these days of leiderhosen

The Steven had a craving for pancakes this morning. I mixed him up some batter from Mark Bittman's book but wasn't long until he lost interest and accused me of voodoo hexing his flapjack attempts. So Madame Leiderhosen took over the spatula, creating the Garfield Pancake: Thank you very much. I'll be here all week. For those readers who have doubted the existence of Fred The All-Knowing, All-Fashion-Critical Hummingbird, have some proof of the little *#%@!!!: Ya know, he just looks like a full 2 grams of little sonofabitch, some kind of evil reincarnation of Edith Head. And he makes sounds like an unsatisfied washer/rubber combination that is enough to make one go back in the house and tidy one's hair a bit more and think twice about lipliner. Jerk. Spinning has been going pretty well so here are some bragging photos: Other than that, I can't say much more is new. I am dreading the work week Maybe I ought to put Garfield up on Ebay and retire to some sun-drenched...

It was a long and awful week. Once again, at the end of the day I think I've let something leak out of my mouth that was less than productive and maybe a little harmful. So now I sit here in my bathrobe, torturing myself by playing over some unfortunate possible consequences. Thanks for all the advice on getting myself to sleep. I still awake up startled at 2:00 AM every single night but at least now there are scenarios that reset me back to a peaceful state. So the niece and I have finally met; Jules was nice enough to force the introduction last weekend, complete with rocking chair and a sheet children song lyrics. Like all good things we started with Sam Cooke, moved on through contemporary musicals (no Sondheim!) with a layover in Wizard of Oz and a few spirituals and then onto "The Green Grass Grows All Around". We ended up with a rousing "99 Bottles of Beer". Taite Olivia dozed through the whole thing. Good sport, that one. Oly smells really nice. My paren...

H&R Block commercial: flagrantly promoting lederhosen worldwide. I have not yet found a youtube of the commercial, but I found it hi-lair-eeee-us. And then there is the wardrobe fittings . Oh, I loves me some men in leather pants! I love Alyssa Ettinger's knitwar e vases. It seems the three fucknutts attacked by a tiger in San Francisco Zoo were not only antagonizing her, but stoned and drunk as well. Classy, guys. Here's an idea: go to Youtube and search for "Angry Cat" (there are thousands of videos). If there are any brain cells left in your skull, calculate housecat: seven pounds vs. siberian tiger: three hundred-fifty. Subtract domestication. Am having a Grand Mal FreakOut at work. Still.

I cannot yet figure out why I am not sleeping. Unlike my twenties, I no longer try and move heavy furniture at 3:00 AM. This is a mostly a good thing, but it does mean that the capacity of interior decoration is unexercised and flabby. And Casa del Grant looks like a frat house, less beer signs and more fiber/yarn. Work has become a bleak sea of paper and overdue requests: the perfect nightmare. When I am terribly frustrated, sleep deprived and angry (and it is inappropriate to kick furniture) at work, I cry. This totally misrepresents paper rage and often elicits sympathy from the nearest co-workers, which is a really bad idea. So here's the 8:03 PM plan: 2 oz Single malt (18 yr), 4 ounces of New Zealand blue and purple merino worked into a single ply, NPR's Wait Wait podcast and, if I run out of audio at any point, the lovely Carla Bruni's first album. (If you haven't had the pleasure, go listen to the the girl snuggling in with Sarkozy and the reason why the French ...

Ah, here she is. All lovely six pounds, one ounce. Loads of brown-red hair. She apparently has elegant long fingers, which can only be attributed to her lovely Mamah. Apparently this child is so utterly adorable she has effectively turned my older brother into a blithering coo-ing idiot. Oh, wait. We can hardly blame his life-long affliction on a being only arrived since tea time. Every child need an Auntie. Every child needs an advocate in the completely inexplicable forest of grown-ups. With any luck you have/had/know/are one. I wouldn't have traded Great Aunt Barbara and her yams for a string of pristine siren-filled Greek Islands, not even that one archipelago that occurs only in particularly nice dreams. You know the one. All the same, I have whispered my thanks to The Steven for the billionth time for the vasectomy.

Now that Christmas is over I've been trolling etsy.com for pretty yummy fiber to spin. (Not that I need it, if the crammed studio is to be believed.) So I'm looking, cruising the listings, minding my own goddamned business when I get to this post with the image below: How am I supposed to go on, I ask you? Much love to all the happy blogging, squeeing and postcard-sending recipients of the Great Caramel Mailing of December 2007. That was huge fun and I am so very glad you enjoyed them.

The Blossom-In-Law Jules is in labor! Wooohoo! It might be a little early in the term but no one seems too worried so late tonight or early tomorrow morning I shall be an Auntie (as opposed to an Uncle, which I also am). Mom is utterly chuffed. My brother Mark is exhausted already, the poor bastard. Honestly: I can't wait to have someone to make tutus for. Like a complete bonzo frickin' idiot, I've forked over the handknits waaaay before any shower was planned so I am now empty-handed. This is par for the course as I am horrible at showers of all kinds that don't actually involve soap. I usually show up with a carton of smokes and a twelve pack and everyone is their flowered frock wonder who invited the lesbian. Not that I mind.