Excuse #4

The "Why I Have Neglected My Blog" series:

I have moments of extreme guilt over not properly lauding My Friends at Nintendo, my Year Long Swap Pal, Anna-Liza and others who have sent me lovely things that I'm really very grateful for and I want to put up pictures, but there's this thing with a camera cable...

I am a Grateful Show-Off

LOOK! This is the last batch of stuff before I hid my camera cable from myself.

I love it! My swap pal is the BEST! She's so awfully clever - just look at the knitting pirates.

There's more! I've received a full complement of spiffy stuff from Swap Pal.

More will come, but until then, oooh and aaah at the pretty, pretty bounty.

Still-secret Swap Pal, I am truly grateful despite my callous ways.

















And this! Because The Moo loves me, she has contributed to my collection of Stupid Sparkly Sweethearts!

I'm going for eBay glory one of these days...




And a SKULL bag. For the grocery store. So the crunchy granola kids who check me out at Sunflower Market can tell me how rad I am.




Yep. Those are my friends: giving me the illusion of radosity for nearly 43 years now.

Double Crap!

The comments are often interesting. Sometimes, they're downright hilarious. Today, they were humbling, as Kari reminded me of a little oversight† on my part.

I was so busy talking about myself and saying things to make Kim hate me‡ that I completely forgot to tell y'all that Hans got a job too.§ Same place. We'll probably still have adjoining offices.¶

*whew*

There.

Back on the high road.#


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): *cough*

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Dear Kim, I've said it before:

"Look at me," said the star, "I'm shining so brightly." Then it went supernova. The moral of this story is obvious. - Tanith Lee, The Silver Metal Lover

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): And he doesn't even have to be one of my minions.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): There is some chance I will have to move to the other side of our floor, given my two extant minions office there and it's where the empty offices where the two TBD minions will likely live.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Where a saint-in-training belongs.

Please Don't Tell Anyone...

I just spent most of an hour on hold via the voice mail system at the State of New Mexico trying to get through to somebody to let them know the Energy, Mining and Natural Resources Department website had gone 404.

It was when I was noting in my email to the webmaster that nobody was answering the phone that I remembered this is a holiday.

For some people.

So happy Columbus Day to each and every one of you.

Herringbone: That's What She Said

I should be embarrassed to post this.†

If I had any pride% at all...

[SUMMARY: The crux of the biscuit.]

'Cause, see, I finished these socks, what? A month ago? Maybe more?‡

There is one tiny mitigating factor: I was waiting for Kim to get them§ so I didn't step¶ on her glory.

You've been on the edge of your seat this whole time, right?#

[SUMMARY: Socks? What socks? There were socks?]

Here are the pictures I took of Kim's socks in the garden.††






Note the clever calf shaping‡‡:




Public Service Announcement:

Hey, knitters! Toe-up socks are fun and practical and you know all the cool kids are doing them. Just remember, like big boobs and patriotism,§§ the ability to try on socks as you go only works if you USE IT PROPERLY.

[SUMMARY: Do as I say, not as I knit.]

You're welcome.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Since it would be even more embarrassing to reveal that I lost my camera in my own recliner for a panicky twelve hours, I'm calling this the lesser of evils and going with it.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Pride is a SIN. A BIG one. We saints-in-training have no truck with that sort of thing.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Who's counting?

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Turns out that was completely in my control too.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Hahaha! Get it? Socks... step... :D

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): And judging by the series of thuds echoing around the world, holding your breaths too!

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): In the neighbour's garden. They have more green stuff. I was going to explain that I have a red bush, but I know how your mind works and I was trying to avoid the off-colour comments.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): I had the forethought to worry about calves, but not an inkling about ankles.

§§FOOTNOTE (still reeling from the depths): How profound, Mr. Wizard.

Any Idiot Can Have a Blog

I'm living proof.

Remember how I told you Secret Pal's name was Stacey? Or perhaps Stacy?

I got the oddest little note† from her saying, "Well, I'm truly mystified! My name is not Stacey. Why do you think it is? I gotta know."

So I promised her I would look at the note again and figure out where I got it.

*ahem*

Now, I squinted and turned my head 90 degrees to the left and I could see where I came up with "Stacy,"‡ but when I re-read it, it clearly says, "Stay Rickety."§

I told Hans yesterday I remembered her name as Stacey Rickets or something like that.¶

O

M

G

Shoot me now. I'm a danger to myself and others.

I'm once again reminded of how very lucky my clients are to have my sharp, insightful brain dedicated to their company's well-being and future growth.

