mamacate

Postally Possible

It has been a day.  You know, one of those days when coffee and chocolate are not so much a desire but an utter necessity?  When any divergence from a room temperature of 72F is either an arctic blast or a firey inferno.  I'm having fun.  The hormones should die down in a day or two.  Thank goodness.

But Joe, our mail carrier, did right by me today, and just in time.

He brought me a present from my Better Pal!

Wool, caffeine, and chocolate.  I mean...sniff...how did she know?  How did Joe know?

I'm. Not. Worthy.  Boohoooooo!  (Hormones, man, I tell ya.)

Anyway, good stuff indeed.  Yes, that's chocolate, very yummy, rich and fabulous chocolate.  And wonderful English tea.  Not that lipton swill, the good stuff.  And a fabulous book on natural dyeing.  I have been reading up on natural dye books left and right in the past six months or so, and I'm finally getting ready to try it for myself (I know, but I can be like that with the research).  This book will get lots and lots of reading time--it also looks very practical and full of recipes.

Then there's sock yarn from Fyberspates.  The first KnitCast I listened to was with Jen (I know, I was late to the podcast party).  It's a fabulous color called Licorice.  Yum.  It's going high on the sock yarn list, for sure.  Also two lovely skeins of Jamieson's DK Shetland yarn in natural black.  Looks like handspun.  What to make, what to make?  I know I'll have fun figuring it out.  And then some beautiful stitch markers in my favorite colors, dark red and gold.  Those are the colors of my non-wedding ring from Rhys.  Mmm.

Not pictured is a small stuffed sheep.  It found its flock (a couple of three-year-olds who have a small paddock full of sheep and don't let mamas keep stuffed animals for themselves, as it should be).  The kids like this secret pal business, I tell ya.

Thanks better pal!  I'm one lucky hormone-addled wool addict.

Photographic Evidence

I call this one "Boodle with a Red Scarf."

Dontcha love the Pat Benatar headband?  I adore three-year-old fashion.  The scarf is, yes, crocheted.  I occasionally bat for the other team, okay?  It's in the mail.  I hope someone enjoys it.

This one is "Going On Four Going On Fourteen."

No explanation necessary.

Justine, for whom I am spinning wedding shawl yarn, which she will then knit, should be watching her mailbox, because there are samples winging their way north. 

That's romeldale on the top, hand-combed British mule fleece (bluefaced leicester-border leicester cross) in the middle, and cashgora on the bottom.  I gotta tell ya I'm rooting for the cashgora, and I think the other yarns should probably be preparing for a Miss Congeniality award, because damn that stuff is soft and shiny and pretty much faboo.

Ahem:

The romeldale is a less sexy yarn, but it's a fascinating spinning challenge.  I'm really grateful for Cassie's timely gift of Margaret Stove's book on spinning merino.  Romeldale is quite similar, at least this fleece is (Wilma, sister of Juno's Gladys, is a bit less crimpy and elastic), and I'm learning how to spin it as I go.  It's a very different experience.  I thought that once I got good at spinning short-stapled fibers, I'd be all set to spin fine wools.  Turns out the issue is less with the staple length and more with the elasticity.  It's a very interesting experience, and the book is helping, though I don't think I'm quite there yet.  This skein came out reasonably well, but we'll see.

No matter what she chooses, this is gonna be fun.

Feeling Randomly

The focus group went well.  I sometimes surprise myself by being a bit of an old hand at this stuff.  Weird.  I've been feeling a bit randomly lately, and now I'll try to finally remember all of what I was feeling randomly about.  Like:

