Did I mention I'm completely uncoordinated?

Because I am.

I fell off my bike yesterday while trying to explain to N that he needed to adjust the seat lower. I'm not accustomed to riding a 'girl's bike' (you know, with the funny frame that is supposed to be easier to get on and off of) so I have a tendency to swing my leg over the back over the bike...which is problematic when your feet don't quite reach the ground.
So I stacked it while trying to ride barefoot on the gravel driveway. I imagine it was hilarious to watch, but being the bad sport that I am, I went inside to go and wash the dirt and rocks out of my leg before going and doing something decidedly less dangerous, such as crochet.

However, I had also cut my thumb open (quite severely) with a very-sharp-knife, so there was some serious self-pity happening, as well as doubts about my ability to crochet without, I don't know, stabbing myself in the jejunum and then vomiting all over the bed or something.

Indeed, my inability to walk like a normal human being has left my dog trying to distance himself from me (if you could read his doggy thoughts, it would have been something along the lines of, "I'm not with her. I just happened to stop and stand here. With a lead. Yeah. Just walking. Alone."

Awesome.
Thanks dog.

In any event, today was relatively injury free.
Relatively.

I was in the mid-aisle daze I customarily find myself in when visiting the supermarket, trying desperately to ignore the Tom Jones playing over the speakers. It wasn't classy Tom Jones per 'what's new pussycat', but rather, croony, irritating, shut-the-fuck-up-before-I-forcibly-insert-this-toothbrush-in-my-eardrums Tom Jones. Followed by Tom Jones singing the theme from Thunderballs (the James Bond film)  which I have since learned was not a mondegreen, but indeed, the actual factual lyrics to the song, and the title of a Bond film.

Clearly, the term 'thunderballs' meant something different then, to what it does now.

Because in my brain, I envisioned something akin to Sean Connery in Zardoz:



linkie, again

More so than Sean Connery in the actual thunderballs movie:

linkies to picture


And look, he even has one of those cute little old timey jetpacks! Cute, no?

In other completely unrelated news, and really, because I like long  blog posts - this is as great as, if not greater than, the crochet Betty White doll pattern. Even with her sensible brown chinos and blue chambray shirt.

from Sandra Eterovic's blog

Awesome, no? Awesome on so many counts. Because (a) it's true and (b) it is yet another fine example of the awesome versatility of the fibre arts. Even if this particular vest is knitted (did I confess a bias? I really do prefer crochet) I love this more than I love my shoelaces. And really, what have shoelaces done for me recently? I mean, apart from keeping my shoes from falling off my feet, and that is CERTAINLY something a lovely little scrap of yarn could do most adequately. Maguyver style.

I really am the most horrendously negligent blogger...

But I have the strange feeling that this has little impact on the rest of the world. What with all that other stuff going on and all... yeah.
So the latest excuse for my negligence?
Meh. Uni. Meh. Crochet. Meh. Rugby. Meh. Life.

As you can see, dear reader (all... I don't know, one of you - hi mum) there is a reoccurring theme here... of complete indifference. Not that I am indifferent to things in general- or completely as it were- but rather, I've had other stuff to do.
Such as another freaking degree, crocheting lots of natty little things, and being a ferry for my family to and from various sporting events that I don't have the time to commit to actually participating in myself (that's some faulty logic there).
And in between all of that, sitting down to wax lyrical about the nothing that's happening in my life is kinda unimportant.

So I've been crocheting instead. Borne from the need to do *something* for my grandmother (who recently underwent palliative chemotherapy for oesophageal cancer) I started crocheting beanies and blanket squares, in an effort to keep my fingers busy and my anxiety at my helplessness somewhat at bay.
My cousin and aunt and I contributed a total of 94 squares to make a blanket with a little block of yarny goodness representing each member of our massively huge family. It's hideous, but beautiful as well. And my cousin even used the square that I sent up that bears a very strong resemblance to unicorn vomit.

from this awesome blog

Like this. Only with more orange.

Probably from the carrots you ate for breakfast.

