It Never Ends

It’s been awhile since I’ve posted, but I think now is as good a time as any.

Other than the usual day to day shit, this week has (and will continue to be), one for the books.  An ulceration opened on my left breast the other day.  That meant an immediate trip to my GP.  After looking at it, he sent me to a breast surgeon.

Surgeon?  WTF?  The last thing in the world I’ll do is more surgery but, like a good little patient, off I went yesterday with Mom in tow.

Come to find out, the lymph nodes in my left armpit are swollen, tender, and have lumps.  So does the breast.  Instead of just making an educated guess (and going with her gut), now I have to have an MRI.  Tomorrow is the mammo/bone density/ultrascan.  Along with the bruising and overwhelming tiredness, what does that tell you?  Yes... cancer.  It could also be the autoimmune disease kicked into high gear.  Given my choice, I’ll take cancer.  At least that can be treated.  The other can’t be checked, treated, or even understood.  I don’t have a chance with that one.  I also got to read the hospital report from the intestines blowing.  Guess what? I also have COPD and heart, liver, and pancreatic disease.  Why I was never told is beyond me; I was shocked to learn all this.  I’m a fucking medical miracle to still be upright and somewhat functional.

Thursday, I have to go to court.  That’ll be another stressful day.  So I’ve decided that come Friday, I’m officially on vacation.  I’m locking the doors, not putting a stitch on (like I wear clothes much anyway), drinking coffee, watching all the crappy TV I want, and spinning and knitting when I feel Iike it.  I think I may take the next week off, too, since it’s the only week with nothing in it.  I need the rest, and I need the solitude.

Right now, all I feel is numb.  I don’t know if it’s my brain’s way of dealing with everything, if I’m overwhelmed, or what’s going on.  I do know that I don’t feel anything - no emotional turmoil, no noticeable stress, nothing.  It’s like I’m in The Twilight Zone in some truly bizarre episode.  Thank god I have my babies; they’re a huge comfort to me.  Roxy has been jumping into bed with me every night, carefully inspecting my face (why, I don’t have a clue), and then laying her head or cheek on mine, and we both fall asleep together like that.  Her gentle snoring lulls me into sleep, and the weight and warmth of her are so... wonderful.  She’s an 80 lb. lump of love and concern.  Millie is... Millie.  She likes to wriggle on her side until she’s wrapped around my ankle, lay on her back, wiggle all over, wave her paws in the air, and is so funny that she always makes me laugh.  When I do, she’s even more energetic in her antics.  I think that’s her way of making Mommy happy, and it works.

So now I’m off to start drinking my second pot of coffee, watch Judge Judy, and maybe attack the other half of the French dip I’ve been dreaming of for months (we went to dinner at the hof brau last night; they’re so huge that I brought half of everything home).  Then I’m relaxing.  Enough is enough; my body is seriously damaged and is telling me it’s the day to do NOTHING.

You gotta do what you gotta do...

A New Addition

So there I was, minding my own business, when a baby English Bulldog dropped into my lap.  I tried to download a picture of her, but I can’t figure this fucking thing out.  It’s all I can do to type on it...

Anyway, I paid the shipping on her last night, so she’ll be delivered to my door in a couple of weeks. Come to find out, the airlines will no longer fly dogs in the cabin unless they’re trained service dogs (not those fake ones where you can buy the vests on Amazon), and they won’t allow any bullie breed (as well as a long list of others), in cargo.  Since that wasn’t an option, I was thinking I’d have to drive down to Dallas to pick her up - a two-day journey - and then back home.  Not optimal - she’d be in a crate for a long drive with at least one stop overnight, I’d have to try and keep her cool, and pay for gas, lodging, food, incidentals - not to mention the wear and tear on me, her, and the car.  She’ll be arriving via a transport service which drives straight through, has two ladies who take turns driving, sleep on a cot in the back with the puppies they’re delivering, let them out to play, take them potty, and never leave them alone.  All I have to do is get off my Jabba the Hut ass and answer the door.  Perfect!

