Rachael

Thanks to Lala (who said, Darn) and a couple of dear readers (thank you!), the vegemite myth has been debunked. Vegemite is still legal. We can all breathe easier. And tastier.

And thank you ALL for your wonderful compliments on Pumpkin Spook. Yay!

A new finished object (or two)! I swear, I can’t finish a sock to save my life lately, but the sweaters are falling off the needles.

Wait! Let’s set the mood. In honor of spookiness, with Halloween just around the corner, does THIS scare you?

No? You want more light? Okay, I get that. A rather blurry Rachael:

Specs:
Pattern: None, just used Elizabeth Zimmerman’s Knitting without Tears, using her seamless hybrid suggestions (Brooklyn Tweed reminded me of this sweater with his fantastic version). I threw in a cable I found in a book somewhere (I think it was Walker, but I can’t swear to this) on the sleeves, and ran them up the middle. I planned on steeking it and making a cardie, which I might still, but right now I like it like this.
Gauge: 4st/inch
Needles: 5US
Yarn: Mega Stoppino Fuso 603 (darker) and Mega Stoppino 208 (the lighter orange) by Lana Grossa. Probably used about 10 balls total, 900 metres.

I LOVE the color. Here’s a pretty true shot of the color:

I also learned that our new camera has this cool 10-shot function where you can set the self-timer and get a lot of shots, fast. Very fun. Led to some silliness.

I kind of lost my mind when I did the back neck — I should have continued the cable, and actually did, but it bunched, so I ripped back (ack! I don’t do that!) and put stockinette in the middle portion). It’s kind of six of one, but I think the cable would have looked nice all the way across. But oh well! Ain’t rippin’ now.

I love the neckline. The hole ended up rather square, which I liked, so I just picked up, knit about three rows, wrapped and turned, and then cast off loosely purl-side facing.

And look at this graceful SEAMLESS goodness (god bless EZ):

Happy wandering cables:

AND, well, I finished another one about two weeks ago. I think I mentioned I botched a sweater? I made a Debbie Bliss Lara with this yarn I picked up in Venice. But it turned out toooooo small. Not incredibly small, but annoyingly so. So I added a bottom band, and I’m going to put in a zipper, so that it will just go tightly over a tank top. Throw-on-and-go beater sweater, it will never be. But it’s cute-ish. Must put in that zip.

Blogging takes a long time with this many pics! Gotta go! I still haven’t watched The Amazing Race yet! Bye!

Really. Here’s the article.

THE United States has slapped a ban on Vegemite, outraging Australian expatriates there.

The bizarre crackdown was prompted because Vegemite contains folate, which in the US can be added only to breads and cereals.

Expatriates say that enforcement of the ban has been stepped up
recently and is ruining lifelong traditions of having Vegemite on toast
for breakfast.

Former Geelong man Daniel Fogarty, who now lives in Calgary, Canada,
said he was stunned when searched while crossing the US border recently.

"The border guard asked us if we were carrying any Vegemite," Mr Fogarty said.

"I was flabbergasted." Paul Watkins, who owns a store called About
Australia in San Antonio, Texas, said he had been forced to stop
importing Vegemite six months ago.

"We have completely stopped bringing it in," he said.

"(US authorities) have made a stance and there is nothing that can be done about it."

I’m DEVastated. My mom is a Kiwi, and that stuff is gold, baby. GOLD.

How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.
    Annie Dillard

That quote has both inspired and scared me for years. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, as I’ve been finishing up some little things, completing a small writing project prior to the Big November Challenge.

You know, sometimes I wonder if I’m really a writer. This isn’t the place to pop into the comment box and give me a pat on the shoulder; I’m not looking for that, but thanks. It’s just me talking.

I answer 911 to pay the bills. I drive dogs around. I vacuum. I watch Project Runway. Is that how I’m spending my life? Do I write? I babble here, and I publish random articles in random magazines, but really, writing? What I call myself, do I deserve to give myself that label?

