Recycling Spies.

As a follow up on my last post, for anyone interested, I did not finish all of my knitting projects. I finished one of them. I completely unraveled another (which was halfway done but had a very obvious mistake in it) and started two new ones. Nice going, don’t you think?

Okay, on to the topic at hand. It hit me like a brick last Wednesday: my neighbors, if they are so inclined, know me very well.

For instance, they now know that my teeth enamel needs special care, that we’ve quit smoking (ahem – again), and that our noses are sensitive, so we get the three-ply lotion tissues when we have a cold.

They also know how many kinds and boxes of tampons I go through in a month. Great to know when you meet your neighbor on a brisk evening walk – “Heeey hi, so I notice you’ve gone Super-Plus, eh? How’s that going? Cramps? Any cramps at all? No? Hah.”

They know where I bank, what periodicals I subscribe to and that we are amateurs of red wine and martinis. In fact, they know when we’ve gone on a bender and finished the bottles in the bar. They probably think we’re alcoholics by now.

Is there such a thing as recycling spies or is my lack of nicotine turning me into a paranoid wreck? A purely rhetorical question, obviously, as I already know they’re watching.

Hee hee. Just kidding.

The Omission That Never Was.

In the past hour, I’ve caught up on the blogs I read, I’ve checked my e-mail, and I’ve had two cups of tea. Oh – and I’ve determined two things:

Thing the First: I want to finish all unfinished knitting projects that are lying around before the end of 2007. That’s five knitting projects at least. I’m pretty sure I’ll find some I didn’t even know I started when I open my knitting bin.

Thing the Second: It takes fifteen tablespoons of sugar to fill my sugarbowl.

I woke up with a start at 6:00 this morning and got really irritated because I had to go to work. I know it’s Sunday – and I knew this when I woke up. But I had forgotten to activate the autoreply on the general e-mail at work telling people we’re away and will get back to them as soon as we’ve returned. So that was a really crappy thing to realize on the second day of your holiday. I was getting ready to get dressed, let the man sleep, take the bus, and go to work to fix this, when I had a brilliant idea: test it first...what if you did activate the autoreply rule? Hmm. Yeah. Fat chance, I thought, you did everything else you had to do, tied all the loose ends and had to forget something. So I tested it. And it answered! Phew. No going to work for me today.

My penguin pyjamas are keeping me warm, the tree is lit, my tea is getting cold, and I’ve got some serious knitting to do. So I’ll catch you all later.

Happy Holidays to all, with my best wishes for peace, good health and discoveries for 2008.

2008? Holy crap. We’re 8 years into the future.

Captain Grilled Cheese and the Vegan Lasagna.

For the first time in my life, please sit down, O Witty Funny Sweet Ones, I made lasagna.

As you have guessed from the title of this post, I made Vegan Lasagna, complete with non-cheese. We’re having a potluck lunch tomorrow at work and one of our buddies is vegan. Non-cheese is quite the funny product. The package says – literally – “it melts!” when actually, as I found out five minutes ago when I pulled the dish out of the oven, it does not. But the vegan lasagna making was very pleasurable. It entailed making spaghetti sauce without meat. Instead, I made green lentils to throw in for texture. I had never made green lentils, either. So, Younglings, massive amounts of newness were experienced.

I had a great evening, for a Thursday. After work, I took a different bus and went to my yarn store. Mmmm. Yarn Store. I hadn’t been in over two months. I went around every little nook and cranny, petted the yarn, caressed mohair and fondled silk. It was delightful. I was actually going to get a gift for someone. I bought bamboo needles and a nice ball of textured yarn for her to cut her teeth on. But you know me – I had to get some for myself. Mrs. Yarnlady has these nifty Ziploc bags you can buy. They contain different yarns, ends of balls of yarn and experiments gone wrong. So I just got two skeins of mohair and one skein of wool for $10. Not bad, eh?

Oh – yes – I had grilled cheese for dinner. Because I’m lazy. Okay, no…because it’s good.

Houston, We Are Go.

For those of you who are still following, I have not tried to crochet again. Just so you know. I’m looking for a specific book to help me out, which is probably still in a box. I’ll find it. When I do, I’ll try to crochet again. But for now, well, I’ll do other things.

I find myself at a crossroads of some sort. In fact, I sit there most of the day. I’m able to function in my everyday activities and go through the motions of work and food-making and sleeping and talking to other Human Beings, but in my mind, I am sitting on a gravel road, in the middle of nowhere. And I’m not even scared.

