I never thought I would ever have to say this:

Please help me open this jar.

That's right, super strong, always capable, she'd-rather-hire-it-out-than-ask-for-help-Misstea cannot open a jar of pickled asparagus.

I've run hot water over the lid, banged it with a butter knife, done all the things we are supposed to do.

I'm one week away from taking it to the pub and letting the boys have a go at it. I'm that desperate. I really would like to enjoy a Caesar with pickled asparagus. Far superior to celery.

The position is open, but I'm not accepting applications

I had an interesting experience at the watering hole, tonight.

As is normal, the usual suspects were there, and we were all laughing, talking and generally insulting each other. All in good fun.

I got a great deal of work done on a sock, and it was, all in all, a lovely evening.

Except for Jesus (note: not his real name. Duh. Merely a reflection of his looks. He has no saviour tendencies, whatsoever). He is an attractive man (meaning tallish, painfully skinny, dark-haired) who I have admired and flirted with for quite some time. Tonight, he made it clear that he was now unattached. And that he was perhaps looking to change that situation. He cleverly referenced previous comments I've made into our conversation (BTW, I'm even saucier than I think I am, if he is to be believed). And to make my knees even weaker, threw some clever insults and double entendres (damn, I wish I knew enough HTML to get the proper accents) into the conversation. I'm a sucker for witty conversation.

Well.

I have promised myself, repeatedly, that the watering hole does not equal intimate encounters. Whenever I've broken that rule, it's ended badly, usually making me look like a first class bitch. Which may be true, but that doesn't mean I want to be a bitch.

So, I finished my drink and paid my tab, saying something about an early start in the morning (which is completely true). Jesus paid his tab at the same time.... and walked me out... and stared at me as I walked away, not looking back.

Sigh. I could be having a lot of fun right now, with the devil to pay tomorrow. It's mighty inconvenient when my morals sneak up on me.

It's story time, again

My brain is tired, my back is sore, and my mouth hurts from being at the dentist.


Plus, there is more water (just a little bit, this time) in the basement from the torrential downpour that hit the city today (as I was driving - I used to be an experienced driver, but I'm not anymore. I was tense when I got to the dentist).


So, I will tell a story.


Way back in March, Construction Inc. hosted a gathering for the office staff at our box at the Phone Booth. I marched in, all cute and sexy in my cute pink hat and black blazer, because N and I were meeting for drinks after the game. There was the usual introduction of guests, and before we were finished, I looked up.


Waaay up. And said, "Hello, how have you been?"


My invoice clerk then says, in a carrying voice (naturally), "Misstea! How do you know my brother!?!?!"

And you should have seen the interest on our office manager's face! He was very, very curious.

I said, calmly (I hope), that we'd seen each other for a bit. There was an awkward conversation. Clearly, we were all flummoxed.

I went to find a seat and enjoyed the hockey game.

I remember this now, because that invoice clerk was fighting with the microwave in the lunch room yesterday.

I managed to fix it for her, saying that the microwave was 22 years old. My Grandad and I had bought the same one for my mom when I was fourteen.

I could see her mind squirreling, trying to do the math... finally I just said that I was 36. Her jaw damn near hit the ground. Again.

So, given that my clerk is only about 22, and I know her brother is only a little bit older. Tall cute boy was indeed, very, very young. And totally unsuitable.

Though he was (and still is) very tall. A compelling trait, that.

His sister has the same eyes. I wondered why she looked oddly familiar.

I might have hit delete, but maybe not.

J left a comment on my last post. She said, "I don't have a polka party, but I bet they'd look cute at our upcoming karaoke event. "

I don't think I'd hit delete... but I've been into the wine. As usual.

J is getting married! The next big social event on my calendar (other than a block party in St. B, more on that later) is her stagette, and then the happy celebration of her wedding,

I am happy, and truly privileged to share in her day. How do I love this woman? Let me count the ways.

Wait a minute. There is no need to count. She knits. Nothing more need be said.

So, the new question is... what does one wear to a karaoke stagette, given that the footwear (and I am sure the bride's footwear surpasses mine, as well it should) is $10 fake argyle/Harlequin loafers with pink hearts and silver stars?

And the budget is $40 (just to make it a challenge, and no, I refuse to go to Value Village.).

Internet, show me your knowledge.

Oh, and I loves the karaoke. I'm famous, such as it is, in certain bars around town.

Doin' ma bloggy thing

I've had loads stored up in my head lately. Things unrelated to studying and work.

Now that the weather is not cooperating (I had planned to do a decent job at cutting the grass tonight, but the rain has prevented me from doing so) I'm sitting inside.

