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.
Showing posts with label PNhead Stalker. Show all posts
Showing posts with label PNhead Stalker. Show all posts
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
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.
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.
[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.
[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.
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.
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.
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.
[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 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.
“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.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Ketchup
So here's the brief (in chronological order, not in order of importance):
Thank goodness I have a solid Bath Whore Support System waiting for me at home.
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): That's The Boy, in case I outclevered myself again.
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): For one, I think he was seriously considering refusing to let me have the shirt on grounds of issue, but his capitalistic little heart beat too strong and he gave in.
For two, my first thought? Honestly? "It has airplanes AND oil accountrement. I'm going to be the most popular girl at Easter brunch!" (what with the Tallest Hairiest nephew's love of all things avionic and both father and brother being in or late of the petroleum industry.) Did I mention dork yet today?
For three, may I take this opportunity to point out that I and mine are fully involved in DOMESTIC exploration and production, so whatever you think of the industry, never try to paste a blood-for-oil label on us. And vote domestic-production-friendly in 2008. It's good for the country, it's good for you and it's good for your dear ol' AntiM.
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): For one, Catholic. I know all the words, mind you, but I felt like a black man standing on a corner in Gstaad... so outnumbered.
For two, sad. Made me think of Mom. I mean, I think of Mom every day, but this was a LOT. And it wasn't one of those, "Oh, Mom would have loved that" things, it was Mom and death. It makes me sad. And tired. And tired of being sad.
- Wednesday night when I was at Favourite Bar with Megan-from-Work, Male Lady drove by and slowed waaaayyyyy down as she passed. Did I mention she has the same little red convertible as Kelly, but with a different coulour top? Anyway, I got home and there was a PNHead call on my caller ID from roughly ten minutes after she drove by. So it's slowing down now that I'm not hanging out with the love of her life,** but it's not quite out of her system.
- Thursday: Woolstock.
- Red called Friday night while I was on the phone with my father to tell me she and Jenny and Amber (you remember Jenny and Amber from Woolstock, right?) were doing the First Friday Art Walk on Santa Fe, carrying fun adult hot chocolate (which sounds like a service of which you might be able partake in a whorehouse in Bangkok).
I discovered my caller ID doesn't capture phone numbers of calls that never actually rang out loud, so I couldn't call Red so I didn't go. I stayed in and knitted. There was Bellocqage, there was Sparkle Sockage, there was Stupid Blanketage. It was good. - Kelley and I went shopping at the fashion show at the Oriental on Saturday. We both bought Vamp Bags. Kelley bought Debbie
in a very cool plummy colour and I bought Vicki
in a very cool green. I also got the Skulls-in-Hats tote, and a tshirt with a pumpjack and derrick on it. Now, it also has fighter planes, so I'm pretty sure it's a blood-for-oil political statement, but I told the be-pierced and heavily inked artist I'm very excited to have a tshirt I can wear to work on casual Friday.** - Saturday night, we went to Favourite Bar (this is after a day of shopping, dining and drinking) and left by 8:00. Yeah, I know, but remember how you found in college when you started drinking at 10:00 in the morning, you were pretty much ready for bed (or ambulance) by 10:00 that night? I'm no longer in college. If I start drinking at 2:00, 8:00 looks like a pretty reasonable bedtime.
Anyway, we left before Sex Toy was scheduled in to Favourite Bar and Kelley suggested I should at least text him, which I did.
The next morning, I heard the twinkle-tones of a text message coming through from the celly downstairs. I went down to check, assuming it was Sex Toy, but no. It was The Boy. Texting to say he's good and wishing me a happy Easter. Huh.
The first thing Tani said? "He still has your number in his phone." Would you believe that never occurred to me? What mostly occurred to me was: Huh. Does he really think I have enough influence over Kelley to get her to talk to him?
Anyway, I texted back the following (verbatim): Good & thanks & you too. - Of course, Monday was sitting-on-twins day, followed by the mad rush home to see if Secret Pal's package had arrived. I opened my little box and -- joy! -- there was a key to the bigger box, indicating a PACKAGE! I opened the bigger box and there was NO PACKAGE! It was empty. I almost wrangled a guy walking by to ask him if *he* saw anything in the box. I thought perhaps I was experiencing hysterical blindness. But, no. I called the post office... it was left on the front porch... too big for box... sorry we left the key and freaked you out...
- Tuesday: Magic of pedicure impeding magic of receiving presents, but feet renedered unembarrassing (my car is clean and my feet are pretty. What is the world coming to?)
- Tuesday later: Presents! You saw.
- Wednesday morning: Funeral.**
- Wednesday morning later: Another BLM field trip.
- Wednesday afternoon: Back to office.
- Wednesday evening: Wanted to go to Goosetown Tavern with Downtown Denver SnB (who seem like my kinda chicks all the way 'round, but I've yet to meet them) and be on TV like a rock star, but worked until 8:00. Went to Other Favourite Bar for dinner and a (one. single.) beer. Christopher bought me a second beer. Never look a gift beer in the mouth.
- Work today. SnB tonight. Hopefully to bed early.
So I had time to knit and ran into a new mathematic adventure: now I can't count to three. I'm going to have to do some serious backtracking on the Heathers ("Well, it's just like - they're people I work with, and our job is being popular and shit.") to even figure out what went pear-shaped. I think between the second beer and the basketball game, all hope of counting to three was lost.
Thank goodness I have a solid Bath Whore Support System waiting for me at home.
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): That's The Boy, in case I outclevered myself again.
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): For one, I think he was seriously considering refusing to let me have the shirt on grounds of issue, but his capitalistic little heart beat too strong and he gave in.
For two, my first thought? Honestly? "It has airplanes AND oil accountrement. I'm going to be the most popular girl at Easter brunch!" (what with the Tallest Hairiest nephew's love of all things avionic and both father and brother being in or late of the petroleum industry.) Did I mention dork yet today?
For three, may I take this opportunity to point out that I and mine are fully involved in DOMESTIC exploration and production, so whatever you think of the industry, never try to paste a blood-for-oil label on us. And vote domestic-production-friendly in 2008. It's good for the country, it's good for you and it's good for your dear ol' AntiM.
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): For one, Catholic. I know all the words, mind you, but I felt like a black man standing on a corner in Gstaad... so outnumbered.
For two, sad. Made me think of Mom. I mean, I think of Mom every day, but this was a LOT. And it wasn't one of those, "Oh, Mom would have loved that" things, it was Mom and death. It makes me sad. And tired. And tired of being sad.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Where Is My Accountabilibuddy?