The peculiar thing about this place, if you’ll bear with me, is the incredibly blue sky and – more importantly - the grass. It’s so lush and green! I’m wearing my jeans, the ones I just bought that fit really nicely. And I’m wearing my sister’s t-shirt. I don’t know why, I just like it. So I’m wearing it. The blue one that says Valiquette. I am alone. Somewhere close to me, behind me, there is the sound of running water, a creek, I think.

I am sitting right in the middle of the gravel road, with my legs straight in front of me, slightly apart. My feet are bare. I am leaning on my arms behind me. My palms, flat on the road, are starting to hurt because of the small pebbles digging into them. But I stay. There is a long, thin shadow in front of me, and my eyes run the length of it very often. Over and over again. I do not know where the shadow originates from. Why is it there? What does it mean? Should I try to get there?

Today, I keep my eyes open a little longer. I feel rested, and I am able to follow the shadow for a longer period of time. It’s really, really long. I feel like I’m sitting at one end of Space, looking at the other end. It stretches right to the limit of what I can physically see, somehow. And at the end, I can see there is something, but I can’t make it out. I’ve been working on trying to stand up to get closer to it faster. It takes a long time just to think of getting up: my will is somehow warped. I decide to crawl. Getting up seems impossible at this time. Maybe somewhere along the way, I’ll find something to help me up. I can’t see anything from here – the landscape is perfectly flat and featureless. But you never know.

I’ve taken the habit of lining up the thin shadow to the side of my leg and I push myself forward with my hands toward its starting point, slowly. I will not lose my direction this way. It shifts, swerves, curbs the light and plays tricks on my eyes. So I’ve tamed it and it seems to be behaving now. Every time I come back, I sit back down and shift around until I line up the shadow perfectly on the side of my right leg. It moves a couple of times, I readjust. I start pushing myself forward. I’ve ripped the bottom of my jeans, the sand is sliding in between the fabric and my skin and it’s chapped.

This time, I’ve gotten so close to the top of the shadow I can see what casts it.

There is a post. It bears many signs, which point in different directions. I can’t read any of them, because they are all written in a language I do not recognize, with symbols I have never seen. All but one. I wish I could get up to make sure what I see is right: I can barely read it, for the sun is my eyes. But when I narrow my eyes and concentrate, I can make it out.

This Way.

Crochet, Dammit.

I sat there. I had the tool and the material; I had the video on You Tube.

I had the will and the couple of beer in me that would make me want to do it. After watching five tutorials and judging them all as interesting in their uniqueness as the last one, I decided I remembered what my friend K had showed me December 31st, 2005. I decided I remembered how to crochet. In fact, I decided tomorrow is when I’ll be making my first crochet scarf. Because if you did not already know, I mainly make scarves. Usually, I knit them. But I am looking to branch out. Who doesn’t?

I have this great collection of crochet hooks. Some are made of wood, most are aluminium. All are idle. They sit in my Boticelli Chocolate metal case of knitting knick-knacks, because I have completely ignored them for the past 4 years. But I bought them at a Christmas Sale years ago and have never, ever used them. Oh I tried. But to no avail.

So the You Tube instructors say slipknot, yarn over, pull through, and yarn over, slip through the two stitches. But I have four stitches on my hook. My yarn won’t stretch, it’s linen. I can’t see shit, it’s 11:30 at night and I spent all day doing stuff around the house. And I’m trying to crochet by the light of the monitor. Maybe I should turn the light on. I want to wrap the yarn over the monitor and strangle it. I want to burn the yarn with a blowtorch. In fact, if I had a backyard that belonged to me, I would. I’d march out there with the barbecue lighter, straight to the fire pit, because for damned sure I would have a fire pit, and I’d light the damned thing – yes, the whole skein of linen – on fire. I think it’s time I did something else. I know it’s time I did something else.

Like forget crochet and go back to knitting.

Tomorrow morning, when I wake up at 7:00, I’ll make spaghetti sauce, and strawberry jam, and banana bread. Then I’ll try to crochet again. Maybe. In the meantime, 8 things I know:

1. I have values and principles;
2. I can write;
3. It’s Saturday but almost Sunday;
4. There are 9 planets in our Solar system (…right?);
5. I have people who care for me;
6. There is always an answer;
7. Things aren’t always what they seem.
8. I can knit, but not crochet yet.

Once Upon A Time...

...There was this girl.


She liked to write. In fact, not only did she like writing, she virtually lived by it. She needed it to survive. And then, after a few months, she felt this sour, bitter taste far in the back of her throat and thought "Oh - maybe I need to tone it down. Maybe people don't want to read about my daily meanderings, my Élucubrations."


