Lucy Neatby is a GENIUS.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Oh cabana boy...
That's right. My toes are the most cheerful shade of pink, aptly named "Oh Cabana Boy".
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Saturday, February 21, 2009
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
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
Friday, February 20, 2009
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.
(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.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Jasmin's 37th law of knitting
Why is it that on any normal day, I'm practically drowning in locking stitch markers, and they all go AWOL when I'm looking to set in a sleeve?
But, Jasmin's laws 1-3 of knitting are (in order): Improvise, improvise, improvise.
So, lobster clasps it is.
But, Jasmin's laws 1-3 of knitting are (in order): Improvise, improvise, improvise.
So, lobster clasps it is.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Twist and shout!
Sorry for the radio silence, I was knitting on Twist. Let me back up and give you some back story.
Chloe went to So Cal a couple of weekends ago. She went into Unwind, in Burbank, saw my perfect yarn, called me, and sherpa-ed it back for me. Last Tuesday, I wound it up, swatched, and cast-on.
By last night, the body was knit and blocked, and both sleeves were done. Since I lack the talent to type and knit at the same time, blogging will resume soon, pending finishing the collar, setting in sleeves, and sewing on the PERFECT buttons, which Andrew found.
Chloe went to So Cal a couple of weekends ago. She went into Unwind, in Burbank, saw my perfect yarn, called me, and sherpa-ed it back for me. Last Tuesday, I wound it up, swatched, and cast-on.
By last night, the body was knit and blocked, and both sleeves were done. Since I lack the talent to type and knit at the same time, blogging will resume soon, pending finishing the collar, setting in sleeves, and sewing on the PERFECT buttons, which Andrew found.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Adrian Zmed is not dead
Tika and I have had a series of discussions, which usually included a brief debate as to whether Adrian Zmed (Johnny Nogerelli in Grease 2) is dead or alive. This debate is quickly ended by a "We should look that up", at which point, we both forget to do so.
Well, I did. Not dead! And still working, which is awesome for him. Speaking of Grease 2, did anyone else notice that Empire Records is an updated version of Bye Bye Birdie? (The tie there is Maxwell Caulfield.)
Other than rescuing Mom and making parallels between movie plotlines, things have been relatively uneventful around here, though, I had an interesting interaction last night.
I was watching my new FAVORITE show (Dark Angel, which is SO bad, it's AWESOME!), and a guy walks up to the door. The dogs bark, which is pretty standard, and I open the door.
It's a sales guy, for a remodeling company offering me a FREE ESTIMATE - that will be good for a year and a half. Provided we do it RIGHT AWAY. As in, let me in your house, and we'll honor the estimate.
Not. A. Chance. Luckily, Niki was totally on board with this plan, and was barking a FEROCIOUS bark at the guy. (When it's a neighborhood kid, I shush him, and he just whines.) At this point, I will tell you that Niki is behind the baby gate, and the sales guy is perfectly safe, provided he stays on the stoop. (Niki doesn't like strange men, unless they are expressly allowed in. Good dog!)
So, while this guy is trying to sell me on remodeling my house, he is visibly agitated at the Vicious Man-Killing Dog (Niki) barking at him. (Not to make light of what Elphie does, but she was quiet, and had her Cujo face on.) In the SWEETEST baby-talking voice I can muster, I say, "Niki! Hush!" (This is not the "hush" command, by the way. I may as well have asked him to decant the bottle of red wine in the kitchen for how much sense it made to him.)
Now, with dogs, tone is the key. Niki continues to bark, because I have just told him, with my tone, that he's being a Very Good Dog. After five minutes of Niki menacing him, I say, "Let me think about it, and I'll give the number on the card a call." I thought this was polite, based on the fact that I said that I wasn't interested half a dozen different ways already.
I close the door, lock it behind me, and praise the daylights out of the dog. It's days like this that make me especially grateful that we adopted the dogs.
Well, I did. Not dead! And still working, which is awesome for him. Speaking of Grease 2, did anyone else notice that Empire Records is an updated version of Bye Bye Birdie? (The tie there is Maxwell Caulfield.)
Other than rescuing Mom and making parallels between movie plotlines, things have been relatively uneventful around here, though, I had an interesting interaction last night.
I was watching my new FAVORITE show (Dark Angel, which is SO bad, it's AWESOME!), and a guy walks up to the door. The dogs bark, which is pretty standard, and I open the door.
It's a sales guy, for a remodeling company offering me a FREE ESTIMATE - that will be good for a year and a half. Provided we do it RIGHT AWAY. As in, let me in your house, and we'll honor the estimate.
Not. A. Chance. Luckily, Niki was totally on board with this plan, and was barking a FEROCIOUS bark at the guy. (When it's a neighborhood kid, I shush him, and he just whines.) At this point, I will tell you that Niki is behind the baby gate, and the sales guy is perfectly safe, provided he stays on the stoop. (Niki doesn't like strange men, unless they are expressly allowed in. Good dog!)