Potatoes, Churchill and things that drool

from StrangeFunKidz

Ok. I have a confession to make. I'm not that crazy about babies. I could take them or leave them, and more often than not, I'd rather leave them (I mean that in a completely non-negligent parent kind of way). The fact that I had two of my own has little to no bearing on this; I liked my own babes fine but I prefer them now that they're older and argumentative and independent and funny, rather than when they were drooly and whingey and shitty and needed changing and feeding all the time. That's not to say that I have no maternal instincts (hey, well, actually, maybe I don't, I don't know) or that I'm going to footy kick the next wee bairn that's handed to me, rather that... I dunno... babies don't really do anything, except become really cool little people (which is exciting, right) but until they do that... meh.
So I kind of enjoy other people's babies, certainly in the capacity that I like making them smile and coo and then handing them back when they start to emit strange odours. I've done my nappy duty x 2, so I'm not revisiting that ANY time soon (read: at. all). And I don't see any reason why I should.

So... it is perhaps completely incongruous that I am making things for a mate's baby, but really and truly, I like making stuff, and making stuff for babies is cool, you know, because they can't complain that they look kinda lame in the daggy home-made cardigan that you painstakingly knitted for them (and went near blind in the process).
The problem is, I've been googling patterns and have found that my judgement about whether or not a pattern is cute or not is severely clouded by whether or not it's on a, well, funny looking kid. It seems a large proportion of babies bear a very strong resembelance to Winston Churchill, and this is not the most appealing look in the world. Quite fine if you're Winston Churchill's wife, I guess, or in the kid's case, its parents/grandparents/direct relatives, because you love the grunty little thing so damned much you can't tell whether or not it's a bit odd looking. But to me, a slightly anti-baby-partial observer, they're not really all that. And mine were no different - being prem, they were a little on the lean side, and this gave them an appearance not dissimilar to the long skinny potatoes I see in the grocery store occasionally, you know, they're kind of unattractive but you figure they're great for mash or chips or whatever?
Yeah.
That was my kids.
Skinny, lumpy potatoes.
They grew out of it quick enough, once they start getting longer and bigger they invariably become cuter and more person like (less potato like) but up until that point I was frequently bothered by the cooing that inevitably occured by some strange old lady you met on the street and "oh, isn't this one cute!" and "your little boy, look at him!" (I had 2 girls).

But nowhere near as funny looking as these potatoes

The good news is, they do grow up in to adorable little miniature people, with opinions and dreams and ideas about stuff, you know, and eventually once they start talking in semi-complete sentences, they make great conversation. But up until that point, kids seem to be more of a conversation topic rather than a conversation holder - which reminds me of the classic Seinfeld episode, "you've got to see the BABY!" (although we never actually saw it, I'm sure it was quite Winston Churchill like).

Maybe the dingo ate your baby?

Dude, did you seriously just post that?!

OH.MY.GOD.

I stupidly followed a link from fellow blogger East Side Bride's twitter that said something along the lines of, "you owe me money for making me read this"... curiosity sparked, I absolutely had to click on the link. And once again, we see how katey should always heed the cautionary advice of others when it comes to clicking on links (too many examples to list, but suffice to say that old-people porn was involved, and it was gruesome). In this particular example, the blogger describes her ovulation, periods, and VAGINAL DISCHARGE.

I shit you not.

Sticky, mucousy, whatever - It was the car crash I couldn't look away from, the YouTube video of a dude having a gigantic cyst/zit squeezed on his back that made me want to vomit so much I had to watch it twice (the second time was to get it out of my head).

Ergh.


So, now I cannot tell if I ate too much of G & Y's chocolate, and this is making me feel ill, or if the vomity feeling is from thinking about this woman's upcoming pap-smear.


Please, for the love of all that's chocolatey and good, save yourself and spare yourself the mental imagery.
The puppy will thank you.

(cute kid pic is from this site about Ecuador. NOT vaginal discharge).


.is it ironic that this is not the first time I have blogged about vaginas  - in a literal, not figurative sense - Jennifer Love Hewitt would be so proud!