knitter, interrupted

I am an erratic knitter. One of the sideline problems to not being able to consume copious amounts of my ADD medication is my already short attention span is constantly stuttering and hiccuping onto the Next Great Idea. Sometimes I can disregard these impulses. Other times I can channel them onto a 'list'. And sometimes inspiration trounces you unawares, say, at your mailbox, and you know you haven't got any choice but to trudge back to the haus, grab up those four skeins of "lettuce" Malabrigo worsted, and push the cat out of the way...

This is pretty much how messy my side of the bed is all the time, and you will notice I've set aside the super-steamy, sexy, hawt highlander novel for this, the 'Rivulet' scarf. Yeah, I'm still knitting away on sixty-eleven pairs of socks, have a gob (that is the official standard unit of measure) of raspberry pink silk/merino awaiting transformation into a sweate4r (oooh, look! e4 is back. Must be the new nails.), and have shelved all plans for home-organization beyond just knocking down the cobwebs in the kitchen before they try to beat me with my own tasting spoon... all because this would not be denied...

Every time I pull it out of the knitting bag, someone (No-Amy, just fer instance...) exclaims that it looks like a pickle. She may have accused it of smelling like a pickle, as well. The hazards of pub knitting. All that lovely knitted texture, cables done to perfection, and she likens it to a pickle. *sigh* It's growing pretty quickly, and my continental knitting skills have improved dramatically, what with all the purling required of this design. Texture is the new yoga.
What's not the new yoga: freezing on the beach. Here's a pic of the fandamnly (sans moi, the photographer). Lake Michigan, mid-August, just as the fog began rolling in. Looks like torture, right? Trust me, I was in no quick hurry to snap the picture and miss the cold crash of the surf around their ankles. I feel no compulsion what-so-ever to figure out the auto-timer on that camera. Nope. None.

business or pleasure?

Tomorrow our Clementine turns two. Not the most earth-shattering announcement, but after the first year, I didn't expect to be tucking another anniversary under my belt. Embarking on year three in the face of the financial disaster currently riding the rails might seem like a doomed mission, but not for nothing do I come from tenacious a**hole stock. The knot is tied at the end of the rope. Commencing to hang on through the thick and thin of the coming year, secret stash of bourbon at the ready.
Today is 'Love Your LYS' day, according to the Harlot's page-a-day calender. Now, I get that she's a Canadian, she has unlimited access to 'Screech' (Newfoundland rum rocks!), and her depth perception may nay be so good, but, honestly... August? WTF? How freaking nuts is a yarn shop appreciation day in the heat of summer? I demand to know who is responsible for this abomination. It's nearly ninety degrees out, so humid even I have kinky hair today, and I'm supposed to believe that yarn shops around the world are rejoicing, reveling in their day of recognition. I can only shake my head and wonder at the desperation Ms.McPhee must've been faced with to feel compelled to pop that corker into her stack of fun factoids for her first-ever calendar...

Middle Child turned 10 yesterday, and had a celebration in spite of our last minute guilt trip to Milwukee. Getting home with exactly zero days to prepare for a child's birthday party tends to make a parent frantic, which leads to Bad Decisions... decisions like letting said child loose in the Barbie aisle, carte blanche. Oh yes, there was an overdose of pink and purple plastic in her shopping cart, which has had the added effect of turning her play space into something of a cat house, swathed in slutty dresses and replete with two alarmingly cheerful Ken dolls. *sigh*

no excuse for it

It would seem I've become an Olympic-level participant in blog-avoidance. Not much to blog about, here in the heartland during the dog days of summer. Not complaining. Just trying to stifle the yawn.
Monday/Tuesday Mandi has shown a remarkable ability to talk me into the strangest things. Case in point: the creation of new yarn displays. I had a notion when the shop first opened about screwing paint cans to the wall, to display hand painted sock yarns. Imagine the shock on every one's faces when I pulled out of Lowe's with these in tow...

Yes, that's a roadster's-worth of cans. There were six more in the 'trunk'. Made a helluva racket driving back to the shop. The stares from men in tall trucks at stoplights were more than entertaining. Next up... remembering to bring in the drill to get the display built.

Still working on my Seattle disease... the skinny clap. Once it's finished I can go apply for my passport. That's what it takes these days to make progress. High-end bribes. I ordered gobs of 'Alchemy Yarns' and have future projects piling up aplenty, but this wee scarf is nearly done. Yay, me. To complicate matters, the skeins of yarn my clap is reposed on is still more of the 'Blue Heron Yarns' rayon metallic. The idea of a knitted tank won't go away, but since I'm trapped on the 'forever plateau' weight-loss wise, I'm hoping to put off the urge to knit clingy things for a while.

There's been a few new developments on the quilting front, the most alarming of which is my fascination with curved seams. Not the wavy, staggering drunk, careless seaming of a novice patch worker, but full-on, deliberate curves.

Yeah, baby. Gonna stitch it like I mean it... just as soon as I get my tired old machine to co-operate. This is the worst possible to for it to go all temperamental on me, but I'm learning to stop flinching and just roll.
That's all for now, my darling chicas. Clementine is starting a couple of knit-alongs for back-to-school. New yarns and fabrics arriving almost daily, which prolly 'splains my acute sense of impending doom. I did warn y'all not to use the words "stimulus package" in range of my hearing, right?