Now I must go divest.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Possibly far less odd than me randomly assigning her a new name.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): But clearly not "Stacey," though I was so sure of that last week.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): She also used footnotes in a really cute and funny way, which made me laugh and took my mind off my impending downward spiral into madness.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I am sure someday we'll look back on this and laugh. Not today.

***IMPORTANT GLITTER UPDATE***

*ahem*

It has come to my attention that I forgot to mention the make and model of the sequins and beads.

This was in no way an attempt at witless protection for The Yarn. I have not† gone so far afield that I think you can steal my yarn through the Innernets.

The sequin and bead yarn is Artyarns Beaded Silk and Sequins.

Carry on. Nothing further to see here.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Yet.

Hi, My Name is Marin...

(Hi, Marin)

...and I'm bad at dating.

(encouraging applause)

Not in a cutesy, "Oh, isn't dating just the worst... heeheeheeheehee," way, but I'm really and truly terrible at it.

I've been "dating" via the innernets for more than ten years and I'm just fucking awful.

When I go on that first date with someone I've been talking to on Match, I'm filled with apprehension and I render myself unable to talk.†

I grow to dislike and distrust myself, the guy who has to put up with me and -- really -- just about everyone in the world except the waiter who's bringing me a drink.‡

[SUMMARY: You can see why I'm single.]

I'm sure there are several guys out there who wonder how the vibrant, witty creature who intrigued them so on her profile could be the short,§ dull thing that lets the whole evening go one-sided¶ in two minutes flat.#

They probably think I paid someone else to write my profile.

When I have a chance meeting in a happy place,% it's all good. I can tease and flirt and sparkle and revel in my dorkness and my twelveness.

When I email someone for a week or two and set up a date, it feels like a job interview.

[SUMMARY: Guess what I did last night?]

On the plus side, I got to see a lot of DNC stuff -- pretty people in suits going to TiVi interviews, TiVi cameras on every corner,†† vendors selling Obama yearbooks for $40,‡‡ a dog in a baby sling dressed in an Obama photograph, white boater hats with red-white-and-blue grosgrain ribbons 'round the crowns.§§

Riot police in vans... on bikes... on motorbikes... on horseback...¶¶

Protestors and Democrat supporters dressed as hippies... dressed as prisoners... dressed as display racks.##

And the tear gas didn't start until I was back at the office to pick up my purse.††† Two nice security guards in the building apprised me of the spray-painting, window-breaking and the consequent tear-gassing and told me to be careful.

[SUMMARY: They like me! They really like me!]

So at least I have that going for me.
*************

L'Eau d'Hiver - Frederic Malle (edp)

Marin says: I'm anticipating a roll-out on this one. It's the one thing I really expect from a Jean Claude Ellena creation.

The initial blast was citrus, but a carmel scent came up from beneath that pretty quickly. Then something sharp, like menthol.

About a half-hour in, it smells like green wood‡‡‡ and carnation, a wet nature smell like woods after rain.

An hour in, it's wood and carmel.

Four hours down, it's very, very soapy. Meh.

The Perfumed Court says: An Oriental blend of bergamot,$ angelica, iris, hawthorn, jasmine, honey, carnation,$ white heliotrope, caramel$ and musk.

Hans says: Ooooh. That smells like licorice!§§§

†FOOTNOTE (crossed): And the closer I get to date time, the more I want to call in sick.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Charming, no? If it makes you feel any better, I rarely drink more than one on a first date. Surly, paranoid, uncommunicative and drunk. Line up boys, I *am* your dream date!

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Not height. I don't like about my height. But snappish. And monosyllabic. Can you imagine the girl who regularly uses the word "monosyllabic" being monosyllabic?

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): More than one guy has said, "Am I asking too many questions? Is there anything you want to know about me? Is there anything else I should know about you?"

Yes... I can't date.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): The exception that proves the rule is Soldier Boy, which explains why he calls every time he's in town. Psych 101: Soldier Boy was home for two weeks on leave and was returning to Iraq. Stakes were minimal. Expectations were limited.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Like bars, football games, BBQs or the book store.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): News teams from everywhere were getting background/stock footage of DNC crowds. I must've walked through two dozen view screens yesterday. Look for me on a TiVi set near you!

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Yeah, I don't know what an Obama yearbook is either. Or why it's worth $40.

§§FOOTNOTE (wafts): A look I find charming, though it reeks of political events and barbershop quartets.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (meerkats): It was really impressive when they all took off to do riot control last night. I know a lot of people think Denver is still a cowtown, but it's been a long time since horses have galloped down the streets here.

