Knit Bake Run Make

New hobby alert!

I used to love archery as a youth and thanks to @blumineck and his excellent videos, I have wanted to get back into it for a while. I'm old enough to just buy my way back into the sport, but it's far too easy to spend money and then not commit, (which is why our basement is full of our kids discarded hobbies) and I've found that making a thing focuses my mind enough to really commit to it.

So, as my philosophy in life has always been that if I can understand the mechanics of how to do a thing, then I can (usually) do it myself, and so I have been making myself a board bow.

That's right. I found Jesus face down in the dirt beside my car when I came back from a walk with my husband.

I found him. Furthermore, I'm going to keep him because he reminds me a bit of Dogmas Buddy Christ and that makes me smile and miss Alan Rickman, but I still don't believe in him and that's okay because he's made of plastic, and he doesn't believe in me either. Anyway, inch high forced grin wookie jesus now lives in my car.

Bloody snowing AGAIN!!

Whistler is coming along in leaps and bounds, a nice four hour power outage yesterday gave me a fine excuse to yomp along.

Pattern is Whistler by Dale of Norway, the Norwegian ski team jumper for the 2010 winter Olympics.

#knitting

Banish the use of those four-letter words

Whose meanings are never obscure.

The Angles and Saxons, those bawdy old birds,

Were vulgar, obscene and impure.

But cherish the use of the weak-kneed phrase

That never quite says what you mean;

For better you stick to your hypocrite ways

Than be vulgar, or coarse, or obscene.

When Nature is calling, plain-speaking is out,

When ladies, God bless 'em, are milling about,

You make water, wee-wee, or empty the glass;

You can powder your nose, "Excuse me" may pass;

Shake the dew off the lily, see a man 'bout a dog;

Or when everyone's soused, it's condensing the fog,

But be pleased to consider and remember just this -

That only in Shakespeare do characters piss!

You may speak of a movement, or sit on a seat,

Have a passage, or stool, or simply excrete;

Or say to the others, “I’m going out back”,

Then groan in pure joy in that smelly old shack.

You can go lay a cable, or do number two,

Or sit on the toidy and make a do-do,

But ladies and men who are socially fit

Under no provocation will go take a shit!

When your dinners are hearty with onions and beans,

With garlic and claret and bacon and greens;

Your bowels get so busy distilling a gas

That Nature insists you permit it to pass.

You are very polite and you try to exhale

Without noise or odour – you frequently fail –

Expecting a zephyr, you carefully start,

But even a deaf one would call it a fart!

A woman has bosoms, a bust or a breast.

Those lily-white swellings that bulge ‘neath her vest;

They are towers of ivory, sheaves of new wheat;

In a moment of passion, ripe apples to eat.

You may speak of her nipples as small rings of fire

With hardly a question of raising her ire;

But by Rabelais’ beard, she’ll throw fifteen fits

If you speak of them roundly as good honest tits.

It's a cavern of joy you are thinking of now,

A warm tender field just awaiting the plough,

It's a quivering pigeon caressing your hand,

Or that sweet little pussy that makes a man stand.

Or perhaps its a flower, a grotto, a well,

The hope of the world, or a velvety hell.

But, friend heed this warning, beware the affront

Of aping a Saxon; don't call it a cunt!

Though a lady repel your advance, she’ll be kind

Just as long as you intimate what’s on your mind.

You may tell her you’re hungry, you need to be swung,

You may ask her to see how your etchings are hung.

You may mention the ashes that need to be hauled;

Put the lid on her sauce-pan, but don’t be too bold;

For the moment you’re forthright, get ready to duck –

The girl isn’t born yet who’ll stand for “Let’s fuck!”

Banish the use of those four-letter words

Whose meanings are never obscure.

The Angles and Saxons, those bawdy old birds,

Were vulgar, obscene and impure.

But cherish the use of the weak-kneed phrase

That never quite says what you mean;

For better you stick to your hypocrite ways