So we had the baby shower. I stuck by my guns and refused to play any stupid shower games in which I had to taste or smell anything. It's the little victories that... well, some days the little victories are all you have. Here are the cupcakes:
I had a wild weekend (baby shower aside) -- at least a wild Saturday night -- in the shitstorm in my brain. I've tried for a good, long while now, but I can't make it interesting. At best, I get to histrionic. Apologies all 'round. Boys do that to me. The Boy does that to me.
I will tell you that the most dangerous thing about The Boy for your ol' AntiM is the chemistry. Sheer, pure chemistry. Kelly told me Saturday night that I was glowing (we were talking spa treatments, so it's not like I was just sitting their glowing like a pregnant woman. Just want to keep things real, here). I said, "It's from standing next to The Boy." We had a good laugh, but I swear to two things that speak miles for chemical reaction:
1) He smells amazing to me. He doesn't wear cologne or aftershave or any of that stuff, but he smells like burnt sugar and almonds and cedar. One night last summer, I was snorking on his neck like my cat snorks around a tuna can, damned close to taking a nibble, and -- realising it had gone beyond a discreet little sniff and was into full-on weird and maybe required an explanation of some kind -- I said, "You smell *so* good." I may have drooled in his ear a little right then.
"What? Ballpark and two beers and the walk to your house?"
Now, I've never had pure chemistry (not in the emotional way people talk about, but in the basic, raw pheromonal way that makes someone smell edible to me) with anyone but The Boy, so I don't have a lot to compare it to, but there's something primal there. And given the way we met, I'm guessing he has the same reaction, even if he doesn't put it into words whilst drooling into my ear.
See, that first night we met, I was paying my tab, he said hi and we tossed a couple of lines of small talk between us. About two steps away from him and I wanted to go back. Come to think of it, in the aftermath of my offering to stay if he'd get me back to my car, he spent a certain amount of time snorking around my neck. (Ha! Evidence!) And I was a fright that night, oh my friends: pudgy (read: fat), frumpy clothes, no war paint, legs unshaved, pedicure questionable, hair a wreck... in fact, I hadn't even showered that day because I'd been working at home and lost track of time until I had to haul ass to my massage appointment. I was NOT on the prowl that night. And yet... we managed to get pretty torrid, all personal hygiene issues aside.
2) When I'm around The Boy, other boys want me. Alone at the bar watching sports and some guy will usually talk to me about the game for a bit, but not to hit on me. However, every time I've ever been in public with The Boy, at least two other guys have wanted to buy me drinks, kissed me, asked for my digits, touched me in what I can only term proprietary ways, *competed* with other boys for my attention... it's not my normal life experience. It's insane.
I can almost claim to have conducted a double-blind, scientific-like experiment with this, because there is one boy who has hit on me TWICE (six months apart) when he's run into me when I'm out with The Boy, but sat right next to me on several nights without The Boy and never said more than, "Hey. How you doin'?" I'm like a prism to The Boy's light -- I cast pretty colours all over the walls and the furniture and the people around me and I fucking *glow*. Other boys start looking for the gold at the end of that rainbow. And when I'm around The Boy, other boys don't interest me at all. Insane. Darwin wants me to breed with The Boy. Darwin is trying to kill me.
[I'm not feeling the Greek Chorus thing so much. It looked better on paper than it turned out to be on, um... paper.
So we're back to... (reserving the right to occasionally talk about myself in third person)
SUMMARY: I'm still entirely obsessive about this Boy thing (nothing changed there over the weekend), but it's probably due solely to chemistry and natural selection and stuff. Not a personality defect on my part at all. Greek choruses are best left to Greeks. And Woody Allen.]
Now, The Boy fondled another girl. Kelly says they're just friends and she has a boyfriend, but it looked a little... fondlish... to me. Kelly says, "He talks about you." Kelly says, "Trust Kelly."
(Kelly also says she's the Real Kelly and all you Imaginary Kellys out there should note that. Don't worry. I love all my Kellys equally, though I certainly spend more time drinking with some than with others.)
Anyway... we left The Boy fondling (or not, if you trust Kelly) another girl at Other Favourite Bar, but only got a little way down the street before The Boy caught up to us. He took our (Kelly and Marin) picture a couple of times, and while I consider fondling another girl a bad sign, I consider his being the only person on the face of the planet to take two consecutive good pictures of me to be a good sign.
We went to Re-Favourite Bar where several things of note (in my shitstorm of a brain) happened:
I had a wild weekend (baby shower aside) -- at least a wild Saturday night -- in the shitstorm in my brain. I've tried for a good, long while now, but I can't make it interesting. At best, I get to histrionic. Apologies all 'round. Boys do that to me. The Boy does that to me.
I will tell you that the most dangerous thing about The Boy for your ol' AntiM is the chemistry. Sheer, pure chemistry. Kelly told me Saturday night that I was glowing (we were talking spa treatments, so it's not like I was just sitting their glowing like a pregnant woman. Just want to keep things real, here). I said, "It's from standing next to The Boy." We had a good laugh, but I swear to two things that speak miles for chemical reaction:
1) He smells amazing to me. He doesn't wear cologne or aftershave or any of that stuff, but he smells like burnt sugar and almonds and cedar. One night last summer, I was snorking on his neck like my cat snorks around a tuna can, damned close to taking a nibble, and -- realising it had gone beyond a discreet little sniff and was into full-on weird and maybe required an explanation of some kind -- I said, "You smell *so* good." I may have drooled in his ear a little right then.
"What? Ballpark and two beers and the walk to your house?"
Now, I've never had pure chemistry (not in the emotional way people talk about, but in the basic, raw pheromonal way that makes someone smell edible to me) with anyone but The Boy, so I don't have a lot to compare it to, but there's something primal there. And given the way we met, I'm guessing he has the same reaction, even if he doesn't put it into words whilst drooling into my ear.
See, that first night we met, I was paying my tab, he said hi and we tossed a couple of lines of small talk between us. About two steps away from him and I wanted to go back. Come to think of it, in the aftermath of my offering to stay if he'd get me back to my car, he spent a certain amount of time snorking around my neck. (Ha! Evidence!) And I was a fright that night, oh my friends: pudgy (read: fat), frumpy clothes, no war paint, legs unshaved, pedicure questionable, hair a wreck... in fact, I hadn't even showered that day because I'd been working at home and lost track of time until I had to haul ass to my massage appointment. I was NOT on the prowl that night. And yet... we managed to get pretty torrid, all personal hygiene issues aside.
