I have almost nothing to say. It isn't going to stop me from talking anyway,§ but I thought you should be duly warned.
Last night was Book Club. I not only didn't lose the book, I read 220 pages at Favourite Bar† in 1.5 hours to finish it in time for Book Club. I believe that is a record, even for me.
Also? When I got there? To Favourite Bar? Bartender Eric asked, "What can I get you to drink?"
"Long Island iced tea?"
"Nope. Just the normal kind."
*pause cricketcricketcricket pause*
[SUMMARY: When pressed, I am capable of amazing feats.‡ This does not necessarily apply to housework.§]
Tonight, there will be press at Stitch Therapy at Sylvia's House of Fuzzy Crack. I don't know who. Could be Barbara Walters, could be some chick from the North Denver Tribune.
Either way, I'm wearing makeup.§
BTW, Mira-from-Book-Club (if you check back to the last Book Club, I mentioned that she thinks I'm an idiot), upon hearing there would be media coverage of Knit Night, begin channelling Bob, saying something to the effect of, "Oh, my God, that's gotta be the most boring thing you can put in a newspaper. Please! People sitting and knitting?"
I said, "Mira, every time we get together, you manage to insult me about five different times."
"I don't mean to!"
"I know. That's why I don't actually get mad at you."
[SUMMARY: I am so very reasonable,§ even in the face of great adversity.]
So if you see Mira, poke her with a knitting needle or something. Let her know knittas represent.
And Marin isn't an idiot.§ At least not for knitting.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): With people asking about the book and trying to talk to me the whole time.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Like reading at a motion-sickness inducing pace, mechanically-assisted camera-flinging, failing to drink on a Wednesday night and pacing for an hour-and-a-half. Oh, yeah... I'm a fucking Olympian.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Somewhere, my family is laughing.