What's not to love?

I mentioned that I had a REMARKABLY stupid weekend, but I have to point out the silver lining of it all. We went to the lovely Loma Prieta Winery on Saturday with one of Andrew's co-workers, who is a member there.

This was a June Cleaver-ish thing for me to do. While you may not suspect it, with the pink hair, I perform quite a few very classic "wifely" functions- including making myself presentable, social, and pleasant at events that involve Andrew's career.

(You can imagine me vaccuming in heels and pearls, but that's the only place that is going to happen. Go ahead, take a minute.)

So, I put on my makeup, and the Poison Green Twist, and off we went.

The Loma Prieta Winery is WAAAAAY back off of Summit Rd, in the Santa Cruz mountains. It's SO far back off of Summit that the road changes names. Thrice, I believe.

I don't particularly like windy roads, or one-lane, windy, mountain roads, but I kept both my composure AND my breakfast in check. When we got there, it was totally worth it. I mean, look at the view:

Oops, the background is in soft focus. Wine will do that, won't it? From what we were told, on a clear day you could see WAAAAAY out, but I preferred it a little overcast. (I think a little fog is lovely.)

There was food, and of course, wine. Lots of wine.

(This wine wasn't my favorite, but it was the best color. White wine is boring to take pictures of, but I really enjoyed their Viognier.)

The most dangerous part was the sommalier that circulated, refilling empty glasses. It's no wonder that I dropped my driver's license!

(Which, by the way, when I called first thing the next morning, they found it and happily mailed it back to me, saving me HOURS at the DMV as well as the general frustration of pink hair on official documents.)

Other cool things about the winery include Mo, the winery dog, who fetches AROUND the vines, doing incredibly agility work, and awesome art in the restrooms.

(By the way, AFTER my license was misplaced, Andrew pointed out that next time, he'll be happy to keep my ID in his wallet. You'd think I would have been smart enough to do this, but nooo...)

All I can say is that I am SO looking forward to the Retzlaff Winery spinning day. We'll just have to put someone else in charge of my license.

Adventures in sheer stupidity

My weekend was fun, but long. It started with a guy trying to sell me perfume (out of a moving vehicle) because the packaging matched my hair, a Silicon Valley Rotarian asking me if *that* was my real hair, my knitting failing me, and ending with leaving my driver's license at a winery.

Upside: I got some spinning done, took a great nap, had a great date-day with Andrew on Saturday, despite my rampant stupidity.

I'll have pictures up shortly, but my poor laptop was decidedly unhappy with the workload I heaped on it this weekend, so I thought I would give it a break and upload my pictures tonight.

A stylish alternative to wellies

On the tail of a post about my deep and lasting love of the fanny pack, I wanted to share my alternative to wellies- a fashionable one. (Trust me, these put the fanny pack back in its' place.)

It has been raining a RIDICULOUS amount. On Tuesday, I had a minor meltdown, and on my way home from Pho (at the best Pho place EVER), I stopped at DSW, which is effectively the Mecca for stylish (yet affordable) footwear. I was hoping to get a pair of wellies, and I didn't much care what they looked like at that point.

I walked in, and as far as the eye could see, all there was in front was strappy sandals. My toes froze just LOOKING at them. I went straight to the back - where they keep the clearance shoes.

There, I found vinyl boots- by named designers - for 40, 50, and 70% off. They're waterproof AND stylish. Plus, I love swaggering about in boots.

Pictures pending me taking them- because, unless you're Tika and have RIDICULOUSLY long legs, it's impossible to take pictures of your own feet, Itellyouwhut.

The ugly duckling of accessories

This weekend, while I was at Stitches West, I found myself hauling around WAY too much stuff in my purse. I had vintage swag from a previous stitches (the little "Knitter Attached" pouch from XRX), but I didn't want to interrupt the flow of my outfit with a big, black strap going across my chest.

So, what did I do? I shortened the strap, hung it decoratively off to the side, and turned it into...

A fanny pack. (For those of you outside the US, a belt pack.)

I was horrified. But the worst part is, aside from being an abomination to accessories everywhere, fanny packs are incredibly useful. (My practical side is showing.) They put weight on the hips, which I have in abundance (thanks, Mom!), and you don't get tangled in straps.

After I was finished being horrified, I discovered that if you hang the fanny pack off to the side, and not flat across the waist (more like a sporran than a fanny pack) it doesn't look so ... dorky.

Here we go. I can embrace my dorkiness:

My name is Jasmin, and I love the fanny pack.

...Wow.

Tika has the best taste in movies, EVER.

I invited her over for some impromptu wine drinking, and introduced her to "How I met your mother". In exchange, Tika shared the GEM that is Xanadu. (It's on "instant watch" on Netflix, so you don't even have to waste a disk rental on this one.)

During the course of this film, we discover that Gene Kelley does a montage of EVERY movie he has been in, which is awesome. (The conversation went like this: "Gene Kelly brought back dance." "Baz Luhrmann brought back the musical.")

Both of us would also turn down a lap dance from Hugh Jackman for the opportunity to dance with Gene Kelly.

In other news, I am NOT smarter than Cat Bordhi, and have now ripped out my Coriolis again. Thank goodness I had the forethought to do my first adult sized tester in worsted weight yarn (from Fancy Image Yarns) on size 3 needles.

