November 9, 2004

Filthy mouth.

It's that time of year again. I hate it. I am totally losing my cool. The streets and shops are suddenly full of people who want to rub your face in it...and this year, my own children are part of it. Go ahead, ask them. They can tell you. There are 46 days to Christmas. I know that was painful, if you need to go have a little lie down I completely understand. I think that nausea, dizziness and an urge to throw yourself in front of a Streetcar is normal. Every-time somebody tells me, I think a wild conglomeration of equally frantic and hysterical thoughts.

46 days until Christmas?

1. Seriously?

2. What is Wrong with me? Christmas comes on the same stinking day every year. How is it possible to truly have it sneak up on you each and every year with a pain that is fresh and vulnerable?

3. How, I ask you, does a reasonably intelligent, educated woman, responsible for the Christmas of others, including innocent little children, somehow fail to count out the 365 day interval between Christmases? It's not like in October they phone you with the random appointed Christmas date for this year and scream "Surprise! 46 days! Try to knit your way out of that one, Ya twit!"

4. How the hell am I going to knit -insert insane gift list here- in -insert inversely related number of days here-?

5. How much egg nog with screech in it is a reasonable response to that?

6. Screw Santa. He never helps me with anything. Maybe he's dropping by your house with a whack of farty little elves, but there's nothing I need to thank him for.

7. 46 days til Christmas? Maybe you should shut your filthy little mouth.

Poncho poncho poncho

I gave away my fleece artist poncho. I know. I can't hardly believe it either, but it made me look short (shut up. I know I'm 5 feet tall but I labour under the delusion that I actually seem much, much taller, like maybe...5'3 or even 5'4") and I felt like I was drowning in it. Plus, the mohair shed so much that it left autumn coloured dust buffalos (like bunnies...but bigger) roaming the plains of the house. If you wore it, when you took it off you had an elegant autumnal halo of mohair clinging to every surface of you. Lint is nothing in the face of true love though, and when Teresa walked into my house, she saw it, and lost her mind. She put it on and she looked like a million bucks. (Teresa is doing the "Sears Catalogue" pose. Is that universal?) I warned her about the buffalos, I told her about the halo. She didn't care.


It's hers now. I'm glad it's going to be with someone who will love it. I know it was the right thing to do when Teresa called me this morning to tell me about all the compliments she was getting. Women were swarming her begging for a Fleece Artist Poncho dealer. She looked "fabulous" "wonderful" and "chic". When I wore it, all anyone ever said was "wow....that's fuzzy". You can't fight poncho destiny.
(There are two things that surprised me about giving away the poncho. First, can you believe I gave away Fleece artist? Second, can you believe that I didn't wait 46 stinking days and give it to her as a Christmas present? Moron. This is why Christmas whups my arse every year. )

I delivered Emma's poncho.


I laid it atop the original Harlot poncho so you could see the difference in size. All I did to get a ten year old size was cast on fewer stitches (52) and knit it shorter. Taking the concept even further....I started a baby one for Teresa's little girl. (Also starring in this photo...the super cool mug that Elizabeth threw and painted. She calls it a Dale of Norway mug. I love it. I think it makes my coffee taste really good).


Wait....This baby poncho could be a present, right?

Tomorrow....Further adventures in renovation land OR "There's only 46 days until Christmas...wanna rip the back off the house?"

Posted by Stephanie at November 9, 2004 9:55 AM