Today, I was supposed to be at Lake McConnaughey. Sort of.
A month ago, my friend Brad let me know Rasputina would be in town tonight and did I want to go? Brad and I have been to two Rasputina shows so far, and I know I can speak for both of us when I say, "Duuuuuuude." Best live show ever. Funny. Smart.
But I digress.
See, I told Brad I couldn't go 'cause this is Lake Week. Then he emailed me yesterday and said, "A little birdy tells me the Lake is next week. You might want to rethink Rasputina."
I checked the receipt on my deposit for the cabin and, sure enough, July 19.
Tonight I will be at the Bluebird, enjoying the hell out of Rasputina. It may be my last time. With Alzheimer's as advanced as mine, I won't even remember I *like* Rasputina the next time they come through.
[SUMMARY: Take my car keys.]
Red and I went shopping Sunday. Coming downstairs from the knitting section of Borders,† she was telling me of something in Alterknits, only it took about fifteen minutes for us to get to what that something was because she said, "She felted herself..." and then just stopped.
OK, she was fishing for the right word. I was figuring it for a complete sentence.
We had to wave people by us on the landing because we couldn't proceed further for the laughing.
As always, sophistication of a four-year-old, filthy dirty brain of a hormonally-carbonated 14-year-old boy.
[SUMMARY: Tell me a dick joke. I promise to laugh.]
Speaking of books, on one of my many trips to Barnes & Noble over the last couple of weeks,‡ I discovered a section in the store that amazed me: Religious Fiction.
I guess it could be frightening, encouraging or redundant, depending on your perspective.
[SUMMARY: Not passing judgment -- oh, no. Just passing information.]
And now, the very serious knitter topic for today, brought about by a comment from a morbid Canadian who is out for my stash.§
OK, OK... first, let's address a serious topic for we, the single folk. My friend Annie and I used to worry about this very thing¶: what happens if I, say, break my neck putting the roasting pan back up on the high shelf and nobody notices until the flies reach Amityville level? Single people worry about this shit sometimes.
Well, I worry about it.
I work contract. I travel sporadically at last minute. I occasionally have adventures. I have a stalker.$ It wouldn't necessarily be weird if nobody heard from me for three or four days. By then it could be too late. Does anybody have a solution for this? Other than blogging every day?
[SUMMARY: The world is a scary place when you're all alone with 33 stairs and an opportunistic cat.]
Anyway, back to the knitter issue.
What happens to your stash if you die unexpectedly? Is your family aware of your wishes?# Y'know, my driver's license says my organs go wherever they need to go when I die. My family is well aware of this, and wouldn't argue with the driver's license anyway.&
We need a Stash Donor card that tells the paramedics who to call for stash distribution, or to what charities the qivuit goes. It could save lives.†† It could ease the burden of those left behind.
Won't you sign your Stash Donor card today?
[SUMMARY: Only you can prevent forest fires.‡‡]
Now I have to go revise my living will to stipulate that no knitters are allowed to decide when to pull the plug.
I could go in for a teeth cleaning and end up dead, a mad, morbid Canadian making for the border with all the wool.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): See: Book Problem, Knitting Problem
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): ibid
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Remaining nameless to protect her innocence. *cough* And I'd hate to have to mention that she wasn't so much worried about my cat eating my face as she was that the resulting odors would taint the yarn.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): And then Annie got married and no longer cares about the plight of the single person. It may be ironic that she's a Democrat who probably disdains people who turn Republican when they get some money.
$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): Who called me on June 6 at 7:10 pm, June 27 at 1:10, 1:12, 1:34, 1:35 and yesterday at 5:45. Just in case the police ask you when they find my poor, battered body in a ditch. If they find my poor, battered body in a ditch, see the pounded footnote below for disposition of stash.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): For those of you scoring at home: Sylvia gets the Sea Wool, Red gets anything with alpaca, eca gets the sock yarn and patterns, and Kathryn gets anything feltable. The rest (and, yes, there's a LOT of "rest") goes to whomever reaches it first. Hey, just 'cause I'm dead doesn't mean I can't have a little fun.
&FOOTNOTE (ampersanded): Partly out of respect for my wishes, partly because nobody wants to be seen arguing with a driver's license. That's one step away from wearing a tin foil hat and, as Crazy Aunt Purl says, eating your hair.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Mostly I'm thinking of women with sharp sticks here.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Figuratively.
ETA: I posted this before the Yarn Harlot's story. Being in Nebraska in my mind in NO WAY constitutes any sort of compliance or condoning of the actions of a particular fuckhead judge in Nebraska, implicit or specific.