Outlander by Diana Gabaldon. 
I always worry when folks recommend historical fiction to me, particularly if it touches on romance or fantasy.  I get downright nervous when it touches on both.  I read a lot, and still I know I only have time for a limited number of books in my lifetime, so I’m careful about what I read.   But several friends recommended this book to me, and I trust my friends.  Sometimes, however, I think my friends are playing cruel jokes on me.  I’m sure I’m blaspheming against the cult of Gabaldon here, but I’m not impressed.  She may be a lovely person, but this book is a wreck.  I’ll finish it, because I’m almost done, and I’ll engender true righteous indignation only by finishing the blasted thing. 

First the good.  It’s a page turner.  I can tell the author really loves her protagonist and wishes her well.  And I think it’s lovely that the author has an obvious strong academic background in biology–it really adds to the believability of the sections on herbalism and on Claire’s medical work.  And a few of the characters are truly intriguing.  And I love Scotland and lived there for a while when I was in college, so I always appreciate things that help me remember the landscape and the language and the accent.

And then the bad. 

I am cautious of historical fiction because I read a lot of history and archaeology texts, and when I find mistakes in the factual basis of historical fiction, it sets my teeth on edge.  Please, writers, write fantasy if you want to write fantasy.  Tolkein was one of the finest writers in English and he wrote fantasy, as did Shakespeare at times, and the Beowulf poet–embrace such lofty company without shame.  In fantasy, you get to make things up without driving me or people like me batty.  If you want to call something historical fiction, however, do your research carefully and get someone familiar with the period to fact-check for you.  Some errors that made me want to chuck the book across the room:

* The Beaker People did not glaze their pots.  Stop having your main character ponder glaze on pots that aren’t glazed.  Sure, Claire may not be a dig-hound, but her husband is, so she should have been corrected in this huge huge giganto fallacy.  It makes the character–and more importantly author–look dumb.  They had no glaze on their pots.  Glaze is a relatively modern invention.  The Beaker People were ascendant around 2500 BC.  Glazed pots don’t start showing up in the Chinese archaeological record until about 2000 years later, and it took much longer for glaze to become common in Europe–we’re talking about dark ages and early medieval technology, and you sent it to the ancient ancient world.   It wasn’t there!  No glaze, and no watches on the Pharaoh’s wrists, and no television in Camelot, ye ken?

* Laoghaire is a man’s name, and it’s a relatively recent thing, giving boys’ names to girls.  It’s a man’s name!  One of the most famous kings of Ireland, in fact, from more than a millennium before your character would have been born.  And he wasn’t one of the Dalriadan kings, so the likelihood that a middle-class Scottish girl in the 18th century would be named after him is comparable to the likelihood that my Mum would have named me after Swain Forkbeard.  She didn’t, you know.  Not named Swain, me.  Or Aethelred.  Or Snorri Thorlson.  Or even Bortei (now THAT’S a great woman’s name–you should have named her Bortei–the gender would at least have been correct).

* Beltaine’s dates don’t wander around randomly in the year.  Yes, it’s tracked with a lunar calendar, but if Frank knows anything about anything, he’ll know that it’s relatively easy to find in the year.  No mystery, really.  Frank’s supposed to be smart as a whip, right?  Well then, Frank will know when the winter Solstice is, and when the Vernal Equinox is, and he’ll count on his fingers and do the darn math.  Or, he could notice that few if any Scots in the 1940s would have bothered with the lunar dates of the celebration and would have had their fete on May Day, which is what we English speakers call Beltaine after all.  Sheesh–that switch was common throughout Europe hundreds of years before–check Shakespeare.  I’ll not even go into the likelihood of any respectable Scottish Presbyterian minister turning a blind eye to the supposed Pagan worship practices of his parishioners.  Am I the only one around here who knows any Scottish Presbyterian ministers?  Cuz they don’t look too kindly on heathenism now that it’s actually acceptable in some circles–I don’t expect they were very tolerant in the 1940s.  Chickens openly sacrificed in the door yard? Right.  Sure.  Ok.  What year?  Ok.  Just writing "chickens sacrificed in the door yard" makes me worry that someone is going to sneak up behind me and box my ears, and everyone knows I’m a tree-hugging dirt-worshipper (but not a sacrificer of chickens, of course–that would be wrong). 