##FOOTNOTE (two pounds, two pints): You know how some people have so many bumper stickers on their cars you wonder if there's anything they won't honk at? There are human equivalents with t-shirts, hats, buttons and banners all over the place.

†††FOOTNOTE (scent strips): I didn't want to take it into the throngs. Just in case. I left it safe in my office.

‡‡‡FOOTNOTE(like tracks through my nose holes): Which is a bitterly green smell.

$FOOTNOTE (on the money!): Ha! Got one!

§§§FOOTNOTE (Hans twirls his hands as he ): Hans got to smell five minutes after I sprayed -- and I bet carmel and menthol smells a lot like licorice.

You Are Not Spam

It's the headline over at the blogger.com dashboard.† It made me laugh.

Then it reminded me of this philosophical nugget‡:

"I'm pink, therefore I'm spam."

Which reminded me of the Arapahoe County Stud Squad, a wholly unofficial social group we started in high school.§ The sign of a fellow member of the ACSS was the Spam key on his keychain.¶

[SUMMARY#: How much more dork? None. None more dork.]

Aren't you glad you boarded my train of thought today? Even if it derailed at the station?

*************
BPAL - Schrödinger's Cat (bewitching brews)

Marin says: It smelled like Campho-Phenique out of the bottle, so I'm guessing benzoin. Then it smelled really fruity -- definitely grapefruit, maybe mango and lime. It mellowed and sweetened and completely lost the fruit after a couple of hours. Now I smell like a subtle, sophisticated Junior Mint and I love it. This is the first of the parfums/oils I really like -- no head shop smell here.

Black Phoenix says: One can even set up quite ridiculous cases. A cat is penned up in a steel chamber, along with the following diabolical device (which must be secured against direct interference by the cat): in a Geiger counter there is a tiny bit of radioactive substance, so small that perhaps in the course of one hour one of the atoms decays, but also, with equal probability, perhaps none; if it happens, the counter tube discharges and through a relay releases a hammer which shatters a small flask of hydrocyanic acid. If one has left this entire system to itself for an hour, one would say that the cat still lives if meanwhile no atom has decayed. The first atomic decay would have poisoned it. The Psi function for the entire system would express this by having in it the living and the dead cat (pardon the expression) mixed or smeared out in equal parts. It is typical of these cases that an indeterminacy originally restricted to the atomic domain becomes transformed into macroscopic indeterminacy, which can then be resolved by direct observation. That prevents us from so naively accepting as valid a "blurred model" for representing reality. In itself it would not embody anything unclear or contradictory. There is a difference between a shaky or out-of-focus photograph and a snapshot of clouds and fog banks.

A paradoxical scent experiment! - tangerine, sugared lime, pink grapefruit,$ oakmoss,†† lavender, zdravetz,‡‡ and chocolate peppermint.$

No cats were mistreated during the formulation of this paradox, or in the process of creating this perfume.

Hans says: "Oh, I like that one. Again."

(waggling fingers in the well-known Hans sign language that means, "Put that wrist up again. I need another sniff.")

"Mmmmm. One more time."

(*waggle*)

"It smells like... laundry. Like... whatsit? Fabric softener."§§


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Apparently, some people's blogs got marked as spam and they got locked out and maybe reprimanded.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Circa 1985.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): We did this a lot. The Lobotomy Club and the Overland High School Under the Table Tone-Deaf Choir and Kazoo Corps were adjunct to the ACSS. I tell you this so you know just how much dork you're dealing with.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): The Spam key was both a sign -- not unlike the Masons' secret handshakes -- and an initiation. The only way to gain membership in the ACSS was to steal a Spam key off a Spam can in the grocery store. I regret our effect on the poor people who got their Spam home only to find themselves keyless. We were young, restless dorks.

I happen to know some of us... um, them... still have Spam keys on their keychains.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): I initially typed "DUMMARY," which may be more appropriate.

$FOOTNOTE (on the money): Ha! Got one!

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Which apparently accounts for the original smell. Once I read that oakmoss smells like turpentine, my original thought of Campho-Phenique made sense. I rearranged the scents in my head and I believe Peppermint + Turpentine = something a lot like Campho-Phenique.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Which I had to look up. And the first thing Google came up with was the MSDS on zdravetz. Scary. But a cool word. Any word with a Z in it has an automatic cool factor.

