Friday, December 03, 2004
Wednesday, December 01, 2004
Finn's getting a new get up
We were forced to go to the "Knitterie Parisienne" to buy Mohair in "all the colors of Fall" for Finley. Mom loves the place, but the "Knitterie Parisienne"is a really pretentious place on Ventura Boulevard, far from Paris and full of Porn actresses with fake tits and giant lips. These home video harridans sit around a table and knit tight, pink sweaters all day under the watchful eye of the French Knitting Guru, Edith. This Edith character is treated like some sort of all knowing high priestess of wool or something. The scratchy yarn Mom bought is red, orange, black, brown and rust. Fall is over, but Finn is going to look like a stuffed sausage who rolled around at the base of a tree in New England.
Mom is getting really frustrated with her new hobby because the Stupid Kitty takes the ball of yarn while Mom is working on it and brings it downstairs. What Stupid Kitty does with it downstairs is a mystery but Mom runs down there screaming at the cat and comes back with an armful of orange mohair spaghetti, all in knots that she can't get out. I think she spends more time swearing at the knots in the yarn than she does actually making the stupid Fall sausage sweater.
This weekend, we all had to go to a damn upholstery store instead of going to the park, to buy pom poms! Mom is apparently going to sew god damned pom poms around the sleeves of her new knitting project.
Dad was following Mom around the fabric store, while she cooed at every single different pom pom color. Dad had that blank look on his face like he always does when she drags him out on shopping trips. He walks around in a circle, like he's in some sort of a daze, mentally avoiding the reality that we are in a fabric shop on Beverly Boulevard instead of a pub in Ireland. I know he's just happy that Mom is buying pom poms, not apartments.
The sweater Mom is making for Finley isn't cheap. She's already spent over $100 just on the mohair. I like sweaters but I'm a plain, black turtle neck kind of guy, like Dad--not a pom pom pansy. I hope she gets sick of knitting soon so that she doesn't make me a crazy sweater that makes me look like a clown. She's dressed us all up to suit her fantasies of fabulousness and we end up looking like a bunch of fags, Dad and I.