• Cashgora.  Oh lordy this stuff is soft, while also being extremely shiny.  It seems like it should be wrong.  It's not some kind of goat-bunny love thing, though, the angora part is the mo in mohair.  But it feels like cashmere.  And also kinda like silk.  It's niiiice.  Not cheap, not terribly easy to spin, but niiiiice.  Be afraid, because Laurie is going to buy up the national supply if we're not careful.
• Marcy, once again, extremely smart fiber lady that she is, has totally saved my spinning ass.  I was chatting away on Sunday (okay, I was bitching and moaning, if you want to be perfectly honest) about how my wheel had been driving me crazy the other day when I was plying, and how it spins without much problem, but I have endless issues with plying.  Mostly the brake band catches.  So Marcy starts talking about how the litle rubber band is on one side, and it's in the right place for the z-twisting you do when spinning, but totally in the wrong place for the s-twisting you're doing while plying.  So you do this little crossover jobby, letting out the brake band and just wrapping it around the opposite way, and OH. MY. GOD. now it works.  I guess this is what happens when you spin for a decade or so and go to like eleventeen SOARs.  I'm just glad I heard that little tip.  What else is there lurking in the minds of the master spinners among us?  And how do I suck it all out of their brains?  That's what I want to know.
• Don't tell anyone, because this is so insanely out of character I was once laughed at when I mentioned a regular exercise program to a couple of acquaintances.  But here it is: *i've been going to the gym at work.*  I know.  There I am with the fit, skinny, athletically-confident chicks, riding the elevator in my office to go ride on a fake bike.  The gym at my new place of work is, to use some technical architectural language, swank-o-mundo, and every piece of equipment has its own TV.  But a) that's just too over the top in the category of media decadence, and more importantly b) what the hell are you going to watch on TV at 2 pm?  People, I spent months on bedrest, I'm not going to start watching daytime TV now--the internet fries my brain to a crispy, golden, crunchy texture all on its own, thank you.  Anyway, the TV, when turned off, reflects one's face quite efficiently.  And I just don't need to look at *me* the whole time.  Better start bringing one of those little towels the skinny, athletically-confident people carry around.
• So I'm pedaling away on the lifecycle and dial up the faux-ipod (because I am in no way above that particular sort of media decadence--don't try to get it to make sense), and it happens to be playing Jimi Hendrix.  And this is entirely Cassie's fault, because of her frickin' hilarious lyrics for Purple Haze.  So I wind up working out to Jimi, all the while in this palatial place of privileged perspiration, and I'm like, damn, this is just weird.  I don't know if it sounds as weird to you as it was, but Jimi is just another world, and it made me think about the boomers, and how they felt like they were the only ones who had ever rebelled, how they took themselves so seriously, but how at the same time they were able to do amazing things because they didn't know any better, and how Jimi never lived long enough to be embarrassed by his youth like so many of the rest of them.  And I remembered the Dead and my own hippie days, even if they were 15 or so years later than the real hippie days, and how we Gen-Xers kind of lived in the shadow of the boomers, and it only seems like lately that we have any kind of defining cultural power.  And it doesn't seem quite like we know what to do with it, except perhaps knit and blog about it, which really, turns out to be way more interesting than you'd think, huh?  And it was just weird, is all I'm saying.  And then I went back to have a Serious Work Conversation as I strolled back to my office with a colleague.  And what I'm saying is it's Cassie's fault.  'Scuse me while I spin two-ply!  Just try not to say "bwanana-bwanana-bwanana-BAH!" after you hear that.  I dare you.
• Rhys is now working part-time, and I'm working full-time, which is this odd thing in a lot of ways.  I have a lot of feelings about it, most of which are positive but some of which are conflicted, but it has been a bit of a surprise to be able to do stuff like go to the gym.  I'm not saying I have tons of time on my hands--I still have 3 jobs--but I can take a little time for taking care of myself, and it's an adjustment.  I have more to say about that, just not today.  But it's good.  I know this is probably not very helpful to most people, but if you're a burnt out primary caregiver, getting yourself a wife is a really nice move.  To hear Rhys tell it, if you're a burnt out primary wage-earner, rustling up a Ward to give you some time being June, well, that doesn't suck either.  Neither role is perfect, and the goal is to moderate the careers to allow two people ample room to take care of kids AND ourselves (imagine!), and we're not there yet, but after a year of working toward it, we've taken one big step in the right direction.  And that is good.  We'll keep you posted.  When I get fired from all the jobs because I can't keep track of anything, and I no longer have wool money, then I might be singing a different tune.  But now, it's good.
• Rhys is still working part-time, and of course they still think she should travel at the snap of their fingers.  So she's out of town for the next two days.  Back to the old routine, if only for a couple of days.
• At least I'm not out of practice.
• It's all about the hope.  And the not so burnt-out-ness.