It’s been one of those days I can’t wait to see disappear.  First, the pool filter exploded.  Now the pool guy has to talk my landlady into putting in a new one, since I’m not responsible for the equipment.  Then I found out that bitch next door trespassed in my backyard to get a football.  Of course, the cops will no longer trespass someone - it’s considered a civil matter unless it’s criminal trespass - so I have to take steps, the first of which is arriving tomorrow via Amazon.  Come tomorrow afternoon, there will be a huge, “NO TRESPASSING - VIOLATERS WILL BE PROSECUTED” sign which also has a space for you to write on.  I’m going to put her name and family.  Being considered due notice, if I can catch her or any of them walking in my yard, THEN I can call the cops - if I can get one to leave the donuts for a few minutes to come deliver the news.  I’m a bit apprehensive about it - being the batshit bitch she is, that would spark yet more retaliation and threats.  I almost bought the sign which said something like, “MY DOG CARRIES A GUN AND WON’T TAKE HIS MEDICATION”, but I thought I’d better stick to something which wasn’t funny and to the point.  Even putting it up is going to righteously piss her off.  If I didn’t have my babies, I’d just load the gun, walk in her yard, beat the shit out of her, and shoot her in the kneecap.  Not that getting three hots and a cot would bother me, but I do have to take care of the kids, and I don’t think they allow doggie visits in the joint.

So now I’m hot and tired, so I took a bunch of pain meds and Valium and will likely piss away another evening.  I’ve got spinning to do, so I might work on that - or I might watch Live PD and doze off.  No matter - as long as I don’t pick up either crocheting or knitting where I have to pay attention and count stitches, it’ll be fine.  No matter what, the sun is dropping, the temps will be dropping, and tomorrow is a new day.

Now all I have to do is find my Sharpie to write on the sign...

The Black Pit of Depression - and a Couple of People I’d Seriously Like to Off

Oh shit, you’re thinking - now what is this crazy bitch going to lay on me?

Depression.  Imagine an endless, dark tunnel with no visible light at the end.  Imagine barely being able to get out of bed in the morning, because facing the day and doing even the smallest of tasks is unbearable.  Imagine all the dark thoughts which flit through one’s mind when they’re so tired, so in pain (both mentally and physically), that they wish the next day would never come.

But that day always seems to come, and you go through the same routine all over again.  I’ve been in bed so much that my ass is threatening to fall over the sides of the mattress.

But finally, there is light at the end of said tunnel.  Some money has come in, I have food to eat, medications have been phoned in for refill for the first time in two months, and I’m finally feeling like I can focus on things - like knitting a stupid simple pattern without fucking up the stitch count over and over again.

One of the blessings is that a lovely lady in the Dallas area has offered me an older English Bullie pup.  Once I speak with her, we’ll figure out the best way to get her home.  She’ll make a wonderful companion for Roxy (who has proven to be the best dog in the world), and an even more delightful companion for me.  I’ve lived with EB’s for over a decade, and the absence of one is like being stuck in said tunnel.

So I’ve grabbed myself by the tits, pulled myself up as best I can, and now I have another focus.

Retribution.

Well, maybe not retribution - not exactly - more like justice.  You see, my dear estranged husband promised - six years ago - to pay me half his salary.  While I do indeed get a pretty good chunk of jingle every two weeks, it’s no longer enough to live on.  So, after I get my June bonus, I’m hauling his muffin butt into court to seek a revision on the amount I receive.  I KNOW he’s making far more now than he was those long six years ago, and I want what’s rightfully mine and what was promised. My hope is that he’ll settle without us even having to go to court because, should I lay eyes on him again, one of two things is going to happen - either I’ll crumble into a sobbing mess (how undignified), or grab his by now shriveled-up balls and squeeze them until he passes out.  That’s even if he has any left - he’s never stood up to women - but if he does, I know from decades of experience exactly where they’re lurking in his 501’s.  If he shows up and brings his whore, I’ve already prepared for a friend to bail me out, because I’ll rip her to shreds - then deal with him.

The second person I’m working on annihilating is that bitch next door.  This is a more delicate process, but either me or karma is going to destroy her for what she did to my sweet Tillie.  To me, that’s the lowest of the low - killing a sweet baby who never hurt anybody in her short little life, and all to hurt me.  She did more than hurt me - she devastated and almost destroyed me - but now I’m PISSED.  And when I hit the wall and get PISSED, all hell is about to break loose.