2) When I'm around The Boy, other boys want me. Alone at the bar watching sports and some guy will usually talk to me about the game for a bit, but not to hit on me. However, every time I've ever been in public with The Boy, at least two other guys have wanted to buy me drinks, kissed me, asked for my digits, touched me in what I can only term proprietary ways, *competed* with other boys for my attention... it's not my normal life experience. It's insane.
I can almost claim to have conducted a double-blind, scientific-like experiment with this, because there is one boy who has hit on me TWICE (six months apart) when he's run into me when I'm out with The Boy, but sat right next to me on several nights without The Boy and never said more than, "Hey. How you doin'?" I'm like a prism to The Boy's light -- I cast pretty colours all over the walls and the furniture and the people around me and I fucking *glow*. Other boys start looking for the gold at the end of that rainbow. And when I'm around The Boy, other boys don't interest me at all. Insane. Darwin wants me to breed with The Boy. Darwin is trying to kill me.
[I'm not feeling the Greek Chorus thing so much. It looked better on paper than it turned out to be on, um... paper.
So we're back to... (reserving the right to occasionally talk about myself in third person)
SUMMARY: I'm still entirely obsessive about this Boy thing (nothing changed there over the weekend), but it's probably due solely to chemistry and natural selection and stuff. Not a personality defect on my part at all. Greek choruses are best left to Greeks. And Woody Allen.]
Now, The Boy fondled another girl. Kelly says they're just friends and she has a boyfriend, but it looked a little... fondlish... to me. Kelly says, "He talks about you." Kelly says, "Trust Kelly."
(Kelly also says she's the Real Kelly and all you Imaginary Kellys out there should note that. Don't worry. I love all my Kellys equally, though I certainly spend more time drinking with some than with others.)
Anyway... we left The Boy fondling (or not, if you trust Kelly) another girl at Other Favourite Bar, but only got a little way down the street before The Boy caught up to us. He took our (Kelly and Marin) picture a couple of times, and while I consider fondling another girl a bad sign, I consider his being the only person on the face of the planet to take two consecutive good pictures of me to be a good sign.
We went to Re-Favourite Bar where several things of note (in my shitstorm of a brain) happened:
- Adorable DJ flirted like a fiend. Cute barback flirted like a fiend, bought me a shot (*so* very my new best friend!), kissed me twice. I was with The Boy, you know, and apparently his fondling another girl doesn't phase Darwin at all.
- Male Lady was there. Kelly and I had gone outside to the patio to avoid the heat, the crowd and, of course, the Male Lady and she followed us out. Kelly said, "Have you met my friend Marin?" and the Male Lady looked right at me and said, "No."
- I picked up the tab for The Boy and I (Kelly had stopped drinking like a very good designated driver. Is it any wonder we love Kelly?). He offered to pay or chip in, but, kinda like my accidental stalker nightmares, I don't ever want to get caught in a place where I feel like someone is one up on me. If I never see The Boy again, and he goes on to a long happy life of fondling other girls, I want to know I went out on the high road. Calvin and Darwin -- both trying to kill me. The Boy said, "OK, I'll get yours next time." Y'all have been there. You know there's a lunatic place where a boy says something like that and you perk up and file it under the concept of some sort of future.
- As an extension of that lunatic place where vague mentions of future plans start looking like white picket fences, when Kelly and The Boy took me home, we were talking about an outdoor movie series that takes place in the summer across the street from my townhome (the night we met, he'd stopped to get a pizza next door to Favourite Bar on his way to said movie and spent the night with me instead. So there.) and about my large, friendly deck, and The Boy said, "We should come to your house before the movies." I said, "Yeah, hang out on the deck, grill something, have a beer, go to the movie..." I get a little fuzzy here, because the three of us went on to talk of many things we can do when the weather's nice (I may also be a little fuzzy because of the several beers because it was St. Patrick's Day) and I no longer remember where we were in the conversation or for what reason I'm supposed to call The Boy, but he told me to call him. I reminded him in a not un-pointed tone that I don't have his phone number anymore. He told me to get it from Kelly and call. "I'd give it to you right now, but I'm a little drunk to dial." I said, "Think hard -- do you really want me to have your phone number?" "Yeah, of course. Sure. Just call me."
It's this kind of minute attention to slippery details that makes it so hard for me to get over boys of all kinds, but Boys in particular. I weigh every nuance against every clue against every emotional possibility and I don't sleep for days. If I slept I wouldn't have nearly enough time to obsess properly.
[SUMMARY: I need help. I need The Boy's phone number. I really need help.]
Now, you may remember I was slated to take my father to the airport at 4:00 Sunday morning. When I got home at midnight, there was a message from my brother saying he'd be happy to do it. So I called to accept his generous offer and to drunk-dial-style ramble about my shitstorm of the evening, and the call waiting rang in.
"Oh my fucking god," I said, "it's the PNhead."
"Really?" said my brother (or something like that -- he may read this, so I don't dare misquote).
When I got off the phone a few minutes later, I decided (naturally) that since I didn't have to be sober and mobile at 4:00, I should maybe go back to Other Favourite Bar and wind down from all The Boy stuff. I got a block from home and saw the Male Lady's car heading toward Other Favourite Bar. She parked and walked about a block ahead of me right to Other Favourite Bar. When I got in and found a spot at the bar, she came up and said, "Didn't I just meet you?" (I wanted to say, "Didn't you just call me?")
I said, "That was me. Are you following me?" striving for that playful tone most commonly used in phrases like, "Hot enough for you?"
She said, "No," in what I believe was a defensive way, fully indicative of her guilt in the matter, and disappeared to the back of the bar.
I had a beer. A boy hit on me (the Prism Effect lasts for up to an hour after I disengage from The Boy). I went home and slept.
[SUMMARY: Wow. I sure can make mountains out of molehills, but when the molehills are that close, they look so much bigger than they are. Objects in the mirror...]
I knit a LOT on Sunday. It was a good day for on-my-ass time. I'm almost done with Kelly's Branching Out, have made significant progress on Pink Magic, am trying hard not to ignore the Stupid Blanket and finished two repeats on the Heathers ("I love my dead, gay son!")
(Nope. Not over that yet.)
With any luck, I'll F a couple of Os this week and have pretty pictures to post soon. Because you know knitting pictures make everything better.
[SUMMARY: Despite the fact that this blog seems to have *nothing* to do with knitting, I am still knitting. Heathers quotes are still funny. To me.]