So she waited until she found the right topic to write about. Day in and day out, she held back until the right phrase presented itself. She found everything boring and un-post-worthy. Once in a while, she jotted down words and sentences, figured out ways to make them sound the way she wanted them to, and inevitably postponed publishing them to her blog. She went to see the Beastie Boys in Montreal (yyyyessss!!!) and generally had a great summer. Her man turned thirty and it was not the party she thought it would be, but it was great anyway. She continued knitting the baby blankie for her friends S&M (I assure you...) in Montréal.


Oh this gets tiring, writing at the third person. So for the record, I am alas fed up of waiting, Throng of Readers. I have grown used to your comments and approval, and I found it was lacking in the past posts. So I stopped writing. But I craved the writing so much! The writing is such a joy! To post once in a while and to - maybe - get a response, some sort of acknowledgement! It filled me with joy! So I am back to the writing. How many times have I said this? Many. I admit. Okay. I have not been regular in posting. Please forgive and forget, for this is a tentative new beginning.


How have you been? Well, I hope. Any of you have kids while I was gone? Anyone retire or move to a distant land? Anyone get married, divorced, found new yummy love? Good. Keep me posted. I crave your news. My last question to you was not answered, you bunch of worthless losers, except by my one and only Tortuga. So for the record, the Chicken crossed the road to get to the other side, to slip his card to the hot business guy with the pinstripe suit and the tie and the briefcase. This particular chicken, as my father-in-law would say (he likes to use the word particular) according to Tortuga, did not have a ring on his left hand ringfinger, or wherever it is that chickens place their rings. So she said, and I quote: "Go chicken go." Voilà. And now that the survey results have been communicated, I may move on.

I'm off to play Project Gotham Racing 4 on my boyfriend's XBox 360 while he's gone. So long, Suckers. See you soon, I sincerely hope.

Best wishes, and I'll keep you posted. This time.

Mademoiselle xox

A Quickie.

I've just realized I like my own writing.
Is that wrong?

In Retrospect.

In the process of growing up, I sometimes sat and made a quick mental inventory of things I was pretty sure I'd get to witness along the way to adulthood. At ten years old, this list included living in the same city as my Dad and decorating my future cottage on the seashore. At ten years old, I was convinced I would never live to see the year 2000. Not because I didn't want to live to the year 2000, I just thought it was impossible to live to see the numbers change so drastically. It was an impossible concept to grasp.

At thirteen, my list grew a bit to include the New Kids on the Block and my eventual husband. I think that's when the hormones kicked in.

At sixteen, I lived in a new city. I had a very strange sense of the universe surrounding me. I felt like I was entrenched in this giant emptiness. It wrapped me like a wet blanket and I felt exactly like my favorite band at the time said, there was no future. It was probably due to a bunch of family-related issues going on, but I felt out of place, like I had mistakenly been dropped in the middle of somewhere I did not belong. Teenage awkwardness, check. This void surrounding me could not be explained rationally, so I decided I was probably doomed and would have to be an outcast my whole life while taking part in society's weird, useless rituals and traditions to please the people I thought were judging me. I wish I could travel back in time and take my younger self's hand and say "Calm the fuck down. Everything is going to be okay. You don't need to write death poems and funeral odes. You'll see, things get a lot better in seven years." My younger self probably would have started crying and run to her bedroom to write yet another dark, abstract, existential poem.

Seven years went by, a crapload of stuff happened, good and bad, sandwiched in between various phases and the evolution of my personal values and aspirations. Things did get better. The wet blanket of weirdness vanished. I did live, not only to see the year 2000, but also to keep dreaming about the seaside cottage. I've found my husband, although technically, we're not married, and the New Kids on the Block are now but a fleeing sweet smell in my past. Life has its share of eighteen-wheeler-sized surprises, and I am now able to make the most of them.

Yesterday, H and I were guests (and responsible for applauding on cue) at the first Lesbian Princess Wedding we've ever been to - tiaras, plastic high-heel shoes, and sparkly dresses included. Oh - and parents arguing about who should pay for the wedding. Two of our neighbors, aged 4, celebrated their wedding in the backyard. Then we had three funerals for the same bride, and one of the brides (the one who expired thrice) hid behind a bush with the other bride's older brother (who happened to be the priest at the wedding). Then we determined the location of spots to pretend to be sick in.

Life is good.

In Style.

I took the bus home today, as usual. Unlike regular days of the week, I had a seat on the bus. So far, so good.