On a happier note, well... uh... hm.  Give me a while to think about that one.

Oh, I know - the love and support of family and friends who have stood by me and made sure I had enough food to eat and enough love to realize I’m important to them.  I’m not only talking about people I know - I’ve received care packages from all over the world, most of them from people I don’t know, but with whom I share a mutual friend who facilitated this effort.  I have many blessings in my life; now it’s time to drop the self-pity, tie my tits behind my neck, and kick myself in my Jabba the Hut ass.  Today is the day.

So, dear friends, enough whining and bitching.  Enough of the “poor me” shit.  I’m back, and with a vengeance the Goddesses would be proud of.

I hope y’all have a lovely holiday weekend, and a safe one as well.  I’ll be working on my many projects, planning some things, and making something other than hot dogs for dinner.

The bitch is back yet again.

Another Shitty Mother’s Day

First of all, to all you mothers who actually have children who remember who you are - Happy Mother’s Day!

Other than the obligatory phone call to my mom, I’m spending it alone with Roxy.  It’s just another day - my days melt into one another, so I’m never sure what day of the week it is or the actual date.  For instance, I’m going to a fiber festival next Saturday, but it surprised the shit out of me to learn it was coming so fast.  It’s a good thing the lady I’m meeting there reminded me, or I would have completely forgotten.

I’m currently fighting with two lace projects - one, I keep ripping the whole damn thing out, and the other, the instructions are wrong.  Since I don’t know how the pattern is going to shake out, I have to wait for the designer to let me know her latest corrections.  Even as bad as my math skills are, it just didn’t add up to the required number of stitches, and I don’t want to mess it up beyond having to frog a row.  Spinning is non-existent for the moment; since my sweet Tillie was taken from me, I’ve had a really difficult time getting the motivation to do much of anything.  At this rate, my ass is spreading faster than soft butter from sitting all the time.

The stress of what’s happening with that crazy bitch next door has also kicked my disease into high gear.  Tired all the time but not sleeping, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, and the accompanying pain - it’s all part of it.  We won’t even talk about the amount of TP I’m running through...

One of the things that bitch did was to call every city agency she could think of to make my life miserable.  I admit, my front yard was an embarrassment, so I got ahold of a fraternal organization called the Clampers who do things for people who can’t do for themselves.  A lovely young man came out and cleared all the weeds.  During his work, Gladys came out to spy on me (she’s even taking pictures and videos of my house), and he gave her a dirty look.  When she still stood there (camera at the ready, I’m sure), he gave her the finger.  I’ve stooped to her level and stood out in front of her house taking a video of the six cars they own and how they’re parked (especially the giant truck blocking our mailboxes, and the two parked between our houses - one of which doesn’t even run), and have forwarded it to Code Enforcement.  They’ll be out this week to investigate violations (smirk).  If they’re force to move that piece of shit Baja Bug, I’m going to sit in the driveway on a lawn chair and take a video of them moving it into the backyard - it’s the only place they have to put it.  Retaliation will come, of that I have no doubt, but she’s dangerously close to harassment and me filing a restraining order.  If she so much as farts in my direction, I’ll use my special skills to destroy her house.  Yeah, there will be repercussions from that little maneuver, but I think at that point, it’s not just being mean - it’s self-preservation.  And if something happens to Roxy, I’ll rip her to shreds.

So other than falling asleep and getting very sharp knitting needles stuck in my ass (and the stitches falling off said needles), making stupid mistakes when I’m awake enough to knit, and various and sundry other adventures in the my world of creation, there’s not a damned thing going on other than the shit from next door.  It’s probably a good thing I’m not spinning right not - I’d probably flick the spindle the wrong way and have it shoot straight into my eye.  Not that I can see all that well anymore, but that would hurt - and it would also fuck up my spindle.  One can’t have that...

I Wish You Would Have Let Me Join You

Since it’s close to the 30th anniversary of my Grandpa’s passing, and also since I wrote a tribute to my Grandma, here’s his.

