Some random musings on the topic of artificial scented products:
1. Today I had the dubious pleasure of experiencing this holiday season’s innovation: cinnamon-scented pine cones. I made a run to the QFC at University Village for lunch, and found a parking space about 200 feet from the main door. As soon as I stepped out of my car, I caught a whiff of something which at first, I mistook for the smell of clove cigarettes. As I approached the store, the smell came into sharper focus: cinnamon oil.*
This year, some product genius has dipped pine cones in cinnamon oil, banged them into a plastic mesh sack, and shipped them out to stores across the country. Early indications are that cinnamon-scented pine cones are this year’s icicle lights.
I can’t even begin to address the fundamental concept behind taking a perfectly good pine cone, and making it cinnamon-scented. Let me just ask: what are they for? The smell is so potent that you could use them to scent your lawn. Is that the idea? Because seriously, I can’t imagine what your house would smell like, if you shut some of those pine cones up in there with the windows closed all day. (Just the thought makes me think, J**** ****ing *****t, people!) God forbid you should burn one in the fireplace. It would be a cinnapocalypse.
2. Is it just America, or is everyone insane about scenting things? Seriously, there is nothing in this country that doesn’t come in a scented version. Some things – dishwashing detergent springs to mind – aren’t even sold in unscented versions. We have entire ranges of products – garbage disposal deodorizers spring to mind – whose sole purpose is to lend scent to things which we deem insufficiently or improperly scented.
3. Unfortunately, if you are – as I am – vehemently opposed to the over-scenting of America, you may one day realize that because of this, your home smells mostly like cat box and stale laundry. And so it is that I ventured into the home scenting area of the department store.
There I was faced with a bewildering display of things to make your home smell like anything other than an enclosed space which contains people and animals. Did I want a device that plugs into the wall? If so, did I want the kind with an extra outlet, a fan attached to blow the scent out, a timer to switch back and forth between two scents, or a nightlight? Did I want the stand-up thing with the weird gel inside, spray, candle, scented ring to put atop a lightbulb, or an atomizer?
Candle, I thought, with something approaching desperation. At least this narrowed down my choices.
Sidebar: Apparently, people want their homes to smell like food. Half of the scent options were somehow food-related, be it apples, cinnamon, pears, vanilla, or bizarre combinations thereof (hazelnut cappuccino comes to mind). It would drive me insane to have my home smell like apple pie 24 hours a day – part of my mind would constantly be wondering Where’s that pie? I want pie!
A lot of these things come in designer scents, with designer names that don’t really tell you anything about what they smell like. “Ferns and Blossoms”? “Suddenly Spring”? “Uplifting”? (In a fit of mad genius, they have an overscented candle called “Clean Linen,” which smells exactly like an overscented dryer sheet.)
4. I finally did find a candle whose scent I really like. It’s by Glade, and it’s called “Sparkling Snow.” (Hey, I like snow.) It smells like pine, and a little bit spicy, and is subtle (as these things go). I like it so much that I bought several more candles the next time I was at the store, even though they were the Thomas Kinkade, Painter of Light ™ branded version, and I hate Thomas Kinkade, Painter of Light ™ and everything he stands for.
Unfortunately, it turns out that this is a special holiday scent, which means that I’m going to have to stock up on them in the next few months because soon they will be gone forever.
* Remember that guy back in high school who carried a little vial of cinnamon oil? How he would dip toothpicks into the oil, and the whole room’s eyes would start watering, and then he’d dare someone to suck on the toothpick? Remember that one time you tried a teensy eensy bit, and how badly it hurt?
Every other week or so, I like to rummage around in the wormatorium worm box. This week, I thought you might like a photo tour.
The worm box lives under my kitchen counter, which is convenient for dropping in kitchen scraps, and keeps the worms at a nice indoor temperature. Composting worms are happiest between 50 and 75 degrees – although they can certainly survive quite well outside in this part of the country (USDA zone 8 ). But the warmer they are, the faster they eat, and I want to really build up a lot of compost in time for spring.
On the top I have a layer of cardboard and flat newspaper, to keep the bedding warm, dry, dark, and free of fruit flies. To add food, you just peel back the top layer and drop it in.
Here you can see one of the main benefits of a worm box versus a regular compost bin – it’s much, much faster. Two weeks ago, this was half a head of wilted celery. As you can see, it’s almost completely broken down.
A few of our happy customers. Look how plump they are!
Here’s a close-up, so that you can see his super-full digestive tract. These guys eat non-stop, all day, all night; it’s really quite amazing.
