Sex in the City!

And I didn't even see the movie this weekend.

Kelley's birthday† was the 30th, so we inhabited the Coral Room Friday night. Guess who came?‡

The Boy, of course.

And that Hot Tamale Jason.

And The Waiter.

And one of the married men from Dave's birthday who brought me to the term "flirtopause."

So I had stuff to do.§

[SUMMARY: I need my stuff to spread out more. Stop laughing.]

Let's see... long story short¶:

I was travelling light, just my skully wristlet with my keys, cards and cash. Kelley got very worried about my stuff just being out there, so she put it in her purse for safekeeping.%

Jason, The Boy and Kelley met when they worked at KMart, like, 15 years ago. Friday night, The Boy called Joel, also a former co-worker# and Joel actually showed up.††

Now, Jason had just wandered outside to sit by himself and I was going to casually wander to him‡‡ when The Waiter caught me and wanted to talk about how we never see each other anymore. And then Mr. Flirtopause wanted to chat. Then Jason came in to get another beer and I latched onto him with a coy little, "Hey, I was just going to come out and see if you wanted company."

"You can come out and keep me company."

"You looked kinda solitary sitting out there."

"I can be pretty solitary."

[light bulb]

"If you want to just be solitary, I'll let you be solitary."

"Relax. Come sit."

I started to sit opposite him at the table and he said, "No, not so far. Come sit next to me."

We sat for all of two minutes when Joel bounced outside to visit the old days with Jason. After a few minutes, everybody else followed. Because all I could do was sit there and nod and pretend to be amused when someone tossed out the seventh version of, "Remember that time Big Brandon caught that chick in the garden department...?"§§

So I went in and talked to The Waiter. And Mr. Flirtopause. And looked up just in time to see Kelley roaring out of the parking lot with Ed¶¶ in her car.

"She's coming back, right? She just went to take Ed home?"

"I don't think so. She didn't say anything. She just left."

"SHE HAS MY KEYS!"

[SUMMARY: I missed the boat on "long story short" about 200 words ago.]

So The Boy's sister## offered to take me to Kelley's place††† to wait for my keys, after which she'd bring me back to my car. But we beat Kelley home. And she didn't show up and didn't show up and then Joel showed up with a couple of his friends and we took the party indoors for noise control only they went out for a smoke and Kelley's car was there and The Boy pounded on her front door and I pounded on her back door‡‡‡ but she didn't answer and meanwhile The Boy's sister was calling her and she didn't answer and Joel and his friends were getting stoned and drunker and I was getting tired and The Boy said, "You can just crash here and get your keys in the morning" and was that enough foreshadowing for you? and The Boy's sister whispered something to him and he said, "No, Marin's all about Jason," and then he looked at me and said, "You're all about Jason," and I couldn't disagree and I called the Coral Room to promise I would come in and pay my tab as soon as I had money again and at 2:30 I couldn't stay up any more so I crashed in The Boy's bed and told him I'd go to the couch when he came to bed only when he came to bed at 4:00 Joel was passed out on the couch so I couldn't go sleep on the couch.

[SUMMARY: How old are we?]

Now I'm going to slow down, 'cause this is the good part.

He climbed in bed an just laid§§§ down for awhile, then spooned up on me and put an arm around me.

"How come we don't do this more often?"

I flipped. Literally. All the way over and looked him straight in the eye and said, "WHAT?!?"

"How come we don't do this more often?"

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

"No... seriously? After you broke up with me? OK, OK... the answer to your question: we don't do this more often because you don't want to."

And then there was a little fooling around. And then there was more spooning.

[SUMMARY: I'm only campaigning for saint... I'm not there yet.]

And then we picked the conversation up where we left off:

"But I like this. You next to me feels good. We should do this more often."

"We'll talk about it later. Get some sleep."

And Kelley brought my keys and stuff around 8:00 and took me to my car and I spent Saturday with my favourite cousin.

Then Sunday I broke up with the poor little date¶¶¶ and celebrated Brother's and Father's birthdays### The Boy is going to see Rush at Red Rocks with me Thursday and you can just call me Carrie Bradshaw.

[SUMMARY: Not the body or the cachet, but the Big and Aidan and Burger and all.]

With less fabulous shoes.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): 40th

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Not like that. Well, yes like that, but later. Guess who showed up at the Coral Room?

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): I can hear you giggling out there...

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): -er. Shorter.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Ooooh... how clumsy is my foreshadowing?

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): And a guy with no filters, no tact and no social grace at all.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Much to everyone's surprise.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Smooth as cactus.

§§FOOTNOTE (circular logic): Followed by peals of laughter and objectless sentence fragments:

"With the..."

"And then she..."

"And the SEAHORSE!!!"

*wild laughter*

¶¶FOOTNOTE (double-fisting those long necks): Ed was h a m m e r e d.

##FOOTNOTE (pounded like a two-door apartment): I finally met the sister. I know that sounds weird when I'm talking about a guy I've technically been separated from (if you can call the passive termination of a two month thing "separated") for two years... but it seems to be a point of curiosity for a lot of people who know us that I never met his sister.

†††FOOTNOTE (my cross to bear... or have I already done that one?): Also The Boy's place and Ed's place. Wait... was that more bumbling foreshadowing?

‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (sidetracked): Quit it. We stopped being dirty two paragraphs ago. Besides, now you're talking three-way and I'm just not sure I'm cut out for that.