**FOOTNOTE (unasterisked): Do you watch South Park? I need an Accountabilibuddy. Someone who, like the posses of professional athletes, will not only keep me company, but will be around to keep my judgment within normal limits and provide a witness to the various shitstorms life has to offer. If Kobe Bryant had had an Accountabilibuddy, he never would have had to go through the shitstorm in Eagle County. I'm just sayin'.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Giggity
I put more than 1200 miles on the Cutest Little Car in the Whole Wide World last week. In fact, she turned over to 10,000 miles on the Douglas Highway, halfway to Gillete, Wyoming. Well, halfway as far as the Douglas Highway portion of the trip. Not so much halfway from home. Anyway, we celebrated by visiting a pumpjack and chasing rabbits.
The pumpjack. The rabbits are long gone.
Note the level of filth on Cutest Little Car. I wish you could see the back -- you can't even see where the window is or what the license plate says. She wants to be a Jeep when she grows up.
How could you not love that? Of course, there can be weather issues. For instance, just west of Ranchester (really), this is where I came from:
Cloudy, but dry
And this is where I'm going (in the north loop of the Big Horn Mountains).
That's snow in them thar hills
I had a spiffy photo of the blizzard I braved (right off the dash of the car, only about 100 feet of visibility), but it somehow didn't make it off the camera or something, so you'll have to imagine that along with all of Gillette.
I got to Basin about 4:30, just early enough to get a taste of what I was up against, but not long enough to do actual work.
Basin County Courthouse
I asked a nice lady in the courthouse if she could recommend a place to stay. The fact that she said, "In BASIN?" with such naked shock did not bode well for the tourist prospects of one Basin, Wyoming. She sent me back to Greybull (you can check a Wyoming map if it's really important to you to see exactly where I've been) and recommended I stay at the Greybull Motel, definitely the nicest place in town. "If you can't get into the Greybull... um... I guess the Antlers is your next best bet."
On the drive betwixt Basin and Greybull (all eight miles of it), I had misgivings. What if the Greybull Motel was some fancy place that was $120 a night and I'd somehow given the impression I was accustomed to (or in the market for) a Waldorf-Astoria experience right there in northern Wyoming? I needn't have worried.
This is the beadspread in Room 104 of the Greybull Motel... Cowboys AND Indians!
These are the two chairs in Room 104 of the Greybull Motel
This is the ducky valance in Room 104 of the Greybull Motel
This is the ACTUAL ROPE glued to the ceiling (over the festive and thematic wallpaper border) in the bathroom of Room 104 of the Greybull Motel
I loved the Greybull Motel. It was $44 a night, spotless to the point of antiseptic and the proprietor was as nice as nice could be. And kitsch like this deserves a little blogphoto space. If you're ever in Greybull (how many times in your life do you think you'll hear/see a sentence that begins "If you're ever in Greybull..."?) I definitely recommend the Greybull Motel.
Side note: I wandered to one of the (near as I can tell) two restaurants in Greybull that are not Subway and ordered a salad. When the little waitress girl with all the eyeliner brought my "salad," I almost, was *this far* (fingers nearly touching) from saying, "I didn't order a hamburger." See, the "salad" consisted of several large iceberg lettuce leaves (the sort normally associated with hamburger garnish), several rings of onion (the sort normally associated with hamburger garnish), two slices of tomato (the sort normally... you get it by now) and four dill chips. The small tub of dressing on the side was the only concession to the concept of salad. Sometimes it's hard to get good food in small towns. Next time, I'll try the Subway.
[SUMMARY: The Greybull Motel would make Martha Stewart stroke out, but it's the kitschy coolest best. Don't eat at Ernesto's in Greybull.]
Actual work was accomplished on Friday. Slow work. I had to make 168 pages of copies off microfiche, which is usually a fairly quick and easy task, but Big Horn County has the world's strangest microfiche printing system. I don't know if you've ever printed off microfiche before, but you usually line up your doc in the MF reader, press the giant orange (or green) button and voila! Seconds later, a copy!
With this one, you have to line it up, shut a cover (like a copy machine, but on the screen. Never seen anything like it), press "enter" on the computer to which it is hooked up, wait 45 seconds for the computer to process, wait 30 seconds for the scan to go down -- mysteriously, behind closed doors -- on the scanner, wait 30 seconds for it to get to the (slow) printer, wait 15 seconds for the paper to make its way all the way from the paper tray to the output tray.
The lifecycle of the Big Horn microfiche printer, ladies and gentlemen.
After about ten pages of this, I went to the car and got my knitting (it should be noted, for illustration, that my car was roughly one block -- part of which includes the stairs you see in the photo of the courthouse -- from the microfiche machine, and I hit "enter" just before I went to the car and it was just finishing printing when I returned. I did not run). I knitted TEN ROWS (For those of you scoring at home, that's five times the rows knitted during four hours of "America's Next Top Model, the Marathon" over the previous weekend) on the Stupid Blanket.
Big Horn workspace, plus MF reader and the Stupid Blanket at work
As you can see, I had a fascinating few days. Y'all are fascinated. Y'all are contemplating a career in landmanning. Y'all only wish you could work with MF machines all day (and believe me, MF takes on its darker meaning pretty quick when you waste... um, SPEND... four-plus hours printing documents on a slow-ass machine).
At least I got some knitting done.
[SUMMARY: Despite the fact that I worked with a slow MF machine all frickin' day Friday, land work is FASCINATING. Everybody wants to be a landman 'cause you get so much knitting time.]
Tomorrow: our heroine reveals the THREE new scarves she's already knitting, along with the TWO scarves she's going to knit and ONE pair of socks for which she just bought yarn. (Three! THREE BEAUTIFUL UFOs! And three! THREE BEAUTIFUL USO's!** MWAHAHAHAHAHAHA! lightning... bats...**)
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): USO = UnStarted Object, in case that's not already common knitting parlance.
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): That's The Count from Sesame Street, in case you couldn't get it through the narrative sound effects.
**FOOTNOTE (unasterisked): Male Lady alert! Upon return from the wilds of Wyoming, I had a message from Kelly from Thursday night saying, "Wyoming girl! Where are you? When are you coming home? The Boy** was doing laundry next door to Re-Favourite Bar** and Male Lady** sent her son in and then she called my cell phone and said he'd never cared for me and..." (then my VM cut her off and I had to wait HOURS until Saturday afternoon before I could find out what happened)
For the record? Call from PNhead at 6:42 Thursday evening, about the time Male Lady sent her son into Re-Favourite Bar after Kelly and The Boy. I'm telling you, it's enough to make me want a taser for my purse.
