I've been thinking of declaring war on something for a while now. I've noticed that one can declare war on something without having to do anything constructive about it, which is perfect for me. I much prefer making grandiose statements than following through on them.
I don't know how it came to be that I wanted to declare war. But I know it was a few weeks ago and since then, I've been pondering what it is that will bear the brunt of my wrath.
For a while, it was going to be dust, as dust is truly mine enemy. But I had to face the harsh reality that that would be an ever losing battle. I would only become mired in the conflict, and the dust would ultimately win.
Then I thought perhaps I would declare war on rain, as it has been raining here since September. That was no good either, as for the most part, rain is a good thing, although if you talk to the people on Vancouver island right now, they might be ready to break out the torches and pitch-forks and congregate into an angry mob. Also, the rain is just a nasty little insurgent, backed up by the much bigger army of global warming, and we all know there's no surviving that one.
So while I was doing some shopping yesterday in the big city, it finally came to me and all of my fruitless pondering was over. Therefore, I, Marti, do hereby officially declare war on centre-isle displays. You better watch your backs oh bins of crap, cuz I'm comin' to getcha.
Seriously though, WTF? I was in Michaels and I could barely move around. The isles would be twice as wide with ample room for both customer and cart to move about comfortably if it were not for display after display after freakin' display of useless crap. And every single isle had one. Several in fact. I wanted to go from one side of the store to the other and it took me five minutes. And if it isn't a display set up blocking my way, then it's a clerk with a whole heapin' pile of crap on the floor that they have to find a place for on the shelf. They can't get conveniently out of the way while they do their work, cuz there isn't anywhere to go.
While I'm bashing Micheals for a minute, (perhaps I should just declare war on them instead) they seriously have to reconsider their choice of in-house music. This stuff is so plinky-plonky-harpy-elevator-slash-mental-institution-coma-inducing pap that sometimes, it actually makes me want to leave. That, and the smell of the candle isle. It's too much. It's like the ninth level of craft hell. Tempting enough to get you in the door, kitchy enough to make you ashamed.
There is another store I was in recently where the centre isles were out of control. It's a discount store in my hometown and perhaps an exclusively Canadian chain, Giant Tiger. BTW, why is the official colour for cheap yellow? No Frills, Giant Tiger, even Dollorama has stong yellow undertones. In any case, this store is impassable. There are no isles come to think of it. It's all displays, racks, bins shelves and people. I truly believe some of them went in five years ago and haven't seen the light of day since. They just wander aimlessly, coming upon the same sale item again and again, muttering to themselves "Oh look. Two bars of Dove soap for five dollars...that's a good deal."
Grocery stores aren't even safe anymore. They built these enormous box stores, so big you can barely stand it, and then fill the double-wide isles meant to accomodate the double-wide carts with twice as many displays! Then we're right back to where we were in our local, teeny-tiny grocery stores; waiting for others to pass in the one lane of traffic in the middle of isle.
Where is the logic in this? Actually, it makes perfect sense. Its our North American need for MORE STUFF. I looked around me at Michaels and wondered how in the world all of this stuff could ever all be used up in a lifetime. It can't. It gets ordered, it sits on the shelf, it gets discounted, it gets thrown away. And every week theres a new shipment of stuff, little bits and pieces by which we make new stuff to stuff in corners and on tables and into gift boxes.
I look around me at my temporary home and it's quite literally, in some places, packed to the roof with my stuff. The stuff I felt I needed with me that couldn't go into storage. Then I think about the storage unit and it is quite literally, in all places, packed to the roof with our stuff. Necessary stuff, useless stuff, old stuff, new stuff.
That's it...I change my declaration. I hereby declare war on my stuff.
Watch George Carlin's A Place for my Stuff since I can't because of the dial-up. Warning: More than likely contains offensive or strong language. I would've checked ahead of time, but I'm on dial-up.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Sunday, November 19, 2006
The Mother of Invention...
I think I may have come up with a solution to my problems of a) not having a digi-cam and b) not being able to discuss my Christmas projects in a public forum. Therefore, I give you this artists rendition of...
...a hat that I have finished...
...some mitts that I'm quite pleased with...
...and some socks.
I'm having a very productive period right now. And today is CRAFTERNOON Day! Yeeha! For last weeks project results, check out Carrie's site.
'Tis all for now!
...a hat that I have finished...
...some mitts that I'm quite pleased with...
...and some socks.
