch pattern to repeat.


Using provisional cast-on, the bottom edge runs smoothly into the contrast colour

The neat thing about using a provisional cast-on to start double-knit is that after a couple rows, you can fold the cast-on edge up and bring the live stitches that are on the waste yarn onto the working needle, picking up one between each stitch already on the needle. And suddenly, you have two-layer knitting and a beautifully smooth bottom edge with no obvious cast-on seam.

OK, so it's not a brand-new discovery or an Earth-shattering epiphany, but at least I'm pleased with myself, even if I did have to learn it the hard way!

Mother Nature has a full scholarship to F. U.

...but you can't deny, she has style.

From the evening of March 9th, a day or two after the latest bashing (the snow had already melted a little - notice the tree branches are empty). Comparing the bends in the tree trunk, the snow looks to be at least a good eight inches deeper than in the pic posted on Feb. 9.



This one was taken by Daniel on his good Olympus camera. It's three sequential shots of the same scene taken an exposure apart, then re-integrated using a freeware HDR app. This preserved more detail in the final picture, since he was shooting directly into the setting sun. (Shhh, I think he's having fun!)

Apparently, we collect printers

About two weeks ago, after four faithful years of heavy service, my PowerBookG4, of beloved memory, bit the dust. It refused to boot up. One frantic phone call to Daniel at work and 15 minutes later the computer was plugged into the MacMini and booted up as a removable drive. A couple hours later, all 45 GB was copied over, except a few minor things that refused to copy because of bad sectors. So, the work is safe. *whew* Today it went in to the Apple Store, since there is miraculously still one month left on its AppleCare Plan. The machine isn't really dead, only flakey. In fact, it booted up fine the day after the problem and has run normally since. But I still don't trust it, especially not as I begin working on Big D. I'm having the Apple guys run their diagnostics on it, and then we'll reformat or get a new drive as necessary.

But in the meantime, I needed to get back to work on a non-flakey machine, so as of 10 days ago, I am now the happy owner of a 2 Ghz MacBook. I love new computers, but they also stress me out. It took the better part of the last week to re-install everything, set it up exactly the way I like it, and put it through its paces to make sure I'm not missing anything crucial before the old computer went in for service.

I also got a printer - a Canon something-or-other that can print/scan/copy. I've wanted a printer with a copy function for a couple years, and what could I do? It was an extra $30 (after rebate) with the purchase of the computer, providing I remember to send in the stupid rebate thing.

Here's the funny part, though: we already have a scanner and three other working printers in the house, not counting the old dot matrix in the storage area. All the printers serve a different function. The middle-aged, cranky laser printer (it needs a serious cleaning right now) for cheap & quick non-inkjet, the large format colour for, well, large format colour and card stock, and the tiny colour inkjet that can fit in my backpack with the computer when I'm on the road. Because I am paranoid.

See, this is what happens when two desktop publishing geeks live together, get married and have no children. A proliferation of printers.

The Doctor is In

In my ongoing efforts to NOT get any work done on the D-I-S-S-E-R-T-A-T-I-O-N (henceforth known as "The Big D," until we come up with a better name - not "Buddy Dude," that is taken), I have taken to finding some new, and many old, projects.

For instance, I finished the Rowan Biggy Print scarf, which took a total of maybe four hours to knit, give or take 26-28 months. The last in-progress picture of it is dated Christmas Day 2004, along with several other in-progress WIPs, so it was started before that - you do the math. I had a perfectly good reason for not finishing it for so long. I had forgotten it existed, and was only reminded by a recent cold snap.

Suddenly, it was the obvious thing to pull out for my current needs, since it only required an hour or so to finish up: total, 4 hours max, 3 balls of Rowan Biggy Print (colour "Joker"), and one pair of 1" diameter needles from Gram's old needle stash. Result: a fun, warm scarf that I can wrap around the neck twice and still have hang down to my waist. Er, make that knees. I'm short.


Do I post the less blurry of the two photos, but which is also less flattering of me and in which one can make out hand prints and dirt on the living room mirror? Blurry photo it is!!