§§§FOOTNOTE (too confusing for words. Let me do this interpretive dance...): What a great choice of words. But, really... lay is transitive, but what's the past tense of lie? The dictionary shows lay, lain, lying... grammar is not my friend this morning.

¶¶¶FOOTNOTE (like clubbing baby seals): 1) The hook-up and the break-up had nothing to do with each other; I was going to cut the poor little date free Sunday before I ever saw The Boy this weekend, and 2) this was the first time I've *ever* broken up with someone that didn't involve a fight. Oh, guys have broken up with me before, but I've never been the one to call that shot. It was weird and uncomfortable and I'd rather not do it again if I can help it.

###FOOTNOTE (oh, the pounding we're taking here in the footnotes today): Flip-flops with bottle openers in the bottom may be the coolest invention *ever*.

Things I Learned in 2007

• It's not "rock seals and planes," it's "rocks, hills and plains."
• Page views go up every time Tommy makes an appearance.
• Never knit a baby blanket in linen stitch.
• Expired license plates are serious business.
• Estrogen is my friend. Sometimes friends abandon.
• Judy's Magic Cast On is... magic.
• Smile for the camera.
• Life is too short for bad friends, bad yarn or bad wine. Bad boys are another issue entirely.
• There is a fine-line difference between rap and hip hop, but I have to be in a room with you to explain it to you because there are hand gestures.
• You can never have too many T-pins.
• There is a Law of Conservation of Patience in my realm: patience can neither be created nor destroyed, only transferred. Thus, all the patience I may have exhibited in teaching Brother and Father to knit was eventually counter-balanced by an irrational blow-up at a customer service agent.
• No matter how much I pare back the nephews' gift list, I always end up getting them too much.
• Champagne can be a harsh mistress.
• Nothing bad ever happens to clean people (OK, I've known this one for years, thanks to my friend who works for DPD, but it bears repeating).
• Cars are cuter when they're clean.
• No matter how much you pay for kitty toys, they always play with the boxes. Figuratively speaking.

Agony and Ecstasy

First, with another "biggest in US history" tragedy looming, it seems frivolous to talk about my weekend. I'm going to anyway, but let me put this unfunny out first:

Some lives are worth more than others. On the political spectrum, that's either extremely right wing in a religious-all-God's-children way, or it's extremely left wing in a communistic way. Since I'm so middle of the road, that wide grey area suits me fine.

I know it probably won't be a popular opinion. We all like to believe that every life is sacred and you can't put a price tag on a life (and don't you have to, in some way, put a price tag to talk of value? Even a rhetorical, theoretical price tag?), but I firmly believe that the life of a 20-year-old angelic honour student is worth more than, say, Charles Manson's life. I think value is inversely proportionate to age, for the most part. Potential is a powerful force in valuing a commodity.

I'm wholly guilty of being blase (where is the fucking accent mark?) about tragedies that occur far away. But I get more involved with three categories: children, animals and youth. Children and animals because they can't do for themselves and youth because of all the wasted potential.

I'm sad for Va Tech. And I'm deeply sad over the loss of potential.

Now back to our regularly-scheduled mayhem:

First, I started this yesterday and it got into that rhythm like recounting a weird dream. No matter how fantastic and lyrical the dream was for you, your friends are glazing over as you say, "Well, it was Bob, but it wasn't Bob... I mean, he looked like a giraffe, but I knew it was Bob, ya know? And I was talking to him about the new house... well, it was me, but it wasn't me, ya know? And there was this parakeet..."

So I'm going to try to pare it down. This is my dreamy Friday and it might be glaze-over territory for you.

Eight years.

I went eight years with no touch, no tongue, no boy in my world. Now look at me.

Your dear ol’ AntiM is not a pretty girl. Oh, sure, the hair is intriguing, the eyes are blue, but on a good day, I can put forth a sort of peasant prettiness that says, “Let me tend your sheep and maybe sing you a lilting Irish ballad (but only if I think you’re not looking, ‘cause I’m terrified of singing in front of people).”

Seriously. It’s that Boy thing. The one where I smell toasted marshmallows and get all glowy when I’m around him. I really think I should just drag him along every time I want to pick up a guy. They fairly flock when he's around.

Friday, Kelley and I went to Favourite Bar. The Boy was there, and, of course, the only open seat at the bar was right next to him. Kelly and The Boy are now speaking again. Well, for awhile they were arguing. I watched a basketball game and tried to stay out of it.

[SUMMARY: This is the short version?]

Remember Hot Tamale Jason? The Boy invited him for a beer and he showed up in the middle of the peace negotiations.

Then Sex Toy showed up.

Then a couple showed up.

Two puppies (in their 20s) came in.

So begins the intricate mating ritual of the Urban Marinbird.

Seating order: Girl in couple, boy in couple, Marin, Kelley, Jason, The Boy, Sex Toy standing at the end of the bar behind The Boy, puppies at a table in the restaurant.

Kelley, Jason and The Boy start old home weeking and I watch more basketball. Boy-in-couple starts talking about the Nuggets. I throw in my two cents’. He says, “There’s nothing hotter than a girl who knows sports.”

Girl in couple… well, I can read in an instant on her face the litany of he wants sports/she doesn’t want sports throughout their relationship. She smacks him in the arm and stomps to the bathroom. He offers to buy me a drink.