You told my mother you wanted a granddaughter as soon as she got married.  She obliged, and you were beyond delighted.  You wouldn’t hold me because you were afraid you’d break me.

You were my entire world from the moment I realized who you were..  You gave me your steak bones to teethe on, and I inherited your love of very rare steaks.

You took me to the substation almost every night so I could go on patrol with you or hang out in the station with all the other cops.  I sent teletypes to every agency in the country with a simple, “HI!”, and they all responded in kind.

One night, you told me to hide in an office under the desk and not stand up.  I did, but as soon as you walked out, I stood up to watch.  Two big cops drug in a man who was fighting.  He saw me, broke free, and came at me at a dead run.  You merely stuck your hand out, snagged him by the throat, and proceeded to bang his head against the wall until it split open like a dropped pumpkin.  Then you came into the office and said, “Didn’t Grandpa tell you not to stand up?”.  I was horrified and began to cry; then he took me by the hand and we went to get cheeseburgers.  It turned out the man had just raped and killed a little girl my age.

I was with you every day, and you took me to the City every week to buy fresh crab off the boats, hot sourdough from the Toscana trucks delivering to the restaurants, and we’d go sit on our favorite pier slathering that hot sourdough with butter you always remembered to bring and eating our crab, watching the fog roll out under the Gate.  That’s the very same pier my ashes will be scattered from.

You taught me to shave you with a straight-edge when I was three.

You taught me how to drive a car when I was 10.

You walked me up and down Broadway for my 13th birthday so I could see all the strip joints, and then told me not to tell my mother.

You drove me to the Castro district so I could see the sights there and drove right into the middle of the first Gay Liberation Day Parade.  I wanted to get out and watch the parade; you were horrified, yelled at me to lock the doors and hide under the dashboard, and hung a U-turn right in front of a float and shot back down Castro Street.

When you bought me my Camaro, I wanted the version with the Phoenix on the hood, like the Trans-Am’s.  You wouldn’t buy it because “only pimps drove those kinds of cars”.  You paid $6K for it back then; it was still wrapped in plastic and had six miles on the odometer.

You bought me my first hookah from Cost Plus in the City when I was about to go into high school and took the flowers from the Hare Krishnas, mashed them up, and put them back in their baskets.

You brought me wine when I was in college.

You walked me down the aisle for my big formal wedding, and I had to nudge you to let go of my hand when it was time to hand me over to my husband.  I wish I had grabbed you and kissed you at that moment.  All the women at the reception asked me if you were available; I told them all no because I didn’t want to share you with anybody.

I ate lunch with you on a Friday and you told me you didn’t feel well.  On Saturday morning, I got a call from the hospital telling me you were paralyzed from the neck down.  I spent the next year visiting you every day.  You wouldn’t let the nurses shave you or suction out your tubes - that was my job.  When they did a tracheotomy, I walked into your room and you croaked out, “What the hell took you so long?”.  I burst into tears.

You came home with me after that year on my 30th birthday, and I turned my family room into a hospital setting.  I cared for you and took you out back in your wheelchair to get some sun.  The wheelchair tipped over, I fell on top of you, and we both laid there in the grass laughing until my husband came home and helped me get you back in the chair.  It’s a miracle you didn’t fall in the pool.

The day after New Year’s, you were staying with my mother because I had gone down to 95 lbs. and couldn’t even pick up your chair anymore.  She called me to say that you had gone into a coma and to get my ass to the hospital.  I didn’t leave your side; I even slept there with my head on your chest.  Your intestines had burst - the same thing which would happen to me many years later - and I finally got a nurse to tell me you were dying.

Per your wishes, I took you off life support on a Thursday.  Right after I turned off the machines (I wouldn’t let the doctors or nurses do it), you came out of your coma, looked right at me and, for about 10 seconds, you were my grandpa again.  You said, “Grandpa loves you”, and went back into the coma.  I came to see you that Saturday night and told you it was okay, that I was okay (it was all lies), and you died two hours later.

I don’t remember much of your funeral, other than my cousin having to peel me off your coffin and starting to rocket my fist in my uncle’s face before a friend grabbed it.

