The essence of elegance

While traveling, we went to Joe's Boathouse- which is supposed to be this amazing surf and turf shack. When in Maine, eat lobster, right?

We drove out to the Boathouse, were seated, started our appetizer, and were having a generally pleasant time. The waitress kept my water glass full, and I was happy. Then, disaster.

I would like to pause the story for a moment and let you readers know that water glasses, restaurants, and I have had an adversarial relationship- at best. Chris, Zak, and Andrew all have fallen victim to some form of my incredible lack of coordination, usually ending up with a lapful of ice water.

Somehow, between picking up my glass and drinking, my glass SHATTERED, covering my crotch in broken glass, ice, and water. The ice and the water were embarrassing, the broken glass was a hazard. I reached behind myself to pull myself up off of/from under the broken glass, to plant my hand firmly on some of the glass that had landed on my sweater.

Ow.

Also, a crotch covered in water.

Holy Shawl, Batman!

I was just working away on my computer, when I saw that I got a Facebook message from Marie, telling me that she was (fairly certain) that I was in the new TKGA catalog, on page 13.

So, I found page 13:

What?!

I'll be damned! It is me. Now you all can say you knew me when. (Also in the picture, the fabulous Brenda Patipa and Audrey the Amazing Lace Knitter.)

Lessons from the mailman

Despite my attempts to buy my things locally, sometimes, I buy specific things online. This means that I have a close and personal relationship with our mail carrier. If I’m working from home, I chat with him for a few minutes, and collect the mail by hand.

MailMan thinks it’s funny that all of my packages are “oiled wool”. (He’s under the impression that all wool is full of lanolin, like the Aran sweaters his mom used to knit for him.) But, he’s a good sport, and will even haul the giant (and heavy boxes) into the entryway for dainty little me. He is really a nice man.

Yesterday, before I headed out to work, I was loading my car with boxes for a couple of friends, and MailMan walked up the driveway at the same time. With three packages- a small and a medium one for me, and a box for Andrew.

“Hm. I wonder what this is,” I said.

“You could open it like this [details spared for use in future espionage], and he’d never notice,” MailMan tells me.

“Hm. Good to know,” I reply.

While I can guess as to what is in Andrew’s box, I have never felt the need to snoop. But knowledge is power, right?

Have I mentioned that I love our MailMan?

New mascara weirdness

I know that companies spend barrels of money on designing hip-looking packaging, and sometimes it works. I was in the market for some new mascara, so I went to my local drugstore and bought some.

I love Revlon mascara. I’ve used more expensive stuff, different brands, and I just don’t like them. They’re ultra-smudgy, and I don’t really care to look like a raccoon by mid-morning. The Revlon waterproof stuff is my favorite. I’ve tried a few different versions, mostly because my method of selecting mascara is this:

One: Is it Revlon?

Two: Is it on sale?

Three: Is it available in brown and black?

Very methodical, right? I picked the coolest looking / on sale mascara, looking for something new and different:

Clearly, the appeal of this is the awesome looking package. Look closely.

I like to test drive my new makeup on the weekend, mostly so that any cosmetic missteps can be resolved with minimal effort. Because I am all about minimal effort, really.

Sunday morning, I doll up to go to the spa, and I notice that the mascara’s consistency is a little on the heavy side. I figured it was the newness of the mascara- sometimes it takes a little practice to get the hang of new eye makeup.

When I got back, I realized exactly how heavy this mascara is. I looked like Liza Minnelli. With the giant fake eyelashes. But not fake. I started washing my face, and it felt like I had plastic tubing on my eyelashes. Like the kind that is on electrical wiring.

This morning, I took a look at the container. L'Oreal. Not Revlon.

Evidently, when I'm in a hurry, my reading skills are... not there. Looks like I'll be making a trip to the drugstore.