So, while this guy is trying to sell me on remodeling my house, he is visibly agitated at the Vicious Man-Killing Dog (Niki) barking at him. (Not to make light of what Elphie does, but she was quiet, and had her Cujo face on.) In the SWEETEST baby-talking voice I can muster, I say, "Niki! Hush!" (This is not the "hush" command, by the way. I may as well have asked him to decant the bottle of red wine in the kitchen for how much sense it made to him.)
Now, with dogs, tone is the key. Niki continues to bark, because I have just told him, with my tone, that he's being a Very Good Dog. After five minutes of Niki menacing him, I say, "Let me think about it, and I'll give the number on the card a call." I thought this was polite, based on the fact that I said that I wasn't interested half a dozen different ways already.
I close the door, lock it behind me, and praise the daylights out of the dog. It's days like this that make me especially grateful that we adopted the dogs.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Adventures in movie-going
Earlier this week, Tika, ManCandy, Andrew and I had made plans for dinner and a movie. We decided to go to Gordon Biersch, and then see Coraline. (Don't worry, no spoilers.)
(See? TICKETS!)
Dinner was lovely. The beer was good, food was good, and the conversation was stellar. We discussed comic book heroes, deconstructed Harry Potter, and - the best line of the evening was when ManCandy claimed that "pulling the Jane Austen card" for the "movies are not adequate representations of literature" argument is equivalent to a TKO.
I finished knitting my "Bird of Paradise" socks:
(I know this isn't a complete picture, but my further-in-progress pictures were a bit blurry- I mean, artsy.)
We walked to the theater (which is local and independent, by the way), sat down, pulled out our knitting, and the lights went down. Tika noticed I had missed a call from my mom, who had also been invited.
I listened to the voicemail:
"Hi Yas, my car won't start. Will you come and get me?"
I send her a text, which says, The movie just started.
She replies, Ok, I'll go sit at the coffee shop until it's done.
Now, I have an unnatural knowledge of what time which coffee shops in the area close. This particular one closes about 1/2 hour into the movie, leaving Mom to sit in a cold car for another (approximate) hour and a half. Since we have the "discount movie pass" for this chain of theaters, I lean over to Andrew and say:
"Mom is stranded. I have to go get her. Do you want to stay and get a ride home, or come with me? Either way is fine."
Andrew decided to come with me, so we made quick apologies to Tika, and decided to forego the $12 we had spent on the tickets in favor of saving Mom. (That is $12 for two tickets, total.)
It is now 9:35. And five minutes into the movie. Now, Mom has always picked me up when I was in a pinch, so I can't, in good conscience, be a jerk and tell her to wait. We hustle out of the theater, call her and tell her we're on our way.
See the torn tickets? Yeah. Andrew and I will be making time to see Coraline this next week, but for now, in order NOT to be an uncultured swine, I have the audiobook on my iPod.
(See? TICKETS!)
Dinner was lovely. The beer was good, food was good, and the conversation was stellar. We discussed comic book heroes, deconstructed Harry Potter, and - the best line of the evening was when ManCandy claimed that "pulling the Jane Austen card" for the "movies are not adequate representations of literature" argument is equivalent to a TKO.
I finished knitting my "Bird of Paradise" socks:
(I know this isn't a complete picture, but my further-in-progress pictures were a bit blurry- I mean, artsy.)
And I cast on some Mini Mochi socks to review on the podcast.
We walked to the theater (which is local and independent, by the way), sat down, pulled out our knitting, and the lights went down. Tika noticed I had missed a call from my mom, who had also been invited.
I listened to the voicemail:
"Hi Yas, my car won't start. Will you come and get me?"
I send her a text, which says, The movie just started.
She replies, Ok, I'll go sit at the coffee shop until it's done.
Now, I have an unnatural knowledge of what time which coffee shops in the area close. This particular one closes about 1/2 hour into the movie, leaving Mom to sit in a cold car for another (approximate) hour and a half. Since we have the "discount movie pass" for this chain of theaters, I lean over to Andrew and say:
"Mom is stranded. I have to go get her. Do you want to stay and get a ride home, or come with me? Either way is fine."
Andrew decided to come with me, so we made quick apologies to Tika, and decided to forego the $12 we had spent on the tickets in favor of saving Mom. (That is $12 for two tickets, total.)
It is now 9:35. And five minutes into the movie. Now, Mom has always picked me up when I was in a pinch, so I can't, in good conscience, be a jerk and tell her to wait. We hustle out of the theater, call her and tell her we're on our way.
See the torn tickets? Yeah. Andrew and I will be making time to see Coraline this next week, but for now, in order NOT to be an uncultured swine, I have the audiobook on my iPod.
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