AND I CAN'T THINK OF A DAMN THING TO SAY!

So, I suppose it is time for a story I've had up my sleeve since last November.

The scene: a very, very crowded country bar, close to last call. The crowd is pretty mixed, but leans to the young side.

The main character: a tall blond in a cocktail dress, looking pretty fine, sitting beside the dance floor, all by herself, because she can't find people in a crowd. She's finishing her beer and going home, if no one finds her (incidentally, the people she's with (colleagues, not friends) don't know that she easily gets lost).

A young man in a cowboy hat plunks himself down next to her: "Hey! Wanna make out?"

The tall blond: "No!"

The young man: "Why not? I'm just being honest." (whines)

The tall blond: "Because I'm old enough to be your mother!"

The young man: "Well, it's your loss." (walks off in a huff)

The tall blond is rescued by one of her colleagues. And realizes, sadly, that she is indeed old enough to be the young man's mother.

Just barely, though. For clarity.

Pheromones are Real

Just got home from a surreal (or, more surreal than usual) evening at the watering hole.

When I got there, there was only one seat at the bar. Strange item number one. (I’m told it was payday and pension day).

So, I took that seat. Please note it was next to the “head seat.” Next to the best seat. The seat next to where the most regular of regulars sit.

And when Neil the Irishman left an hour or so later, Rodney the railroad man told me to slide on over and take the good seat. Strange item number two.

So, I did. I’m no fool.

Guess I’ve arrived. Little ol’ me was sitting where the old (as in longevity, not age) guys sit.

Later, Mike the biker came in, and he cheerfully sat beside me, and Rodney, Mike and I bull-shitted for the better part of three hours. I told all sorts of saucy stories about myself, and the boys traded stories in turn. They also said that they’d seen my tattoos, and knew how tough I was. Really, I should skip buying a scooter and buy a bike.

They also said they could make me cry, if they really, really wanted to. I laughed.

It was a good night, even if Wade the delivery guy completely ignored me (we usually have a really feisty discussion about bluegrass). Strange item number three.

After some chicken fingers and loads of good insults, I found out that Rodney the railroad guy did not talk trash about me. The freaky guy is indeed a freak, and apparently I am glad that he didn’t email. Good to know. I would hate to think that my charms have diminished over the winter. Even though the firm lecture I have drafted has been wasted. (Rodney tells me that dipshit walked out of the pub saying "I'm never talking to her again." Suddenly, the fact that dipshit ignored me three weeks ago makes sense.).

So, some time later, I’ve ordered my last pint. I’ve paid my tab, and I’ve planned which bus to catch. A very, very handsome man sits down. Says “hello gentleman… and, girl!” And leers. Sort of. We all say hello, and the general bull-shitting continues… My bus is coming, so I wander over to say goodnight to Wade. I walk by Mike and Rodney, and kiss each of them on the cheek.

Very handsome man I don’t know says “Hey, where’s my kiss? “

I say, “I don’t know you well enough to kiss you. But, I would have sex with you.”

And I waltz out the door. With a certain swing in my step. If you know what I mean, and I think you do.

I paused for a moment, in the lobby, before I stepped outside of the building. Just to hear the gales of laughter and, over it all, I hear very handsome man say “What?!?”

..........................................................................................

And this brings me to the thoughts rolling around in my head tonight.

I’ve made a decision this winter, a decision that I haven’t talked about much. Just to a couple of you, really.

I’m done with dating.

I’m done with that stupid (but fun, I admit) game of putting myself on display, hoping someone will notice me.

I’m done with going after someone I like, and hoping they like me back.

I’m done with swallowing my own opinions just because some stupid person with a penis will be hurt if I say what I really mean. Or back-pedalling when the person I am speaking to is too dim to have and interesting and spirited debate about current issues.

It’s clear that if that is the sort of man I choose, I’ve been choosing the wrong man, and whose fault is that? Mine.

I’ve learned, over the last seven years or so, I do not need a man by my side. Oh, yes, I have learned that, and I’ve loved every minute of it (well, after the first six months I’ve loved it). And even more clearly, I’ve learned that I don’t really like how I behave when I have a man by my side. Therefore I will do without.

“If this is it for me baby, that’s just fine, I'm not looking any more”

...........................................................................................

But I'm still going to flirt. And have one-night stands, if the opportunity presents itself. Just sayin'.

Algebra is your friend

I decided that the 56 stitches called for in the pattern weren't enough. Especially since I'm substituting yarn and needles.

So, this is what I did - I counted the number of stitches in the pattern repeat and the border repeat. Figured out a number that would evenly divide into both of them. The result? 86 stitches and eight pattern repeats instead of five. I'll get much closer to the finished width of 23" when I block, and I will be a happy woman.

