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May 2013
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mittens, mittens!

The mittens* continue to arrive. 

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From Carol in San Jose.** So delightfully squishy!

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From Pat in Kingston, NY, which is just over the Catskills from me. Look at the teeeny ickle pair with the string!

Thanks, knittas! Keep 'em coming.

In other news, the Boy and the Husband went to Howe Caverns as part of a Boy Scout trip.***

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I think he liked it.

** (If you want to know why mittens, click here.)

** Lemme beat you to the punch -- yes, I do know the way there.

*** Yes, I find the organization troubling. Our relationship is complicated.


qotd, opera

“What sort of person," said Salzella patiently, "sits down and writes a maniacal laugh? And all those exclamation marks, you notice? Five? A sure sign of someone who wears his underpants on his head. Opera can do that to a man.” 

-- Terry Pratchett, Maskerade, which was my most recent running book.


a post of threes

1) Given the weather we're having, I suspect my day will consist of the dog barking at me that she wants to go out to play, me explaining to the dog that it's too wet, the dog trotting away for a few seconds, then coming back to bark at me that she wants to go out to play. Lather, rinse, repeat.

And, yes, I do talk to my dog like she understands complete sentences that are filled with various signifiers she couldn't understand. Doesn't everyone?

2) Time for a public expression of gratitude: I was joking around on facebook (feel free to friend me) last week about how surprises were never things like cupcakes. One Rick Baldwin -- we worked together at Metro Pulse back in the day -- sent me a Ch'up Cake, which was beyond nice of him. Thanks so much!

3) I listen to a lot of audiobooks. Without them, I don't know that I would run/knit/clean as much as I do. I've also had one of my own books made into one and made one my own self. So I know a little about what goes into them. 

Currently, I'm listening to Ashley Mears' Pricing Beauty: The Making of a Fashion Model and have two thoughts, which I feel compelled to share:

a) This is an expansion of Mears' dissertation and, therefore, needs to make her case for how damaging modeling can be. I get that. Still, I keep wanting to tell her and her subjects to grow a pair. Yes, you are being totally judged on how your body looks because you are in the fashion industry. That shouldn't be a stunner. 

b) The reader is driving me out of my mind with the way she pronounces words. I get that English is a quirky beast. But each time she says "Hue-ston" for the street in New York City or "Few-colt" for the French philosopher, I drop out of the argument Mears is making and ponder changing careers. I have a voice perfect for recording dissertations. Anyone?


up with figs, what then?

Once upon a time, Lisa and Adrienne worked for the same alternative newsweekly. Now, both spend their respective days mining their creative souls and leading hermit-like lives. And so an idea was hatched. Every week, one would send the other a sketch - either in illustration or word form - and the other would make a companion sketch. The result would be posted on both their blogs every week, just for grins. Even if the result isn't award-worthy, the exercise might make both minds more nimble. Hopefully.


Spandex

What if everything you thought to be true suddenly was? That strangers really do spend every waking hour obsessing about how you look in spandex? That beer is both the cause of and the answer to all of your world’s problems? That there is no mystery, only science we’ve not yet done? That there is no science, only mystery? That God is both a wave and a particle?

Cat sees dead people

That your cat is, indeed, seeing dead people? That there is no black and white, only gray of many shades? That you do get more of what you pay attention to? 

What then? What happens next?

 

Text ©Adrienne Martini; illustration ©Lisa Horstman. Until the end of time. Or something.


and i am funky

After my weekend adventure in the wilds of New Jersey, I'm now plotting out which kid will have to go to Princeton.* Because, dudes. Lovely town. Architecturally awe-inspiring college.** And knitters.

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The woman on the far right is Janice, who was my contact for the gig and who let me sleep in her house*** and play with her dog. On her right is Terri, who is a long-time Knitter's Review friend who may have been on the blog before. She's probably just said something sassy to Janice, hence the unfortunate face.

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There was a cello player.

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 And umpty billion high school kids. A fine time seems to have been had by all. I know I enjoyed myself. If you're ever in the area, be sure to check out the Princeton Public Library. It is a good place. How do I know? Any place that gives you something like this 

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as a parting gift is a good place. Need more proof? I've seen the Unemployed Philosophers Guild's toys before and never felt compelled to buy one, despite how delightful they are. The PPL had one that caused my to dig out my wallet and demand that they take my money. 

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Right? No sane person could resist. Gods I love Vonnegut. He now lives on my desk, next to the drinking bird that one of the kids added to the tableau while I was away. Because reasons.

And, now, gratuitous Lucy, who posed since I had the camera out.

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* Both kids have the smarts, of course, but I suspect the Diva will lean more toward a smaller school and the Boy will apply, get in easily, then go all Bartleby and prefer not to go. 

** I hear the education is pretty good, too. Still. Those buildings.

*** after one of the more tedious drives I've ever made. There was torrential rain and flooding. Plus, a big-old semi had hydroplaned and blocked both lanes of traffic on 206. Since I had a book-on-tape, plenty of snacks, and no real reason to get there quickly, waiting it out was no problem. The 3.5 hour drive wound up taking about seven hours, tho. 


qotd, kashrut

"Whole-hog barbecue stands out as a particularly powerful form of communion, in which the meat is divided among the eaters according to a notably democratic protocol. Everyone gets a taste of every cut, eating not just from the same animal but every part of that animal, the choice and the not-so-choice. But at the bottom most of the rules of barbecue, spelling out what is and is not acceptable in species of animal, animal part, sauce, fuel, and fire, are as arbitrary as the kashrut, rules for the sake of rules, with no rational purpose except to define one's community by underscoring its differences from another. We are the people who cook only shoulders over hickory wood and put mustard in our barbecue sauce. Prohibitions multiply like weeds. No propane, no charcoal, no tomatoes, no ribs, no chicken, no beef."

-- Michael Pollan, Cooked: A Natural History of Transformation


and she knits, too

Look! Actual knitting content!

Just a reminder, I'll be a guest at the Princeton Public Library's celebration of Worldwide Knit in Public Day on Saturday from 11 - 3. Come knit with me and my Mary Tudor. I'll be the one who isn't a sweater.

In other news, more mittens:

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These are from Miss Clair in Indiana and have been added to the bin. Thanks!*

I also might have purchased some yarn, even though I really don't need anymore yarn:

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But when you see its name, you'll understand why I couldn't help myself:

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Right?

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

* (If you want to know why mittens, click here.)


up with figs, moe

Once upon a time, Lisa and Adrienne worked for the same alternative newsweekly. Now, both spend their respective days mining their creative souls and leading hermit-like lives. And so an idea was hatched. Every week, one would send the other a sketch - either in illustration or word form - and the other would make a companion sketch. The result would be posted on both their blogs every week, just for grins. Even if the result isn't award-worthy, the exercise might make both minds more nimble. Hopefully.

Moe
And they knew him by the trail of his Cheetos dust, which rolled behind him like those dust clouds that always followed Pig Pen in Peanuts cartoons. Like air and dog hair, everywhere Moe went, there the orange sploches were. 

Even Nita down at the Wig Shop knew that Moe left cheesy fingerprints on all he touched. She hasn’t gone so far as to ban him from the shop -- some have whispered that she’s sweet on him, is why -- but that day may come. She tried forcing him to wash his hands. Yet, the orange dust always reappears, like invisible ink or stigmata. 

Nita’s stopped wondering what that might mean. Instead, she’s thinking about buying him a nice pair of white cotton gloves or a haz mat suit.

 

Text ©Adrienne Martini; illustration ©Lisa Horstman. Until the end of time. Or something.