§§FOOTNOTE (haz mat fumes - getting dizzy): Which is a fairly typical male response to a lot of perfumes. Interestingly enough (and this is the educational portion of today's show), around 1940, manufacturers started putting a particular compound (probably an aldehyde) in laundry detergent that has caused a whole generation to think of the smell of laundry soap as "clean." When the trend in perfumes went to clean (the 90's), many of the "lesser" perfumiers (read: those the French look down on) used the same compound to hearken people to the idea of clean they're programmed to believe. So when guys say it smells like soap or it smells like laundry, I imagine they're very tuned to the scent of laundry detergent as the pleasant scent.

Brother will be so happy to hear it. He thinks most perfumes smell like soap.

Apropos of Nothing

Your Sexy Brazilian Name is:

Taraija Araújo

What's Your Sexy Brazilian Name?

Dan Quayle?

Nope.

Turns out "-es" is an acceptable plural of tornado.

*whew*

Sylvia, Big Time

Did you see today's Yarn Harlot?

Did you see the lovely scarf she made?

Did you happen to notice the yarn for the lovely scarf came from my dear friend Sylvia,† of Posh, a Yarn Boutique (bka Sylvia's House of Fuzzy Crack) fame?

I get a degree closer to Kevin Bacon every day.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Love you, Syl! *mwah!* Have your people call my people!

I'm Twelve

TTHFCIF

No, really.

Ever since I found out I have a date on Saturday, I've been cropping new zits with alarming and redoubling frequency.

That's *so* twelve.

Know what? It's not Murphy's Law. It's not stress. It's the fact that I've been scrubbing and buffing and exfoliating and masquing and moisturising and night-creaming and... my face is in rebellion.

I imagine it saying, "Bleagh!" and spitting out another screaming zit† every time I come near it with a washcloth.

[SUMMARY: I'm twelve and I have a talking zit.]

I've also had a lot of health food in my life this week... and no caffeine. And no sweets. And no soda of any kind.

Only *one* Bobmas beer.

People who push detox diets or juice fasts or the like often say your skin may break out and you may have horrible digestive issues for a few days.

"That's the toxins escaping!"% they say, cheerfully.

Know what? All this attention to detail, all this unseemly purity, all aimed at the flattest stomach possible@ and I woke up this morning with serious premenstrual bloat.

I feel like someone inflated a raft in my pants. And not in a good way.

[SUMMARY: God is an iron.]

I redded my hair.

Oh, it's reddish all on its own,‡ but every year around the end of March, I look up and the stuff right by my head is the dull, darkish brown of winter, while the ends are the glittery, damaged gold of late summer.§

So I decide to indulge in a little semi-permanent dalliance with the middle ground, my natural colour. It brightens the winter and enrichens the summer and I feel like my old hair again.

I did this about a week ago.

Then with the impending date, I decided it wasn't enough. I thought to myself, "Self, if Spiced Tea, the light auburn you believe youself to be, is too light, perhaps you should try Cinaberry, the medium auburn brown."

So I did.

And when I look in the mirror, I see the flat charm of a redwood picnic bench. It's too dark. It's too red. It's too... one colour.

I tried so hard for just a little boost!

I striped a little around the roots and let it sit for a couple of minutes. Then I combed those puny little stripes down into the mangled meadow of the ends. Yet, I ended up with a solid, blocky red.

OK, nobody in the office has noticed.¶

None of the knitters noticed.#

But it's making me neurotic.††

If anybody sees me at Walgreens in the Clairol Natural Instincts aisle, knock me over the head and drag me out.

You don't want the responsibility of colour-on-colour-on-colour on your head.

Or mine.

[SUMMARY: I can't remember the last time I thought this much about my hair.]

AND... I'm in full-on "what will I wear?" mode.

Only it's a lot more panicky.

Like this: "WHAT will I *wear*?!!?!?"

I never realised lunch was a much harder date to dress for than dinner.

How much cleavage can you show before 4:00?

Two words that strike fear in the lumpy and bumpy: Day. Light.

I did get a sort of cute top last weekend‡‡:




But is it date-cute or wine-with-my-friends-cute?+

[SUMMARY: I'm not weird. This is a totally classic female dilemna.§§]

I shaved my legs Wednesday. For the first time in...

Yeti.

And I've been slathering my body in lotion every morning and vaseline every night. I am *soft*.

I have madly prepped, pre-boudoir.$

Yet, I may like this guy -- I *think* I like this guy -- well enough *not* to sleep with him.

I'm sure he'd be thrilled to know that.

Which brings me to the philosophic musing that should balance all the angst and whining:

A wise woman I know -- and to whom I attribute preternatural powers of reason -- had a date. She said they decided they liked each other enough to take it slow. I nodded emphatically at the screen,^ then thought, "Huh?"