In the meantime, Daniel once again reminded me that I still haden't started his Tom Baker Dr. Who scarf, which I mentioned in several entries from November & December 2004 when I bought the wool. It's been an ongoing thing these last couple years. He says something about needing a touque in the dead freeze of winter, I say I could knit him up a nice watchman's cap thing in a couple days in a safe, guy-friendly dark green or grey rib pattern no less, he says, "But where's my Dr. Who scarf? I'd rather you do that first." And I sigh, and recall that I purchased the wool to make a 12-14 FOOT (depending on stretching) garter stitch scarf at his request. And I say, "That's not a 2 day project. I can't start that until I finish something. I have too many projects on the go right now."

Well, I finished something. And so the time has come. The Doctor, as they say, is In.

I'm doing the early (or unaltered) Season 12 scarf. The pattern has been updated over the last couple years; the guy who made it has most recently seen the original scarf in-person (see his website for the full story). He changed his mind on some of the colour matching as a result, now recommends different yarn than what I bought, and has made some little fixes to the pattern. But it doesn't matter much to Daniel or me whether the purple is a little darker and bluer than the original, or that the green and red are a little off. I have no fewer than 20 balls of Brown Sheep Nature Spun (sport weight) in 7 colours that were special ordered for this beast, and now that I've decided it's time to start, I will not be swayed from my goal.


Tiger warily eyes the Dr. Who Scarf wool, which is encroaching on his space.

As a good omen, I (edit: almost) hit the stitch gauge on the first try (gauge, you say? It's a scarf! I hear you laugh.) But remember this is a reproduction: the original scarf is approximately 12" wide, with 66 stitches (the pattern guy recently counted when he held the original in his hands; me::green with envy). And I, starting with a #6 needle (picked because it is in-between the recommended #5 or #7), am was dead on 12" at 66 stitches.


So there. It was meant to be.

Update: as of the above picture, my gauge has apparently settled in at about 5 stitches per inch. I'm ending up with a 12.5 - 13" wide scarf instead of 12", but I. Don't. Care. - blj

There are a number of other things that I've been busy with for the last couple months. Too busy, in fact, to stop and take pictures, let alone update the blog: sewing garb (with the help of my mother-in-law) for a couple SCA events that happened in December and January, baking several hundred Pfeffernuße cookies (also with the help of my mother-in-law) over Christmas and New Years for one of those same events, coming close to finishing the backstitching on the little Michael Powell piece, pulling out Peacock Tapestry for the first time in a couple years and putting in a few stitches, taking a sudden yet profound interest in calligraphy and illumination. And I got both a soprano and and alto wooden recorder for Christmas (in other words, I said "Hey, I'm getting these for myself, Merry Christmas to me?" and husband said, "Excellent! I'm off the hook then?"). I've been working on learning to play the alto. The cats are disturbed, and much hilarity ensues. At some point, I anticipate that pictures of each of these things will make it into the blog, particularly the garb.

I've also had a couple band concerts, most recently one called "Viva Las Vegas," in which we had an Elvis impersonator (he was good), and played the piece "Godzilla Eats Las Vegas" (and he did). The band was instructed to come in 'Vegas costumes,' so we had the flute section dressed as showgirls, the trumpet section as blackjack dealers in matching vests, a mobster or two, several over-the-top tourists, a fifties lounge-band guy with the poofy ruffled sleeves, an Ace of Spades, a couple priests and a Vegas bride... and the Elvii, of course... I wasn't sure what I was going to do at first, but had a sudden inspiration. Another band-member-not-appearing-in-this-photo-until-I-OK-it-with-her joined me in the nefarious plot, and we went as CSIs.


The costume consisted of a black windbreaker, black shirt, black or blue ballcap and 2" high white stick-on letters purchased at Staples. I also found some old conference name tag holders to use as ID carriers. I laid out the letters for 'forensics' onto clear packing tape first, so that it would be even and stick onto the nylon jacket securely but not permanently. I would have prefered to put 'LVPD' on the hat, but we were concerned that people would take longer to get the reference. Apparently, I have recently found out, there are people who don't know that the original (and best) CSI show is set in Vegas. Whodathunkit.