I'm loving this yarn so much that I knitted lace at the pub last night. It's a simple pattern, and the light was fairly good. Strangely, I get fewer rude comments when I am not knitting something that is vaguely penis-shaped.

It's very simple, and rather intuitive, but I am loving the result. The beauty of Noro is the transition between colours, seeing where the slubs will appear in the fabric and the truly unique results.

Speaking of pub-knitting, Ed the plumber was wearing a jacket and tie. I did not recognize him with out his ball cap. Of course, I didn't tell him that he looked nice. That would never do.

Neil the Irishman was there, quite nervous because this guy was buying him drinks. I told him he was safe from unwanted advances. And when I said hello, he didn't even look me in the eye. I wonder what Rodney the railroad guy said about me. Rodney and I don't get along.

All in all, not a very exciting night. I walked home, and was in the house by eight. Rock and roll party queen, eh?

You know you are a regular when

• The locals leave you alone to defend yourself; 'cuz they know you can handle any drunken idiot that comes along.
• A long-time patron calls you a "shithead" with great affection. And then wraps his arm around your waist. And you don't mind.
• Your cardigan is buttoned wrong, and no one mentions it to you (or maybe that's just me, and my inability to dress myself).
• The "divorced men's" bar has become the "divorced person's" bar. 'Cuz gender inclusiveness is important, damnit.
• All the boys say 'Yes, it is a sock, and no, you can't have a pair."

Ugh!

I love going out with my friends, listening to bands, talking to new people and having a few beverages. I really, really do. I try to soak up new experiences and learn as much as I can.

I even enjoy talking to cab drivers. I figure everybody has something interesting to share.

I'll even admit that I like the attention that comes with sitting at the bar and knitting. Most of the time.

What I do not like, however, is losing the next day because there's a tap dancer inside my skull.

It's a good day for sitting on the couch and knitting. I've got three more socks to go.

Friday Night Sights

The scene, earlier this evening, in a questionable north-end pub:

A tall, blond woman, wearing glasses, is sitting at the bar, reading a very large book and manipulating what appears to be five skewers and some fine string. She's drinking a beer, minding her own business. Nobody's really paying much attention to her. The staff are busy, other patrons are playing the trivia, visiting, or just drowning their sorrows in drink.

Two men enter, both regulars:

The electrician: Hey Misstea, is my peter heater ready?

The tall blond: Only if you're OK with having an orange and pink one. I suspect it's probably a bit big for you (she whips out an even smaller set of skewers and string. It appears to be a hand-knitted sock, but small. Perhaps small enough to fit a two-year-old).

The electrician: Come on Misstea, that is way too small. Can I get a private fitting?

The tall blond: Get in line. All the boys want private fittings.

Later, when she's left her knitting on the bar to pay her tab...

The electrician's friend (picks up the sock): Hey, this is actually really nice.

The tall blond: Of course it's nice. Do you think I spend all this time making crappy stuff?

The electrician's friend (to impress another woman standing at the bar): Well, maybe I could learn to knit socks.

The tall blond: I'm teaching tomorrow from one 'til five.

The electrician's friend: Oh, um, well...

The tall blond thinks to herself: Yup, I'll believe that one, when I see it.

Some good, some bad

First, the good:

• I left the house in daylight, and returned in daylight. This is a rare treat.
• The Spring IK arrived today.
• I took a three hour lunch, and quit working an hour early.
• It was warm enough today to not wear a hat, which is awesome because I washed my hair this morning, and it looks great.
• I'm going out for drinks with a new girly pal tonight, and I am very excited about knitting in the pub with a knitty friend.
• I have qualified for my exam.

The bad:

• I was half an hour late for work (see above hair washing).
• The Spring IK was on newsstands three days ago, and some people, in Europe, have had theirs for over a week.
• I did have real work to do.
• I should have worn a hat. My ears were really, really cold.
• I have either ketchup or blood on my new coat. Given this week, it could be either.
• I did not submit the last assignment, so I barely qualified.

Fickle

Anyone who knows me well realizes that I am mostly attracted to older men.


Can't help it. There's just something about a receding hairline that makes me a little weak in the knees. Never mind the curmudgeonly attitude. I loves me some curmudgeon.


Well, not really. I like the confidence, the better social skills (for the most part), the ability to actually listen instead of just talk. I like a man who doesn't act like a little boy. Intelligence and thoughfulness carries much more weight with me than swaggering bravado.


So, at the watering hole the other day, I was asked out by gentleman who bears a passing resemblance to a certain singer song-writer that I have an enormous crush on.