That's about it. 

Hopefully.

Thank you to Claudia for a rollicking good time.  The wonderful knitterly energy was buzzing throughout the house, the conversation was great, the wool was fabulous, the food was brilliant (and copious) and a good time, I daresay, was had, literally, by all.

Others have done the linkfest, but here's a sense of the throng that descended on Claudia's.

We stayed a little later, and truly enjoyed the long chat with the friends who, like us, overstayed their welcome closed down the place.  I'm not sure which part of the day was more fun, but I'm glad I don't have to choose.

A treat.  An absolute treat.  And those absent were missed indeed.

I've got a focus group at noon today (which must be why I'm slacking off here before the group).  I've got some randomness saved up, so I'll be random soon.  It has been too long.

Condolences to my Canadian friends on last night's election result.  We know the feeling.  We really do.

Knock Wood

The FBS is DONE, it didn't spontaneously burst into flames or disintegrate while blocking, the dog didn't lie down on it, get it caught on her collar, and then rip it to shreds while trying to get disconnected (yes, I know of where I speak).

I have barely taken it off.

I heart Evelyn A. Clark, Fleece Artisit, and the people of the North Atlantic who invented center-out triangle shawls.

I heart my new shawl.  Yay.

Next up in my finishing frenzy is my modified Kepler.  Both sleeve bands are knitted and grafted (note to self, grafting cables sucks).  I picked up too many stitches last night, so I'll be ripping and re-doing it tonight.  But I expect the sleeves to go pretty quickly.  I just need to figure out what I'm doing with the neckline.

I also have to ply up the Ronaldsay, which I'm almost done spinning.  Because I have to clear some bobbins for the Romeldale that should be in today's mail from Still River Mill.  Can't wait.

That's all.  Except that I joined a new knitalong.  Because this is an idea I can get behind.

Not Clever

So, another newsflash from the land of mamacate.  I'm not clever.  Since a crazed famous knitter was so kind as to agree with the devil on my shoulder and encourage me to try (okay, mention the possibility of) an alternate, and less yarn-hungry, cast-off, I had to give it a shot.

Yah.  I believe that would be "fuck," the sequel.

The idea of getting more yarn is quite a good one, but I actually went down that road before, and I think I would be too completely ashamed to ask Katherine to match the same yarn for me AGAIN.  Plus I don't really want the largest FBS in history.  The idea here was finishing.  Another 100g doesn't really get me where I want to go.

No, there was nothing for it but to take the advice of Jessica and the other rational, sensible, annoying, intelligent knitters: rip out.  The worst irony is that getting the final row back on the needles to change the cast-off was way more work than ripping back to re-do the edging.

Which I did.  And really, it took me an hour or so and now it's done (done!  done, I tell you, done!).  Turned out to be 12 baskets after all--I guess I miscounted before.  It looked pretty small, but it's blocking out to a reasonable size.  Now to avert disaster between now and the time it's dry tomorrow morning.  Not counting on anything over here.

In other news, everyone is talking about certain a certain crazed famous knitter's (why is it that I know she's going to be way more upset by being called famous than by being called crazed...hmmm) latest unleashing of mayhem upon the blogosphere.  You know what I'm talking about.  The Knitting Olympics.  I confess to discussing project ideas with certain other certifiable individuals.  But then this afternoon, I think I was the subject of a knitting intervention.  Yes, that's right, Jo emailed me with the subject line "Don't Do It."  I hadn't said a word to her about it, but she knows me a bit too well.  She knows that this kind of gauntlet is irresistibly tempting to my "got a mouthful? take another bite!" approach to life.  And she knows that it all ends in misery, 3-week-long PMS, and rather pathetic mental breakdowns and blog rants.  And she wanted to nip it in the bud.  I'm getting a little verklempt to think about it.  Somebody cares!