I'm having a very productive period right now. And today is CRAFTERNOON Day! Yeeha! For last weeks project results, check out Carrie's site.
'Tis all for now!
Thursday, November 09, 2006
A Confession...
I was thinking of something the other day whilst riding around in my Yeep. Actually, I wasn't so much thinking as coming to a realization.
Here's the thing: I used to be a smoker. I know, I know, in todays society, that's akin to saying something like, 'Hey, I used to murder people!', but it's true. I smoked a good portion of my youth away, from about sixteen to twenty five or six. I've been smoke free ever since, and I'm quite proud of having kicked the habit. And I did it without using any aids, like gum or patches or that ridiculous looking fake plastic cigarette butt that dispenses nicotine everytime you take a haul off of it when having a craving. I suppose the rationale there is to quit by process of humiliation. You look like even more of a dumb ass carrying this thing around than you ever did when you were a smoker. Because really, we all know that smoking is cool. Otherwise they wouldn't use it in so many movies.
In any case, I was very proud that I kicked that addiction all by myself. I was addiction free, my own woman, slave to nothing. Until, that is, I was driving around the other day and realized that I now have the same feelings about knitting and yarn as I used to about cigarettes. The thoughts and behaviours are exactly the same. I didn't defeat anything. I've triumphed over nothing. All of my self righteousness was for naught...I'm still a slave. A slave to yarn. To knitting blogs. To craftzines and pattern books, knitty shops and fancy needles and the whole nine yards (of cashemere-wool blend in a yummy soft pink colourway).
I used to love smoking the exact same way that I now love knitting. This is something extremely difficult to explain to those outside of either addiction. Smoking moreso to a non-smoker I suppose. I'll do my best to convey the sentiments however.
I really don't know why it is that one loves such a filthy habit, but I loved everything about it. I loved my first cigarette in the morning with my first cup of coffee. The successive eighteen cigarette that followed with only two more cups of coffee weren't that great, but still. I loved smoking in the car. I loved taking a break from whatever I was doing during the day to have a smoke. I loved getting a fresh new pack of cigarettes and going through my own little ritual of opening it up. Fist the celophane, then pushing up the inner tray to reveal the cozy little cigarettes all snugly wrapped in tin foil. Which side you exposed first, the right or the left, said a lot about who you were. Why, I don't know. It's just part of the smoking culture. Then, if you had that kind of time, you could separate the tin foil from it's paper backing and then rub the tin foil onto your package of cigarettes, almost like a piece of gold leaf, with the butt end of your lighter. Magic! And oh so pretty.
The brand I smoked had a calendar on the back of the inner tray too, which was immensely handy. Thank you Players. I could always accurately calculate my next quit date, which of course never ever came.
I always had to have my cigarettes with me too. Panic if I'd forgotten them, lost them etc. They were an essential part of my day and took a lot of time and energy to think about. When to have one, where to have one, how many should I have, how many do I have left, when do I need to go buy more, how much to spend on them and on and on and on. I thought, for a while at least in my blissful ignorance, that I had left that all behind.
Until I was packing my knitting bag to go visit my mother.
Where my pack of smokes used to sit on the seat next to me now sits a home-made knitty bag full of completed projects to show off and works in progress. Knitting is the first thing I do every morning, with steaming cup of coffee within close reach, and the last thing I do every night. I used to think to myself, "Okay, one more smoke and then I'll go to bed." Now it's one more row.
I knit when I'm on the phone. I knit watching movies. I can't knit in the car, at least not while I'm driving, but I assure you, if I could figure out how to do it safely, I would. That's valuable knitting time wasted.
When I'm busy doing something else, like say, oh I don't know, working, I wish I were knitting. I think about how much I can knit when I get home. I even take my knitting with me, just to sneak in a few stiches here and there, feeling immensely guilty about it as I do, just like the cigarettes of yore.
I get giddy about going to the knitty shops. I go through my own little ritual of touching damn near everything in the store, contemplating projects and worrying about what I can buy and where I can buy it and how much I should spend. I get home and unwrap all my little bundles, these snugly wrapped little balls of yarn. What kind of yarn you buy says a lot about you. I don't know why, it's just part of the knitting culture.
I think what it all boils down to, other than perhaps an actual chemical reaction in the brain, is the feeling of never being alone, even in ones own solitude. I like being alone and have mostly been alone during my wee lifetime, but when I smoked, I felt like I wasn't entirely on my own. Same with knitting. You could lock me up in a cell for days at a time and as long as I was knitting, I'd be content. Never alone.