Kelley sent me down the bar to talk to some of her friends. When I came back, the couple was gone and I was next to Jason. Jason and I flirted a little, then Kelley went to the bathroom. The Boy took that opportunity to tell Jason Kelley hadn't been speaking to him for three weeks. And to fondle my arm -- he was always good at the fondling thing. And rub my back.

“I think I’m going to get some air,” I said.

“I may join you,” said Jason.

So I made my way through the crowd, went out and turned around to talk to Jason. Only Jason didn’t follow me. The Boy followed me.

And he kissed me -- he was always good a the kissing thing. And wanted to go home with me.

"I think I'm going back inside," I said.

On the way, I was intercepted by one of the puppies, who asked me to sit with them. I told them I had my friends, and looked over at my friends, but by then, all of my friends were in conversations and the bar was crowded, so I sat down with Steve-pup while Matt-pup went to get another beer. Matt came back and said, “That dude at the bar cut me off.”

“Y’all should go down to Three Dogs,” said I. “They’ll serve you there. It’s not quite so frou-frou. Probably more your kind of place.”

“You come with us.”

“No, I have my friends here.”

“Well, I’ve gotta drink. I’m Irish.”

“And what do I look to you?”**

“You look like a hot chick sitting at my table.”

I walked them out, and on my way to the door, I felt hands around my waist. I hoped it was Jason, figured it was The Boy, turned around and it was… Sex Toy. Who nuzzled my neck and told me I smelled edible.

I sent the puppies to their playground and came back in, where Jason said, “I think I want to get that fresh air now. How ‘bout you?”

It was chilly. Jason pulled up the hood on his sweatshirt and The Boy came out. And fondled my elbow. And Jason said, “Man it’s so cold, I’m about to jump inside your shirt to get warm.”

The Boy went back inside.

I said to Jason, “If I give you my phone number, will you call me?”

“Yeah. I’ll call you.”

Jason flirting. Boy fondling. Sex Toy winking.

[SUMMARY: There were boys -- ah, gods, the boys -- and touching.]

I switched to water and everybody else slowed down, except The Boy. Kelly drove me, The Boy clearly couldn't drive...

...so I drove The Boy's Jeep to my house and planted him on the couch. He started reminiscing. He requested I get naked. I requested he drink some water. He requested we cuddle. I requested he sleep. He did. I went upstairs to my bed.

2:31 am -- Private Name, Private Number. Ladies and gentlemen, for the very first time, the Male Lady spoke, forever proving beyond simple coincidence that she is the PNHead Stalker.

"Tell The Boy** I said thanks."

The phone woke The Boy up and I heard him puttering around, so I went to check on him.

"Are you sober? Do you want your car keys?"

"Are you cold?"

"Uh... no. Are you cold?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want to come upstairs?"

"Yeah."

So he came upstairs and wrapped around me -- he was always good at the holding thing -- and we slept, had a nice little chat in the morning and he left.

[SUMMARY: Taking The Boy home may not be the brightest thing ever, but it worked out OK.]

See? A nice, tight summary for the most part. I know I sucked a lot of the joy out of it, but (trust Marin) you're really glad I did. I was reeling from the attention and everything was moving so fast, like a scene from a Matrix movie. A touch here, music in the background, a comment there, I'm all emotional and giddy, the bar darkened, the lights whirling, Bob was a giraffe, glasses clinking, boys, boys, boys...

I stayed home and knitted Saturday night. I finished the heel and ankle on the Lacy Racy Bellocq and made progress on all the other 237 projects I have on the needles. Knitting is not as fun as the carousel of boy lust, but it's a lot less complicated and confusing and you always know about what you're going to end up with in the end.

*************

Kelly-with-a-Maren brought moment of blogdork joy to my attention. Being the limelight slut I am, I'm posting it here. I am nominated in four categories for Blogger's Choice Awards (Best Humour Blog, Best Hobby Blog, Freakiest Blog, Best Blog About Stuff). I have one vote in each category and some of them aren't even from my four loyal readers, so that's pretty tittilating.

If you go to the site and put theantim.blogspot.com (if you put in "AntiM and the Rickety Blog," it tells you there is no such thing and we all know better) in the search, it'll bring me up (you have to scroll down to the bottom of the page for some reason). Now, I'm not TOTALLY toadying for votes, but if you wanted to check it out... maybe vote...

Just sayin'.

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Actually, I'm German, but I look so Irish the comment still holds.

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): The Male Lady uses his actual name.

**FOOTNOTE (unasterisked): Judge Jim is my new best friend! (see Sunday's comments) And Robin is lucky to have a man who UNDERSTANDS the crux of the issue.

Picky Knitter, Sticks are for KIBs

2 Days to Harlot

After careful perusal of my financial sitch (not to be confused with "stitch," though I often do), I find my thriftiness** of the last couple of months has paid off (pun!) and I have more money than I thought. How do we celebrate "extra" money? Make a large contribution to the IRA!

Haha! Just kidding! We indulge our knitting problem and our book problem and become our own best enabler!

Besides the trips to B&N and Showers of Flowers yesterday, I came home to find BOTH my packages from Knit Picks had arrived yesterday. I'm assuming the post office has a policy that they save up packages until they have enough to fill the box before delivery.