Right, so that’s just what made me angry in the exposition.  You get the point.  I could go on and on.  Really.  Ask my husband. 

What made me even angrier–and what I think actually makes this a bad book as opposed to a poorly-researched book–was Gabaldon’s apparent obsession with rape and rescue fantasies.  Are you girls ok with that?  Because it churns my stomach.  Rape isn’t exciting or enthralling–it’s terrible and terrifying, and would-be victims are barely ever saved by heroes who swoop in–certainly not time and again within a few months.  And we’re supposed to think it’s ok that her new husband enjoyed beating her, and then threatening and arguably committing marital rape, but that he’s really a good guy deep down and it’s ok?  Thank you, no.  I can’t reconcile the gap between the Jamie we get for 80 percent of the book and the Jamie that beats the crap out of his wife.  Jamie essentially forces a tenant to give up custody of his son because Jamie hates child abuse . . . but Jamie beats his wife and says she’s not allowed to say she doesn’t want to have sex.  Nope–not the same guy.  And the Claire we get for 80 percent of the book wouldn’t have forgiven him.   And then there are the ridiculous plot turns (wolves!  and Gypsies!  and witch-burning!  and poison!  and escape after escape!  and more rape!  But our heroine is always saved from rape just in time!).  Nope.  I didna like it.  I’m agin it, in fact.  Bad book.  Cannot live in my house. 

Ah.  And now, some good to temper the bad.  This is written by a Scottish bard, musician, and poet.  Here, he is giving voice to his vision of part of a Welsh myth, originally transcribed by a Welsh monk living in Strathclyde.  It’s a gorgeous slip of a poem, and it’s the author’s imagining of the spell that turned flowers into a Goddess, who was created to love a God.  Blodeuwedd means "Flower Face."  If you’ve never heard this performed, you’re missing out.  It’s all chanty swirling goodness. 

The Forming of Blodeuwedd
by Robin Williamson

Meadowsweet and maythorn flower
With bliss detain
Chestnut bloom and nettle flower
With blush to sting
Tares of the field and yellow broow
At flesh to cling
Oak bield and the vine’s red bloom
Of kisses feign
Come wanton as the pale primrose
That brings the spring
Wake
Blodeuwedd

Walace and Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit is a treat.  Of course it’s a treat–everything Nick Park and Aardman do is a hoot.  The rabbits are adorable, our girl Helena Bonham Carter does a great job, and hijinx abound.  If you like the previous Walace and Gromit films, you’ll love it.   If you don’t, well, what are you like?  Whot’s on with you, eh?  And if you haven’t seen the Aardman Angry Kid series, get on it, because they’re hilarious, and they demonstrate a new form of animation that the Aardman folks developed.  But more, er, adult than Walace and Gromit.  This was what I use to explain how I felt each time I saw one of my bones.  And this is the one that I love best.  Though chips certainly are for doggies where I come from.

Stepford Wives.  In the remake, they’ve altered the main character, Joanna, to make her seem like more of a jerk–you know–so she deserves it.  And there are some plot twists, of course, but not enough to redeem the film.  Shouldn’t have bothered with it.  They got it right the first time.  And in case any of you Hollywood film-makers are listening, there’s no need to remake The Birds or Vertigo or Cool Hand Luke.   So quit with the remakes, and go hire writers with new ideas.  Trust me. 

Rat is one of the many films I’ve gotten from Netflix simply because it’s Irish.  That, my friends, is a great movie-picking strategy.  It works for books as well, and a little less consistently for music (since anyone with two brain cells and an amp can apparently put out an album these days).  But I digress.  The film starts Pete Postlethwaite and Imelda Staunton (yeah, just go ahead and buy it) and a Rat who is alternately played by real rats and by rats from Jim Henson’s creature shop.  It’s a bit of magical realism, and it’s a hoot.  The extra material on the DVD is great as well. 