And somewhere in the last month, I've done a little bit of grading, and even spent a couple weeks working on The Big D. You know, that thing I'm supposed to be working on steadily, coming up with this oddity known as a H-Y-P-O-T-H-E-S-I-S so that I can justify the next year or so of my life? Sigh. But really, the less said about that right now, the better.

Resolve This

We've been talking recently about cooking at home more, and not eating out or ordering take out/delivery quite as much. I wouldn't call it a New Year's resolution, though, because if I did, it would surely be doomed to failure. It has less to do with saving money and more to do with me being generally sick to death of our regular haunts for take out and delivery. Between you and me, that list of "regular haunts" is pretty darn big. So, without really meaning to, we've been cooking at home a bit more for the last couple weeks.

But again: not a resolution. Many days, it's so much easier to pick up the phone and hop in the car (I need to get out of the house sometimes anyhow) than to go grocery shopping, clean the indoor grill and wash the dishes. Take, for example, our New Year's Day feast, which I impulsively took a picture of because it struck me as amusing, yet typical of our idea of a "sit down dinner":



That would be Indian for me (butter chicken (R), channa masala (L) and naan from Bombay Bhel (that's at least 2 meals right there), KFC for Daniel (across the road from the Bombay Bhel - he likes indian but wasn't in the mood that day), and Starbucks for both of us.

A good start to the year, I say. Huzzah.

Just be glad I didn't include pictures this time.

I am rarely moved to poetry, but then, home renovations are even more rare in my world, save for the occasional lightbulb or lampshade.

Last weekend was surprisingly eventful, though, and confirmation that marriage is indeed a partnership, and crisis nearly always brings you closer. Remind me to tell the story of our first "date" sometime, which culminated at 2am on a deserted Pittsburgh street with one of us holding a tire iron and the other a jack, as the S.W.A.T. van drove by.

Good times.

And so, for my dear Daniel, I present the following. I didn't say it was good poetry, but it comes from the heart.

Ode on a Toilet Seat

For many a year, a month, a week,
we had turned a blind eye to the old toilet seat.
What I cannot see couldn’t kill me, I thought.
(Domestic Goddess, I am not.)
But on Saturday morning, just this past week
the gross-out factor reached its peak.
I got a good look where the brush couldn’t reach,
and firmly repressed an ear-splitting shriek.
So off to Canadian Tire we went,
a magical land where much money was spent.
We returned home, proud owners of wrenches (not tires)
and a new toilet seat, Some Assembly Required.
The first step, brave husband, remove the old seat,
then much cleaning and scrubbing for me, what a treat!
But the old seat removal proved no piece of cake -
it had been attached 15 years, give or take -
at that time installed, by some sick (not us) putz,
using metal bolts, and plastic nuts.
Those bolts were rusted through and through.
It was as though they’d been attached with glue.
(Glue would be easier, I thought to myself -
there’s chemicals to dissolve that stuff.)
But we crawled in behind the old toilet and tried
not to think of the state of things growing inside.
Much swearing and WD-40 ensued,
but the seat would not budge from its toilet friend true.
A couple hours later, still having no luck,
an “Aha!” from the husband as inspiration struck.
“Break the old (plastic) seat, leaving just rusty bolts,
then hit from the top, they’ll fall out with a jolt!”
With sponge, mop, and gloves, I descended in turn
to crawl in behind there and kill scary germs.
Once scoured, the new seat it’s time to attach -
So we opened it, only to find it was cracked.
Thus, back to Canadian Tire I raced
to return it, by closing, and try to replace.
My mission successful, the seat was installed
in its clean, shiny glory - clamshell pattern and all.
And as I first sat upon the new throne
and opened up a hefty tome
(for reading material was now required),
I’m certain I heard a heavenly choir.
And I said, “Hey guys, do you have to watch?
This is kind of a private moment, as such.”
The descending angels did look abashed,
for I was sitting there quite bare-assed.
And here Ends my Tail, we are wiser (a smidge),
and God help us if I look beneath that old fridge.

The Obligatory Paper and Cat Update

Blogs are funny things. In my case, for instance, it has the ability to remind me how much I've done in the last year, while simultaneously and in technicolour detail demonstrating exactly how little I've done in the past month. Neat.