Mama said there’d be days like this

I’ve had a rough couple of weeks. Not unmanageable, but I’m starting to get burned out, and a little crazy. Example:

I had an appointment set for March 7^th, but Dr. B was sick. I rescheduled for (I thought) the following week. The 21^st. On the 14^th, I arrived in my FIERCE shoes. I stand in the check-in line, only to realize that I am a week early.

Fortunately, when brains fail me, I have my looks to fall back on. I called Andrew as I walked back to my car.

J: Tell me I am unusually beautiful today.

A: Of course you are.

J: I have to be having a pretty day.

A: Not so smart today?

J: Nope.

A: Okay. Have fun at knitting.

When I arrived at Purlescence, I sat down to cast on my newest lace shawl, and had to do it twice. Obviously, counting to 67 was too much for me. I completed the first repeat successfully, and went home before I caused any additional havoc.

Fast forward to this morning.

I came into work to find my cube in a state of disarray. I keep my cube pretty tidy, and I like my things set up a certain way. When I get set up to boot up my machine, I find my lamps unplugged, my dock not connected, and my stereo headphones broken with a note.

I’m normally a pretty cool cucumber. I call telecom (as I was instructed to on the note), and explain that these were not cheap, company issue headphones, they were my spendy personal ones- and they would need to be replaced, stat.

While I’m waiting for them to think up a solution, I start plugging in my lamps. I clipped my finger on a piece of metal, and don’t realize that I’m bleeding everywhere- until I looked down. I get everything cleaned up and connected.

I have a bulb burned out. Great. No big, we have more bulbs at home.

My headphones have been discontinued, so I’m going to have to find some “equivalent” ones. Ok, I have the internets at my disposal.

I hope Andrew meets me at the door with something strong.

Why "Better Than Yarn"?

After (roughly) three years of blogging, I figured I should tell the story.

Time: Fall, 2001,

I was reading the KnitList, and someone (name removed to protect the innocent) posted the following story:

"This is one for the how do you know you're addicted files....

Some of you may know this and some may not but I'm a newlywed (since March
of this year). So last night, in bed, after a wonderful romantic interlude
with my new hubby, relaxing together in the post-lovemaking glow, and just
before I was falling asleep I said, "Honey, that was better than yarn!"

To which my DH immediately replied, "Well, I sure hope so!"

:-)

XXXXX
Who is lucky that her husband finds knitting so endearing and understands
that better than yarn is a compliment of the highest order!"

While I found this to be a huge case of TMI, I *may* have sent it to everyone I know. Partly because I was horrified, partly because I thought it was HILARIOUS.

Andrew, being who he is, would ask if EVERYTHING was "better than yarn". This chocolate? The movie we just watched? The shoes I just bought? The latte?

(If you know Andrew in real life, I'm sure you can see very clearly. For those readers who haven't met him, well... Andrew is an experience.)

For my birthday that November, he gave me a license plate frame that reads "Better Than Yarn". Evidently, a compliment of the highest order.

It seemed an appropriate name for a knitting blog, and I still think it's a great story. Ick factor and all.

Of jazz and France

When I was in college, my friend Stephanie enlisted me to be her Wingman- which, in Girl, translates to the Big Fat Friend (as defined by Stephen Lynch). The BFF’s purpose is to keep her friend from going home with the Wrong Guy.

I accepted. (Lyrics HERE, or click play below. There is a little language and a lot of blatant sexuality.)

We went to Bruno’s, which is a jazz club in San Francisco, to see her Trumpet Player performing. I kept a close eye, and we started chatting with another Mills grad student. He already knew Stephanie, and when introductions were made, the interaction went like this:

Stephanie: French Guy, this is Jasmin. She goes to Mills, too.

J: Nice to meet you.

FG: Zoh, you goh to Meells, too?

J: Yeah. So you’re a Music major?

FG: Yes. What eez your majohr?

J: (Pause) English Literature with a minor in Journalism.

FG: Zat is a stoopeed majohr. Useless! Would you lahk a ceegarette? No! Of course naht! You are frahm California. (Huffs off to smoke outside.)