**FOOTNOTE WITHIN A FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Kelly uses their actual names.
*************
On a not even tangential note, Duke should NOT get a six seed in The Tournament. I am a long-time Duke fan when it comes to March Madness (read: not so much the lacrosse team), but even I know better. In fact, I may go so far to say Duke should have been benched in favour of bubble-y little Drexel, who probably deserves the slot more.
Please don't tell Coach K I said so.
The pumpjack. The rabbits are long gone.
Note the level of filth on Cutest Little Car. I wish you could see the back -- you can't even see where the window is or what the license plate says. She wants to be a Jeep when she grows up.
(I know, I know. I'll get stuck like a mosquito in amber if I produce any more sap. I'll stop.)
So I worked in Gillette, where I probably should have taken more pictures because Gillette has a lot to offer, photo-op-wise. There's an enormous amount of outdoor art in Gillette. In fact, in the "downtown" portion of Gillette, there is a sculpture of some sort on every single street corner. We're talking upwards of 20 street corners, plus some random non-streetcorner art. Most are cowboys or eagles or what you might expect from a relatively small western mining/ranching city, but there's a handful of abstract modern sculpture and -- for reasons unknown -- a panda mommy cradling a panda baby while eating a bamboo frond that dribbles out of her mouth almost to the ground. I love that sculpture. There's something weird about the proportions or something, so it looks odd. Besides, it's so out of place. It's right in front of a Savings & Loan.
There's also a liquor store with one of those adjustable signs that said, "Adult Day Care." Now, that could just be funny, but in smallish cities like Gillette, buildings are often shared by odd bedfellows (as in there could potentially actually be an adult day care centre sharing the building with the liquor store... probably not IN the actual liquor store, but guess where I'd want to go when I need adult day care if it is). I really, really wanted a picture of that to post here, but I forgot about it until I was halfway to Basin (see below). It should tell you something about my level of commitment (read: insanity) that I seriously contemplated going back to Gillette just for that image.
Oh! And The Goings. The Goings may be a sort of nightclub in the Chop House restaurant (I've never been. I'm making up my own stories about what goes on in the backrooms and barrooms of Gillette). On the side of the building is this enormous, spooky, black-n-white painting of a train COMING RIGHT AT YOU. It's onimous (or even ominous) and very gothy (which has to do with vampires and moping and Bauhaus and stuff, as opposed to "gothic" which is a lovely type of novel or architecture), though I'm guessing that's not what the artist or proprietors were going for.
So you can just imagine all those pictures I *didn't* take. Um... and add antelope to that little photo album in your head. Wyoming is lousy with antelope. There may be more antelope than ants in Wyoming, but I managed to get not a single antelope picture.
(Going through my head right now: "...where the beer and the canteloupe play...la la la")
(Going through my head right now: "...where the beer and the canteloupe play...la la la")
[SUMMARY: a thousand words hopefully paint a picture, since I didn't get actual photos of stuff I'm willing to describe at great length.]
After Gillette, I headed to Basin, county seat of Big Horn County.
Three things I truly love about my work:
Three things I truly love about my work:
- It's very project-oriented and I do lots of different things for lots of different clients, which is really good for everybody involved because I have a short attention span and tend to get petulant and recalcitrant if hemmed in by too many daily-weekly-monthly-quarterly tasks.
- I get to deal with families and people all over the west. Sometimes I just run their mineral title through county records (I frequently run records from US Patent -- some time in the late 1800s -- to present) and I get to make up stories about what happened through the years. There are places where I can see women having illegitimate children on the prairie (certainly a no-no in 1896), men having illegitimate children and their wives and legitimate children probably not finding out until the will is read, sex changes (more than you may think in rural Wyoming, Utah and Colorado), large families, small families, single families that have owned the same lands and ranches for more than a hundred years... it's fascinating.
- I get to drive right into beauty like this:
Heading to the Big Horn Mountains
How could you not love that? Of course, there can be weather issues. For instance, just west of Ranchester (really), this is where I came from:
Cloudy, but dry
And this is where I'm going (in the north loop of the Big Horn Mountains).
That's snow in them thar hills
I had a spiffy photo of the blizzard I braved (right off the dash of the car, only about 100 feet of visibility), but it somehow didn't make it off the camera or something, so you'll have to imagine that along with all of Gillette.
I got to Basin about 4:30, just early enough to get a taste of what I was up against, but not long enough to do actual work.
Basin County Courthouse
I asked a nice lady in the courthouse if she could recommend a place to stay. The fact that she said, "In BASIN?" with such naked shock did not bode well for the tourist prospects of one Basin, Wyoming. She sent me back to Greybull (you can check a Wyoming map if it's really important to you to see exactly where I've been) and recommended I stay at the Greybull Motel, definitely the nicest place in town. "If you can't get into the Greybull... um... I guess the Antlers is your next best bet."
On the drive betwixt Basin and Greybull (all eight miles of it), I had misgivings. What if the Greybull Motel was some fancy place that was $120 a night and I'd somehow given the impression I was accustomed to (or in the market for) a Waldorf-Astoria experience right there in northern Wyoming? I needn't have worried.
This is the beadspread in Room 104 of the Greybull Motel... Cowboys AND Indians!
These are the two chairs in Room 104 of the Greybull Motel
This is the ducky valance in Room 104 of the Greybull Motel
This is the ACTUAL ROPE glued to the ceiling (over the festive and thematic wallpaper border) in the bathroom of Room 104 of the Greybull Motel
I loved the Greybull Motel. It was $44 a night, spotless to the point of antiseptic and the proprietor was as nice as nice could be. And kitsch like this deserves a little blogphoto space. If you're ever in Greybull (how many times in your life do you think you'll hear/see a sentence that begins "If you're ever in Greybull..."?) I definitely recommend the Greybull Motel.
Side note: I wandered to one of the (near as I can tell) two restaurants in Greybull that are not Subway and ordered a salad. When the little waitress girl with all the eyeliner brought my "salad," I almost, was *this far* (fingers nearly touching) from saying, "I didn't order a hamburger." See, the "salad" consisted of several large iceberg lettuce leaves (the sort normally associated with hamburger garnish), several rings of onion (the sort normally associated with hamburger garnish), two slices of tomato (the sort normally... you get it by now) and four dill chips. The small tub of dressing on the side was the only concession to the concept of salad. Sometimes it's hard to get good food in small towns. Next time, I'll try the Subway.
[SUMMARY: The Greybull Motel would make Martha Stewart stroke out, but it's the kitschy coolest best. Don't eat at Ernesto's in Greybull.]