Holy crap for crap!  I have been buried in goodies.   I got:
To read:
Time: Andy Goldsworthy
A History of Handknitting: Richard Rutt
Sensational Knitted Socks: Charlene Schurch
The Essential Earthman: Henry Mitchell
The Secret Life of a Knitter: the Yarnharlot, whom we love
Viking Patterns for Knitting: Elsebeth Lavold
The Way the Crow Flies: Ann-Marie MacDonald
Chronicles Volume One: Bob Dylan
The First Verse: Barry Mccrea

To hear:
The Freewheeling Bob Dylan
Ilmatar by Varttina
Songs of Love and Parting by Robin frickin’ Williamson–Woot!
Five Challenges to Flight by Julia Francis (that’s Heather’s big sister–double Woot!)

To Watch:
Rat   

Plus a lovely small teapot my friend Virginia made–perfect for when it’s just me drinking tea.  Ooh–maybe it needs to go to the office . . . . and a cool metal leaf plate thingy.  I can’t stand it–my family is too good to me.  How many socks can I make for these lovely people?  HOW MANY SOCKS CAN I MAKE, AND HOW FAST?  On top of all that, I got to hang with them all for the afternoon, playing with the kidlets of supreme cuteness, and eating delicious food, and laughing a lot.  If you ever hear me bitching about, well, anything, remind me how insanely lucky I am.  Seriously.  Cake!  No death!  Woot!

The first of the Jaywalker socks is finished, and the second is a few inches along.  Still liking the pattern, liking the way the finished sock fits–I’m impressed all around.  And I did some knitting on the ruana, which is approaching completion–perhaps in time for Samhain.  But I still need a crochet hook to finish Rose.  Sad, but true.  I have no D hook, and our craft store seems to not be open very often. 

Rewinding to Saturday, Sean and Anna were in town visiting his folks, and we got to meet up with them at the Brogue for drinks.   Ah, the Brogue–it’s posssibly the official watering hole of the adult KF.  The beer list was great as usual, and the cover band was better than usual.  It was a hoot to hang out with our visiting Manhattanites–never get enough of them.  And Anna has taken up embroidery–Woot!  I can’t wait to see what she’s working on.  They were both very impressed by the sock, so I was blushing, and Anna was asking about getting out to a living history event with us, so I hope we can get her fully ensnared. 

I’m loving Socktoberfest!  I’m making Grumperina’s Jaywalker socks.  Because how could I not?  And I’m making them out of some lovely KPPPM. 


(That little blorble in the zig-zag up there is a fold in the sock, not a crazy-go-nuts sort of error)  I just started turning the heel on this first of the pair, and I’m finding the Koigu lov-er-lee and the pattern very well written. 

And as if making them weren’t fun enough, I’m making them during the breaks in my web-design class.  Whooppeeeee! Cuz this girl loves school.  Seriously loves it. Please, someone, anyone, grade me.  And it is all very fitting, because I’ve been pestering my company to send me to this class for a while, and they finally sent my on Birthday Week.  Yes, Birthday Week.  As in the week of many birthdays, including Scott’s and mine, but also Mikele’s and Alan’s and some other great folks whose names I can’t conjure up right now, but I know it’s not just the four of us.  Anyway, celebrations abound.  I’m very pro-birthday: I’m dedicated to celebrating our communal continued success at living, and I suggest everyone get on the bandwagon.  Because, seriously, the only alternative to growing older is, you know, morbidity.  Terminal.  Dirt nap.  Cake or death?!  Me, I’ll take cake every time. 

