Today’s First Random Good
I’m putting this at the beginning, rather than the end, because it is the best laugh I have had in weeks and it would be criminal not to make sure every person on the Internet has seen this.
However: Please make sure your bladder is empty before you click the link.
You Have Been Warned.
Allie’s Christmas Post
Tim Has A Girlfriend
Apparently, our young Tim is smitten. He’s besotted out of his furry mind with this fair maiden:
Yes, their young love is Not To Be, for she is a Tree Ornament, and he is a Feline. But Tim is certain that they are meant to be together, and he will move heaven and earth to get to her, to bring her to his side.
Well. He will move the Christmas Tree, anyway.
Tabasco-tainted or not, Tim has knocked the tree down twice now in his fervent desire to get his Fair Maid off the branches and into his little white paws.
You have to understand that this is MY tree, OK. I am Me, a person who loves stuffed animals and dolls and unicorns and dinosaurs and moose with sweaters.
There is no lack of potential love-interests for Tim on this tree, in other words.
His Fair Maid even has a fraternal twin sister, with slightly darker hair and a pink, rather than blue, dress.
But Tim will have no other. I put Fair Maiden up high, and despite the moose, the dinosaurs, the other dolls, the bears with aprons, and the goofy stuffed Christmas MICE, for catnip’s sake, Tim will brave Tabasco’s worst and climb the damn plastic tree to get to his true love.
I’ve removed said True Love from the tree. Tim is now leaping at the tree, trying to scan every branch with his One Eye to see where I have hidden the Maiden.
Nicholas is putting out some wrapped presents now. Please God, let the crinkly paper distract him.
We still haven’t put together the second IKEA desk.
Please don’t tell the IKEA man. (Be careful. We know he has spies everywhere.)
I had forgotten how much I loved weaving.
Do you hear that, Sara Lamb? I HAD FORGOTTEN. Weaving was a dim memory, a happy mist in my mind, and then you come along with your pretty painted warps and your intriguing cut-pile and your infuriatingly EASY little looms, and NOW you have completely ruined my safe, normal, knitting-needle-and-spindle life.
Oh, and you, too, Miss Lynn, you of the flowy pretty glowing silk scarves and the carefree oh-I-think-I’ll-weave-me-some-towels-today Rav posts. You totally bear some responsibility here. You even let me TOUCH that cerulean blue scarf, hold it in my silk-starved HANDS, you…you…you….WARP PUSHER, you.
And let us not even SPEAK of the Karmic Geese cloth, that wondrous seven yards of woven beauty that I have to spend hours
fondling stroking stitching into something I will never see again after it is gifted to its rightful owner.
All I want to do is weave. The knitting books are back on the shelves again; the weaving books are strewn from the foot of my desk chair all the way upstairs to the bathroom. I had to go look for my raddle today. Yes, my RADDLE. Until a few weeks ago, I had happily forgotten that I even knew what a bunny-freakin’ raddle WAS. I had totally wiped my mind of the knowledge of how to tie up lease sticks, I was blissfully ignorant that I had ever grokked the mysteries of a draw-down.
It’s all coming back to me now. Tabby shots, summer-and-winter, beaming the warp.
And I want to just dive in and weave everything. Suddenly, I am possessed with visions of handwoven kitchen towels, beautiful things to replace my Walmart 5-for-$5 specials. I am haunted by the idea of handwoven dinner napkins, in colours I actually love rather than colours that happen to be some stylist’s idea of Trend. A handwoven skirt. A handwoven bag.
A handwoven PILLOWCASE, bestillmyheart.
I am surrounded by craft. I want MORE. Such a strange obsession, craft. It’s not illegal, it’s not dangerous, it’s not seedy (Back Alley Weavers: “Heh, heh, wanna try some of this good Mexican warp, man?”), it’s just ridiculously addictive, and it gets in your blood, and it won’t let go.
Worse than heroin, yarn is. Sure, you start out with a little baby blanket. Then a hat. Maybe some socks. Then someone shows you stranded colourwork, and you’re in up to your waist. A little cable here, a bobble there…and then, someone gives you that first taste of Spindle. (Up to your chest now.) Romney, BFL, silk hankies. Hand cards, English combs, a drumcarder. Three spinning wheels and a wall display of spindles.
One little rigid heddle later, and you’re gone, gone, gone. Welcome, friend; you’re now a Lifer in the Land of Craft. (Make yourself at home. In fact, your first task is to MAKE the home. Get going.)
Random Good #2
You get two today. Just because.
Does someone you know need a phone message from Santa this season?
I don’t weave no stinkin’ dishtowels. Yet, at any rate.
Also, I know the cure for excessive weaviness and lusting after those stunning Mexican warps: For Bob’s sake, girl, go weave something and get it out of your system!
Furthermore, Tim has good taste.
As one still searching for her own true love, I hope you don’t keep Tim separated from his. Everyone should have their chance at happiness!
I am disheartened to hear that spinning is a gateway craft. I don’t have room for a loom. But some nice handwoven napkins do sound heavenly…
Your loom!! I remember that loom! I remember when you bought it, and figuring out how to get it into you car at the CNCH hotel in San Mateo! Good times.
I would like to point out that you started all this fiber-y goodness as a weaver, and only succumbed to the advances of knitting later in life. I know the truth. You are, deep down, a weaver. That’s a good thing.
No. Please, no. Noonononononononoooooooooooooooooooo. I will not succumb to the siren call of The Looms.
Not, at least, until after I get my drumcarder and Watson wheel. Then we’ll see…
…and I would like to point out that square people do not ever spend and afternoon looking for a raddle. Whatever that is. And they don’t have trees with cute mice and mooses on them, neither.
I had an Ikea bookcase (well, one particular one) for a year and a half before I finally assembled it. (That was in the apartment that was way too big for me, so I didn’t need the space. Or to organize the stuff that ended up on that shelf.)
Nobody minded, except maybe my mom, who always thinks my home should be neater. (To be fair, I usually agree with her, if not on the activities from which I’m supposed to take cleaning time.)
So give Tim his true love already. You can keep the one with the pink dress.