Bizarre

Bizarre
Originally uploaded by cuteknitter2000

Lucy Neatby is a GENIUS.

Oh cabana boy...

That's right. My toes are the most cheerful shade of pink, aptly named "Oh Cabana Boy".

Three small words

Three small words
Originally uploaded by cuteknitter2000

Can speak volumes. Does anyone else have butterflies?

Dear Joss

Dear Joss;

I would like to start this letter by saying, I am a fan. Buffy is a favorite of mine, Angel was a great spin-off, Firefly and Serenity were awesome, and Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog was inspired. When I heard the murmurs about "Dollhouse", I was excited at the prospect of a show that embodied the dry wit, creativity, and sympathetic characters that are your trademarks.

However, there are a few issues I would like to address with you about "Dollhouse". Before I do, I would like to applaud your commitment to recycling: I love that the Wolfram and Hart set is being repurposed for this show. That having been said, the first and most important point that I want to make is that you need to hire me, because clearly, there is nobody on your writing staff who could tell the difference between "exuberant" and "exorbitant". I do, and this makes me uniquely qualified, it would seem. Let me explain.

When one is discussing very high prices, while one can be exuberant while spending an exorbitant amount of money, an "exuberant price" just doesn't make sense. The OED is totally in agreement with me on this. To tell you that these sort of oversights are remarkably uncharacteristic of your work feels unnecessary. Clearly, this needed to be said.

Second, I understand that sex sells. However, the dance sequence in pilot where the lovely Ms. Dushku's crotch and butt hang out from the bottom of her dress is both tacky and perpetuates the corollary "Less clothing = More sexy", where the whole "Less is more" idiom really means "Less flesh = more sexy". (It's ok; idioms can be tricky to interpret!)

I know that Ms. Dushku has a lovely body, but the gratuitous nudity is a bit heavy-handed. (Especially that Dollhouse-themed Hulu commercial, where her breasts are bouncing so enthusiastically that they eclipse the content of her dialog. I actually heard myself squealing a "SERIOUSLY?!" that would put the Grey's Anatomy girls to shame.)

Third, and most important: you need to hire me- or ANYONE who isn't a sycophant for that matter - to tell you that this has been done, and better. "Dollhouse" is a cross between "Dark Angel" and "Alias" but with severe brain damage. I may have also described this program as a "steaming turd".

I'll be waiting for your call, and look forward to working with you in the future.

Best regards,

Jasmin

Oh Steamy, well you came and you gave without taking...

I posted the picture of my Twist blocking, but you didn't get the whole story. Before I actually got to any sort of "pinning" state, I hunted ALL OVER our house for my Scunci steamer.

(Yes, I saw it on an infomercial. This shouldn't color your judgment of me or my beloved Steamy. For $60, I got Steamy and his floor kit. It was love at first steam.)

During the initial stages of my hunt, I asked Andrew if he had seen Steamy. Andrew, being the naturally jealous type, denied having seen Steamy, and told me that Steamy was in my office. Then, to add insult to injury, Andrew asked when the last time was that I used Steamy.

You have to understand this: Steamy and I have a love that transcends the simple quantifiable nature of many relationships, which depends on frequency of visits. People, it's not about how much time we spend together, it's the quality of the time we spend together. I knew you would understand, even if Andrew doesn't.

(In all fairness, I think Andrew has always been a little jealous of Steamy.)

You see, Steamy and I meet, often in B&D circumstances: I bring Steamy out once my sweater has been thoroughly restrained, and together, we block until the sweater uses our safe word ("Moth!").

You've been reading this blog. You know that the only blocking I've done in the last few years (ahem, two and a half) has been lace, which requires wet-blocking, not steaming. Like I said before, our relationship is about quality, not quantity. Given my resolution to block my knits, I knew Steamy and I would be seeing more of each other.

After two hours of hunting, I gave up. Steamy was AWOL. I worried that he had been misplaced in the move, or heaven forbid, "accidentally" donated by one jealous husband. I picked up his second cousin, thrice removed, Presser.

(Presser and I have a long history, but one of familial relationships, rather than love. He was our family iron while I was growing up, and he came with me to college. He's now the official iron in our house, slightly less neglected than Steamy, but considerably less loved.)

Presser and I have an adversarial relationship, and I'll be honest, he's burned me in the past. He knows that when it comes to my beloved knits, Steamy is the one who I really want to be sharing the moment with.

Presser deliberately makes blocking difficult (and frankly, unenjoyable and tedious), and because of his refusal to do what Steamy does, I end up with aching muscles in my hand from having to pump him for that precious steam.

So, I had Andrew work Presser for the steam. Only then did Andrew realize that what Steamy and I have is unique and special, and promised to aid in the search for our missing Steamy.

Yesterday, while I was hunting through the trappings of our material existence (read: "the junk in the garage"), the very moment that I gave up hope and was climbing out of a pile of boxes with the express purpose of finding myself a new Steamy, there he was. Under a roll of blood red pleather yardage. (Not joking.) I squealed with delight, and brought him directly into the house.

Steamy has decided that he wants to sit on the shelf, next to the cashmere. I think they might have a thing, if you know what I mean.