Sucks is when you find out your parent has a terminal illness. Suckalicious is when you find it out not because your parents tell you, but because the non-terminal parent asks you to translate some medical documents which casually mention this as a pre-existing condition.
Sockapaloooza socks are done and photographed, waiting for washing, blocking, packing, and shipping. New socks have been begun, but I don't have the energy to download the camera.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Five places
Kat has asked knitters to "Name 5 places other than your house or a knitting store where you have knit..."
Hard to limit it to 5, but:
1. In the middle of teh Tel-Aviv/Jerusalem higway, during a road blocking protest sit-in.
2. Floating in the Dead Sea.
3. At the Western Wall.
4. On a hospital gurney in the pre-op prep room.
5. On a boat ride down the Seine/climbing the Acropolis in Athens/standing on the Moon Pyramid in Teotihuacan (and that was just last month).
Hard to limit it to 5, but:
1. In the middle of teh Tel-Aviv/Jerusalem higway, during a road blocking protest sit-in.
2. Floating in the Dead Sea.
3. At the Western Wall.
4. On a hospital gurney in the pre-op prep room.
5. On a boat ride down the Seine/climbing the Acropolis in Athens/standing on the Moon Pyramid in Teotihuacan (and that was just last month).
While you were bombing...
We were out shopping today, and after finishing purchases that could only be made in specific stores, we had a choice for the clothing. Should we go for everyday things at the Central Bus Station or Shabbat clothing at the Azrieli mall?
Well, I wanted a beauty shot of my sock in progress, so I made everyone go with me to the boardwalk, from where it would be most logical to continue to Azrieli.
That picture may have saved my family's life; if I hadn't realized I didn't have an Israeli sock picture and really want a beach shot, we would have been crossing the old Central Bus Station area when the bomber was committing his murders.
Well, I wanted a beauty shot of my sock in progress, so I made everyone go with me to the boardwalk, from where it would be most logical to continue to Azrieli.
That picture may have saved my family's life; if I hadn't realized I didn't have an Israeli sock picture and really want a beach shot, we would have been crossing the old Central Bus Station area when the bomber was committing his murders.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Celebration of democracy
A suicide terrorist blew himself up in Tel Aviv, and the 17th Knesset was sworn in.
According to the Jerusalem Post,
Aw, gee. What a shame. 9 people inconveniently die and wreck old Ehud's mood.
And get this:
Damn those Jews. Always getting themselves blown up at the worst times. Tzachi missed a great party! How do I know? Check out this screen capture from Channel 2:
Just because the public expects you to show people crouching down to pick up the bits and pieces of what used to be human beings is no reason not to entertain us with the rockin' sounds of the guitar and organ hired for the Knesset party.
N.B. Yes, we were in Tel Aviv when the bomb went off, but thankfully we were walking down the boardwalk, where I had wanted to get a beauty shot of my sockapaloooza socks.
According to the Jerusalem Post,
Interim Prime Minister Ehud Olmert said earlier in the day, "We intended to open the first session of the Knesset and the faction in a better mood."
Aw, gee. What a shame. 9 people inconveniently die and wreck old Ehud's mood.
And get this:
[Tzachi] Hanegbi later arrived, saying that traffic jams following the terror attack prevented him from arriving on time.
Damn those Jews. Always getting themselves blown up at the worst times. Tzachi missed a great party! How do I know? Check out this screen capture from Channel 2:
Just because the public expects you to show people crouching down to pick up the bits and pieces of what used to be human beings is no reason not to entertain us with the rockin' sounds of the guitar and organ hired for the Knesset party.
N.B. Yes, we were in Tel Aviv when the bomb went off, but thankfully we were walking down the boardwalk, where I had wanted to get a beauty shot of my sockapaloooza socks.
Friday, April 14, 2006
Anthropology & fiber
Yes, we actually did do some things in Mexico City that didn't involve cows (well, aside from eating them).
We weren't supposed to get in to Mexico City until Friday, but we arrived Thursday night, so we did what the convention organizers tols us never to do and walked around. (Hey, we had to hit the Kinkos and we had to get food.) We were staying in Col. Polanco during the Water Forum, so the streets were very secure--there were more cops and private security forces out than regular people.
We really lucked out. Once again, Hebrew proved to be the universal language, as each of the four times we hit the Kinko's', though the clerk spoke only Spanish, we found a kippah wearer ready to serve as translator.