This is what it all looks like:

















From top left corner (clockwise): a bit of my purple couch, Vogue Very Easy Knits, Lace Style, Kertzer Butterfly in black and blue to make the Diagonale purse from knitty.com, Knitting Design, Knit Picks Shadow in Jewels Heather** to make the Eunny Jang Print O' the Wave stole, Domiknitrix, Knit Picks Gloss in Cocoa to make the Stitch Diva Bellocq stockings, Martin Dresser: Tale of an American Dreamer by Steve Millhauser** (the next Book Club book -- let's see if I can hang on to this one), two size one Addi circs, Knit 'n' Style, and peeking out middle-ish is the Diagonale purse picture and pattern.

First, I'd like you to notice how cool that pseudo-wrapped text is. I'm not a complete Luddite, but the html/blogcode continuum is still a bit of a mystery to me and I'm very proud every time I solve a tiny little piece of it. [NOTE: Once it got to the blog, it didn't wrap anymore. I'm still proud I discovered the possibility.]

[SUMMARY: Dork? Check. Book problem? Check. Knitting problem? Check.]

I got the Addis because I originally got Crystal Palace bamboo needles for the Sparkle Socks, but I hate them. The bamboo itself is nice -- all bambooey, as it should be -- but the join... well, it's that put-my-head-through-a-wall thing. I was taking more time sliding my stitches back and forth than it was taking to actually knit a row. And I was in danger of shredding my stitches clean off with every round. So no more Crystal Palace bamboo.

I got the Domiknitrix because... do I really need to tell you why I got the Domiknitrix? No, no, I really don't. What I need to do is ASK y'all why nobody ever told me there was a Domiknitrix. And a blog. A Domiknitrix blog. I visited, and I have a love/hate relationship with it right off the bat.

Love the concept. Love the book. Love the skull. Love the look.

BUT... there are Domiknitrix tshirts for sale and y'all know I NEED one. Not want. Need.

Hate the fact that all the coolest tshirts (i.e. - all but one) only come in junior sizes, and according to the size chart, the bust measurement on an XL junior is TWENTY-FIVE inches. Either that's a typo or these shirts are only suitable for the Kate Moss heroin-chic crowd. When the Kate Moss heroin-chic crowd were 12. You know, before they developed.

[NOTE: Dear gods of fashion and all that is holy... I lied. The 25" measurement is the LENGTH of the shirt. The bust measurement is NINETEEN inches. That has to be a typo. Tallest, Hairiest nephew's chest is bigger than 19" and he's a six-year-old BOY, for fuck's sake.]

I petitioned the Domiknitrix for real shirts for real people. I really want the blue one, but I'd like to use it for more than an iPod cozy.

OK, back to Marin's world.

Have y'all noticed I have a lot of things in the works and nothing finished? Yeah, me too. I was wandering around Showers of Flowers yesterday and realised there is enough on my plate that I'm not even that turned on by the prospect of new yarn. I think I'm more turned on by that hot tamale, Jason... oops. Did I say that out loud? What I meant was I'm more turned on by the prospect of knitting some of these fabulous projects than new yarn.

Could someone please feel my forehead?

[SUMMARY: Still a little bitchy as always, but losing interest in yarn? A sign of the apocalypse?]

As you may have gathered, last night was an important basketball night. Big picture, I mean. In my realm, college basketball died in November with Duke's suckitude, but really crashed and burned when both Kansas and NC went out in the Elite Eight, crushing my brackets into useless spitwads.**

Non sequitur? Not really. While I really am dying to get to the Print O' the Wave and the Bellocqs (and even the Stupid Blanket, now my most constant friend) and have the yarn to do it, I didn't think either was suitable for knitting in bars (a/k/a KIB), and bars are where I like to watch my sports when I'm on my own with them. The sports, I mean.

So I went to Other Favourite Bar, 'cause it's more a sports bar than Favourite Bar, parked myself at a table, ordered supper and started in on the Sparkle Socks. The waitress said, "I think Christopher's mentioned you. Is he trying to get you to bring your Stitch 'n' Bitch group in here?"

"Yep. That's me."

Turns out I was talking to Christopher's wife, Nikki (I have no idea if I'm spelling that right. It's all the Motley Crue I absorbed in the 80s). I think it's very cool to be recognised by people who have never met me. I think it's very cool that Christopher mentions me at home.** Making an impact for something other than wildebeesticide is a good thing.

[SUMMARY: KIP, bold and cool. KIB, even cooler.]

A big yee-ha to Florida. I don't have much love for Florida sports in general, but it's historical for a school to win both back-to-back basketball championships and a football AND basketball championship in one year. Witnessing history is also a good thing.

[SUMMARY: Go Florida. Take California with you.]

Tonight? Drinks with Megan-from-work, cast on the Bellocqs, maybe cast on the Print O' the Wave, commune with Stupid Blanket.

Tomorrow? Client-sponsored goof-off at Coors Field. My current biggest client is taking me to the Rockies' game. That would be 1:00 in the afternoon. That would be RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE WORK DAY. The company's buying lunch, we're sitting right behind home plate and they're paying me for the whole day. Let me repeat: I'm being PAID to go to the BALLPARK and sit in the BEST SEATS IN THE HOUSE. And FED. I'm begin FED. And probably DRINKED a little, too.

[SUMMARY: You want my schedule.]

I've waited my whole working life for this moment. I'll take pictures.

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): I know you wonder how I can call thrifty when I've been barring half the nights of my life, but my pathological overtipping really pays off in free shots and bartender-sponsored rounds of drinks at a time like this. Besides, what do you think happy hour is for?

