new stitching project, charming serial killers, and smelly children


This is one of 3 cross stitch patterns I bought in New Orleans during Christmas vacation. I like the simplicity of the designs on this one, they’re like doodles or a child’s drawing. There’s also a really lovely blackwork border, meant to symbolize the lacey wrought iron balconies you see on so many of the old buildings in the French Quarter, but of course that will be the last thing I stitch.

This is all things you would see in the Quarter — “Vieux Carré” is the old French name for it, it means “Old Square”. There’s a mule-drawn carriage (horses tend to keel over from the heat and humidity); the Café du Monde sign with a cup of café au lait and a plate of beignets; Mardi Gras crown, bunting, and masks; and along the bottom is a crawfish, po-boy, praline, and shrimp. Obviously, not to scale!

While I was working on that, I burned through season 2 of Dexter. I have a Dexter hangover. It really did not follow the second book at all, but I’m not surprised. When I was reading it I was thinking, “Jesus Christ, they can’t possibly use this plot for the show. It’s way too fucking grisly, even for cable.” Pretty much all of it, Lila, the Bay Harbor Butcher, none of it was from the book. I was sad to see Doakes go. All protagonists (or in this case, anti-hero) need an adversary. Plus he made me laugh. “You owe me a new Michelin, motherfucker.” But obviously he had to die. I am kind of bummed that it doesn’t seem like they’re following one particular storyline: At the end of Dearly Devoted Dexter, it’s hinted that Rita’s kids are possibly mini-Dexters. I guess maybe that’s just too taboo for television.

In other news: Are parents today not teaching their kids basic hygeine? This morning there were about half a dozen kids in the lobby waiting to register when I came in, and for fuck’s sake, every single one of them smelled like a moldy old sweatsock. Look, any dumb fuck can wonder around the shower while hot water sprays; but if you don’t make certain parts of your body get real friendly with a bar of fucking soap, you’re still gonna reek. You’re at least 18 years old, you should have figured it out by now.

I swear to fucking god, my entire generation should have been forcibly sterilized, or given practice kids before they were allowed to breed for real. All we teach our kids is how SPESHUL and YOO-NEEK they are and that they deserve a gold star just for showing up. Meanwhile we’re neglecting crucial things like how not to smell offensive or how not to die of pneumonia — I saw 3 kids on the way here walking around in shorts and fucking t-shirts.

Also, we had a small earthquake this weekend; and I went crazy at the drugstore and bought a ton of new eye make-up, including shadows in some crazy-ass colors like peacock blue and aqua green that I NEVER wear. I must be having a mid-life crisis. Those 2 things are unrelated, so I don’t know why I mentioned them in the same sentence.

Oh, and I guess the Oscars were last night, but I haven’t given a fuck about the Oscars since the late ’80s. I assume Slumdog Millionare won everything, including Best Documentary and Animated and Foreign Language, because why the fuck not.

Attention spammers: I have no fucking idea why this entry has been getting so much spam. But since I have both comment screening AND spam filters, you should know that your comments are never, EVER going to be visible. Even on the slim chance that Akismet doesn’t recognize them as spam, they’d still need to be approved by me to show. And since I’m not stupid enough to think that a thinly-veiled compliment about my blog’s name and/or content accompanied by a smiley and followed by a link to some site about car loans or poker is a real comment, I WILL NEVER APPROVE THEM. NOW FUCK OFF AND DIE.


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