Friday the rest of our group arrived, and we went to The National Museum of Anthropology, which is lke two, two, two museums in one. On the bottom floor there's the history and archeology of Mexico, particularly the area around Mexico City, with the standard statues, like this one of the rain god
and some non-standard displays, like lots of skeletons. (Mexico City takes its skeletons very seriously)
But upstairs--ah, upstairs is a different world. A fibery world.
A world I could have played in all day, if only they'd have let me into the exhibits, instead of looking at these tools through glass.
Even the socks came along for the ride:
We weren't supposed to get in to Mexico City until Friday, but we arrived Thursday night, so we did what the convention organizers tols us never to do and walked around. (Hey, we had to hit the Kinkos and we had to get food.) We were staying in Col. Polanco during the Water Forum, so the streets were very secure--there were more cops and private security forces out than regular people.
We really lucked out. Once again, Hebrew proved to be the universal language, as each of the four times we hit the Kinko's', though the clerk spoke only Spanish, we found a kippah wearer ready to serve as translator.
Friday the rest of our group arrived, and we went to The National Museum of Anthropology, which is lke two, two, two museums in one. On the bottom floor there's the history and archeology of Mexico, particularly the area around Mexico City, with the standard statues, like this one of the rain god
and some non-standard displays, like lots of skeletons. (Mexico City takes its skeletons very seriously)
But upstairs--ah, upstairs is a different world. A fibery world.
A world I could have played in all day, if only they'd have let me into the exhibits, instead of looking at these tools through glass.
Even the socks came along for the ride:
Monday, April 10, 2006
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
In the spirit of the last post
More pictures, this time of Mexico City. They sort of remind me of my last post...
(Click on the link to see individual cows)
These are only some of the cows I shot, and I only shot a fraction of the cows in Mexico City, mainly the ones in the park off Urbina and on the road between the Polcano hotels and the museums.
(Click on the link to see individual cows)
These are only some of the cows I shot, and I only shot a fraction of the cows in Mexico City, mainly the ones in the park off Urbina and on the road between the Polcano hotels and the museums.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
By popular demand
I feel like I should be quoting Sally Fields.
Since no one posted a hysterical, "no, don't show us," here's what a Moze looks like, complete with orange ribbon, Clapotis, and Holly (which has to go in for alteration--the neck is too big and keeps slipping off my shoulders, so I'll uncrochet it, pull out a dozen or so rows, and crochet it back to the body again).
The beret was my Paris compromise position for when I was out of the 9th district. Within the Jewish area I felt safe and comfortable, so I scarfed it, but walking around the other parts of Paris I looked like a stereotypical American tourist, bad beret styling and all (which came in very handy when we accidentally wound up in an Arab suburb, but that's a story for a different day).
Since no one posted a hysterical, "no, don't show us," here's what a Moze looks like, complete with orange ribbon, Clapotis, and Holly (which has to go in for alteration--the neck is too big and keeps slipping off my shoulders, so I'll uncrochet it, pull out a dozen or so rows, and crochet it back to the body again).
The beret was my Paris compromise position for when I was out of the 9th district. Within the Jewish area I felt safe and comfortable, so I scarfed it, but walking around the other parts of Paris I looked like a stereotypical American tourist, bad beret styling and all (which came in very handy when we accidentally wound up in an Arab suburb, but that's a story for a different day).
Monday, April 03, 2006
April in Paris
OK, would you settle for March?
The one nice thing about Paris is that it's close to home. Less than 5 hours, and I slept through the entire flight. In retrospect, I wish I hadn't -- it was the last decent airline meal we got until the El-Al flight home. (And when you're calling El-Al economy class meals decent, you know the rest had to be dog food.)
We landed at 5:20, figured our way through the airport (some English signage, and the world's screwiest conveyor belt system--once you get your luggage, everyone waiting for theirs had to back out so you could get out) and headed out of the airport. An Israeli chopper was waiting outside, offering cheap rides to hotels, in Hebrew. So of course we grabbed the bargain (and a bargain it was--30 Euro to our hotel instead of the 50+ a cab would have cost). We warned him we had a lot of lugagge, but still he screwed up, so we ended up getting in a van not with tourists, but with a businessman on his way to work. We got a tour of the Champs-Elysees (and a story of American tourists he had driven around, who wanted only to go to the "Champs Eli-says" -- it became a running joke for us on our return trip to Paris) and then were dropped at our hotel, the Best Western Aida Opera.