What I did not expect, Throng of Fans, was the guy who got on the bus one stop after me. I don’t know why, I always look at people who get on the bus with me. It’s a habit. I like observing people, it’s in my nature. I usually get away with it too, because I am very discreet. Thank the Little Pixies That Rule the World, I am discreet. So the puddle of drool pooling in my lap went unnoticed.

This guy – ohhhh this guy. I’ve always had a not-so-secret crush on the David Usher type, and this pinstripe-suit, awesome tie, briefcase-carrying babe was it. We both sported rings on our left hand ringfingers, but I swear if I hadn’t, I would have slipped him my card. Oh yes. Heehee. Oh – sorry – I’m giggling.

Okay, enough.

I am back, as you might have noticed, after quite a break. I hope you didn’t give up on me…I had a very relaxing two-week getaway and made the most of it. To me, a holiday that includes family, friends, a lake, Uno, Mille Bornes, good food and drink, a fire & marshmallows is a pretty awesome holiday. Yummy. I rest my case.

And now, a first. A poll! I am allowing ten days for you Monkeys to post your answers in the comments. I'll let you know the results, I promise.

Question: Why did the chicken cross the road?

a. To hit on the hot girl chicken on the other side;
b. This side of the road had become boring;
c. To ogle the 1969 Z28 Camaro on the other side;
d. To slip his card to the hot business guy with the pinstripe suit and the tie and the briefcase.

Hands off, Chicken.

The Furious Five.

Let me begin by saying something very important: I have not written in a while and I am truly sorry, Numerous Readers. I know you need your fix once in a while. If you’ve been re-reading my previous posts to make the withdrawal symptoms go away, I am also sorry, and hope you instantly start feeling better. Nnnnow. Now.

I have no excuse for not writing, other than the one where I don’t have a computer to myself anymore. So, yeah. I have to share with my gaming man. It’s okay, but I don’t get to set the mood to write. I need my music, my desk, my environment. And now, I do it right here, in the living room, in full view of my man. He calls me his blogging master sexy goddess of love. So it’s not all bad - I will stop complaining now. Some people don’t even have computers. Some people don’t even have loving, caring, handsome mates to call them blogging master sexy goddess of love. Goddamn, I’m lucky.

Okay, Monkeys. Here we go.

Today’s feature: “Five Things That Are True & Make Me Go Eech”.

Item Number One: I’ve had an irritating/sad/tiring week but I’ll survive.
Regarding Item One, I’ll blame myself. Maybe it’s because I have no patience this close to my holidays. Also, I have about one-third of the time I need to do everything that needs to be done before I leave for two weeks. Wait – did that sentence make sense? You know what I mean.

Item Number Two: I have nothing to write about right now.
I’m just sitting here typing, trying to avoid turning around to watch the TV, because my man is presently watching the most annoying show ever invented. I used to watch this show out of curiosity, and now it’s morbid curiosity that makes me turn around and go awww damn. Item Number Two was resolved three minutes ago: I fished my i-pod out of my bag and am currently grooving to my tunes. I don’t have to hear the inane chattering. Blah! In your face, inane chattering! Take that!

Item Number Three: For the fifth month in a row, I am not pregnant yet.
I got crushed this week, because. Item Number Three crushes me every time I get my period. Another month without a shrimp in my belly. Another month to wait. I need to calm the fuck down. Oops, I said fuck. Oops, I said fuck again. I could go on forever. Seriously, though, I am in some sort of hellish paradox where I am relaxed and happy and I’m enjoying the perks of trying to have a baby, but I’m also waking up every morning hoping I’m pregnant. I’m sure some people would recommend therapy. I am writing my own prescription on this one: calm the fuck down. Thinking about it too much apparently prevents your uterus to do its job.

Item Number Four: I don’t like my feet.
They may be the canvas for my next tattoo, maybe that’ll help. I’d have to convince my sister to get another tattoo too. We’ve had both our tattoos done at the same time. I can’t break that tradition. Is it a tradition? Does it qualify as a habit? Will our respective karmas turn sour if we don’t get tattooed at the same time? Why are marmosets so cute?

Item Number Five: One of favorite bands just cancelled their concert.
…which I was supposed to go see Sunday night for free. With my little bro and my man. Would have been magical. Sigh. Why, Little Pixies That Rule The World, why? How will you ever make it up to us? This was a once in a lifetime opportunity!

That makes five. Eech.

My man asked me to tell you that he has a hole in his sock. In the right one. And, technically, he has two holes in his sock, but don’t tell him I told you. And now, a marmoset. Because it's so damn cute.

"You like my stick? It's my stick. It's not your stick cause it's mine. Mineminemine. Mmmmine."