You came to me every night for a year, kissed my cheek, told me you loved me, and protected me from the other side.

Two years ago, when my intestines blew and I was in ICU for a month, I flatlined four times.  The last time I was ready to go and relaxed, giving in to it.  I didn’t see you, which surprised me.  Then I got shoved hard in the small of my back, came shooting back to life, and all my vitals shot up to normal. The next day, they took out my intubation tube and I told the nurses I had been shoved back. They told me I was hallucinating until I told them to roll me over and look.  Right where I said it happened, there was a palm-shaped bruise.  I didn’t see you because you were behind me.  I so wanted to come be with you again, and I was sad that you had decided it wasn’t time. You always made the decisions, and I respected them.

Too many memories to put in a blog post, some too personal to share.  You were my universe, my life, the person I loved above all others and still do.  Your badge rests next to Emma’s ashes, and sometimes you move it to let me know you’re here.  I’m so looking forward to being with you again.

I love you, Grandpa and that will never change.  My heart hurts every day that i was robbed of another 20 years with you.  You left me the day before your 72nd birthday.  Part of me died with you. You taught me so much, adored me, cared for me, spoiled me rotten - but most of all, you loved me with the same fierceness I loved you.

I wish you were here in person, not just in spirit.

Your beloved granddaughter.

RIP, my Sweet Tillie

Yes, you read that right.  Tuesday, at approximately 5:15p, my dear, sweet Tillie collapsed and died in my arms.  She wasn’t even two years old.  To say that I’m shattered is an understatement.  I took her to the vet, but they were unable to resuscitate her.  She’s being cremated and brought home to rest next to my Emma.

They say there’s light at the end of every tunnel, and in this case, it’s true.  That same Tuesday, I got notification that a bulldog needed a home.  I sent in an application, saw her yesterday, and she was delivered with all her things last evening.  Her name is Roxy, and I believe both my Emma and Tillie dwell within her.  She’s an America Bulldog instead of an English and, while I miss those stumpy, snorting, wrinkly little creatures lumbering around the house, she’s absolutely adorable.  She also falls down when I yell bang, knows all her commands, and is perfect in every way.  We’ve already bonded in such a short time, and I know my babies sent her to me because they can’t bear to see me hurting so badly.  She also licks away my tears when I cry for my Tillie.  She’ll help me with my grief; I’ll give her a new, happy, loving life.  It’s a win-win for both of us.

On other fronts, there isn’t much at all going on.  I’m spinning, knitting (although the past few days, I’ve barely managed to get out of bed), and generally farting around.  I’m also smoking like a chimney, but now that I have Roxy, I’ll stop again.  My life is so boring, it’s a wonder I don’t fall down in a dead faint when I get to go to the grocery store from the sheer excitement of actually getting in the car.

Yesterday was also a banner day for gifts.  Fiber, spindles, lots of other doodads from dear friends - it brought light into my life and made me realize that I have friends who care deeply about me.  Sometimes, when all you see is black, the obvious goes unnoticed.  That was the case until I got everything - including Roxy - as well as many concerned messages.  I’m indeed fortunate, boring life or not.  Maybe today I’ll actually work on my shit again, and I’ll definitely play fetch with Roxy and shoot her a few times just to watch her fall over.  It’s hilarious, but a good tummy rub is expected after performing that feat.

I’m sorry to be so boring today, but after Tillie’s loss, it knocked all the wind out of me.  I’m grateful I still have people reading this, and I’m also grateful for good friends, Roxy, my family, and coffee...

The Time Has Come

Well, shit... I’ve decided that today is the day to stop smoking.

The patch is on my arm, I have one pack left (yes, I’ve already had... uh... four?), and I’m fighting the urge to light up another.

What, you say?  The most devout of smokers is quitting?  What in the hell is the world coming to?

It comes down to one word:  MONEY.

Do I really want to quit?  Sorta.  Would I continue smoking if cartons weren’t $85?  Most likely.  The sad and simple truth is that I can no longer afford to chuck roughly $500 out the window every month.