It's an interesting hotel. In the heart of the Jewish area of the 9th district, two blocks from the Folies Bergere
and directly across the street from a Tunisian restaurant named--get this--"Chez Bob."
(Forget what he claims, this place is not kosher. No hashgacha, and besides, he was in and out of there all Shabbat, bringing in groceries from the motorcycle he drove up on.)
There's a mezuzah on the front door, and breakfast is kosher. The doors work on keycards, but for Shabbat you can rent a regular door key. The night desk guy closes shop for half an hour to go to maariv, and the vending machine candy is from Israel. Yet until our last day there the second time around, we were the only obvious Jews in the place. Security at the hotel is tight, tighter than here at home: you have to be buzzed into the front door after a visual inspection.
We checked in, rested, ate breakfast, and hit the streets. Our travel agent said we could get anywhere we wanted to go by Metro, but it was a sunny (albeit cold) day, so we walked down to the obelisk at Place de la Concorde
(Oh, should I traumatize you all with a shot of me at the Place de la Concorde, knitwear and all? Vote yes or no in the comments.)
Then we went for a boat ride along the Seine -- The Spouse's choice. I was surprised to see the river much rougher than the sea the Greeks would not sail on.
Of course I took my socks along for the ride.
(Broadripple)
(Jaywalkers)
Both socks really enjoyed their view of an oversized broadcast tower sold to teh world as a tourist attraction. Actually, so did we, once we got off the boat and walked there. The Spouse especially liked this view
We also went to look at Notre Dame, but we didn;t go inside (church and all that, you know.)
And before we dropped for the night, we went to the Arch. Getting across the Champs-Elysees was a hassle, because all the signs were in French, but finally someone donated a clue to us about where the underpass is.
Then a long walk back to our hotel, with a stop at the Galleries Lafayette to look at the Phildar yarn (nothing enthused me -- most of what they had on display was bling, and the needles they had out were standard European sizes, while I was looking for a 3.25 mm, which seems to be more a British/US size).
For dinner we went to Chez Mimi, down the block from where our hotel, and under the supervision of the Beth-Din, one of the reliable hashgachas in Paris.
Yes, I do think it's an unwritten rule that all restaurants must be named after someone. Well, except for Cafe Dizengoff, which has great crepes but whose soup of the day is French Onion Soup--by Osem.
It surprised us that the French seem so unadventurous in their cuisine--it's either French food or North African (except for the fast food places, which are all American-style). Where's the variety I'm used to from the States, or even from Israel? And I'm not just talking the Jewish community; the restaurants we passed in our walks were more of the same.
And on a current note, happy 50th birthday, Spouse-Man!
Next: Hola, Mexico City.
The one nice thing about Paris is that it's close to home. Less than 5 hours, and I slept through the entire flight. In retrospect, I wish I hadn't -- it was the last decent airline meal we got until the El-Al flight home. (And when you're calling El-Al economy class meals decent, you know the rest had to be dog food.)
We landed at 5:20, figured our way through the airport (some English signage, and the world's screwiest conveyor belt system--once you get your luggage, everyone waiting for theirs had to back out so you could get out) and headed out of the airport. An Israeli chopper was waiting outside, offering cheap rides to hotels, in Hebrew. So of course we grabbed the bargain (and a bargain it was--30 Euro to our hotel instead of the 50+ a cab would have cost). We warned him we had a lot of lugagge, but still he screwed up, so we ended up getting in a van not with tourists, but with a businessman on his way to work. We got a tour of the Champs-Elysees (and a story of American tourists he had driven around, who wanted only to go to the "Champs Eli-says" -- it became a running joke for us on our return trip to Paris) and then were dropped at our hotel, the Best Western Aida Opera.
It's an interesting hotel. In the heart of the Jewish area of the 9th district, two blocks from the Folies Bergere
and directly across the street from a Tunisian restaurant named--get this--"Chez Bob."
(Forget what he claims, this place is not kosher. No hashgacha, and besides, he was in and out of there all Shabbat, bringing in groceries from the motorcycle he drove up on.)
There's a mezuzah on the front door, and breakfast is kosher. The doors work on keycards, but for Shabbat you can rent a regular door key. The night desk guy closes shop for half an hour to go to maariv, and the vending machine candy is from Israel. Yet until our last day there the second time around, we were the only obvious Jews in the place. Security at the hotel is tight, tighter than here at home: you have to be buzzed into the front door after a visual inspection.