In my universe, your birthday starts when you get your first card or call or present, and goes until it’s no longer socially acceptable to celebrate your birthday because you’re tromping all over someone else’s birthday and need to go to the penalty box, or until your last, long-awaited present arrives from wherever it was shipped from.  I once had a birthday last for about four months.  It was wonderful, what with the constant "Yay I’m not dead" joy that surrounded me.   My birthday started a couple of weeks ago when my Mom gave me a big old Ikea gift card.  Woot!

Yesterday things really got underway.  It was Scott’s official birthday.  We went to the Serbian Crown and ate some lovely Russian food and drank some lovely Russian vodka.  And the presents started appearing in earnest.  Now, I try to be a good little hippie and minimize my footprint on this here planet.  I try, and generally I fail.  Because I like stuff, and I come from people who like stuff.  And my people are outdoing themselves this year.  My husband got me the DPN set of my dreams:

Look at all the Brittanys!
And my mother-in-law Karen sent me this fantastic bowl from Utah:



And, ok this isn’t really a present because I ordered it and paid for it and all, but I got this gorgeous yarny-goodness in the mail from Kiparoo:

Mmmmmmm, yarn.  And the big fun doesn’t even happen until Sunday.  A girl could just keel over with joy.

I finished knitting up all of the pieces of Rose Friday night, and expected that I wouldn’t have much of a chance to assemble and block the sweater because this was to be the weekend of major grouting on the kitchen floor, about 75 percent of which is laid, with the rest waiting for us to break down and live without a refrigerator for a few days.  It’s been raining like mad for the last week or so here in Vir-ginny, and our kitchen floor is right on top of the concrete slab that is our foundation.  And concrete is subject to hydrostatic pressure–so much so that there is standing water in our floor register pathway thingies.  I blame my Mother the Water-Witch, who leaves floods in her wake.  Anyway, the mastic won’t dry.  As in, if I try to move a tile a smidge, it slides a centimeter.  Whoops.  So I couldn’t grout Saturday morning.  Will I act as if that made me sad?  No.  No I will not.  Grouting is a horrible pain in the knees.   But having my dining room furniture in every room except the dining room is starting to make my skin crawl. 

To forestall a complete Crazy-Lanea-chaos-phobia meltdown, we ran some errands Saturday morning when I should have been grouting, and came home to find that grouting would be further delayed.  I thought I should do something at least moderately chore-like before working on the sweater, so as to appease the Gods of Grout-Delaying* and simultaneously convince myself that the house wasn’t in a total state of disarray.  So I re-potted most of my orchids, many of whom were trying to climb out of their pots and strangle me in my sleep.  I think.  Or they just wanted new potting medium.

There they sit, post re-pot, with their south-facing view on their antique hog-butchering table**.  I will spend the next few days begging them to like their new digs and maniacally checking to make sure they show no signs of stress.  I accidentally killed an orchid a couple of weeks ago by leaving it out in the sun in a tin cache pot.  I was distracted by the tiling and didn’t think of the possible consequences.  Yes, I know it’s no excuse.  I don’t want the others to turn on me.  And, of course, the victim was an orchid a friend gave me because she couldn’t care for it properly, as most of them are, so it makes the horror even greater.   

By the end of that project, it seemed like lunchtime.  So I rested a bit, and flopped onto the couch to decide what to eat.   And I found that Godfather II was on TV.  Sweeeeet.  That, my friends, was a sign. A sign to eat leftover lasagna, drink some fine Virginia wine with lunch, and begin to assemble Rose.  Godfather II is a wonderful movie for knitting, because I’ve seen it so many times, I love every minute of it, and it’s a wonderful balance between stuff I’m happy to watch if my hands get tired or I need a break, and stuff that I have memorized and am content to just listen to. 

Kayo patiently waited to help do the dishes, and Scath, prince among cats, offered to help with the sewing-up:

Would you like some help?  I know this is your first sweater, and I know a thing or two about a thing or two, you know?

See, you need to ease the cap sleeves in–it won’t be too hard if you baste everything in place, and if you think of a sweater much the same way as you would think of a boot you were assembling.  Remember how I showed you to tack an arc in place and then work your ease in by sewing by turns with two separate needles towards the curve?  The same will work here. 