But, you say, you’re NOT supposed to smoke with a patch on your arm.  You’ll get nicotine poisoning.  You have to fight harder.  Do you want to wind up in the hospital because your body can’t handle all the extra nicotine from smoking real ciggies with the strongest patch on?

To all that, I say a loud and resounding BULLSHIT.

This is the woman who, during one of her hospital stays, was wheeled to the elevator by her pulmonologist to go sit outside, in the pouring rain, to have a smoke.  Not only was it raining, and I was sitting there with a blanket draped over my head, I had two smokes - while wearing two patches. I seem to have survived quite nicely.

But I’ve also noticed that I’ve begun to cough - just a little - which, after 39 years of smoking two packs a day, isn’t bad.  Add to that the fact that my SO is an ex-smoker.  He doesn’t care if I smoke, but I’d rather spend the time with him than keep running outside to have a cancer stick.  I’d also rather not eat breath mints like Cheetos to try and mask the stench of tobacco.

I have no illusions of my lungs “getting better”.  The damage has already been done.  I’ve seen X-rays of them and, for smoking as much and as long as I have, they look remarkably good.  I just love smoking.  I love the rituals, the taste, the relaxation - they even help with pain by constricting blood vessels - and I’ll miss it.

Had I been smart, I would have not picked up smoking again after my four-month hospital stint.  But nobody has ever accused me of being such a thing.  I mean, I lasted a week after coming home with several packs sitting there on top of the chest next to my bed.  “I’ll just have one”, thought I.  The really stupid thing about it was that I began to cough violently after a few puffs and wound up only taking those few.  I taught myself to smoke again.  What a dipshit.

Thank god for Valium...

A New Obsession

While I’ve been knitting pretty much since people used sticks and fuzz, spinning is something which I did decades ago.  Back then, I used a wheel.  Now, thanks to my sweetheart, I’ve begun spinning again using Russian and Tibetan spindles.

As always, I have to have everything possible to achieve my end goal.  So do I start out with one spindle, one bowl, and one bag of fiber - just to see if I’ll like it?  Oh no... that wouldn’t be in keeping with my wild and adventurous spirit.  So, since I got a bonus, I decided to go shopping.

Within the time frame of about two weeks, I now have 18 spindles on hand (with five more on the way), a large box full of various fibers, six bowls, and every notion available for spindlers.  Needless to say, the bonus disappeared rapidly, but it’s been so long since I’ve been able to just completely blow that much money, I had a blast.

These spindles are little works of art.  The woods are exquisite, the spindlemakers whom I’ve been lucky enough to connect with are top-notch, and the fibers - those lovely ropes and braids of cloud-like softness - are a joy to work with.

Compared to a wheel, I find the process of using a spindle much more enjoyable.  It’s more tactile, you have more control over what you’re spinning, and you can do it anywhere - the tools are portable to the point where you can spin riding in the car, waiting for a doctor’s appointment, or sitting on the john.  Of course, I also had to get a suitable bag to transport the goodies I think I’ll need for whatever occasion I’m going to be spinning outside the house.

Now my house truly looks like a fiber mill - there’s bits of fiber floating through the air, all over my clothes, in my food - and combined with Tillie’s shedding makes for quite the mess.  There I sit in the middle of it all, blithely unaware of just how shitty my house looks and merrily spinning away.

It’s like being in a state of zen - time ceases to exist, everything in my body relaxes, my breathing slows (yeah, the Fentanyl has a lot to do with that, but this helps it along), and the slowness of creating yarn is hypnotic.  You can park and draft (which I do), or do a long draw, then wind on your finished single to the spindle, repeat.  It really is relaxing and fun.

If you’ve not tried it before but have always wondered about it, I’d highly recommend you give it a whirl (pun intended).  It’s not for the faint of heart, however - you’re going to spend a helluva lot more money than you ever imagined.

But so what?  The old man sends me support checks, I have a freezer full of food, Tillie has everything she needs, and I’ve never been able to save money anyway.  You can’t take it with you...

Another Stitches Gone By Without Me

In typical Pam fashion, I thought I had LOTS of time to make it to Stitches - and grossly overestimated how much money I’d have to buy all kinds of goodies.  I was also really looking forward to seeing a lot of old friends who I only see at that particular event.