The paper is not yet written. In fact, the draft is only marginally longer than it was a month ago at this time. My EPAWS (Eternally Patient and Wonderful Supervisor) is still exactly that, and I'm not certain how she continues to respond to my weekly assurances of "it's going well" and "soon, I'll have a big section to you soon" with nothing but serene calm and "just keep working at it, as long as you're working, I'm not worried." And I am indeed working - except I write three sentences, reread them, highlight two of them and turn them into footnotes. This is the first time I've written a paper in Word, and I seem to be enamored with and have a newfound respect for Word's ability to handle footnotes with ease. The paper is probably 1/3 - 1/2 footnotes right now, which would be funny if it weren't completely exasperating. But I'm working. See, working, can't you tell?

There was a horrific paper SNAFU last weekend, though, which involved me putting the Word file in the trash and emptying it (accidentally! long story! everybody's nightmare!), some hyperventilating and tears, and the purchase of a file recovery software in record time. In the end, nothing major was lost save for a little time. All is now back to staus quo, and EPAWS and my husband are gently but persistently reminding me to back up more frequently. We've also discovered that when I'm panicking, I apparently develop an overwhelming need to compulsively check my email and delete evil spam messages:

Me (with increasing hysteria): "But can't I just check my email? Just once? I probably have, like, 30 spam messages sitting in there in the last 10 minutes, with more accumulating! Please?"

Husband (very patiently): "Dear, you know that any use of your computer right now decreases the chances of your Very Important Document being recovered intact. Here. Use my computer."

Me: *sniffle*

If only I could channel that obsessive-compulsive streak into a need to do dishes or vaccuum or scrub the bathroom spotless. But I digress.

I visited my family in PA the weekend before last. All I can say is, it's not really a visit home until the PA State Police have knocked on someone's door. Just the average family chaos, you know. That story has been filed away for telling at a later date.

Ford, my knitting model of the previous entry and normally fuzzy, snuggly grey ball of hugs and occasional Holy Terror, spent a reluctant day with the vet today, returning victorious (i.e. he repaid their 6x drawing of his blood with his drawing some of theirs). He is currently recovering from battle by napping on the coffee table between the two laptop computers so that the fans blow warm air simultaneously on his belly and bum.

Ford was diagnosed diabetic in late March. For two months now we've been valiantly struggling to get his insulin dose regulated with occasional morning blood tests, to no avail. Despite the fact that the vet originally felt he was "not a good candidate for a blood-glucose curve", I insisted. Doing a BGC involves a full day at the vet, where they administer his insulin and test his blood every two hours to see how his system is metabolizing it. But an accurate result involves the cat being calm, relaxed and eating normally throughout the day, which are only three of the long list of things that Ford will not, under any circumstances, do while at the vet.

I ended up going over at mid-day at their request to see if I could get him to eat. He did, but only once he was out of the cage and allowed to roam free in a room, and after I pulled out his favourite china plate (yes, really) and a can of moist food. I also had to help them get him in and out of the cage while I was there, because he was, in their words, "Not very happy with us right now". That is vet-code speak for much hissing and growling and swiping with claws.

The vet is glad we did it, though, because we learned:
1) that the insulin is working fine (insulin resistance was a concern)
2) his urine always reads high for glucose even when his blood sugar is in the normal range or even a little low (this can sometimes happen, and means that urine tests aren't a very good indicator of how well he's regulated)
3) we might be able to decrease his dose (YAY!) if we can control his diet better (*sigh*), and
4) that his claws are, indeed, still very sharp (he got the poor vet pretty good on the arm, hazard of the job, I guess).

Now that he's home, he's reverted to his normally angelic, snuggly, hungry self. He gave me no problems for his evening insulin shot, he chased and was chased by Tiger for a bit, and he later feigned perfect innocence when he kicked a mug of water off the coffee table while "stretching". The mug was followed by a nearby magazine, which landed in the water, followed by a half-dozen CDs, which didn't. Although I'm pretty sure he was aiming for the water. Dat's my boy.

It has not escaped our attention that his name - unsurprisingly inspired by Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy - can also be used as an acronym for Force Of Random Destruction.