The only reason I was hesitating about signing right up is that I already have a completely unreasonable project with a short deadline: I'm spinning 1,200 meters of laceweight romeldale (because I like romeldale, okay?) for Justine's wedding shawl.  Dude, the woman is getting married in August.  And I should really give her some time to, you know, knit the thing.

So I hereby declare that I am NOT going to be an Olympian this year.  I will start spinning the romeldale the minute it arrives from the processor (soon!).  And if I had any skills with photoshop (okay, or a copy of the program, what's your point?), I'd be making a button that says "The Knitting Olympics: Don't Inahle."  You know, maybe a picture of Ross Rebagliati, the tokin' snowboarder Stephanie linked to today.  I love you, Stephanie, I do, but girl, you crazy.  Though I confess that the only reason I'm not there with you is that there are people holding me back who care about my mental health.

Thank goodness, huh?

Ineducable

The first time, it's dumb bad luck.  Or maybe bad judgment.  Excessive optimism.  Unrealistic expectations.

The second time, I think you really just have to call it plain stupid.

It's a small miracle that I got as far as I did.  Ten repeats (12 baskets), minus one row of the edging because I saw my destiny foretold and tried to save myself...too late.

So. Very. Close.

In case the problem isn't completely obvious (or if, like me, you're deeply in denial), observe the amount of yarn and the number of stitches still to cast off.

Dagnabbit.  Drat.  Also: Fuck.  Because why start being g-rated around here NOW?  Of all times, really.

So I guess it's rippage.  I had one of those ideas you have when you're knitting and about to have to face up to ripping things out, things you kind of desperately would rather not have to rip out because you're so ready to be DONE with this project.  Those kinds of ideas?  Do you know these ideas?  They're always BAD.  And you know, in your heart of hearts, that they're bad.  BAD, bad, bad bloody ideas.  Yet you insist on pursuing them because you're in that place where you think you're going to be able to THINK your way out of the mess you've gotten yourself into.  You think, for some insane reason, that you're clever, even though you have a piece of knitting in front of you that represents clear physical evidence to the contrary, since if you were truly clever, you wouldn't be trying to avoid having to rip out here, would you now?

Anyway.  I was saying.

I thought maybe I could try a regular cast-off, instead of the loose lace one (sorry, it's too late for me to try to come up with the names of those cast-offs, but basically the lace one uses way more yarn).  I did a little.  And the part of my brain that still believes I'm clever thinks I'll be able to cast off carefully and loosely enough so that it won't completely suck when I try to block it.

Perhaps it represents maturity in my knitting life that instead of marching confidently forth with this demi-derriere plan, I have put the item in time out so that I may regain some semblance of sanity, and come back tomorrow when I've realized that the only reasonable course of action is to just rip out the edging section and modify it further to get myself a few more meters of yarn.  I still believe I'm clever enough to avoid ripping out a whole repeat.  Check back with me later on that one.

At least I can do the dastardly deed while wearing my most wonderful Feather and Fan socks (from Socks, Socks, Socks; modified for short-row heel & toe), made with the Koigu Cassie gave me last summer. 

It's  hard to get too upset when your feet are clad in Koigu.  Don't they just look happy?

Sunshine, Sea Breeze, and Statistics

So, you didn't think I could manage being whiny while sitting in a posh hotel in a tropical paradise, now did you?  Huh?  Don't underestimate me, people, because here I sit, on Sunday night, and I need to pack because I'm leaving tomorrow morning.  I feel like I have barely left the hotel room, except to go to the conference.  AND MY REPORT IS NOT DONE!  Granted, I have 30 pages of text and tables that I didn't have when I got here, but people, I still have to write narrative for the entire primary research section.  And I'm just finished for today, there's no way I can stay focused, I've been trying and I'm just making mistakes and wasting time.

