Yeah, I said it: Bleagh!
See, things have been so exciting (what with the Kelly and The Boy and the Male Lady and the drinking and all) here at Barfly Beach & Resort that the blog thing has been, for lack of a better term, depends on who you're talking to, maybe just a little... excessive.
Today? Today the bloggods have finally caught up and are sucking all the energy forceful, life-giving drama out of the world so I have VERY LITTLE TO SAY. There is a better-than-even chance I will still spew several thousand words, but right now, the mind is fuzzy. To match the head.
You know what the best thing from yesterday was? I mean AFTER the PNhead Call of 11:11 (really, don't forget to note that so we can all keep tabs on the Male Lady situation)? The most blogworthy? I got free fruit at Whole Foods.
I'm not knocking it, not a bit. This is fruit I was willing to buy, fruit that was coming home with me regardless, fruit I planned to pay for. But this fruit I got for free.
Let me give you a little background (yes, it's important. I'm going to lay some philosophy on you here shortly and you'll be happy I gave you the enlightening story to go with the enlightening theory):
A few months ago, I was in Whole Foods buying the very variety of tubbed fruit that I picked up yesterday (pineapple with mixed berries. I eat it with my fingers in front of the TiVi). The stuff is sold by weight, so I frequently rifle through the available stock to see if there's a tub with more... or less... and I came across a tub of fruit marked at $26/lb. It was the same pineapple and berries that was $4.99/lb or $5.99/lb or whatever it is I pay for it (I am the saddest budgeteer EVER), so I used my keen observational skills to determine something was not quite right in price gun land.
I took the offending fruit (well, not so much offending fruit as offending price tag) to the customer service desk so they could re-mark it. Good deed. Small deed, but basically good.
Fast forward to Sunday:
I get to the checkout and the guy runs the tub of fruit over the scanner (nothing)... runs it again (silence)... squints at the screen... squints at the tub. Guess what? I managed to find a completely unmarked tub of fruit. I think it clearly illustrates my lack of money sense that, in a place I had observered, first hand, a $26 tub of mixed berries the size of a softball (or, for those not sportually inclined, about the size of a ball of Takhi Filatura di Crosa yarn, slightly compressed**), I didn't bother to check the price tag.
"Oh, man, I'm sorry," I said to the checker. "I can go get another one -- with a tag -- while you ring the rest up."
"Nah," said the checker, "I think I'll just sample this out to you today."
Guess who my new best friend is!
And I learned cool Whole Foods lingo that I would never, ever use for the side of evil ("Hey, the manager said to just sample this out to me... yes, all of it. Well, if you've never sampled out a side of beef before, you're not trying very hard.")! And that's the most exciting thing that happened yesterday afternoon!
[SUMMARY: Sunday wasn't script-worthy, unless you count free berries through the price tag exchange program, and I fully understand if you DON'T count free berries as blogworthy. I have a new best friend!]
THEORY: Kharma is like a sandwich card or Green Stamps (for those of us old enough to remember G&H Green Stamps): you do good things, you get a punch/stamp. When you have enough, you can cash them in for fabulous prizes, or at least free sandwiches. The defining difference with Kharma, though, is you have no say in when, for what or for how many of your Kharmic Green Stamps you get the Kharmic payback. I'd love to save up my Kharmic Green Stamps toward, say, a pony or a really good man or an adequate anti-Male Lady protection device. I'm not allowed. I probably just blew months of traffic-friendly, door-holding, nephew-sitting, dad-feeding, friend-helping, knit-gifting Kharma on a tub of fruit. That I would have paid for anyway.
If you get pissed of at Kharma, what are the repercussions?
[SUMMARY: I may need more Kharma. Or more drama.]
I knit a whopping TWO ROWS on the Stupid Blanket yesterday. I accomplished this monster task while watching FOUR STRAIGHT HOURS (let's see... aught times aught, carry the aught is aught...) of America's Next Top Model on MTV. Seriously, do the math. That's TWO HOURS PER ROW. At 150 stitches per row, it comes out to 2.5 stitches per minute. A beagle could knit faster. Stupid Blanket. (I bet blaming the Stupid Blanket for my own human frailty rips whole books of Kharmic Green Stamps right out of my clutching, sweaty little hands.)
What's more painful is that Top Model is a show I count on to be dumb enough that I can knit like a demon during any given episode. Sometimes I have to stop and watch with Rome or Studio 60, but I can knit fairly complex stuff during Top Model and my TiVi-watching experience doesn't suffer at all. But not this time. No, this time I sat, slack-jawed and drooling and *watched* Top Model. For four dumb episodes.
I'm pretty sure you don't get any Kharmic Green Stamps for Top Model.
[SUMMARY: I was an anti-intellectual slug Sunday, and I didn't even have the knitting to back it up. Tyra Banks made me, um... make myself look bad. Tyra Banks is NOT my new best friend!]
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Wouldn't it be cool to start a movement where hail and other items it's important to convey size about (that may be the most awkard sentence ever. Go diagram it if you have to -- I'll be here when you get back) was not "the size of a golf ball" or "the size of a softball" or even "bigger than a breadbox," but "about the size of a hank of Interlacements Toasty Toes" or "slightly bigger than a ball of Debbie Bliss Cashmerino Aran"? And I'm not even going for clever here, just exclusionary. The Knitting Underground would be the only constituency to speak the language. Others would have to come to us for translation. We could charge huge fees. I'm thinking this is how the legal profession was born.