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): I know it's not THE Heathers, but it's Heathers, right? "People will look at the ashes of Westerburg and say, 'Now there's a school that self-destructed, not because society didn't care, but because the school was society.' Now that's deep."

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): By the way, if you go to B&N and you can't find the Book Club book and they look on the computer and see there are several copies, be sure to check under "Martin Dressler," even though that's the title and not the author, since that's where all seven copies at the downtown Denver B&N were. I note the CSR who dug it up for me did NOT move them to reflect Steven Millhauser as the actual author.

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): You don't make spitwads from your cracked brackets? What on earth do you do with them, then?

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Pretending here Christopher mentions me at home *without* using words like "freak," "psycho" or "scary."

Dork Like Me

3 Days to Harlot

My weekend?

Let's see...

I went to a (pretty bad) music festival at the very local Oriental Theatre Friday night with Kelley.

In all fairness, we only stayed for the first band and the music was just irritating. Also? Nobody who gripped a mic that night had the slightest stage presence or poise or any idea what they wanted to say. And they all thought they were funny. Don't you hate it when people think they're funny? (*ahem*)

It was like a high school talent show, only more so.

Fortunately, they had some cute purses and jewelry, so the music was forgiven. I met the Vamp Bags girls, Deanna and Tara (Kelley already knew them. Kelley is SO *connected*). Deanna and Tara? My kinda chicks.

There's going to be a full-on accessories festival at that same Oriental Theatre next Saturday.** Kelley and I are going, of course. I may pay loads of money for a cute purse before the onset of the next work week.

[SUMMARY: Cute purses are a force for good in the world.]

After giving up on the music portion of the evening, we headed, of course, for Favourite Bar. The Boy was there, talking to Male Lady and Sex Toy.

[SUMMARY: My world is getting wayyyyy too small.]

Kelley and I took our drinks out on the patio, where it was cold, but relatively Male Lady free.

The Boy doesn't quite get the Kelley not speaking to him thing. In his *hammered* state Friday, he kept talking to us like nothing was up, which caused Kelley to get madder and meaner. I get it. If you tell someone you're mad at them and they kind of pat you on the head and say, "So what do you want for dinner?" it's condescending. Discounting.

On the other hand, I really think The Boy just doesn't get it.

He's not trying to piss Kelley off further. He doesn't want her to be mad at him. He just doesn't get it.

He's all bewildered and oblivious because he can't quite grasp how frustrated Kelley is with his lack of balls. He compounded it by not picking up the little signs (like "I've had it. I want a break. Have a nice summer."), then adding shit to shinola (yes, I know that doesn't make much sense, but if you haven't figured out by now that I'm an exercise in style over substance, you're missing a very important aspect of my personality) by ignoring the very direct direction, "Please get out of my face. Go back inside. Leave me alone. No, I won't move over for you. No, you can't sit down here. Go back inside!"

You know how a rattlesnake rattles to warn you you're about to get bit?

From there, it devolved into a vitriolic spew in which the Male Lady became a wildebeest (no news to y'all, that's a gnu), the wildebeest was The Boy's little girlfriend, The Boy was getting his dick sucked by a wildebeest...

[SUMMARY: Stupid boy.]

Is it too bad to feel sorry for The Boy? Just a little? I think Kelley's more hurt than mad, but you know strong chicas who think they don't cry over boys can't just be hurt; we gotta front bitchy to maintain our reputations (my sister-in-law would laugh over my use of the word "we." She watched me launch a veritable snotfest one night over The Boy, but you know what I mean).

I spent all weekend fighting the urge to call that little red, blinking beacon of a number stored in my cell phone since the Passive Aggressive Phone Act of 2007.** Part of me wants to hip him to the idea that he can't just pretend nothing's wrong and wait for it to blow over, he's gotta do something ACTIVE. He's gotta FIX it.

Sheesh. I still miss The Boy. I'm getting overer him all the time, but...

[SUMMARY: Stupid girl.]

Sex Toy? A little flirty Friday night, but backed off. Could be punishment for the turn-down on Thursday.

Kelley and I went shopping, wine tasting, dinner, then Favourite Bar Saturday. Sex Toy was very cuddly and I got a nice back rub and some purr-worthy fondling out of the deal, but Kelley and I left and were home in bed by 9:00 (not together, mind you. We were being good girls, not porn stars), so... I may have to rename Sex Toy "On Hold."

Still looking for the Jason Hot Tamale hookup.

[SUMMARY: Stupid sexless girl.]

Remember how I left my camera at Book Club? Here are the pictures I took. I know they're old news, but I'm projecting. See, I like blogs that have pictures so I can put faces and places to the words I'm reading. Therefore, I think *you* want photos so you can see who and where and what I'm talking about.

[SUMMARY: I think you want to be me. Allow me my delusions, please. It was a partly stressful, wholly sexless weekend.]

Anyway, when there are babies on the way for Book Club members, we have a potluck dinner book shower, wherein everybody brings a kids' book for the mother-to-be. I like the tradition. It's clever and useful and fun. This was Tani's book baby shower:

Tani and Annie, of Pomegranate Martini Shindig fame

Mira, who thinks I'm a complete idiot, and my sister-in-law, who probably doesn't

Ashlee, who's cool and Julie, who's cool -- and getting married in August

I had a picture of Jeanne with Katy-did, but I was apparently caught in a localised earthquake and the camera shake was fierce.