Woooo, teaching makes me tired.  Come back in an hour and we can finish.

Post-script.  Holy crap for crap, Rose is really low cut.  Really. Low. Cut.  May be adding more than one round of crochet to finish off that neckline. 

*What–there could be Gods of Grout-delaying.  Shaaaadup.
** Crazy Lanea is not terrible put off by the macabre, in case you haven’t heard.

When They Severed Earth from Sky by Elizabeth Wayland Barber and Paul T. Barber.   

Every myth in the world is ultimately  about volcanoes, and all religions developed out of the fear of volcanoes.  Ok, not really, but I’ll be thinking a lot about volcanoes as I finish reading the Kalevala.  Except when I’m thinking about the cultures that believed the Earth was really a giant spindle whorl–I heart that.  I am worried, though, about what the volcanoes on the giant spindle whorl are going to do to the cosmic spinning–it’s really going to mess up the plying if the wool is all singed.

In all seriousness (not always my strong point, as some of you may have noticed), the Barbers have written a fantastic book explaining the factual basis of many myths throughout the world.  Each is a respected academic, though I think I have convinced myself that she is the better writer–all sections of the book I didn’t absolutely love, I blamed on Paul Barber.  Not fair, I know, but I love Elizabeth Wayland Barber’s work so much, and I really think I have developed some familiarity with her writing style.  Not that his is bad, mind you.  She is just a brilliant writer. 

I’m sure there are some fans of comp-myth stars like Joseph Campbell who will be put off by the Barbers’ focus on the factual basis of myths, rather than on the larger psychological or ethical lessons of myth.  Well, you shouldn’t be.  I am downright tickled to see how effective ancient calendars and astronomical calculations are, and I love that people came up with glorious, elaborate stories to explain that lava hurts, dammmmit! 

So read it, ok.  It’s good for you.  And it’s downright petite for a scholarly-ish book that will make you sound witty and bright when you discuss it at parties.  We scare them with our obsessive talk of knitting–let’s start scaring them with our obsessive interest in volcanoes and Loki. 

Ok, I never do memes, but this one is funny.  And ignore the grammar and spelling errors–this is found drivel, after all. 

The Cosmic Truths . . .
Crazy Lanea needs . . .
                                      VOLUNTEERS! …
                                       subtlety.
                                       to write, but can’t get It out
                                       no explanation
                                       her husband.
                                       to be my girlfriend (Awww, shucks.  But I’m married, sweetie–says so right up there.)
                                       the Boots (See–I do need them.  All of them.)
                                       a new challenge
                                       26 hours
                                       A Pause button
                                       all the wise women we can get in
                                       the money.
                                       to be on more than just one night a week
                                       a friend
                                       A break

The Hard Truths . . .
Crazy Lanea needs . . .
                                       to backoff. killaqueen
                                       a lot of care and assistance, baby bunnies
                                       to be sorted and put away
                                       diversity training
                                       to stop thinking with ya ass and start thinking with ya head. …
                                       To learn How To READ (that was one "strip club list"  Holy crap for crap!  When did I become a stripper?  and where’s the money?  Did I already spend it on yarn?)
                                       to be aware of their relative tolerance levels
                                       correcting
                                       to be monitored once a week
                                       censoring
                                       further medical attention.
                                       to shake off bad ju ju (You’re damn right)
                                       interests, skill … (ouch)
                                       A cure   
                                       an RN (Mom?  Google says I need you.  Are any of my bones sticking out?)

The Cosmic Mysteries                      
Crazy Lanea needs . . .
                                       a historical perspective. (I thought I had this down.)
                                       a pink ticket (Is this some secret code?)
                                       somebody for the screamier stuff.
                                       a second water line and a second drain and a second outlet?
                                       aid after blaze
                                       to improve on The defensive end of The floor (really, my basketball game can get neither better nor worse.  I promise)
                                       another band of wild … (Wild what?  WILD WHAT?  What do I need a band of?)