I used to carry the cigarettes as a way to define and protect me. "I'm a smoker", they'd say. I could either find other smokers and instantly have a bond, or separate myself from those who weren't. Same with knitting. I can seek out other knitters and share a common thread (or yarn as it were) or seal myself off in a group and retreat into my own little world. The only difference really in these two addictions is that I'm fairly confident knitting won't kill me somewhere down the road. Unless I fall on one of my needles or accidently garotte myself with a circ. And the only way that knitting will leave me breathless is if a) my stash has an uprising and smothers me in my sleep or b) there is an exquisite hand spun/hand painted skein of whatever that I simply must have.
At least now, I'm more productive. And instead of taking myself away from those that I love in small bits and pieces, I now produce those bits and pieces and give them away in the form of mittens and hats and scarves and bootees. And sweaters. And socks. And bags. And washcloths. And stuffed toys.
Yeah, if I can't beat this addictive behaviour altogether, I think its at least a good trade off.
Here's the thing: I used to be a smoker. I know, I know, in todays society, that's akin to saying something like, 'Hey, I used to murder people!', but it's true. I smoked a good portion of my youth away, from about sixteen to twenty five or six. I've been smoke free ever since, and I'm quite proud of having kicked the habit. And I did it without using any aids, like gum or patches or that ridiculous looking fake plastic cigarette butt that dispenses nicotine everytime you take a haul off of it when having a craving. I suppose the rationale there is to quit by process of humiliation. You look like even more of a dumb ass carrying this thing around than you ever did when you were a smoker. Because really, we all know that smoking is cool. Otherwise they wouldn't use it in so many movies.
In any case, I was very proud that I kicked that addiction all by myself. I was addiction free, my own woman, slave to nothing. Until, that is, I was driving around the other day and realized that I now have the same feelings about knitting and yarn as I used to about cigarettes. The thoughts and behaviours are exactly the same. I didn't defeat anything. I've triumphed over nothing. All of my self righteousness was for naught...I'm still a slave. A slave to yarn. To knitting blogs. To craftzines and pattern books, knitty shops and fancy needles and the whole nine yards (of cashemere-wool blend in a yummy soft pink colourway).
I used to love smoking the exact same way that I now love knitting. This is something extremely difficult to explain to those outside of either addiction. Smoking moreso to a non-smoker I suppose. I'll do my best to convey the sentiments however.
I really don't know why it is that one loves such a filthy habit, but I loved everything about it. I loved my first cigarette in the morning with my first cup of coffee. The successive eighteen cigarette that followed with only two more cups of coffee weren't that great, but still. I loved smoking in the car. I loved taking a break from whatever I was doing during the day to have a smoke. I loved getting a fresh new pack of cigarettes and going through my own little ritual of opening it up. Fist the celophane, then pushing up the inner tray to reveal the cozy little cigarettes all snugly wrapped in tin foil. Which side you exposed first, the right or the left, said a lot about who you were. Why, I don't know. It's just part of the smoking culture. Then, if you had that kind of time, you could separate the tin foil from it's paper backing and then rub the tin foil onto your package of cigarettes, almost like a piece of gold leaf, with the butt end of your lighter. Magic! And oh so pretty.
The brand I smoked had a calendar on the back of the inner tray too, which was immensely handy. Thank you Players. I could always accurately calculate my next quit date, which of course never ever came.
I always had to have my cigarettes with me too. Panic if I'd forgotten them, lost them etc. They were an essential part of my day and took a lot of time and energy to think about. When to have one, where to have one, how many should I have, how many do I have left, when do I need to go buy more, how much to spend on them and on and on and on. I thought, for a while at least in my blissful ignorance, that I had left that all behind.
Until I was packing my knitting bag to go visit my mother.
Where my pack of smokes used to sit on the seat next to me now sits a home-made knitty bag full of completed projects to show off and works in progress. Knitting is the first thing I do every morning, with steaming cup of coffee within close reach, and the last thing I do every night. I used to think to myself, "Okay, one more smoke and then I'll go to bed." Now it's one more row.
I knit when I'm on the phone. I knit watching movies. I can't knit in the car, at least not while I'm driving, but I assure you, if I could figure out how to do it safely, I would. That's valuable knitting time wasted.