On a brighter, knittier note (and with better pictures), I cast on for my first 5280 sock (and learned how to add buttons to my website! I think! We'll see when I try to add the 5280 button to the side bar!).

Knitters: I used the COOLEST cast-on ever. Check out the Magic Cast-On from Judy Becker on knitty.com. Seamless, no grafting, cool, cool, cool, *MAGIC.* Did I mention no grafting?**

Of course, I just got the hang of the Kitchener's stitch, which puts it in that category with Stupid Blanket and ex-boyfriends as something I got in touch with just in time to miss it.

My First 5280 Sock, by Fisher Price (a/k/a "Sparkle Socks")

Another April 1 happening: I joined (because I'm such a joiner) Run-a-Go-Go. I consistently walk a mile a day, easy, so I'm setting my goal at 200 miles between April 1 and July 4. I have a cool (when I say "cool," consider the source) ticker with bats that I'll post when I actually have something visible ticked on it.

You want to be me in all my blogdork, joiner, bandwagon glory.

Dontcha wish your blogdork was a dork like me?

Dontcha wish your blogdork was a joiner like me?

Dontcha?**

[SUMMARY: Even when I get in touch with my inner Pussycat Doll, she's a complete frickin' dork.]

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Oh! And DISCO NIGHT on Friday. Kelley called last night and said she isn't planning on going out Friday, but can probably be persuaded. I must remind her of Disco Night.

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): That would be The Boy's number. The one he told Kelley to give me. Just in case I outclevered myself on that reference.

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): How much more a dork can one be than to get one's panties all moist over a cast-on? None. None more dork.

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Up until some time last week, I thought that song was called something like "Hot Like Me." Forgive me, Robin Antin, I know not what the hell I do.

Here Now, the Gnus

Did you know a gnu and a wildebeest are the same thing?

Yep, it's one a them educational Fridays. Maintain your brain.

We got gnus, we got news and we got knews. Two kinds of knews.

First, because it covers two bases and MLB opening day is Monday, so in honour of, um, second base... do y'all ever get worn out with the stream-of-consciousness of AntiM World? Anyway...

News: Kelley is not speaking to The Boy. In the fifteen years they've been best friends, they've feuded more since the Male Lady hit the scene than in the rest of the time combined.

After she called me the other morning, she decided she'd had enough of his passive aggression; not just that, but that he relies on her to provide the aggression and gets mad when she doesn't.

This is my interpretation. Her version goes more like, "I've had enough of both of them. I just said, 'Have a nice summer.'"**

I figure anyone who won't take action on a stalker, expects his best friend to provide the bitch in the equation (not to be anti-feminist, but what kind of man asks a woman to do his wet work for him? He's either enlightened or a pussy. Guess where I'm placing The Boy) and asks a friend to give a girl his phone number (OK, that's the self-centred portion of our program. It still nibbles at my innards that he couldn't just give me his number himself or -- heaven forfend -- get my number from me. Or even Kelley. And call me his damnself)... well, that Boy is a boy and not much of a man.** Until The Boy grows some sack, he's without his Kelley.

This also counts as knews, as in, "So long for now, Boy, we hardly knew ye."

Gnus news: The plural of "wildebeest" is either "wildebeest" or "wildebeests."

Knitting Knews: Joanne Conklin, who sells lace weight qiviut (I feel that should be capitalised: Qiviut... or perhaps there should be a chorus of angels embedded in the link somewhere) and is on my Denver Knits Yahoo group (yes, I'm just that kind of dork), has started a Mile High Sock Challenge (my title, not hers). The text of the challenge is at the bottom of the post, for those Denver knitters who are interested.

Since I have the sis-in-law Bellocq (hereafter known as "Lacy Racy Bellocq") stockings (if the yarn ever comes), a pair of toe-up (just because I've never done it before) sparkly socks (hereafter called "Sparkle Socks") for Lorree in NYC and a pair of Knitty's/Aija Goto's BMP socks (hereafter called "Invasion of the Socks") for Jeff in NYC (Jeff and Lorree are enabling... um, FACILITATING my pilgrimage to Rhinebeck this October. They deserve socks) on deck (ha! Baseball reference!), I'm all about contributing my two socks' worth to the 5280** cause.

[SUMMARY: In keeping with our theme (one of them), links are very educational. Maintain your brain. And remember: if the gusts of words leave you weak, you can always skip the stuff in the parentheses. This public service announcement has been brought to you by the number four.]

More Gnus: The name wildebeest originates in the Dutch words "wild" and "beest" which, together, mean "wild beast". (Can I just say here: duh?) Although the name is derived from the Dutch, the name wildebeest doesn't officially exist in the Dutch language. Gnu is from the Khoikhoi language, in which they pronounce the G, much like I do when I think I'm cute.

Weird News: Did you see this?

It's a giant cane toad, purported to be "the size of a small dog," or in Knitter's Measurement, the size of three hanks of Interlacements Toasty Toes, the eight ounce kind.

Personal Knitting Knews: In my ongoing vendetta against the number four, I erroneously reported that I was more than halfway through the Heathers ("Chaos was what killed the dinosaurs, darling."). There are nine repeats on the pattern and I finished the fourth last night, proving once again I can't count to five.

I also did FIVE rows (maybe. Could be four. Could be six. Can't trust your ol' AntiM to count to five) on the Stupid Blanket. It seems the Stupid Blanket and I are coming to terms just in time for me to finish it and miss it terribly when it's gone. This is familiar territory, being how I work with most of the guys I date.