I nearly broke my own damn rule. In some ways, I wish I had.

And speaking of my crush, I really, really want to do this. I know that if I spent seven days with FJE, (and 68 other people) he would fall in love with me.

Problem is, the week would cost $3,500 CAD. Plus drinks and gratuities.

Yikes.

Still Steamed

I flatly refuse to give my phone number to men I meet.

I, naturally, have learned this the hard way.

Very rarely do I actually want to go out with anyone I meet when I've belted back a few. There is nothing worse than screening my calls because I'm too nice to actually tell a man that I think he is unattractive, in fact is rather stupid and that I would rather die alone and penniless, surrounded by 15 or 20 cats than pursue a relationship.

Yup, that would not go over well, you can imagine.

Furthermore, if he is a man I would like to see again, I hate waiting for him to call. I would much rather do the calling myself. I'm ballsy that way.

Sometimes, though, I will cave and give out my email address. In the interests of keeping the peace, and not being the instigator of fisticuffs. I abhor violence.

That is what happened on Friday. Despite my attempt to clearly explain that I am very busy, do not give out my number, am not interested in dating right now, and that it is my policy to not date ANYONE from this particular watering hole, I gave out my email address JUST TO SHUT HIM UP. I mean, the begging and pleading gets tiresome after a while. A girl can only listen to so many compliments, after all.

So, now I am desperately wishing he would email me, so I could tell him what he refused to listen to (and I'm pretty sure I know why he hasn't, but that's a story for another day).

He's a smart man though. He didn't give me his number, because he KNEW I wouldn't call. He's got to get some points for that.

The Heartbreak Harlot strikes again

OK, I admit it.

I hang out at a crappy, scummy bar. I like it. It's simple. All I want is a steak sandwich and a beer (or six). Perhaps some bull-shitting about the trivia game. The ladies restroom is clean (though I think it needs a second soap dispenser), the beer is cheap and cold. It's just a place to hang out, because I don't like cooking on Fridays.

Remember Cheers? Call me Norm. Only, I'm female and better looking.

So, why does every stinking man new to the place think that I am there looking for the love of my life?

I don't care that you have an EVENT to go to, and you need a classy, sophisticated date. I am busy right now, you know, living my life and not waiting for you to come along.

Furthermore, if you are looking for a classy, sophisticated date, do not ask a candidate how old she is. That's rude. Never mind the obvious bad decision to ask a woman in said north-end bar.

You don't know who I am. The way you are going, you never will.

Bar and bus knitting

This is what I can do, on a Friday night, along with eating a steak sandwich and doing a little flirting (completely innocent - I'll be seeing the boy tomorrow).

I am ready to put the thumb stitches on a holder, and would have cheerfully continued making my new mitts all night, except I left my little box o' treats (folding scissors, stitch markers, etc,) at home. So, I worked on the sock.

To be fair, the sock was an inch or so past the cuff, so I motored along, knitting about five inches on the leg, knit the heel flap, turned the heel, completed the gusset and started motoring along the foot before I decided I'd had enough and that it was time to go home.




As much as I heartily enjoy going to the watering hole on a Friday night, I am sick to death of all the boys asking for peter-heaters. I swear, one night, I am going to walk in with about a dozen, and pass them out.

The items in question will all be very small, and made out of the scratchiest yarn I can find. The buggers deserve it, after all the grief they've given me.

Lazy, hazy days of summer have gone

Well, I don't know where September (or the summer, for that matter) has gone, but if you find it, let me know, please?

Actually, I know exactly where it went - camping, dragon-boating, baby-sitting a little girl, rehearsing and planning for a stage show, and getting used to a new job. Oh, and that pesky thing called a boyfriend. Then a cold. And, I have not had time to mow the lawn, never mind keep up with all the other jobs around here. I'm doing good to keep on top of the laundry. There's a bunch of other stuff, too, like returning to school.

That said, there's been some sock knitting going on:

All yarns are some form of OnLine sock yarn, from left to right: Grumperina's Jaywalkers, Harlot's basic sock pattern, basic pattern with 2x2 ribbing all the way down the leg and top of foot, basic pattern with 3x1 twisted rib all the way down the leg and top of foot, Monkey socks. All socks knit on 2.5 mm needles with the exception of the Monkey socks, which are knit on 2.75 mm needles. All in all, not a bad couple of month's work.