(I swear, I couldn’t make this up if I tried.)

Sometimes, Being Crass is the Only Way

Who does a girl have to screw to get some 00 US/1.75 mm circular needles? (Seriously, if you know, send me an e-mail at jasmin at licensedtoknit dot com.)

I have gone to yarn stores, called yarn stores, and searched high and low on the internet. I have found straights and double points, but no circulars.

In a fit of (what I thought was) genius, I called a LYS that I don't really shop at very often. This is due to a combination of reasons. (A) They're out of my way, according to my brain map. Even though they are closer than the LYS I shop at most regularly, they seem further away. (B) They have super-high employee turnover, and I have yet to speak with an employee (who isn't the manager) who knows their rump from their elbow. I called looking for a Dale of Norway pattern (which I know they carry), and the employee (without looking or asking someone else) told me they don't carry Dale patterns. (C) They don't carry much that interests me, besides Rebecca.

Anyhow, I call, and Peppy Employee answers the phone.

"Hi," I say politely, "I'm looking for a set of circular needles."
"What size?" asks PE.
"I'm looking for double-zero needles. 1.75 mm, specifically."
"Let me look."

My heart swelled with joy, that PE was actually * looking *.

"We've got them."
"Before I drive down, they are double-zeros?"
"Yep," She says confidently.

This is too good to be true, so I made sure to ask a critical question, "What does it say for the millimeters?"
"2.00."
Sigh. "Thanks, have a great day."

You see my pain?

World Conquest- One Egg At A Time

I got a message on MySpace hitting me up for some Middle Eastern eggs. That's right. Ovum.

Completely ignoring the fact that donating eggs is an INCREDIBLY uncomfortable process- you earn every penny of that $6k with your suffering. They pump you full of hormones and at the end; you have to give yourself injections. This young woman claimed to have done it SIX TIMES.

I'm fairly certain that given a life-or-death option of either giving myself injections or dying, I would do it. But for fun? Forget it.

There is also the Genetic Material Issue. I have no qualms with donating stem cells to save a loved one, but just having my ovum out there? To be fertilized by a complete stranger? I'm a little uncomfortable with that, especially with people getting curious about their biological parents.

How awful would it be to meet your egg donor, only to find out that she did it for the money? Is there legal recourse the child could take to demand that you support it? Send it to college? Buy it a pony?

Then there is this side of it:

I'm not using my eggs. I will, eventually, but currently, they're in storage (if I understand my specific form of family planning correctly). I don't really need all of them, since we're only planning on having two. Why not help an infertile couple have a child that they obviously want fairly desperately.

Let's face it, deep down, we're all narcissists and most people want their OWN baby and taking a genetic material donation is one step away from forsaking your own lineage completely, genetically speaking.

When it comes to family, I truly believe that the people who raise your and love you are your parents, not the biological matter donors (whether through conventional means of donation or otherwise). Making a baby doesn't make you a parent, raising it does.

Then, my inner megalomaniac piped up and pointed out that there could be dozens of little Jasmins running around the world; more specifically, California.

Couldn't you just see it? Yarn shops pillaged, a global shortage of imported chocolates, and all that hair. Could the world handle that much hair?

The world may never know.

Civic Duty

I went to vote on Tuesday, as I hope everyone did. The line at my polling place was relatively long, but since I travel with both a book AND knitting, I was prepared in the event of a long wait.

[Before I start writing what happened, I would like to remind you that all of the people in the polling place are my neighbors. Not my next-door neighbors, but these people live in my neighborhood.]

As I walked up to the line to get signed in, I saw an animal control officer walking a pit-mix out of the school's office. She was very gentle with the dog, and took her time putting him in the kennel. This was a nice thing to see (her being gentle, not the dog getting hauled away).

It was probably about 60 degrees outside [freezing] and close to 80 degrees inside [boiling]. The woman two people ahead of me in line looked like a trashy, over-tanned, drag-queen makeup wearing version of Geena Davis.