Did I mention I still don't have my Gloss from Knit Picks? Did I mention this makes me crazy -- not just for the normal reasons** -- because I have the worst mail carrier on the face of the planet?

Last Little Bit of News: The boy from last week? The one that caused the highly unnecessary sex post on Sunday? Shall we call him Sex Toy? He got my number from Kelley and called last night. I do believe I have received my first booty call. Points for me!

For those who need to know (and possibly to ameliorate the "This is NOT little brother approved" comment winging my way), I said, "Not tonight dear, but don't count me off your list."

I do have *some* self-control.

Last Little Bit of Gnus:

"Did you see that herd of gnus?"

"Heard of what?"

"Herd of gnus."

"Of course I've heard of news!"

"No... a gnu herd."

"A gnu?"

"Yes, a gnu herd."

"So what if a gnu heard? Who's he going to tell?"

[SUMMARY: I still think I'm funny. And I think homophones are funny.]

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): And she said I'm a breath of fresh air in her life. Poor girl. More like a hurricane. Hurricane Marin.

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Yes, I still kinda like The Boy. But Kelley's here with me and asked for my phone number her ownself and talks to me and stuff, so I tend to be a Kelley Supporter in this battle. Besides, if she hooks me up with hot tamale Jason, I suspect I've traded up from The Boy or my Sex Toy. More than you needed to know? Maintain Your Brain!

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Two socks' worth. WAHAHAHAHAHA! Get it? Two socks? Like two cents' worth? I crack me up.

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): You know, normal crazy, like Obsession, Compulsion, Nymphomania, Senility and Fourophobia.

**FOOTNOTE (unasterisked): While I'm a little better than I was yesterday, I forgot this morning how I like my coffee. I got the coffee, got to my desk. Realised there was no cream. Went and got...

...wait for it...

...a STIR STICK.

Went back to my desk. Considered drinking coffee black. Took a stand against Juvenile Onset Senility. Got cream. Drank lukewarm coffee.

**SPECIAL BASEBALL FOOTNOTE (unasterisked): As Kelly-with-a-Maren so adroitly pointed out in the comments, SUNDAY is opening-opening day. Monday is the ROCKIES' opening day.

*************

5280 FEET

OK, technically, we're looking at 10,560 feet, but you get the gist.

This is Joanne's message:

Here is a long-term project and challenge for you. How long will it take for DenverKnits knitters to make 5280 pairs of socks? One year? Two? Five?

Let's find out. And, I'm going to see if I can get donations from a number of sources so that the person who knits the 5280th pair will get a great gift basket of goodies.**

Here are the rules:

1. Knitting begins on April 1st, 2007. You can NOT count any socks that were started before then.

2. Each time you finish a pair of socks, send me an email: joanne@jconklindesigns.com with the word 5280 Challenge in the subject line. Tell me 6 things about the pair (note that I said PAIR, not single sock!!)

- Size (e.g. women's medium)

- Needle size used

- Yarn

- Method (toe up, toe down, magical loop, etc.)

- Who are the socks for (self, friend, family, charity, etc.)

- Date finished.

Only entries with answers to those 6 questions will be counted in the final tally and entered into the contest.

3. I will keep a spreadsheet and will report back to the group from time to time. At the end, I'll tell you the results of the survey questions.

4. Please DO report to the list any time you like about your progress and current finished sock. Tell us your blog name if you'd like us to check out progress and/or pictures.

5. I've created a database on our website where you can list your name and your blog so others can visit from time to time.

If anyone here is good at making blog buttons, please let me know. I'm sure that bloggers would like to be able to find you. The link can be back to the DenverKnits web page, or I'm open to suggestions.

Store owners, dyers, or anyone else who would like to contribute prizes for the final gift basket, please let me know. Keep in mind that the prize may not be given out for sometime, so if you're offering a gift certificate, make sure that it can be used far into the future. Prizes should be knitting related, but don't necessarily have to be sock related. Be sure to include something that will tell the winner who was kind enough to donate the prize. I will purchase a basket for the prizes... hopefully a very large basket!!

You might print out this email for future reference... just a suggestion.

Okay... dive into that huge stash of sock yarn. You know that you have one. Get out the needles.

On your mark.............

Joanne

http://www.jconklindesigns.com/keeptalking.htm

**FOOTNOTE (it's funny 'cause it's socks and feet like twelve inches... see the funny? And it is asterisked): Last I looked, Joanne had gotten Blue Moon Fibre Arts to donate some Socks That Rock yarn, so we're off to a good start.

Amphetamines Give You Wings!

Yesterday, my tallest, hairiest nephew (older, wiser brother to the inimitable Dr. Doom and son of my only brother**) learned the joys of french fries dipped in caramel sauce. He also dipped his McNuggets in caramel and thoroughly enjoyed it, but I hesitate to use the word "joys" with that one. It looked gross to me.

And the indulgent aunt? When he said "A ten-piece McNugget meal, an apple dipper, a yogurt parfait... is that too much?" said, "No, of course not. Whatever you want." Darned if he didn't eat it all, too, leaving only a bunch of fries behind.



He did some tree climbing



Then we went to Wings Over the Rockies, where my dopey nephew spent five minutes following a ladybug when there was outlandish aircraft to be perused. Ah, well... it was his day.