In my callow age,¶¶ I held to the principle that I know within five minutes whether I *would* sleep with a guy, and within about a half-hour if I *should* sleep with a guy,## so why play all the games?

As I've matured, I've relegated my immediate and rampant sexuality to guys I don't see any future with.

Not even next week.

Not even breakfast tomorrow.

Oh, I won't sleep with anyone I don't like, or who doesn't make me laugh, but there's boyfriend material and there's guiltless romp material. And never the twain shall meet.

A guy I respect has to wait long enough to give us a chance to find we may never sleep together. Because if we sleep together too soon, we may not get a chance to find what we could have emotionally.

It's a weird little web of romance and sex that is so interdependent it becomes fragile. One little snap of one silken thread can set the whole thing to unravelling.

I guess that's what makes it so amazing if it stays together. And why we indulge in this reverse logic when it comes to dating and mating. And why we frantically spit-splice when it starts to come apart.†††

[SUMMARY: How deep, Mr. Wizard.]

Oh, hell. Now I have to decide whether to shave my legs again or not.

Holy fucking cats... when did I become such a girl?


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Which reminds me of a story: I was once telling my mother of a zit -- one of those deep, sore, rock-hard things that make you feel like you may have the mumps -- and she looked at it and said, "Ooooh... that looks angry."

"It's more than angry, Mom. It's downright pissed off."

%FOOTNOTE (percented): I'd like to point out all the handy exit routes to the toxins: you DON'T have to take my skin with you. Feel free to leave by my nose, quietly, as I sleep.

@FOOTNOTE (atted): I am shallow. I admit it. Did I mention date on Saturday afternoon?

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): I insist the DMV puts "light auburn" on my driver's license.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): It's possible I should get my hair cut more often, but that opens a whole can of worms I'll save for my next bad haircut.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): OK, it's mostly Hans, and... y'know... Hans boy, boy no notice hair, but other than that, it's mostly women.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Of course, it was kinda dark.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Stop laughing. I know I can't blame my hair.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Keeping in mind that I have more boobs and less collarbones than the model in the picture.

+FOOTNOTE (plussed. non-plussed. possibly pissed.): I would totally wear this with dark wash or black jeans. By the way.

§§FOOTNOTE (at least my hair is still curly...): Damnit! Dilemma. Maybe I can just charm him with bad spelling all day and he won't even notice my lack of fashion sense and patio furniture hair.

$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): Oh, yes I did!

^FOOTNOTE (careted): This was an email. I don't want you to think we were chatting over tea and I was nodding at the TiVi.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (now I'm seeing tears flowing from black eyes. Footnote symbology as Rorschach test): Up 'til last Tuesday.

##FOOTNOTE (pounding like the heart of an insecure woman): Though I've never, apparently, figured out how to tell if a guy is gay before I sleep with him. But that's another story for another day.

†††FOOTNOTE (left? no, right? no... left. no...): Lookie! Knitting reference! Still a knitblog!

But Does He Like-Like Me?

From: Marin
To: Sue
Subject: Sue! It's Marin!
Date: Thu, 3 Apr 2008 18:38:12 +0000

OK... first, Friday night, just touching base and saying, "Yeah, I'm still there." I'll hit the Coral around 9:30 and we'll go when you're ready.

Second, totally junior high shit: Spelling-Champ-who-kissed-me (and beat me in the spelling bee, but that's not NEARLY as important)... well, I thought he kinda was into me, but the phone never rang. I'm probably delusional, but we had an odd moment at the end of the night that may have been a miscommunication. SO... if it's appropriate, could you just get Sarah to nudge him? Of course, he may be very deliberately not calling, but I'd hate to think he thought I said something vaguely mean and that's why he didn't call. I really enjoyed his company and would like more of it if he's interested.

(do you like me? check yes or no)

Enough girly stupidity.
See you soon,
XOXO
M

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

From: Sarah
To: Marin
Subject: Re: Sue! It's Marin!
Date: Mon, 7 Apr 2008 18:01:54 +0000

hey marin,

i had noticed some sparks flying around you and the champ (you geeks with your big spelling skills!) and asked him what was up recently... he said he thought he'd gotten your phone number but couldn't find it the next morning. and i believe that's actually the case :-)

i could give him your # again if you like, or you could email him.

good luck!!
sarah

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

So, um... off to compose a witty, sweet, slightly sexy email to The Spelling Bee Champ to remind him why he kissed me in the first place.

Maybe I should just reiterate how I can't spell "boudoir."