GD had- apparently- not only never voted before, but felt that she should argue with the poll workers (who were all 80 + years old, except for one woman, who was about 40) about everything- including why the sign-in book was upside-down. This took at least fifteen minutes, to get her signed in and ready to sit down and wait her turn.

I get signed in, and go sit down. A woman sits down across the table in front of me, and she smells of three- count them, THREE- separate bodily functions. I try to ignore it, and read my book and knit, but it was truly gag-worthy.

Since they were slammed, it was an on-your-honor system as far as determining who went next. Basically, this means remembering who was in line ahead of you- pretty simple stuff.

GD is reading the ballot while we're waiting, making her selections on the cheat sheet- and she's up next. She asks if someone can go ahead of her, since she wasn't ready, which caused CHAOS. Well, old people chaos.

The woman ahead of me goes, which is fine, but Bodily Functions decides that she is TIRED of waiting, and totally takes my turn. At first, I was relieved, because I didn't have to smell her anymore, but then the woman who was supposed to go after Bodily Functions gets up.

I hopped up and made sure that I didn't get bumped out of place even further. My issue is this; what is up with people? Didn't they ever learn the age-old adage?

"No cuts, no butts, no coconuts."

Just Say No

Maybe it's just me. Maybe it's the fact that I'll be 24 years old on Thanksgiving.

What possesses women to wear stage makeup as REGULAR makeup?!

Don't get me wrong; if wearing makeup makes you feel good- go for it. But you shouldn't be wearing greasepaint with your street clothes, is all I'm saying.**

I understand that when you know you're going to be photographed/are hoping to be photographed, that you should wear makeup that is super-flattering. But come on; under NORMAL lighting stage makeup looks like stage makeup. You can tell it's stage makeup from ten feet away. Not subtle, not natural.

Please, join my campaign to stop middle-aged women from applying makeup with a paint roller. Tell them to Just Say No.

**This statement is void if you're a drag queen trying to cover your stubble. Those girls at Sephora just don't sell anything strong enough to cover it.

***This message brought to you by the Campaign For Good Taste.

Identity Theft

So, believe it or not, someone stole my identity. And it's looking pretty likely that it happened at the Maryland Sheep and Wool festival. Since I did not buy with my normal enthusiasm, there are only 3 vendors who got my credit card information, and of those 3, only one had a manual credit card imprinter thing. (Because I fear libel laws, I won't post the name of the booth that I think did it. But just so you know, the credit card company will go after them.)

I'm not worried about it, the credit card company is all over it (go Chase!), but here is what I am thinking:

If someone steals your identity, the proper punishment would be for them to have to live your life for as long as it * would * have taken you to pay off those charges. That's right, punk! It's cleaning up dog poop for you! And the gutters! Muah ah ah!

I don’t do “shaved”

It's basically summer weather here in sunny Silicon Valley. I have two Chow mixes, which means a fair amount of dog hair. I'm sure in purer Chows, they're built for cold weather, but my delicate blossoms sleep on our bed when it's 60 degrees out. (For any readers who are unfamiliar with Californian blood, 60 degrees is considered winter around here.)

Now, having said that, I went to one of the LYS in the area, and there was a super-cute book of dog sweaters. I already own 5 or 6 books on dog sweaters, because I thought I would adopt a breed I could knit for. The heart wants what it wants, and I adopted chow mixes that I love. Who absolutely do not need sweaters. Ever.

I coo at the book of cute dog sweaters. The owner, hoping to make a sale on the book and some yarn, assures me that my dog ("Oh, you have two?" [Dollar signs light up her eyes]) will LOVE the sweater.

"I have two chow mixes," I said, "They'll overheat in a sweater, even when it's cold."

"You could shave them," she suggests, helpfully, "Then they'll need the sweaters."