He was very impressed with the X-Wing and told me all about how Luke Skywalker flew it. I just let him talk. Why tell him his ol' AntiM was cool enough (or dork enough) to have seen Star Wars in the theatre the first time 'round?

We got all educational in the Radio Room, what with the telegraphs and the trainer (just so y'all know, the plane nearly crashed moments after this picture was taken, but Tallest Hairiest Nephew pulled it out just 12 feet from the ground. I know because he told me so).

Then I got all educated my damnself when I learned there were phones with memories in the SIXTIES. Is it weirder to see that plug-in punch card or a dial?

[SUMMARY: Wings Over the Rockies can be a really good learning experience, 'specially for the otherwise-indulgent aunt who spent all afternoon reminding exuberant nephew not to touch the planes, then woke up, bolt upright at 4:00 this morning realising... why the hell not? It's a flippin' airplane, not a Van Gogh... Don't touch the giant fighter plane? What was I thinking?]

We washed the MiCo. Before you call Family Services with tales of child labour violations, I'd like to stress that *he* made *me* wash my car. I did *not* make him wash my car. I tried to explain that my car wants to be a Jeep and really loves the mud and he solemnly informed me, "She does *not* want to be a Jeep. We should have a snack, but we should find a car wash first."

The middle shot of the before-during-after series? He is trying to lift both legs up, hoping the pressure of the hose will make him fly.

[SUMMARY: A nephew who proclaims the little car "probably the coolest car we'll pass all day" can still be embarrassed by an abundance of dirt.]

Then I went home and crashed, because kids are exhausting, even when you don't have to literally chase them all over the place.

Just wait 'til I take Dr. Doom to the zoo in the next couple of weeks. I may need a steady infusion of vodka and amphetamines for that.

In other news:

The Boy had a long talk with the Male Lady yesterday. Kelly called early this morning to impart the news. OUCH.

You know why that hurts so horribly? Because I was good to him. I was laid back and honest and receptive and warm and not pushy. I asked very little and demanded nothing. I drove all the best people in my life up a fucking tree with my neurotic obsession with him, but I left him out of it, and he just stopped talking to me (even though he promised he'd never do that to me). She's a fucking freak show stalker psycho bitch and he *talks* to *her*. He WORKS THINGS OUT with her.

Do boys really like psychos better?

Kelly's pissed 'cause he told Male Lady, "Kelly didn't want to be your friend, she just wanted to be civil," which was totally true, but it smacks of betrayal, Boy to Kelly, and... well, Kelly's pissed. A little hurt, too, if I'm reading her tone of voice right.

Kelly and I are going out Friday night. Do you think it would be too much to ask her to invite her hot tamale friend Jason along?

[SUMMARY: When I'm not just plain crazy? I'm boy crazy.]

I knit (well, *finished*) SIX ROWS of the Stupid Blanket last night watching Top Model. Now, I technically knit seven-plus rows, but something got wonky and I had to tink, then I found it wasn't wonky, it's just the way the linen stitch looks close to the needles and I tinked for nothing and almost gave up in disgust but pushed on through another two completed rows because that's JUST THE KIND OF FOLLOW-THROUGH I HAVE.

I'm so pissed about The Boy I'm yelling about my fucking knitting.

I'm halfway done with the Heathers ("Now I've seen a lot of bullshit... angel dust, switchblades, sexually perverse photography involving tennis rackets...").**

Get this: I ordered Gloss yarn (the Cocoa -- I think I'll use a pink ribbon) for the Bellocq Stockings from Knit Picks, where they provide package tracking numbers for your obsessive convenience (OK, my obsessive convenience) and I checked Friday and it said the yarn was in Denver! Hallelujah! And it wasn't in the box on Friday. And it wasn't in the box today. And I checked the tracking today and this is what it looks like:

March 26, 2007 - 3:00 AM - Sortation Center Departure - DENVER, CO
March 22, 2007 2:55 PM Sortation Center Arrival - DENVER, CO

You know the old saw about those who love law and sausages? Well, I'm pretty sure no mail-order afficionado needs to know her freakin' package gets to her house five days (or more; we'll have to wait and see if it actually shows up today) after it reaches her city of residence. Maddening! From now on, I don't think I'll look at the tracking unless something doesn't show up for three weeks. My new Gloss yarn is so close I can taste it... and nuzzle it and sniff it and...

[SUMMARY: Obsession can be an ugly thing in all its myriad forms]

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked. No, seriously -- way at the top of the post. You go look. I'll wait here.): Yes, brother, I noticed you added me to your bio (and for those of my loyal readers out there, don't y'all believe him -- I wasn't in the slightest bit ruffled when I WASN'T mentioned, he just wants to expand the myth of my lunacy that much further by saying I'd be very, very angry not to be part of his capybara-laden bio). I also noticed I'm now a link on his link list. The knitblog is a powerful tool in sibling relations.

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Still funny....

**SPECIAL BASKETBALL FOOTNOTE (unasterisked): You'll note Tallest Hairiest Nephew is wearing a Kansas shirt. When I dropped him home, Dr. Doom was also decked out in Rock Chalk gear. Turns out the brother (he loves Kansas the way I love Duke, though he is less likely to sleep with one of the coaches) ordered shirts for the family with an eye to wearing them during Final Four activities this weekend. It's a perfect time to quote Sir John Vanbrugh:

"O, Fortune, Fortune, thou art a bitch."