I have happy worms! They’re making babies! Worm eggs are called “capsules.” Compost worms lay 2-3 capsules a week, and the capsules take about three weeks to hatch. Give it another month, and my worm box will be totally rockin’ with the wigglers.
Since I’m using a plastic bin, which doesn’t aerate as well, I stir up all the bedding every other week or so, to let it mix around and air out. So far, things are going well, and my worm box has no appreciable odor – if you stick your face right in there, you might catch a whiff of something or other, but it’s certainly nothing you’d notice when you’re just standing next to the box. I spritz the contents with a squirty bottle whenever I put in new bedding, but I’m careful to keep it dry enough that there isn’t much “fluid” collecting at the bottom.
Sun’s narrow sliver
Sweeps across a cold window
Illuminating
Dorothy’s haiku chicken post got me all excited about the idea of an entire post composed of pictures and haikuses. But then I could only think of one haiku, so.
Oh, Sienna. Sienna, Sienna. Last night I basted together the back and fronts, and tried it on as a vest. It is long enough, but about eight inches not wide enough. (Too narrow? What IS the term for that?)
Oh Sienna, oh Sienna, I know what they’re saying about you [..].
Time to feel it, time to fix it, time to lure it, oh time to miss it,
time to lure this stone cold weather.
Original lyrics – hey, why not click to watch The Distillers play it live?
But really, “City of Angels” is still my favorite:
This weekend I finished the right and left fronts, so I only have the sleeves left to knit. I’m racing to finish this one, because it’s cold, and I want to wear it.
Completed left front, and partially-completed right front, taking the sun at the Anacortes Starbucks
I had a really hard time doing this – leaving the house (so that by definition I could not get anything Productive done), and sitting at a sunny outside table, just knitting, for an hour. I forced myself to do it, actually, because I need to dial back on the Productive thing. Somehow, with the whole “OMG must find a place to live” panic that started in early August, I’ve gotten myself stuck on a track where if I’m not engaged in doing something Productive, I castigate myself endlessly and feel very bad about it. But really, that’s no way to live. Productivity is overrated, don’t you think? Isn’t it more important, in the long run, to be able to look back on your life and say “I knit, and was happy” rather than “I got a lot of stuff done”?
Is it just me, or is there a lot of peer pressure among adults to be Productive? I would say “among women,” but really, I don’t know if it’s true of men or not. Can’t say. So I’ll just say “adults.”
Down with Productivity. Up with knitting and being happy! (But I did spend about four hours unpacking and rearranging this weekend, and I think I can finally declare myself officially unpacked. Also I baked brownies, spent six hours weeding and mulching, made homemade macaroni and cheese, brought a load of firewood inside and moved another stack onto the shelf to dry, and ran a million little errands. That makes it a laid back weekend for me – I usually do quite a bit more.)
Large projects make the blogging difficult. A few inches of progress a day is too boring to even photograph – and these stockinette pieces curl up into goofy little scraps; not very photogenic. A sweater is a bit of an ugly duckling until you seam it up, no?
Right front, completed.
Anyway, here’s a detail of the contrasting hem facings from one of the sleeves. I don’t know why that turning row of purl stitches is so pleasing to me, but it is. Note that I’ve continued the inner color for two rows on the “outside,” so that it shows. Recently I’ve been noticing manufactured sweaters recently that have a little bit of contrasting color at the cuffs and collar, and I really like the effect.
But wait, what’s this? Houston, we have a problem. My arm is getting fatter faster than my sleeve is getting wider. Apparently this size of the pattern was written for someone with skinny arms, and a 48″ bust. (Uh huh…) I thought to try the sleeve on after I had knit about 10 inches, and found that it’s about 2 inches more narrow than my arm, starting right about at the wrist. 2 inches is a lot of negative ease, wouldn’t you say? I would prefer that Sienna not fit like a blood pressure cuff.
At the same time, I got myself all bollocksed up, trying to figure out the new math for the sleeve cap shaping, because I’d already had to increase the armhole depth. (Thinking ahead, there.) So now I have to decide if I want to seam it together out of order, then pick up stitches and knit down from the arm – or if I should just frog the whole thing and start over with something else. How well does that work, converting a pattern from seam-the-arms to knit-the-arms-down?
“Now, this may seem strange from someone who writes about pretty dresses (mostly) every day, but: You Don’t Have to Be Pretty. You don’t owe prettiness to anyone. Not to your boyfriend/spouse/partner, not to your co-workers, especially not to random men on the street. You don’t owe it to your mother, you don’t owe it to your children, you don’t owe it to civilization in general. Prettiness is not a rent you pay for occupying a space marked “female”.”