So the hotel room is quite small but has a beautiful view of Biscayne Bay. Given the fact that I couldn't have actually been out there, due to workload (also, it's the coldest snap of the year, in the 60s F, I tell you--these people crack me up, but in their defense, it isn't beach weather), I suppose this is a very good thing--I've been able to gaze out at the sailboats and have the bright sunshine on my face.  Nothing about northern winters is harder for me than the lack of light.

I did take myself out for brunch and dinner today, though I worked ten hours yesterday.  Today I just had to knock off at 3, and I decided I simply had to have yellow tail snapper.  So I took the rental car and headed down to my favorite south Florida fish shack, which is over an hour away in Key Largo.  I felt like I needed to see a bit of this place, so the drive was nice.  I did a brief detour into Pennekamp State Park, and dipped my hand into the water, but they were about to close so I didn't stay long.  The whole thing took about four hours start to finish, sigh.  And back to the salt mines with me.

Anyway, I'm still incredibly grateful to have soaked up some sun, even if it had to mingle with the hazy light of SPSS and MS Word from my computer, but I'm disappointed that I didn't get to do any beachcombing.  I did a little scouting for our next family vacation, though...and this place will be a hellafun with a couple of wacky kids and a girl on my arm.

This trip has given me a little time to think, and all the networking (read: trying to explain the bizarre career circumstances I seem to be in) has forced me to think about where I am and what I'm doing.  It's helped me see a few things more clearly--or to acknowledge things that have been clear for a while.  This is a perfectly decent career, and I need to fish or cut bait.  I'm not an academic, at least that's not my training and background, so I don't always feel like I'm in quite the right place, and I don't always feel like my skills match with the job's requirements perfectly (did I mention that my report is NOT YET DONE?), but the fact is that everyone brings a different suite of skills to a job like this.  And if some very smart people think I'm the right person for what they need, well, maybe that's something I can trust.  What a concept, huh?

I don't know, it's making me think.  I have a long way to go with this whole work/life thing.  I don't mean balance, but trusting myself, feeling confident, and granting myself permission to make myself happy (and then being able to figure out what the hell that looks like).  I've made bold moves before, but it's scary.  I didn't know it would keep being like this.

Hey, that got heavy, deep, and real right quick, didn't it?  I'm going to pack my bags so I can get up early tomorrow and...do some more writing!  At least the lovely view is really much lovelier at sunrise.  I know, I've seen it three days in a row.

Just A Leetle Randomness

I'm going to try to make this short.  Not, as you may have noticed, my specialty, but I'm going to try.