I politely offer to consider the idea, and leave the book behind. Could you imagine my dogs shaved? They would look RIDICULOUS! It's bad enough when I have to shave their butts, but Niki would look like an overgrown Chihuahua. I don't even want to imagine what Elphie would look like shaved. It's just sad.

So, with the summer heat rolling in, Andrew and I have discussed shaving the dogs to keep them cool. I'm voting "no", since they can get sunburned without the protection of long fur (and since Elphie is a fan of the sunbathing). I'll use the Mars King Comb (a comb made of razors, basically, but it works wonders on the dogs) and that helped last summer. Plus, we have A/C. It should be fine.

I just couldn't imagine shaving your dog so that it can wear a dorky sweater. Niki would never speak to me again, and Elphie would just hang her head in shame.

Some Body Image Distortion, for your reading pleasure

Yesterday it was practically tropical, not only outside, but inside my office. Especially while I was courting the * other * photocopier. You see, they took my photocopier, my close and personal friend, which you know if you're a regular reader here at Better Than Yarn. They took it away, and now I have to sweet-talk another one.

So, I'm photocopying away, and it is getting warmer and warmer. I'm in a long-sleeved blouse, jeans, wool socks, and boots (since it's been Arctic in Silicon Valley). I start to feel… squishy. I slog back to my office, take off my shoes and socks (which helped some), but it was so warm I felt like peeling off my clothes and hoping nobody noticed (unlikely, my door has a full-length glass panel in it). I make it home, change into something more comfortable, and decide to wear a dress today.

I get dressed, in a cute spring dress, light sweater and sandals. I've worn the dress before; it's cute, I look cute in it. However, as I walk up to the doors at work, I look a foot tall and five feet wide. I have concluded that we have "fat glass" at work; glass that reflects a much fatter version of one's self. For the first time in my life, I thought I looked simply huge. H-U-G-E.

Memory Montage Scene

This reminded me of Stitches West '05. My mother pimped me out to Rick (for a t-shirt) to be a dresser for the fashion show, since they had lost one. Rick and I had spent the entire previous summer together, during my internship. Good, bad, or indifferent, he knew I was reliable and found my mother first.

February 15th, 2005 was a huge day for me. I got hired for my first job out of college that day, and we brought Niki home from the rescue. I knew ahead of time that we were picking up Niki, but I didn't know about the job until that day. My day started at 7 AM, where I got up and met the girls for breakfast at Starbucks before the show, and ended at 11:30, when Andrew picked me up after the show- with Niki in the car.

These women were all six feet tall, and they weighed MAYBE 110 lbs. Now, I'm 5' 1 ½" and between 110 and 125 lbs (I don't believe in scales, so we don't have one at home). Compared to these "women" (they looked more like aliens, with big heads and skinny little bodies), I felt like a hobbit; short, round, and complete with furry feet.

The sad thing was that the models had these sad, sagging little "breasts" (it's a mystery of physics how so little flesh can sag), and no butt. This is the standard of beauty that I should aspire to?

Sure; as we speak, I'm trying to grow to be six feet tall. Once I hit six feet, then I'm crash-dieting to get to that perfect weight of 110 lbs. Not one second before. Until then, I'll cope with my hobbit status.

Stop following me around!

Thief Steals $75,000 Worth of Bull Semen

The article speaks for itself. I have to say, I sympathized with the guy who had his bull semen purloined. Could you imagine that kind of loss?

I mean, after the carpal tunnel went away from obtaining all that semen, only to turn around and find that someone has stolen all of that hard work. Now you're going to have to go through and convince all those bulls again that you loooooove them so that you can get the goods. Again.

Don't get me started on how you're going to have to explain not calling them the next day, either. And the empty promises about how you really will call this time. Not to mention how all the bulls will be following you around, staring at you amorously FOREVER. Because you ladder-jumped, of course. We all know that the Ladder Theory is great and true. *sarcasm*

Just FYI, I did the math on how much each shot of Bull Macho Gazpacho costs, and it is $1500. The same as one shot of champion dog juice.