When I'm busy doing something else, like say, oh I don't know, working, I wish I were knitting. I think about how much I can knit when I get home. I even take my knitting with me, just to sneak in a few stiches here and there, feeling immensely guilty about it as I do, just like the cigarettes of yore.
I get giddy about going to the knitty shops. I go through my own little ritual of touching damn near everything in the store, contemplating projects and worrying about what I can buy and where I can buy it and how much I should spend. I get home and unwrap all my little bundles, these snugly wrapped little balls of yarn. What kind of yarn you buy says a lot about you. I don't know why, it's just part of the knitting culture.
I think what it all boils down to, other than perhaps an actual chemical reaction in the brain, is the feeling of never being alone, even in ones own solitude. I like being alone and have mostly been alone during my wee lifetime, but when I smoked, I felt like I wasn't entirely on my own. Same with knitting. You could lock me up in a cell for days at a time and as long as I was knitting, I'd be content. Never alone.
I used to carry the cigarettes as a way to define and protect me. "I'm a smoker", they'd say. I could either find other smokers and instantly have a bond, or separate myself from those who weren't. Same with knitting. I can seek out other knitters and share a common thread (or yarn as it were) or seal myself off in a group and retreat into my own little world. The only difference really in these two addictions is that I'm fairly confident knitting won't kill me somewhere down the road. Unless I fall on one of my needles or accidently garotte myself with a circ. And the only way that knitting will leave me breathless is if a) my stash has an uprising and smothers me in my sleep or b) there is an exquisite hand spun/hand painted skein of whatever that I simply must have.
At least now, I'm more productive. And instead of taking myself away from those that I love in small bits and pieces, I now produce those bits and pieces and give them away in the form of mittens and hats and scarves and bootees. And sweaters. And socks. And bags. And washcloths. And stuffed toys.
Yeah, if I can't beat this addictive behaviour altogether, I think its at least a good trade off.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Getting caught up...
Being sans camera SUCKS, so here are a few projects I've either finished or am working on currently as I have recently gotten a film developed. Woot.
This is my first attempt at lace knitting. I picked up this ginormous ball of red laceweight yarn (at least I think it's laceweight!) at my friendly Value Village, where it was languishing in obscurity. The colour is so vibrant and the wool itself is so soft and warm. It's knitting up very nicely, although I'm not 100% on what it is I am actually knitting. I think it might be mohair. I'm not too edumacated on such matters though, so it's only a guess. As I am a craptastic photographer, the diamond pattern that is so pretty and delicate in real life is almost completely indistinguishable in this picture. Grr. I lifted the pattern out of this awesome book that was also languishing in obscurity at my friendly local library called Knitting Lace, A Workshop with Patterns and Projects by Susanna E. Lewis. I think it has something like 98 sample in it. I thought about knitting all of them to begin with...and then I woke up.
I wanted a project that would be nice and long that would take me the entire length of my internment here in the black hole of technology, so I settled on a long wide scarf. I wasn't too sure whether I would have enough yarn for a wrap or a shawl, but I'm positive that this scarf will encircle me a good two or three times. I would ideally like to have it finished in time for Biff's graduation, as the scarf is red and he'll be wearing red...uh, see the theme there? See what I did just there?? Yes, I'm very clever.
As you can see, the diamond pattern repeats four times across. The first repeat is a bloody mess, but it took a good deal of my time and concentration just to get that far, so I left it. I like the fact that I left it there too. It's a good reminder that not everything I attempt will work out the first time, but with time, will get better. Until the next time I'm not paying attention, then I'll mess up again like I did in the fourth or fifth repeat. But no one will ever know. Accept my mother, who seems to instantly spot these things no matter what. Case in point: I wove a scarf for her last Christmas with the tiniest of mistakes in the weave where two ends got crossed. I figured she'd never even spot it, cuz I'm the crafter and she's not. I'll always see the mistakes first. She opened it up, took two seconds to look at it and said, "Oh, what's this?". Yep. If it isn't one thing, it's your mother.
This is the Mason-Dixon mitred square inspired afghan. I had the wee neice in mind with this project, as her room is orange and again, with the quality of the photography, this orange blanket looks red. It isn't. It's Home Depot orange and white. I totally dig it. I'm not usually that drawn to really bright colours, but this blankie is a lot of fun. It's her Christmas project and I have it posted over at the MD KAL. I'm not too worried about her seeing it before the big day. She's just discovered her feet, so I think web surfing is a ways off yet. Besides, it's much more impressive (or disappointing as it were) in person.