But I was futzing around online — I want to write and store my NaNoWriMo novel somewhere online, so I can access it from wherever I am — and I was playing with applications. I used older documents to test the apps out. I happened to check word counts.

Dude.

NaNoWriMo’s goal is a novel of 50,000 words completed in 30 days. That’s a short novel, to be sure. But that’s what they’ve defined their novel to be.

The two documents I pulled up? One is the Long Work, that’s been in the pipes for years now. That one was 149,000 words (it’s been THIS close to being finished for so long). The Short Thing I’ve been playing with for a little while now, that was already at 38,000 words. So in terms of the NaNo word-count, that’s about three and a half novels. Sure, neither are done, and neither are published, and I’m not sure either ever will be. Doesn’t really matter that much, honestly.

It’s really that they’re there, you know? That these two alternate worlds are in my computer (and backed up, yes) and in my head, that I can drop into them, and it’s like they exist. I can picture my character’s living rooms. Their hair in the mornings. What they order at the coffee-shop. Who they miss.

That’s writing. I guess I’ve been writing. I’m happy about that. It’s kind of strange how much better seeing word-counts made me feel. Writing doesn’t weigh much in your hands. It certainly doesn’t pay. It’s hard to prove. But word-counts don’t lie. I guess I have been writing. Yay.

The Whoreshoes new album, Get Lucky, is available NOW!

Now really, the first album which was more like a demo, it was good. Cute. I would have liked it, had I heard it without knowing the band.

But this second one, and I mean this, is objectively awesome. If you like bluegrass/honky-tonk/old-time/country, you’ll love it. I would love this album even if I weren’t married to the banjo/lap-steel player (but I am, and thank goodness). Lala wrote two songs on the album, Race to the Bottom, which is a sad, sad story about drinkin’ (can you imagine?) and Blue Skies, which is always getting stuck in my head, which is unfortunate because then I sing it out loud, and apparently I don’t sing it right. But anyway. I love those songs.

And Camilla wrote one called New Men in My Life that has arguably the best line of any drinkin’ song out there today. You’ll know the one I mean.

So go on over to CDBaby and click on a couple of the samples if you need any more convincing. And tell ’em I sent you.

*And they get a plug from Maia! Yay!

My brain is full of a lot of things tonight. I’m thinking about the NaNoWriMo, and what I’ll write (I have no idea). And about someone who drives me INSANE and not in a good way, but I’m dealing with that. Remind me to tell you about my revelation about complaining that I had recently — it IS true that the things that bug you most about a person are really your own problems. I’d always heard it, but in this case I knew it couldn’t be true. Yeah, um, it is.

But more on that at another time, when I am more awake. What I am wondering at this moment is why the heck is it such an intimate thing to whistle with another person? Hmmm? Think about it. Well, I guess you won’t know, unless you’re a whistler. But if you are, you’ll agree, I’m sure.

I’m one of those whistlers who can’t stop doing it. If there’s a song on in the background, I’ll be whistling, and usually I don’t even realize it. I don’t realize it until I notice that someone else is also unconsciously whistling. Then there’s that awkward moment when you both realize what’s happening and you either both stop, or one bows out, and the other maintains the tune politely for a few notes, as if in thanks for the concession, and then she’ll stop whistling, too. And then ten minutes later, you both do it all over again.

The exception to this is when you’re in a store, around people you don’t know from Adam, and two actively-whistling whistlers collide in an aisle. They just might have a few bars of competition, and the louder one usually wins. But I do harmony better than most, I must say. Oh, the weirdness of harmonizing with a stranger. It’s almost unbearable, the strange intimacy. Rather unpleasant, actually. But interesting, no?

Forty more minutes and I’m on my way home for a good day-sleep. Then a walk with the dogs and the wife, and then another shift, and then the weekend. Couldn’t come at a better time.