The Postman Rang. Niiiiice...

I am working far too hard lately.
So, I was taking a break, innocently spinning
this insanely gorgeous merino on the bed,
when the doorbell rang....

My husband jokes that the postman is cruising me. Well, hell, if La Poste is going to keep dropping off stuff like this, I'm going to have to start wearing makeup or something....

Canada's Finest Customs Agents, a.k.a. La Douane,
have officially felt up the llama.
And I'll spin it if I can ever get my face out of it.
See, a spindle up the nose is just a bad idea.

As you can see, the SyndiCate has sprung into high gear. Is it not enough that we are wooed with gorgeous shots of handspun bunnycrack and silk-shot merino? Ohhhhh no. It's a conspiracy, a well-thought-out plan. They are all so much better than that. How much better? Sit down...this is going to take a while and it's better to drool on the floor. You wouldn't want to unintentionally felt anything....

This particular arm of the YouKnowYouWantTo Conspiracy (for you poetry workshop people, she's the "you") spent weeks thinking, "what would be the Exact Right Thing to win her over," and when she found it, she actually sent it to me! Poste haste, as it were! She even included a gorgeous card made by this talented lady (seriously, go get yourself a pack—I have a whole pack Cara gave me just because she's a sweetie, and they are beeeyoootiful) and then...Then! this is the kicker: the SyndiCate had the audacity to label this stuff "Spinning Fiber."

Ahem...riiiiight...excuse me, but Canadian Customs officials know llamacrack when they see it, and besides, you spelled it "fiber" instead of "fibre." Dead giveaway, lady. They were into that package in no time flat. I got the yellow plastic "Customs Felt Up This Dangerously Addictive Substance While You Were Impatiently Waiting For The Freaking Ponies To Arrive" tape on the box and everything.

Hell, they're probably watching my house right now as we speak. And since the landlord is busy hacking apart the metal front staircase with a chainsaw under the guise of "I just make a repair, no problem," I'll have to make my escape out the window amidst a shower of welder's sparks.

If I do jump, I'm taking the llama with me. Mamacate, you rock.
And yes, my hand really is that white.

Meanwhile, the knitting...ohhhh, the knitting. Just when you think it can't get any weirder...it not only can, but it will. It will start a new job. It will even demand a corporate logo.

This little guy is named KnitDuke.
He is the knitted version of the Java language mascot, Duke.
He was knit for love, but now a whole development team
wants in on the love, and they want it with a "Big Blue" hat.

Some days, I just want to crawl back into bed and spin. Shut up. I can stop any time I want.

Spiff asked if I could, at the very least, automate the nose-making procedure. After I picked myself up off the ground and wiped the tears from my eyes (please—the man said "nose-making procedural automation"—you'd die laughing too), I told him, sure, darling...that part is crocheted. I know just how I can automate this here nose-making procedure. You're hired. Here's your hook, Spiff, what's your hurry?

It's a very good thing I have people around me who know how to, uh, take care of my needs...because I'm feeling really crappy lately, what with the heat, the overload of work (every deadline known to every project I'm on is this week), and...I got a third opinion. One of the kindest people in the universe, who is also a knitblogger (I'm keeping her identity confidential but trust me, you all know and love her because she's an angel), got not only one of the best surgeons in the U.S., but an entire multi-disciplinary conference, to register an opinion on my case. And the verdict? Surgery. The Chainsaw To The Skull. Oh goody.

I'm meeting with the original Let's Go, Let's Cut, Crush Aneurysm surgeon in a few weeks, and I'm telling him I'm not doing this until next summer, when Twinkletoes is not here with me. He can argue all he wants, but the additional risk of a few months is minimal, and I'm cool with that. No furries, mate. Because I have decided that Margene is right about the process, about approaching things with a little less hurryupandwait and a lot more Zen.

Notably, I have decided that part of one's recovery must include sanity before and after the procedure, and the sheer worry about the world turning during Twink's school year and the laundry getting done and the family keeping their cool during six to twelve weeks of recovery would kill me. So, summer, it will be. Besides, I've got a life to lead. I've got jobs to finish. I've got programming classes to ace. I've got a kid and a husband to snuggle mercilessly. I've got a new career in knitting Dukes and ironing cotton pants.

I seriously thought the iron was just for steam-blocking. Who knew?

Poor Spiff. He is used to stunning black turtlenecks and jeans. He is as traumatized by having to wear cotton shirts and pants as I am by having to iron them. So, why am I ironing them? Me, Superhero Maman, Knitter Of All Things Weird and Unblockable? Well...

Here's the equation for you:
Spiff + 6h in the matin + A wicked hot, spitting iron + A little tiny hole in which to pour the steam water = A whole new set of swearwords I never even knew existed. Nuff said. It's my logic and I'll iron if I have to. Okay, back to spinning knitting....

Contrary to popular belief and certain six-year-olds, I am still knitting some normal things. I'm even plotting and planning to knit other normal things. I got this in the mail from one of the most stunningly gorgeous knitters in the blogging world, whose photo is rarely seen, but whose wheel I can now recognize in a crowded bloggerfest. She knows I'll still knit...sometimes...and this loveliness will become a Teva Durham leaf lace sweater, truncated for my midget-like limbs and height:

This is Artfibers Sage, super baby alpaca/wool single-ply.
Bloody gorgeous. I actually thought she spun it.
Shut up. I can stop any time I want.

The Spiff sweater progresses at the pace 2 x 2 black rib must progress...in fact, I just turned to blow un bisou to Spiff, and saw this on his screen:

Please hold for the next available priest. Your death is important to us. You will be resurrected in the order in which we found you. We appreciate your patience.

Well, da-yum. That does it, I'm going to spin bed. I'm hoping life will be less weird when I wake up. And please, if I have "fiber" hanging out of my nose, you'll tell me, won't you? Thank you. I knew I could count on you.

July 28, 2005 10:59 PM  | Permalink  | Comments (18)  | Print