And, I am sad to say that I must be developing tendinitis or something in my right hand. After knitting for a couple hours, the top of my right hand, towards the wrist, becomes swollen and very tender. I thought it might have something to do with my incessant mouse clicking, or the oh-so-not ergonomically correct keyboard position at work, or something, but I noticed a week or so ago, when I hadn't knitted for a couple of days, that the pain and swelling disappeared. Over the past few days, I've been sick, and therefore have knitted quite a bit. So, my hand hurts again. I am very sad about this.


However, I will not stop knitting. I have an incredibly high pain threshold, and will continue, perhaps in smaller stretches than six hours at a time. I will be sure to mention this to my doctor when I see her for my annual physical.


I had a birthday a week or so ago, and I bought myself some treats. Others have yet to be delivered, but these came in the mail this week:

I can't wait to wear the Panopticon's "I learned to knit in prison" t-shirt to the pub!

I took these photos on the front lawn. Sometimes I wonder what my neighbours think about the crazy lady who drinks lots of wine and wanders around her yard taking pictures of string (however, I must point out, I don't drink wine until at least 3 pm. These were taken in the morning, so it's coffee - my first coffee in four days. Damn, it tastes good!).

I had a stranger-than-usual experience at the watering hole last week. I was sitting by myself at the bar, as usual, when a very drunk woman sat down beside me. She obviously was feeling very sorry for herself. Our conversation went something like the following:

Her: Is that knitting? (imagine "is" sounding more like "ish").

Me: Yes.

Her: You do that in bars?

Me: Yup.

Her: Why?

Me: I like keeping my hands busy.

Her: Oh. Do you have a boyfriend?

Me: Yes.

Her: You have a boyfriend and you knit? How is that possible? I make a lot of money you know, so why don't I have a boyfriend?

At this point, I finished my pint and went home. What could I add to that?

Frog Pond

It became clear, yesterday, that I was going to run out of yarn long before I reached the point where I could shorten chart 4. Plus, I saw these photos, and which are stinking gorgeous, and I want my Icarus to look like that.

Off the needles, before frogging.

So, I frogged nine days of work. It wasn't nearly as hard as I thought. I didn't cry, and didn't even touch my glass of courage until I was picking up the stitches. Strangely, I'm not as po'd about this as I thought I would be. Before I found my knitting community or started this blog, Icarus would have been stuffed into a basket and hidden away, never to be spoken of again. Now, I see it as an opportunity to get the decreases pointed in the right direction, and the shawl will be better as a result, if somewhat smaller. I actually am looking forward to re-doing charts 2 through 4. I love watching the pattern emerge. Never get tired of that.

Just about ready to start again.

Of course, tinking back an additional six rows because I stopped frogging too soon has not been fun, but it was pleasantly done at the watering hole last night while chatting with a very nice gentleman and listening to some karaoke (No, I did not get up and sing. I wasn't in the mood).

Now, if the weather would smarten up a little so I could sit outside and knit, that would be lovely. Oh yeah, and get my plants into the ground.

Overheard at local bars:

Scene 1:

"Why are you knitting?"

"Because I like to."

"How old are you?"

"That's rude, so I'm not telling you."

"Do you like to dance?"

"I've been known to dance."

"Will you buy me a beer?"

"No."

Scene 2:

"You're the knitting lady."

"Yes, I am."

"Will you make me a hat?"

"Sure, for $150."

"$150? Are you crazy?"

"No, but my time is worth something. Why would I make a hat for someone I don't know? Buy one at a craft sale."

Scene 3:

"You are so pretty!"

"Thank you, I know."

"No, really. You are very pretty."

"Thank you, I know."

To a third person: "Isn't she pretty?"

Third person: "Yes, she is. And you don't stand a chance. But, she's nice, too."

Scene 4:

"Are you going out with him?"

"Let's just say I've applied for the position."

"But, you're the knitting lady."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Huh?

Why is it that men automatically think one is a lesbian when you tell them that you aren't dating anyone? Are they that convinced of their own appeal?

P. S. This fellow was NOT attractive. If that was the alternative, I would become a lesbian.

Hello?

Um, I like to knit. In fact, I think I'm rather good at it. So good that I frequently knit successfully while drinking (adult beverages, of course) in bars. While flirting. Which is also something I'm good at.

Please note, however, that I am posting this at 10 pm on a Friday night. I'm not THAT good a flirt. Or perhaps the objects of my flirtation are not very worthy these days. I'll let you know after tomorrow night, when I will be drinking, dancing and knitting. Not necessarily in that order.

Knitting content will follow, once I've figured out how my digital camera works, how to make it talk to my computer and how to upload photos in Blogger. I'm told that's difficult sometimes.

Please be warned: I own cats, and I'm an accountant. I will try to be informative and entertaining, but I promise nothing.

Knit on, everyone.