And that's it so far. Currently I've started my Christmas knitting and it's going rather well accept for the ________ that I started for my SIL with the _________ wool that I picked up the other day. I was going to do a __________ but then settled on a _________ which just isn't working in my favour, as I wanted to attempt a really nice cabled pattern, which I haven't ever really done either. Hmmm. This blog is going to be a bit sparse during the holiday season, I can tell. I'll have to come up with a better system for blogging about gifts.
Until later...
This is my first attempt at lace knitting. I picked up this ginormous ball of red laceweight yarn (at least I think it's laceweight!) at my friendly Value Village, where it was languishing in obscurity. The colour is so vibrant and the wool itself is so soft and warm. It's knitting up very nicely, although I'm not 100% on what it is I am actually knitting. I think it might be mohair. I'm not too edumacated on such matters though, so it's only a guess. As I am a craptastic photographer, the diamond pattern that is so pretty and delicate in real life is almost completely indistinguishable in this picture. Grr. I lifted the pattern out of this awesome book that was also languishing in obscurity at my friendly local library called Knitting Lace, A Workshop with Patterns and Projects by Susanna E. Lewis. I think it has something like 98 sample in it. I thought about knitting all of them to begin with...and then I woke up.
I wanted a project that would be nice and long that would take me the entire length of my internment here in the black hole of technology, so I settled on a long wide scarf. I wasn't too sure whether I would have enough yarn for a wrap or a shawl, but I'm positive that this scarf will encircle me a good two or three times. I would ideally like to have it finished in time for Biff's graduation, as the scarf is red and he'll be wearing red...uh, see the theme there? See what I did just there?? Yes, I'm very clever.
As you can see, the diamond pattern repeats four times across. The first repeat is a bloody mess, but it took a good deal of my time and concentration just to get that far, so I left it. I like the fact that I left it there too. It's a good reminder that not everything I attempt will work out the first time, but with time, will get better. Until the next time I'm not paying attention, then I'll mess up again like I did in the fourth or fifth repeat. But no one will ever know. Accept my mother, who seems to instantly spot these things no matter what. Case in point: I wove a scarf for her last Christmas with the tiniest of mistakes in the weave where two ends got crossed. I figured she'd never even spot it, cuz I'm the crafter and she's not. I'll always see the mistakes first. She opened it up, took two seconds to look at it and said, "Oh, what's this?". Yep. If it isn't one thing, it's your mother.
This is the Mason-Dixon mitred square inspired afghan. I had the wee neice in mind with this project, as her room is orange and again, with the quality of the photography, this orange blanket looks red. It isn't. It's Home Depot orange and white. I totally dig it. I'm not usually that drawn to really bright colours, but this blankie is a lot of fun. It's her Christmas project and I have it posted over at the MD KAL. I'm not too worried about her seeing it before the big day. She's just discovered her feet, so I think web surfing is a ways off yet. Besides, it's much more impressive (or disappointing as it were) in person.
And that's it so far. Currently I've started my Christmas knitting and it's going rather well accept for the ________ that I started for my SIL with the _________ wool that I picked up the other day. I was going to do a __________ but then settled on a _________ which just isn't working in my favour, as I wanted to attempt a really nice cabled pattern, which I haven't ever really done either. Hmmm. This blog is going to be a bit sparse during the holiday season, I can tell. I'll have to come up with a better system for blogging about gifts.
Until later...
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
What childless women do...
...on Halloween. This is Maury, the object of all of my maternal instincts and amusements until such time as I am blessed with actual, human children. He's a good sport about it though. He rather likes putting on his sweaters. Oh that's correct...sweaterS, plural. He has a bit of a wardrobe. Just 'cuz. Last year he wore his dinosaur sweater. I don't think I have a pic on file for that one, simply because I was laughing too damn hard to take a picture. I even fashioned a horn for him to wear on the top of his head. Once the tears subsided and I picked myself up off the floor from laughter, I could see that poor Maury was not amused.
There are two little girls that live two doors down from my in laws here in the Port and they rather like Maury. They know that he usually gets a costume at Halloween as well, so they came to the door the other night and quickly asked what he was dressed as this year. Though it may be a bit obscure, he's supposed to be Tony Stewart, NASCAR driver for Home Depot (hence the orange and the number 20), which, incidently, happens to be Biff's favourite driver. So there you go.
Here is a picture of my finger. I don't know how this dog sweater got in the way.
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