• Roomy.  The new (and most beloved) household pet, aka, Roomba.  There were some questions in the comments as to Roomy's erm, abilities.  As Kim so astutely observed, I am indeed NOT a stepford wife.  There is clutter, and then there is clutter on top of the clutter, which we generally like to use to balance junk mail on, except it usually goes sliding off.  The solution, naturally, is just to pick it up and plunk it back atop the pile of clutter, mashing it down with an I-mean-business sort of look on our faces, and that gives you a pretty good view of the housekeeping situation around here.  Roomba doesn't mind.  He'll push lightweight clutter around a bit (shoes, totebags, etc.).  He'll cannily navigate around spinning wheels, yarn baskets, spinning stools, rubbermaid bins full of wool, you know, the typical household accessories.  He made it around the (skirtless) xmas tree just fine.  He hops up and down from rug to floor to carpet to linoleum without batting an eye (though he does this rather cute little shimmy going up onto thick rugs, you should see it, he's such a charmer).  The manual says that you shouldn't send him over anything you wouldn't vacuum over.  In other words, big clutter is no problem.  I wouldn't want him to get friendly with a ball of yarn, though.  I do clear up the miscellaneous choking hazards before running him, but it's really WAY less work than vacuuming.  And he also only runs when I tell him to, and I only do that when I'm around, so I can hear if he gets into trouble.  Which he rarely does.  He did the living room while we were having dinner tonight.  He's recharging now.  What a guy.  I can think of few tools more valuable to a knitter.  Oh, and critter hair?  Did you see that dog?  Her undercoat could compete with baby alpaca if it wasn't all over the rug.  Roomy never complains.
• My Really Extremely Excellent Pal.  Did I mention I joined up for the Better Pal swap thingy?  The thing is, I feel a little odd calling it "Better."  Because my two experiences with SP were just wonderful, both in terms of spoilers (both times) and spoilees (both times).  I even had a freakish coincidence and connected with a colleague.  But I did think it would fun to play in a smaller pool, where I would be more likely to know the participants.  Anyway, my really extremely excellent pal sent me a really extremely excellent package way back in December.  I photographed it then, but have not gotten around to blogging it in detail until now.  And it is so worthy of blogging.  Here's Henry trying to get his arms around the giant haul (note also the evidence of bullet one, clutter ALL OVER the place).                             A more detailed view: We're talking chocolate, lovely hand-dyed laceweight wool and a great scarf pattern for it (kinda cast on for that already), sparkly sock yarn (disco socks, my pal suggests, and I concur), an adorable knitting journal, and a great vintage pamphlet on ganseys.  AND...100g of Ronaldsay wool.  Very nicely prepared and quite fun to spin (ahem, yes, I've dipped in there).  It's spinning very quickly long-draw, and has caused me to put the fast flyer on my lendrum.  It's soft but rustic at the same time--great stuff, and apparently the sheep feed on seaweed.  And it makes me giggle because the name just really, REALLY sounds like pig latin to me.  Doesn't it?  Ronald-say?  No?  Anyway, thank you very most excellently fabulous and wonderful pal of mine.  And many apologies for taking forever to document this fabulous gift.
• Perqs. So a couple of weeks ago my boss at the temp job says to me, "hey, there's this meeting in Miami in January, can you go?"  And I'm all "well, it's short notice and all and I have family responsibilities and all but ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING IT'S ABOVE FREEZING THERE OF COURSE I'LL GO."  I'm not even speaking, I'm just going there, to, you know attend.  So, pinch me, but it's going to be socks on the beach for me this weekend.  Well, socks and computer because I have a deadline and I gotta do some serious writing while I'm there.  But I'll be warm.  At least by my standards.  Apparently Miami is expecting a cold snap.  You know, high 60s.  Yah.  Rough.  I'll be in Coconut Grove, so if by some weird chance someone knows of a knitting group or something around there (not like Miami is quite as lousy with knitters as, say Boston or Toronto, but it could happen), do let me know.  I'll be wanting a break from the report.

Time to pack up the computer and my cotton clothing.  And of course the knitting I spent 4 times longer deciding on than my clothes.

Hmmm, brief...well, I tried.

Playing Catch-Up

I finally got the computer, the digital camera, and the cable in the same place at the same time.  I've been busy with the textual sleight of hand lately, trying to distract you from the fact that I haven't shown you jack in nearly a month.  And my only excuse is the pervasive sense of flaky, out-of-control-ness of my life.  'Cause I can think about the whole heavy, deep, real stuff, but I'm still here making life complicated for myself.

Anyway, the preschool teachers will now have warm hands.  Well, the one who went home after a long day with the preschoolers to have her fourth baby, she got a hat.  Because girlfriend's gonna need her hands.

L to R, 1x1 rib hat in Rowan Biggy Print, (little) big mittens in Rowan Biggy, Fiber Trends felted mittens in Brown Sheep Bulky, same pattern with two colors of worsted-weight Brown Sheep worsted held together (I love the effect this makes when it's felted).  I got biggy print for all four teachers, but I got bored really quickly.  This happened last year, I knitted the same mittens for all three teachers and by the end I was about to pass out.  I'm glad I mixed it up this year, and I think the mittens suited their recipients.  And of course the hat.  Though really I think I should have knitted her a live-in cook and maid.  Heck, if I could knit that...