The Knitting References
Crazy Lanea needs . . .
                                        seven skeins to grow up stout and sure (this is from my other website, but Google gave it up, fair and square)
                                        to be knit on teensy needles for a firm enough fabric
                                        buttons
                                        to be on Oprah and be the first ever knitting person to be

Woot!  I get to send out my Give a Little prizes  to Alice.  Hiya, Alice.  I hope you like them.  I should be able to drop them in the mail this afternoon.  And then off to Washington they’ll wing!

Like I mentioned the other day, for the last week, there’s been some silliness over on the Knitters Review Forum, wherein Chief Priestess Amie and I (Mistress of the Yarniverse–starting a cult legitimate spiritual organization has its perks, after all) have convinced many otherwise reasonable folks to join a cult.  Celebrating yarn, of course.  We snared Barbara (General Dog’s Body), Ann Marie (Admiral Cat’s Body), Jayme (She of the Pattern Making), Sheila (Venerable Priestess of the Wheels), Minh (High Holy Priestess of the Stash Accounting), Sue (High Holy Priestess of the Shrimp-and-Grits), Vi (Treasurer), Lissa (The Pusher), Purlewe (Fiber Foodess), Susi (Priestessette of the Knotted Shoulder), Brandy (Debbie Doubleknit, Mistress of Youth Re-education)–and every day the cult  legitimate spiritual organization grows! 

So, we figured some good could come of it.  In the spirit of giving, bolstered by silliness, I’ve organized a little fundraiser through Cafe Press.  Check it out: Yarniversal Worship Supplies and Sundries.   I’ll add items as quickly as all y’all request them and/or gin up the art.  I’m drawing impaired.  All of the proceeds (about $3 an item now–we can change that if folks want) will be split between Heifer International, the Dulaan Project, and the support fund for Knitters Review.  If there is demand within the cult legitimate spiritual organization, we can change the recipients and such.  Just let me know. 

Friends, I think I accidentally started a cult.   Ok , ok, I accidentally-on-purpose started a cult.  I couldn’t help myself.  Suffice it to say that silly titles are popping up all over the place, there are some chants in the works, pilgrimages are being charted, and some menu planning is afoot.   Perhaps we should get to documenting the Prophecies of the Yarniverse . . .  Most importantly, the Cult spawned a charity arm within a few days of inception.  Ok, that actaully makes me proud.  In short, make up a silly name for yourself, chip in to one of the good causes we’re trying to support, and you’re laughing.  And wearing a "Priestess of the Yarniverse" shirt. 

Friday, I went to Uniquities at lunchtime with a few of the Wednesday night knitters.  I got samples of possible yarns for a sweater for Scott.  Wanna guess which one he picked?  Well, he picked the darkest one, of course.  Dark enough that it’s not really worth photographing.   Imagine the following: navy aran weight yarn.  Right, you’ve got it.  The others will join the afghan project that’s percolating in my brain. 

Saturday, Jill and I went to Yarns International.  I don’t know how I managed to stay away from this shop for so long.  Now that I’ve been there, I may need to see what they would charge me for a cot in the back.  So much Jameison’s yarn!  Such beautiful designs!  Such a friendly staff!  I was blown away.  I am now going to beg them to come to the Potomac Celtic Festival as vendors, encourage them to make some sweaters or other things to sell in addition to their regular stock of yarn and books, and perhaps to arrange some classes sponsored or co-sponsored by the festival.  Wish me luck.  Luck paying my mortgage, if nothing else.  Mmmmmmm, Shetland.   In all seriousness, I’ve never encountered a shop where I felt more immediately at home.  And that’s saying something, because I’ve been to some really great, welcoming shops.

