The Worsted Witch will be going on an extended hiatus until further notice. Please sign up for the mailing list—no spam, I promise—to find out when the site goes live again. Thanks!

Photo by kluv32, under a Creative Commons license

I used to love Jersey City, a quaint hodgepodge of an enclave where cutting edge abutted the antiquated, and peals of church bells dinged the hours on the hour. Well, alright, a part of me still does, but the neighborhood keeps changing on us, subtle and chameleon-like, until one day I peeked out of the window and barely recognized the new thing it’s become. Condos are being erected—huge concrete phalluses that soar into the sky and obscure the waterfront. The musty secondhand bookshop moved, then the bakery, which always had fresh, piping-hot peach pastries and melt-in-your-mouth chocolate croissants. Our favorite tea shop shuttered. The following month, the Chinese restaurant that was practically an extension of our home changed owners. (The food just doesn’t taste the same. Plus, they’ve repainted the walls a nauseating salmon.)

The lovely lesbian couple upstairs bought a house in Journal Square, so we don’t see them anymore, nor do we hear their yapping Lhasa Apso, Lola, or feel her wet nose nuzzle into our hands. A man and woman now live upstairs; over the course of a year, they’ve became more than roommates, adopted a pair of kittens, and have loud sex. We think they must wear combat boots and herd rhinos the way they stomp about at night. Our landlord and his wife—as well as his Indonesian Chinese mother-in-law, who always pressed containers of leftovers into our hands—moved out from the downstairs apartment to find room for their growing brood. In their place, two nondescript girls who never say hello, and a crass smoker who tosses his garbage into the recycling bin and never picks up his mail. If this is “progress,” then I think I’ve had just as much as I can stomach.

Oh, and we’re getting a STARBUCKS.

Photo by 24thcentury, under a Creative Commons license

Whoever invented Styrofoam peanuts needs to die a laboriously slow, painful death. Even if I weren’t an environmentalist, Styrofoam peanuts would still be near—if not AT—the top of my shit list. They stick to everything: your hands, your clothing, your rugs—even your cats, who of course make things worse by cannonballing into the white abyss, spewing the putrid things everywhere. If that’s not enough, Styrofoam has the temerity to crumble into static-cling-loving confetti that you will be breathing in and cleaning off your floors and furniture FOR DAYS. I mean, you must really REALLY loathe someone to mail them a box full of Styrofoam peanuts.

I don’t care if you “recycled” them from another source, I’d rather have my exposed liver julienned by a flock of psychotic, inbred geese than try to shake off another fistful of Styrofoam peanuts, while I scream ineffectually down the darkened hallways of my own private Hell.

[Via Atticmedia Junk]

Here’s a bed I sewed for Mir—he’s a boy kitty, for those who’ve asked—last night, following a great tutorial I found online. I used leftover fabrics from previous projects, as well as fiberfill salvaged from a couple of discarded pillows. I’m no big whiz with the sewing machine, but this was an easy-enough project that took under an hour. Considering how pricey pet beds can be (upwards of $60, I believe), this was a low-impact and zero-cost endeavor that—according to my sister, anyway—looks store-bought.

We adopted 4-month-old Mir just over two days ago from a rescue group that takes in cats and kittens bound for euthanasia (i.e. to meet their Kitty Maker) at overcrowded shelters.

Chekhov is PEEVED.

Illustration by The Decoder Ring

This poster perfectly illustrates how the world makes me feel on a daily basis. I have a raging headache now from the circus act that spontaneously erupted in my brownstone apartment’s front yard—two young women completely flipping out over the sight of a dead squirrel. One of them was clutching a couple of plastic bags and tittering nervously, her legs frozen solid to the ground.

After five, maybe 10 minutes of listening to them squawk and flap around in obvious circles, I finally stormed downstairs to tell them to frikkin’ cut it out and CALL ANIMAL CONTROL. Sweet Holy Mother of God, what do they teach kids in schools, these days? I’m going to have to start whipping out Chekhov’s spray bottle out in public, so I can squirt water in people’s faces with a firm “No, no NO. BAD HUMAN.”

Oh ginger nubbin, I’m going to plunge you into some dirt so fast, you won’t know what hit you.

Can you tell I’m avoiding real work? My mother used to have the same problem with me as a kid. She’d shake her head and ask, “What’s wrong with you?” And I say, “I wish I knew Ma, I wish I knew.” Except I never called her Ma. And I probably just grunted in response before shuffling off to my room to read comic books.

Illustration by Christian Northeast/The New York Times

I’m not a Potter-head, though my husband is¹, and one of our bookshelves holds a Polaroid of us wearing the iconic black-rimmed spectacles at a Barnes & Noble release party for Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. (Chekhov promptly sat on mine the next day, snapping them in two, possibly to indicate his lack of enthusiasm for J. K. Rowling’s oeuvre.) I do adore these illustrations by Christian Northeast, however, from an article about Harry-mania by an equally unimpressed Christopher Hitchens in The New York Times.

¹And he very thoughtfully keeps me abreast of everything that happens in and outside of Hogwarts, even when I pretend to have been momentarily struck deaf.

Illustration by Christian Northeast/The New York Times

Husband: How did you get the tea to taste like honey?

Me: I added … honey.

Husband: Touché.

The cuteness seriously broke my brain. (The second video has the same intro, but is different from then on.)

Photo by Twist

More than a year later, the perfect eco-friendly dishwashing and counter-scrubbing sponge remains a wantonly elusive thing. The hub and I test drove a couple of 100 percent cellulose sponges (sans scrubby sides) that we found at a natural foods store, but they soon fell apart after a few vigorous turns at the sink. We’ve dilligently swerved away from sponges with nylon-based backing—and try to stick to those that don’t claim to be antibacterial¹—but the questionable dyes and plastic packaging still leave us wanting.

Twist, a new eco-friendly household products company, might be onto something, although it’s not without its shortfalls. The Boulder, Colo.-based outfit has sent out into the marketplace a 100 percent all-natural and biodegradable Loofah Sponge ($4.99 for a pack of two) that is part cellulose-cotton sponge and part Loofah plant fiber. (The cellulose comprises tree fibers from renewable-tree farms.)

Like the rest of Twist’s line, its Loofah Sponges are packed in attractive paperboard boxes that the company says are “earth friendly and recyclable.” It doesn’t mention if its packaging is made from recycled paper with any kind of post-consumer content, however, which in PR-speak usually means they’re not.

Another quibble: The antibacterial agent Twist adds to its sponges and cloths (Barquat CB 50). Here’s where things get hairy—synthetic antibacterial disinfectants are not only classified by the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency as pesticides (which have been strongly linked to the development of Parkinson’s), but they could also be encouraging drug-resistant superbacteria, allergies, immune-system failure, and dangerous environmental pollution.

To its credit, Twist does do a highly creative number on its packaging by providing instructions on how to turn it into a mini-birdfeeder. The company also says it “takes special care to make sure 99/97 percent of all waste is reused in production,” which is a knockout accomplishment.

Very close—possibly closer than any other sponge I’ve seen to date—but still no cigar.

[via CribCandy]

¹The only O-Cel-O sponges being produced with the antimicrobial agent are those that explicitly say so on the packaging, according the 3M customer-service rep who responded to my e-mail.

Photo by Twist

Photo by Twist

But where’s Sting?