The felting was fun.  Eleanor modeled the mittens pre-felting.

Insane, huh?  They were big, even when felted.  Happily, the recipient is over 6 feet tall, and I think she appreciates roominess.  I also gave further felting instructions with the mittens.  I figured it was better to under-shrink than over-shrink.  Also note the gorgeous pillowcase in the background, a surprise birthday present from the ridiculously talented Lisa.  Henry's reclining--back when this picture was taken we had a milder version of the thing that's been making everyone puke through the holidays, which so far has granted immunity to the nastier version.  Thank you, goddess of viral mutation.

There were some gigantic slippers.  I never got a picture of them felted, but you know what Fiber Trends felted clogs look like.  I don't even need to link the pattern, do I?  But have you ever seen them worn like this?

Those are the in-laws Christmas morning.  I gave them to MIL, a knitter, with a note saying "some assembly required."  They had fun guessing what they were.  Then I felted them later in the day, trying them on as we went.  Worked out well.  I just should have brought the fabric paint to put treads on, as MIL had fallen down the stairs earlier in the week and was (reasonably) a little worried about slippery soles.

Here's Eleanor posing with Santa's snack. 

She was terribly excited about putting out some goodies for Santa (homemade Shortbread; Santa enjoyed it thoroughly).  Henry, on the other hand, just thought it was a great opportunity to boost some shortbread.  Personality, I tell ya.  We're living proof here that environment aint everything; these kids could hardly be more different.

I don't recall exactly, but I think Eleanor might be shaking her head in resignation.  Or more likely laughing.  But I had to get the plate because he totally would have eaten them all.  I mean, they did have frosting on them.

It was great to have a week-plus together as a family, despite the parade of grandparents with varying levels of tolerance for three-year-oldness (and varying levels of interest in blaming such three-year-oldness on our many foibles as parents, because you know, their kids were perfectly well-behaved at all times when three--I'm looking forward to forgetting this stuff myself, thanks).  We're back to "win the lottery" as the primary goal for family income production.  Not terribly realistic, I acknowledge, but neither was the last year, and we did that, eh?  I'll allow as how a backup plan may be in order.

In other belated photography news, there was this meme a while back, I confess I don't even recall who started it, and you were supposed to show your knitting space.  I'm actually really glad people posted theirs, because it motivated me to make mine a bit more comfortable.  Actually, the old one was fine for knitting, but not so great for the blogging and the blog-reading, since it involved twisting around to the side all the time: the computer was beside the couch.

Here's my dog occupying the old spot.  My rolling knitting drawers and knitting basket (and all the clutter!) are still there.

The new knitting spot is much better for the blogging and the blog-reading, since we're admitting to our self that we do this INCESSANTLY and should probably not have to contort our body in order to accomplish same (and we have suddenly started referring to our self in the first person plural, don't ask us why).  And so that nobody gets any crazy idea that we're, like, neat (wouldn't want to have to explain that sort of thing, like poor Juno) this photo comes complete with randomly-strewn clean laundry and miscellaneous clutter.  And a ripped and stained chair.  Because we're too smart to buy new furniture when there are short people around.

But anyway, love the new spot.  The printer is even on a flat surface.  Amazing, really.

Speaking of love, there's one more thing I need to tell you.  I'd love to be all non-materialistic and thrifty and shit, but my beloved mother-in-law got me something that has changed my life (the deal was I was supposed to get her one--miscommunication involving dear partner--final result--I win the suckiest DIL award, though I plan to make it up to her ASAP).  Anyway, my true love, here he is:

Yes, it's a Roomba.  I can now knit and vacuum at the same time.  It's the Best. Thing. Ever.  Unless you like vacuuming.  Then you're just weird. 

Who says the future isn't bright?