Sunday, my Mom and I went on the Countryside Artisans Tour.  We originally learned of the tour because our girl Virginia, potter to the Celts, joined it a few years ago.   Now that she has moved to West-by-god-Virginny, we really missed our favorite place to stop.  Sigh.  Year in and year out for quite some time now I’ve been able to do most of my holiday shopping at my friend’s house, buying pots from VA and jewelry and art from Mary, and then chatting with our other friends as they stopped by to shop and pet the dogs and have some cider.  Damn, I missed that.  I know that I’ll get a chance to see both Virginia and Mary at the Richmond Celtic Festival, but the likelihood of getting to monopolize their time will decrease.  It leaves me no option other than kidnapping them. 

We placated ourselves by buying this lovely yarn for me:

And ordering a boatload of yarn dyed in each the blue and green from Annie at Kiparoo.  Which spawned the best sentence of the day, courtesy of Annie’s lovely assistant: "I’m going to give you these patterns for free, because you’re spending like $10,000.*"  I’d never made it out there before, and I am enchanted.  Her colors are gorgeous, and the yarn her sheep produce is so lustrous and soft.  There are two sweaters in the works for my Mom and me–my guess is that they’ll ultimately be traded back and  forth.  After Kiparoo, we went to Dancing Leaf Farm, which was fantastic as usual.  I have never seen anyone handle yarn display and kit design as well as Dalis does.  She is such an artist.  And she had the long Peace Fleece DPNs on sale, which makes her shop even better. 

And then we went to the Blacksmith’s shop, and I lost my durn mind when I saw this:


And these:

Woah, nelly, am I having good basket luck lately.  But I will not start making baskets, oh, no.  These babies are coming from minds very different from the one in my noggin, and I’m just going to hand over the cash and enjoy.  I’m keeping the one with the naturally-shed antler, of course.  I don’t know where the others are going yet.  Loverly.  Hatcha. 

As if trips to so many wonderful yarn shops and a day spent exploring the Maryland countryside wasn’t enough, this weekend I did something I’ve been meaning to do for a long time.  My friend Jill and I came up with a workable book concept.  Better still, I still think it’s a really good concept even after two full nights of sleeping on it.  The research is underway, and that’s all I’m saying for now.  In the meantime, busy yourself with this: I Am Not Quiet.  It’s my prose poetry-ish essay for Cheaper Than Therapy.  It will grow a link over on the side-bar.  I hope you like it.  Don’t lie and say you wrote it, and all that junk.  Karma’s a bitch. 

*Fellahs, we did not spend $10,000.  That has extra zeros tacked onto the end.  I promise.  We call that hyperbole.  She was really exaggerating a lot. 

As in, in love. 

I love the floor.  And Kayo loves the floor.  And neither of us are terribly bothered that it’s not done yet.  It will just be better when it’s done.

Kayo says: "Yeah, it’s not dignified.  Screw that.  My Mom was a husky.  Virginia is hot, and I’m wearing a fur coat without a zipper.  Tile is coooool.  Vacuum cleaners make good pillows. "

I love Brittany needles.  I broke one–just one–little DPN a few weeks ago.  I emailed the company.  They sent me this:

Three needles to make up for my one broken one.  I love Brittany needles. 

I love knitting this :

Particularly now that I’ve been able to move it onto the walnut Brittany needles.  Because I really am not so keen on clover circs.  Only a few inches on the upper bit of the front, two short sleeves, and a little tiny bit of finishing until my first sweater is complete.  I love that I am almost done with my first sweater.

I love October, and autumn.  And I love my dawwwwg, and my dawwwwg loves me.  Look at that smile:

My dog also loves sticks.  Fetching sticks.  Fetching sticks some more.  Chewing on sticks. 
Get your stick Kayo!  Atta boy!

Kayo says: "Yes, I am the best dog ever.  And no, I won’t move in with you, so don’t ask.  Did you see the floor my people are making for me?  Have you seen what they feed me?  Do you have any idea how bad I would feel if I abandoned my cat and my Scott and my very own Crazy Lanea?  Now leave me to my stick, please.  I’ve got work to do."