We checked in, rested, ate breakfast, and hit the streets. Our travel agent said we could get anywhere we wanted to go by Metro, but it was a sunny (albeit cold) day, so we walked down to the obelisk at Place de la Concorde
(Oh, should I traumatize you all with a shot of me at the Place de la Concorde, knitwear and all? Vote yes or no in the comments.)
Then we went for a boat ride along the Seine -- The Spouse's choice. I was surprised to see the river much rougher than the sea the Greeks would not sail on.
Of course I took my socks along for the ride.
(Broadripple)
(Jaywalkers)
Both socks really enjoyed their view of an oversized broadcast tower sold to teh world as a tourist attraction. Actually, so did we, once we got off the boat and walked there. The Spouse especially liked this view
We also went to look at Notre Dame, but we didn;t go inside (church and all that, you know.)
And before we dropped for the night, we went to the Arch. Getting across the Champs-Elysees was a hassle, because all the signs were in French, but finally someone donated a clue to us about where the underpass is.
Then a long walk back to our hotel, with a stop at the Galleries Lafayette to look at the Phildar yarn (nothing enthused me -- most of what they had on display was bling, and the needles they had out were standard European sizes, while I was looking for a 3.25 mm, which seems to be more a British/US size).
For dinner we went to Chez Mimi, down the block from where our hotel, and under the supervision of the Beth-Din, one of the reliable hashgachas in Paris.
Yes, I do think it's an unwritten rule that all restaurants must be named after someone. Well, except for Cafe Dizengoff, which has great crepes but whose soup of the day is French Onion Soup--by Osem.
It surprised us that the French seem so unadventurous in their cuisine--it's either French food or North African (except for the fast food places, which are all American-style). Where's the variety I'm used to from the States, or even from Israel? And I'm not just talking the Jewish community; the restaurants we passed in our walks were more of the same.
And on a current note, happy 50th birthday, Spouse-Man!
Next: Hola, Mexico City.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Congratulate me!
My daughter got married.
No, this isn't an April Fool's joke (it's April 2, after all). Yes, this is the Youngest Teen. Yes, we're thrilled with her choice of a life partner.
Oh--did you forget that the next post I *intended* to put up was the Purim post?
Our bat bayit, S, got a wedding gown which was going around the school and asked my daughter to be her "groom" on Purim. Notice how, even though she can borrow her friend's suit, her brother's shirt, and her father's tie and kippah, she still wears her own skirt and work boots. What a formal groom she makes.
The couple got some odd look as they walked around town, but most of my neighbors got into it, singing and dancing for them (including the young couple's former elementary school principal).
We ate, we drank, we partied with the best of them, and then, after the Purim meal, The Spouse and I abandoned the kids to fly to Paris.
No, this isn't an April Fool's joke (it's April 2, after all). Yes, this is the Youngest Teen. Yes, we're thrilled with her choice of a life partner.
Oh--did you forget that the next post I *intended* to put up was the Purim post?
Our bat bayit, S, got a wedding gown which was going around the school and asked my daughter to be her "groom" on Purim. Notice how, even though she can borrow her friend's suit, her brother's shirt, and her father's tie and kippah, she still wears her own skirt and work boots. What a formal groom she makes.
The couple got some odd look as they walked around town, but most of my neighbors got into it, singing and dancing for them (including the young couple's former elementary school principal).
We ate, we drank, we partied with the best of them, and then, after the Purim meal, The Spouse and I abandoned the kids to fly to Paris.
Flash Your Stash
Since it's still April 1 somewhere, and since Flickr is now cooperating, I present you -- most of the Mozemen stash. (A few cones of acryclic, a few of cones of ombre Peaches & Creme, a cone of blue metallic, and 2 cones of burgandy weaving warp cotton didn't attend the roll-call, aka pulling the stash from my office/Pesach kitchen):
Nothing special here. Wool and wool blend in the front left, sock yarns in the clear plastic bag and the yellow-topped container, acryclic mainly hidden behind the large empty container and in the big black hangy thingy, cotton and cotton blends in the back right, and metallics in the front right. Best of the bunch: the Noro which is sitting proudly on wools. Source of most of the stash: Goodwill, West Palm Beach.
Nothing special here. Wool and wool blend in the front left, sock yarns in the clear plastic bag and the yellow-topped container, acryclic mainly hidden behind the large empty container and in the big black hangy thingy, cotton and cotton blends in the back right, and metallics in the front right. Best of the bunch: the Noro which is sitting proudly on wools. Source of most of the stash: Goodwill, West Palm Beach.
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