So there I am, sunning myself on the lovely beaches of Malibu (and watching Tillie look at the ocean with total indifference), when it dawned on me that Stitches was a  day away - and I was going to be down in SoCal for another week or so.  Shit - another year went by without attending the event.

Now I’m left to completely destroy my bank account on Etsy, the Loopy Ewe, and sundry and assorted yarn sites.  And destroy it I am...

I’ve come to discover - rather quickly, in fact - that taking up the Russian spindle is even more addicting than knitting commercial yarn.  First, there are the spindles themselves - lovely little works of art that I simply can’t live without.  You need a bowl, and we all know I have a container fetish, so now I have two bowls on hand, one in transit, and one being made.  Of course, to do anything with said spindles and bowls, you need fiber - lots of it.  Not that the paltry amount I do possess will ever be spun in this lifetime, I MUST get more.  Between Tillie shedding, fiber flying all over the place, and more things taking up room I don’t have, this house is ready to cough up a big furball.

Needless to say, I don’t wear black or any dark color.

Healthwise, I’m holding my own.  Since the docs put me on the big boy narcotics, I feel better (read: much less pain), and am getting out to do things around town (which is the size of a cow pie).  I got a Mini Cooper last year and have a blast driving it.  I’ve also gotten involved in doing a lot of test knitting for designers, which keeps me busy, so between that, spinning, acquiring, Phil, etc., my days are no longer hard to fill.

Thank god I bought a robotic vacuum cleaner...

Another Hobby I Don’t Need

Hey ladies...

I’m delighted that a few of you are actually paying attention to my ramblings.  Here’s some more for you.

Dating a man who makes the most exquisite spindles, bowls, etc., I took a look at his Russian spindles.  For those of you who don’t know what they are, they’re a supported spindle (meaning you spin with the tip in a small bowl), and spin very fine yarn.  Fine yarn?  My interest was piqued.  In true Pam fashion, I didn’t get just one to try to see if I liked it.  I bought five... yes, count them, five.

So today, I decide I’m going to spin using one of these delightful little sticks.  I get my fiber out, tease it a bit, get the spindle of the day and the bowl, plop it down in front of me, attach the fiber to the spindle, and give it a spin.

It flew across the room and dented the wall.

Okay, I think, this is going to take a bit of practice.  I come from the spinning wheel world, and I rapidly realize that this is an entirely different beast.  So I attach the fiber again, wind a bit on, draft out some, and give it another twirl.

I got nailed in the forehead.

Third time is a charm, think I, so I go through the entire ritual again.  This time, the spindle stays in the bowl, it spins, and I think I’ve got it.

It sucked up the entire length of roving, unspun, onto itself.

So now I’ve put the entire package away to try again tomorrow.  I’ve found it not prudent to try and do something when I’ve got a bandaid on my forehead, I’m pissed off and frustrated, and would like to break the spindles in half.

Think I’ll watch “My 600-Pound Life”, flop on the bed with a cup of joe, and eat Cheetos for the rest of the night.

The Bitch is Back

Wow... it’s been YEARS since I’ve posted anything.  In fact, I totally forgot that I even had a blog.  I guess that means I can hide my own Easter eggs now...

So what’s been going on?  I have a new love in my life (who would have thought?!?), went through an absolutely horrible four-month stay in the hospital, and continue to terrorize the world with my presence.  Other than that, not a helluva lot has changed.

I do, however, regret to inform my dear readers that my sweet Emma crossed over last August.  It was devastating.  Fortunately, I had purchased a puppy a year prior to her leaving, so now I have Tillie.  Poor Tillie was lost without Emma and continues to look for her sometimes, but she’s my little buddy and doorstop.  I dearly love her.

As for knitting, etc., I continue to start a lot of projects and rarely finish any of them.  I just love the process of creating, not necessarily the finished product.  On the rare occasions when I do finish something, I tend to give it away.  Come to think of it, the only thing I have which I’ve created is a lap quilt - unless you count the 100’s of UFO’s in the bedroom.

It’s great to be back, and I hope that my old readers (and lots of new ones), will be kind enough to read my ramblings...