Actually, it's been a bad couple of months for us at the vet. Or, good, if you're the vet, because I think we're contributing considerably to their new equipment upgrades. Tiger (age nearly 13) started limping sometime in late April. When it hadn't gotten any better by last week, I loaded him up and took him over. He was treated to much prodding and some x-rays, with the conclusion being that he has a touch of arthritis in his left rear ankle. Some anti-inflammatory meds later, and he's doing much better, though he'll probably have to continue to use it sparingly for his remaining years. They LOVE him at the vet. They can poke and prod him to their heart's content and he never complains or makes a sound. They didn't even have to sedate him to get him to hold still enough for x-rays. What a trooper. I will have to get some pictures of him up here soon.

So, this has turned into a cat post. And just like that, it's June. See? Blogs are funny things.

Today's blog sponsored by ITunes, and the letter "W"

My husband and I were sharing an enjoyable task the other day - I was ripping a small stack of CDs into ITunes, then copying everything over to the external hard drive so that he could re-synch the IPod. When we bought the IPod last summer, we spent many evenings in front of the television, ripping the our entire (embarassingly large) combined CD collection for posterity. Every few months since, after we acquire a small stack of new CDs, we rip those and re-synch. I mentioned once before that we buy a lot of DVDs. We buy a lot of CDs as well. Starbucks CDs are my current weakness.

Yes, we are multimedia junkies. Moving on.

As we synched the IPod, he started to giggle. The computer was displaying each song title as it synched, 8430 songs in total, in reverse alphabetical order. It was in the middle of the letter W. He started reading aloud, and pretty soon we were both laughing.

So, for your enjoyment, I present a small sample of songs from the letter W. Read it aloud, and fast, and hopefully you'll find it as silly and funny as we did. If you're really bored, try and guess the artist and album for each song.

Who Wears These Shoes?
Who Wants to Live Forever?
Who Shot Mr. Burns?
Who Said I Would?
Who Needs You?
Who Is That Standing At My Window?
Who Is It?
Who Dunnit?
Who Do You Think You Are?
Who Are You?
Who Am I?
Who's The Boss?
Who's That Lady?
Who's That Girl?
Who's Next?
Who's Knocking on the Wall?
Who's Gene Autry?
Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?
Who'll Stop the Rain?

When DVDs Attack: A reality check for We-Of-Little-Willpower

For goodness' sake, we bought more DVDs. Why, in the name of sweet justice, WHY?!?!? We haven't watched the ones we have, and we're bringing home more? But then really, how could I walk away from "Alien Nation: The Complete Series"? Or "The Flash"? Or Jon Pertwee as Dr. Who in "The Claws of Axos"? I ask you, how could anyone walk away from "The Claws of Axos"?

There are priorities, and then there are priorities.

So here we are, bursting at the seams with DVDs, mostly seasons or complete series sets of old TV shows. We are, in a word, addicted. Admittedly, we are dual-income-no-kids 30-somethings who don't spend money on things like drinks at bars, cigarettes, cover charges, or movie and theatre tickets. Our nieces and nephews are either past the indulging age or too far away to indulge. Our only vacation in 4 years was a three-day trip to New York City a few weeks ago between Christmas and New Years (The Cloisters and MoMA, by the way, are highly recommended). So, DVDs are our entertainment. We rarely watch broadcast TV, the exceptions being the original CSI, the new Battlestar Galactica and my own recently-developed fascination with Lost, which I give a 50/50 chance of lasting through this season.

So, there's justification, yes. But now, the reality check. We have too many frickin' DVDs. I mean, I know which cash registers at 5 separate Best Buys and Future Shops won't read my debit card without a swipe-fight, which is a level of familiarity with those stores that a non-employee shouldn't have. I absolutely, positively MUST declare a moratorium on DVD buying for a good long while now. It would be fine if I had two weeks to sit on my butt and watch DVDs all day while I knit, then I might get through the backlog we've been building up. But the new term has started, and I have work to do which I've been ignoring since mid-December.

So this time I mean it. No more. Really.

Except the 5th season of the original "Twilight Zone", of course.

But not until I watch the previous 4.

Honest.