Actual work was accomplished on Friday. Slow work. I had to make 168 pages of copies off microfiche, which is usually a fairly quick and easy task, but Big Horn County has the world's strangest microfiche printing system. I don't know if you've ever printed off microfiche before, but you usually line up your doc in the MF reader, press the giant orange (or green) button and voila! Seconds later, a copy!
With this one, you have to line it up, shut a cover (like a copy machine, but on the screen. Never seen anything like it), press "enter" on the computer to which it is hooked up, wait 45 seconds for the computer to process, wait 30 seconds for the scan to go down -- mysteriously, behind closed doors -- on the scanner, wait 30 seconds for it to get to the (slow) printer, wait 15 seconds for the paper to make its way all the way from the paper tray to the output tray.
The lifecycle of the Big Horn microfiche printer, ladies and gentlemen.
After about ten pages of this, I went to the car and got my knitting (it should be noted, for illustration, that my car was roughly one block -- part of which includes the stairs you see in the photo of the courthouse -- from the microfiche machine, and I hit "enter" just before I went to the car and it was just finishing printing when I returned. I did not run). I knitted TEN ROWS (For those of you scoring at home, that's five times the rows knitted during four hours of "America's Next Top Model, the Marathon" over the previous weekend) on the Stupid Blanket.
Big Horn workspace, plus MF reader and the Stupid Blanket at work
As you can see, I had a fascinating few days. Y'all are fascinated. Y'all are contemplating a career in landmanning. Y'all only wish you could work with MF machines all day (and believe me, MF takes on its darker meaning pretty quick when you waste... um, SPEND... four-plus hours printing documents on a slow-ass machine).
At least I got some knitting done.
[SUMMARY: Despite the fact that I worked with a slow MF machine all frickin' day Friday, land work is FASCINATING. Everybody wants to be a landman 'cause you get so much knitting time.]
Tomorrow: our heroine reveals the THREE new scarves she's already knitting, along with the TWO scarves she's going to knit and ONE pair of socks for which she just bought yarn. (Three! THREE BEAUTIFUL UFOs! And three! THREE BEAUTIFUL USO's!** MWAHAHAHAHAHAHA! lightning... bats...**)
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): USO = UnStarted Object, in case that's not already common knitting parlance.
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): That's The Count from Sesame Street, in case you couldn't get it through the narrative sound effects.
**FOOTNOTE (unasterisked): Male Lady alert! Upon return from the wilds of Wyoming, I had a message from Kelly from Thursday night saying, "Wyoming girl! Where are you? When are you coming home? The Boy** was doing laundry next door to Re-Favourite Bar** and Male Lady** sent her son in and then she called my cell phone and said he'd never cared for me and..." (then my VM cut her off and I had to wait HOURS until Saturday afternoon before I could find out what happened)
For the record? Call from PNhead at 6:42 Thursday evening, about the time Male Lady sent her son into Re-Favourite Bar after Kelly and The Boy. I'm telling you, it's enough to make me want a taser for my purse.
**FOOTNOTE WITHIN A FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Kelly uses their actual names.
*************
On a not even tangential note, Duke should NOT get a six seed in The Tournament. I am a long-time Duke fan when it comes to March Madness (read: not so much the lacrosse team), but even I know better. In fact, I may go so far to say Duke should have been benched in favour of bubble-y little Drexel, who probably deserves the slot more.
Please don't tell Coach K I said so.
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Stalker McNutjob, the PNhead from Hell
My ex-boything's stalker is stalking me.
OK, I don't *know* this, but when The Boy and I were still an us, I left a note on his door one day and it had my home and cell numbers on the bottom. He never got it.
That's when I learned about Stalker McNutjob (how long do you think it's going to be before the Description McDescription name construct ceases to be funny AT ALL. It's my first attempt at the McFunnyname thing, but I'm generally sooooo out of touch... I imagine any eight-year-old, coke-bottle-glassed, computer nerdy playground fodder named "Percy" knows it's already passe. Hey, is there a way to do accent marks on this thing?), who is his freakin' POSTAL CARRIER (Kelly calls her the Mail Lady, which I hear as "Male Lady" and I giggle like someone said "penis" in gym class, 'specially since the Male Lady most closely resembles, in form, Ben Roethlisberger) and how Kelly and The Boy started out trying to be friendly but she started knocking on his door and calling him all hours of the day and night (even after he told her to fuck off, and remember, The Boy doesn't cuss AT ALL EVER, except in the extreme case of extremely persistent stalker Male Ladies) she stole Kelly's mail, threatened to tell people The Boy abused her if he reported her to the US Postal Service, texted him 40 times a day (what 42-year-old TEXTS, for fuck's sake?), probably stole my note... and I was sorely worried that she had my phone numbers. Y'all can imagine. For the record, nothing happened at the time. Least not so's I noticed.
Fast forward, Friday night:
Kelly and I went to Re-Favourite Bar Friday night at about 7:30 and Stalker was there. And she glared. The Boy showed up later (based on what you're about to read, I'm going to guess around 10:15) and sat with us and Stalker glared. And left. And came back. And Kelly and The Boy left at about midnight (I pitched a small, quiet, *ahem* ladylike fit about how The Boy wouldn't want to be stuck in the car with me -- martyr much? -- so they should go on without me and save themselves and I would just walk home, uphill, in the cold... I'm four). And Stalker watched Kelly's car, craning her neck to see the taillights disappear down 32nd Ave. And she moved a couple chairs closer to me at the bar and glared. And she brushed by me on the way to the bathroom (do evil demon-spawn stalkers have bladders? I would think being a minion of Satan, one of the perqs would be no need for bodily function) and said, "He doesn't want you around anymore?"
And I looked at her with what I hope was arch amusement (I've always wanted to be arch) and said, "Dunno. [*shrug*] But at least I don't go where I'm not wanted."
******TANGENT*******
THINGS I WISH I'D THOUGHT TO SAY WHEN THE MALE LADY SAID, "HE DOESN'T WANT YOU AROUND ANYMORE?":
"Who?"
"Um... are you hoping? I'm flattered, but I don't swing that way."
"Mom, you have to quit following me around like this."
"Ben? Ben Roethlisberger?"
"NO! DON'T TOUCH ME THERE!"
I'm four. I'm four and I'm a pervert.
******END TANGENT*******
Seriously, thought I was going to barf. The adrenaline rush about killed me. I didn't see her after that, and I figure she left shortly thereafter.
SO... I got home Friday night (technically Saturday morning) at about 1:00. The next morning on my way to a friend's, I saw a missed call on my cell from "Private Name/Private Number" at 10:24 pm Friday night**. No message.
