Ah, Fate, you bitch. Not only do you induce a senior moment rendering me completely unable to remember my blogger login (if I have one [high likelihood {say hello to curly quotes, which are the third line of parenthetical defense}, far from certainty], that is), you then slap my name-choosing nose with a rolled up newspaper. Leaving me with the, admittedly full-of-full-disclosure-y-goodness, "Matilduh" was a nice touch. Please feel free to bite my juicy, delicious crank.

Any of you now gasping for breath and thinking "this tortured sentence structure is miserably familiar . . ." might recognize me as Matilda, occasional commenter on blog-o-'wench and permanent godless parent of the Murfle. Angeltiger/auteurcakes's m@d Kn1tt1ng 5k1llz shamed me into unearthing and sanctifying my own rudimentary knitting knowledge. (I was taught the basics by a truly evil individual years ago, so we were deep into Native American burial ground territory.)

Once I had Stitch N Bitch in my hot little hands, my instant gratification whore reared her ugly head. I soon found myself in possession of a metric assload of Lamb's Pride Bulky, preperatory to doing Skully. Now, those of you who are not the inspiration for the coinage of "Crafty Fucktard" might think that a sweater with int-fucking-arsia is a swell first project. I urge you to put down the crack pipe and seek help. The Skully project will actually be my first Crafty Fucktard offering: Crafty Fucktard on the Road, but I digress.

Humbled and chastened, bloodied and bowed by the sweater, I backtracked to a square object, namely a baby blanket. Having failed to read the Big Bad Baby blanket pattern correctly, I feared knitting in the round. Instead, I opted for an odious check pattern monstrosity. Having brutalized a hank and a half of Misti Alpaca and my spouse (Him: "You're quiet."; Me: "I'm counting"; Him: "What comes after one?"; GIANT SMACK TO THE BACK OF HIS HEAD, greatly embiggening his external occipital protuberance), 'wench kindly helped me frog the bitch and start the fucker over in Big Bad form on Memorial Day weekend.

Interesting fact about the Big Bad Blanket in camel-colored Misti Alpaca: They asexually reproduce. If you're me, that is. Made the mistake of bringing the in-progress blanket to my cousin's baby shower (because the punk ass po po bitches at Knitter's Workshop in Chicago are closed on Fridays), she cooed over it and uttered the words that sealed my fate: "OOOOH, I just LOVE the color! I can't imagine a better color!" Well, fuck. Suffice it to say, if I ever see a single hair of camel Misti Alpaca again, there will be a reckoning. I did eventually send out both blankets, warts and all, after an extended NO WIRE HANGERS EVER! experience trying to block those motherfuckers.

Since then, I've done a Twisty Alpaca basketweave scarf for MEEEEEEE and turned my attention back to Skully. I'm vacationing Chez 'Wench this weekend and, courtesy of aforementioned fucktardedness, needed to purchase the goods for another project. I'm currently working a ribbed tank pattern on Auraucania Nature Cotton in plum and it's very much akin to knitting Alice in the midst of her experimental Sub phase. Big. Little. Eat me. Drink me. Touch one more substance through the looking glass, bitch, and I WILL fuck your shit up. But sooooo pretty. That project was obtained under the able enablement of Angeltiger. Not to be outdone, 'wench enabled the purchase of some Inca Alpaca for a hat. I officially have A Stash. Kill me now.

On the jibbing front, my spouse is an avid gamer in several MMOs, as well as rampantly consuming PC and XBox games. Among his cross-game guild, there exists the move known as the Matilda Strike. It tends to get called when someone won't STOP TALKING WRONG ANTHROPOLOGY. My personal jibbing primarily takes the form of enabling his habit when I'm not playing Abe Simpsons ("I LIKED moving around on the two-dimensional map in Ultima IV. Why the hell do you need all this shit? I LOVE MY DEAD GAY GREEN AVATAR!"). I did jib with 'Wench's spouse last night as an emergency stand-in for Angeltiger. I admit that once I got out of the corner in which I was stuck and stopped (mostly) throwing grenades into walls and blowing myself up, I enjoyed the feel of the HMG in my hand. The bloodlust, she rises anew. Watch this space for hot jibbing action.