When I got home later that afternoon, I flipped through my caller ID on the home line.
I know y'all can see this from a mile away. As oblivious as I am, that's how totally clear y'all are on where this is going. Believe you me, I had no thought at the time that this might be a stalking situation. I was just curious who might have called because I'm a weirdo who sees the message light blinking and, instead of checking messages like a normal human being, I flip through the CID for a PREVIEW of messages to come (I also look at mail and say, "Scranton? Do I know anyone in Scranton? It's clearly a fancy invite thingy, like a wedding invitation. Who would be inviting me to a wedding in Scranton? Did I know anyone in college from Scranton?..." instead of opening it to find out. I'm four AND I'm a dork. And possibly a pervert.)
Anyway...
Checked the home CID, PN/PN (I think I'll call her PNhead) called at 10:26 Friday night**. I felt a luscious little frisson at the drama of it all.
Last night, I took Kelly to bond with Laurie-without-a-link and the Suburban Sedation Crew (Robin, Amy and Angela), after which we decided to stop at Re-Favourite Bar and... yep. Stalker was there. Glaring. We left at 12:15, she left a little before us. This morning, it occurred to me to check the phone. *Honestly,* I *never* thought there would be a repeat. Quite frankly, I was pre-disappointed, figuring it would all be a fluke and what kind of blogfodder would that be? (I'm pretty sure I shouldn't use a weird word like "fodder" twice in one post. Maybe not twice in several months. But it's a good word. And it sounds funny. Go ahead, say it again... fodder**) PNhead showed up on the CID at 12:14 am. I grabbed my cellie -- no PNhead, but an unknown phone number at 2:01 pm yesterday. I reverse-directoried it to find it's an unlisted cell phone. Hmmmm.
AAAACCCCKKKKKKKK!!!!!
Y'ALL... sitting here, not two minutes ago, PNhead called! (At 11:11! Ay-em! On Sunday, March 4, 2007! Make note so you can tell the police when they find my poor body in a shallow grave, the victim of a massive football-style tackling death). And when I answered ('cause, what... I wasn't going to answer?) *click*
I'm taking notes. All the call times, where Stalker was, where I was, where Kelly was, if there were appletinis involved. If I end up dead in a ditch, y'all can point the police to this site as evidence of Stalker activity.
Is it wrong that it's a little thrilling to be so much under the skin of someone you've never really met that they want to stalk you? I feel like Jodi Foster.
Am I obsessing?
*Shouldn't* one obsess about a stalker Male Lady?
[SUMMARY: I'm being stalked by my anti-stalker's stalker. Maybe. I'd even go so far as "probably." I'd definitely go so far as to use the word "fodder" twice in one story. I may also be four and a pervert.]
Now, about the knitting: Kelly asked last night what it would take to con me out of a handknit scarf. Now, do I leap on it like a duck on a junebug (an action I've never personally seen, but it's picturesque enough that I like to use the phrase. Besides, I like ducks) or do I play hard-to-get and make her feel I'M doing a favour for HER?
That's a moot point, and a question posed to make me sound cool enough, just for only a moment, that you might think I didn't fall all over her going, "Yes! Please! Scarf! How many?"
I'm actually already thinking of a nice, bulky-yarned cable scarf and Aunt Purl's Brangelina Hat to match. (remember here that I'm not over-sophisticated with this blogstuff, so that Brangelina Hat link is SUPPOSED to take you right to the hat itself, but if you just end up on Aunt Purl's home page and you have a desperate need to SEE the Brangelina Hat, it's on the 4/6/06 post)
[SUMMARY: The knitting? Serious dork addiction. But Kelly will probably benefit with the scarf she requested and a bonus, matching hat named after a People Magazine-style name combination (Brangelina).]
Did y'all see the OUTSTANDING comment Marcia made on my virgin voyage post? And I love her blog so, it's like a little celebrity endorsement all my own. I sent it to my brother with a long, highly exclamation pointed message about how someone READ MY BLOG! SOMEONE I LIKE AND ADMIRE! Oh, dear gods, I'm a dork. But apparently a cute dork and a dork Marcia reads. And if it's just Marcia and me from here on out, that's better than I may have hoped. Hi, Marcia! I'm your new best friend! (I'm pretty sure Marcia goes by Marcy, and I think I already referred to her once as such, but then I realised I'm might not be spelling Marcy right. Or Marcie right, as the case may be)
[SUMMARY: Marcia/Marcy/Marcie said really nice stuff and now she gets me as her new best friend!]
It's sunny outside (if you've seen the Denver weather over the last two or three months, you know what a rarity that is). I'm going to go play. Y'all have a nice Sunday, and if the police come knocking at your door, tell 'em the Male Lady did it.
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked and everything): Sorry... I know all these dates and times are boring in a way that is highly reminiscent of learning all the Civil War battles, but I think it builds my case. And leaves a good evidence trail. Hey, just because I'm paranoid...
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked the second!): "Hello mudder, hello fodder, here I am where stalkers bodder..."
OK, I don't *know* this, but when The Boy and I were still an us, I left a note on his door one day and it had my home and cell numbers on the bottom. He never got it.
That's when I learned about Stalker McNutjob (how long do you think it's going to be before the Description McDescription name construct ceases to be funny AT ALL. It's my first attempt at the McFunnyname thing, but I'm generally sooooo out of touch... I imagine any eight-year-old, coke-bottle-glassed, computer nerdy playground fodder named "Percy" knows it's already passe. Hey, is there a way to do accent marks on this thing?), who is his freakin' POSTAL CARRIER (Kelly calls her the Mail Lady, which I hear as "Male Lady" and I giggle like someone said "penis" in gym class, 'specially since the Male Lady most closely resembles, in form, Ben Roethlisberger) and how Kelly and The Boy started out trying to be friendly but she started knocking on his door and calling him all hours of the day and night (even after he told her to fuck off, and remember, The Boy doesn't cuss AT ALL EVER, except in the extreme case of extremely persistent stalker Male Ladies) she stole Kelly's mail, threatened to tell people The Boy abused her if he reported her to the US Postal Service, texted him 40 times a day (what 42-year-old TEXTS, for fuck's sake?), probably stole my note... and I was sorely worried that she had my phone numbers. Y'all can imagine. For the record, nothing happened at the time. Least not so's I noticed.
Fast forward, Friday night:
Kelly and I went to Re-Favourite Bar Friday night at about 7:30 and Stalker was there. And she glared. The Boy showed up later (based on what you're about to read, I'm going to guess around 10:15) and sat with us and Stalker glared. And left. And came back. And Kelly and The Boy left at about midnight (I pitched a small, quiet, *ahem* ladylike fit about how The Boy wouldn't want to be stuck in the car with me -- martyr much? -- so they should go on without me and save themselves and I would just walk home, uphill, in the cold... I'm four). And Stalker watched Kelly's car, craning her neck to see the taillights disappear down 32nd Ave. And she moved a couple chairs closer to me at the bar and glared. And she brushed by me on the way to the bathroom (do evil demon-spawn stalkers have bladders? I would think being a minion of Satan, one of the perqs would be no need for bodily function) and said, "He doesn't want you around anymore?"
And I looked at her with what I hope was arch amusement (I've always wanted to be arch) and said, "Dunno. [*shrug*] But at least I don't go where I'm not wanted."
******TANGENT*******
THINGS I WISH I'D THOUGHT TO SAY WHEN THE MALE LADY SAID, "HE DOESN'T WANT YOU AROUND ANYMORE?":
"Who?"
"Um... are you hoping? I'm flattered, but I don't swing that way."
"Mom, you have to quit following me around like this."
"Ben? Ben Roethlisberger?"
"NO! DON'T TOUCH ME THERE!"
I'm four. I'm four and I'm a pervert.
******END TANGENT*******
Seriously, thought I was going to barf. The adrenaline rush about killed me. I didn't see her after that, and I figure she left shortly thereafter.
SO... I got home Friday night (technically Saturday morning) at about 1:00. The next morning on my way to a friend's, I saw a missed call on my cell from "Private Name/Private Number" at 10:24 pm Friday night**. No message.
When I got home later that afternoon, I flipped through my caller ID on the home line.
I know y'all can see this from a mile away. As oblivious as I am, that's how totally clear y'all are on where this is going. Believe you me, I had no thought at the time that this might be a stalking situation. I was just curious who might have called because I'm a weirdo who sees the message light blinking and, instead of checking messages like a normal human being, I flip through the CID for a PREVIEW of messages to come (I also look at mail and say, "Scranton? Do I know anyone in Scranton? It's clearly a fancy invite thingy, like a wedding invitation. Who would be inviting me to a wedding in Scranton? Did I know anyone in college from Scranton?..." instead of opening it to find out. I'm four AND I'm a dork. And possibly a pervert.)
Anyway...
Checked the home CID, PN/PN (I think I'll call her PNhead) called at 10:26 Friday night**. I felt a luscious little frisson at the drama of it all.
Last night, I took Kelly to bond with Laurie-without-a-link and the Suburban Sedation Crew (Robin, Amy and Angela), after which we decided to stop at Re-Favourite Bar and... yep. Stalker was there. Glaring. We left at 12:15, she left a little before us. This morning, it occurred to me to check the phone. *Honestly,* I *never* thought there would be a repeat. Quite frankly, I was pre-disappointed, figuring it would all be a fluke and what kind of blogfodder would that be? (I'm pretty sure I shouldn't use a weird word like "fodder" twice in one post. Maybe not twice in several months. But it's a good word. And it sounds funny. Go ahead, say it again... fodder**) PNhead showed up on the CID at 12:14 am. I grabbed my cellie -- no PNhead, but an unknown phone number at 2:01 pm yesterday. I reverse-directoried it to find it's an unlisted cell phone. Hmmmm.
AAAACCCCKKKKKKKK!!!!!
Y'ALL... sitting here, not two minutes ago, PNhead called! (At 11:11! Ay-em! On Sunday, March 4, 2007! Make note so you can tell the police when they find my poor body in a shallow grave, the victim of a massive football-style tackling death). And when I answered ('cause, what... I wasn't going to answer?) *click*
I'm taking notes. All the call times, where Stalker was, where I was, where Kelly was, if there were appletinis involved. If I end up dead in a ditch, y'all can point the police to this site as evidence of Stalker activity.
Is it wrong that it's a little thrilling to be so much under the skin of someone you've never really met that they want to stalk you? I feel like Jodi Foster.
Am I obsessing?
*Shouldn't* one obsess about a stalker Male Lady?
[SUMMARY: I'm being stalked by my anti-stalker's stalker. Maybe. I'd even go so far as "probably." I'd definitely go so far as to use the word "fodder" twice in one story. I may also be four and a pervert.]
Now, about the knitting: Kelly asked last night what it would take to con me out of a handknit scarf. Now, do I leap on it like a duck on a junebug (an action I've never personally seen, but it's picturesque enough that I like to use the phrase. Besides, I like ducks) or do I play hard-to-get and make her feel I'M doing a favour for HER?
That's a moot point, and a question posed to make me sound cool enough, just for only a moment, that you might think I didn't fall all over her going, "Yes! Please! Scarf! How many?"
I'm actually already thinking of a nice, bulky-yarned cable scarf and Aunt Purl's Brangelina Hat to match. (remember here that I'm not over-sophisticated with this blogstuff, so that Brangelina Hat link is SUPPOSED to take you right to the hat itself, but if you just end up on Aunt Purl's home page and you have a desperate need to SEE the Brangelina Hat, it's on the 4/6/06 post)
[SUMMARY: The knitting? Serious dork addiction. But Kelly will probably benefit with the scarf she requested and a bonus, matching hat named after a People Magazine-style name combination (Brangelina).]
Did y'all see the OUTSTANDING comment Marcia made on my virgin voyage post? And I love her blog so, it's like a little celebrity endorsement all my own. I sent it to my brother with a long, highly exclamation pointed message about how someone READ MY BLOG! SOMEONE I LIKE AND ADMIRE! Oh, dear gods, I'm a dork. But apparently a cute dork and a dork Marcia reads. And if it's just Marcia and me from here on out, that's better than I may have hoped. Hi, Marcia! I'm your new best friend! (I'm pretty sure Marcia goes by Marcy, and I think I already referred to her once as such, but then I realised I'm might not be spelling Marcy right. Or Marcie right, as the case may be)
[SUMMARY: Marcia/Marcy/Marcie said really nice stuff and now she gets me as her new best friend!]
It's sunny outside (if you've seen the Denver weather over the last two or three months, you know what a rarity that is). I'm going to go play. Y'all have a nice Sunday, and if the police come knocking at your door, tell 'em the Male Lady did it.
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked and everything): Sorry... I know all these dates and times are boring in a way that is highly reminiscent of learning all the Civil War battles, but I think it builds my case. And leaves a good evidence trail. Hey, just because I'm paranoid...
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked the second!): "Hello mudder, hello fodder, here I am where stalkers bodder..."
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