Holy Frozen Wasteland, Batman

Every now and then, I use this very blog as a reference†: which scarf did I knit for Kelley? what was the name of that perfume? what's the proper generic for Zamboni?‡

That one stopped me dead in my tracks Saturday night. I was trying to impart some wisdom on The Twitter, so I hopped to the blog and searched "Zamboni."

Then "Steve."

Then "Ice."

Then I looked through my post index and found - *gasp* - I WENT TO ZAMBONI SCHOOL% AND ALL YOU GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT.§

There may be more of this. One of my great #OldAndFeeble tricks is to set something up so thoroughly in my head that I think I did it. I know I do it with email and occasionally phone calls. I had no idea the blog had fallen victim.

So.

In February, Steve and I went to Ice Camp. We learned the history and mechanics of ice resurfacing equipment¶ in a classroom setting.








Then we did some hands-on# illustration of what the TV told us.










We watched an ice resurfacing machine empty after a productive trip around the rink.




We had photo ops.






Then we drove the beast.

THEN we made ice.††




Dudes, if we were in a disaster movie and the Zamboni operator freaked out or had a heart attack,‡‡ I could totally resurface an ice rink.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): As I'm sure you do.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): A registered trademark of Frank J. Zamboni & Co., Inc.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Like Hogwarts, but more athletic. Also? In fricking FEBRUARY.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): It's actually a cool t-shirt that says "I drove the [picture of a Zamboni] at The Ice Ranch." But you don't actually get it. You have to *earn* it.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Which is the generic of Zamboni.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Literally, though you have to be careful, as there are blades that cut and pumps that suck.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): When you're in the know, you know better than to say you drove the Zamboni. When you're in the know, you make ice.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): I think this movie should be made. It should be called "The Ice Marin Cometh."

Islands in the Stream of Consciousness

It could be one of *those* blogposts.†

A few things‡ have happened since last I (really) posted.

*ahem*

I could get seriously philosophical here, because, as I was lining up my excuse ducks,§ I realised how telling they really are.

My first excuse duck?¶

Werk.#

I suspect I genuinely have more work than I used to, now that I'm a Paid Hack for the Corporate Machine, but I can say for a fact that my time is parcelled out very differently. I have vacation time. And sick time. And hours.

Practically, it's not that much different from when I was contract. Philosophically, I feel a much greater sense of obligation.

Plus, the stress is enormously greater, what with expense reporting and million-dollar deadlines and million-dollar deadlines and Hans and United Way campaigns and the impending Oompa Loompa Revolution and stuff.

Duck!††

Blogui.‡‡

Steve. §§

And Nathan.¶¶

Wii.##

I lost my camera.†††

But I now have a lot of stories.

So I'll be around.‡‡‡


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): One may wonder that there's a blogpost at all. One may have strongly hinted on Twitter about one's suspiciously absent blogposts. You know who you are.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): One. Two. 2010.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): You know, so you can shoot them down.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): It's a good, all-purpose duck, which is a real phrase about real ducks in duck shows and one of Steve's best-loved terms. More on Steve later. But in case you wanted to know, some ducks are raised for down, some for meat and a good, all-purpose duck has qualities that make it good for both. You're welcome.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Which differs from "work" in the face you make when you say it.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): That's the second duck, but who's counting.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Occasional bouts of techui, under which I shamefully ignored Twitter and occasionally email for abnormally wide swaths of time.

§§FOOTNOTE (time swirls when you're having fun): Because we've been doing lots of fun stuff, and fun stuff takes *time*.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (is that a Wii controler? EEK!): Who bribed me to Vegas with martinis and sushi, then moved to New Zealand, leaving me bereft. I was totally reft before that.

##FOOTNOTE (bomp bomp): Wii is totally kicking my ass. Not in the way you're thinking. I'm totally intimidated by it and, even though My Friends at Nintendo have sent me games and a disco light and a cool game involving yarn and felt, I still play more on the nephews' Wii than on my own. Because my Wii scares me.

†††FOOTNOTE (very, very cross): Seriously. All my Vegas photos - including the Liberace Museum, which is now closed - plus the Christmas Eve Ugly Sweater Party and an assortment of other worthy subjects. I think the car ate it. The car ate Kate's CDs; we tore the car apart looking for them, but the car just spit them out two years later when I was looking for the cell phone I'm convinced it ate.

‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (stitched together like Frankenstein's monster): I'd do more now, only I received what I see as barely-veiled threats should I not post something soon.

An Account of the Recent Past

How 'bout a big, ol' wide-tongued full lick of the pig?

In which we briefly explore† Dr. Doom Turns 6,% Lake McConaughy,‡ the Colorado Renaissance Festival§ and Lakeside Amusement Park.¶

Dr. Doom's 6th birthday was animal-themed and included a visit from the Jungle Lady and her many reptiles, amphibians and bugs.

There was a snake cake.




A rubber gift snake for the birthday boy...




...which maybe should have been presented at the end of the show for minimal distraction.

Anyway, there was snake discussion.




And snake jewelry, both in the form of a Scarlet Kingsnake bracelet...




...and a python necklace.




I don't know about you, but I would never want to subject a snake to a passel of six-year-olds. Six is a... squirrely age. Though it was worth the price of admission for this exchange:

"My brother found a snake when he was camping and he caught it and he brought it home and now he has, like, six snakes."

"My brother is in jail."

The turtle races were pretty good too.




[SUMMARY: And a good time was had by all... except maybe the snakes.]

The annual trip to The Lake included a record 757,000 kids this year...




...but that didn't stop me from crossing "skinny dipping" off my bucket list.

As has become tradition,†† Shanny and I stayed up late one night at the campfire chatting, stargazing and exploring the funky, soulful world of Shanny's massive music collection.

Just after the moon dipped below the southeastern horizon, Shanny said, "I don't want to freak you out or anything, but it's a beautiful night, the weather's perfect, the moon's gone down and there's nobody around. You want to try skinny dipping?"

There we were, neck-deep in water, looking at the rural sky coated in a crust of stars. The water was cool, but not chill. Nothing nibbled at protruberances. The small-town tide lapped at our every nerve ending. We chatted, then wrapped up and got warm by the fire.

The next morning, Connie greeted me with, "I understand you got naked with my husband last night." And she giggled.

I love my friends.

Other than that, there was the usual water, sky, recreation...




Well, the Wave Runner was new this year.

But there was the usual floatilla of shiny plastic inflatables.




And the campfire.




In scientific news, The Lake was up 27 feet from where it was last year when we were there - at 96% capacity.‡‡




There wasn't a lot of beach to go around and we teamed up with a group of campers to hold our grove...






...which was under surveillance from the myriad campers who didn't come in on Thursday and maybe never found a spot to pitch their tents.§§

But, like the steadfast dragonflies,@ we held our space for the weekend.




Until it was time to say goodbye for another year.




[SUMMARY: A good time was had by all.]

Steve isn't skydiving this summer, so he has a mess of time to do other things. Under the auspices of "I haven't been to the Renaissance Festival in twenty years or more," we decided to go to the Renaissance Festival.¶¶

My how things have changed. Like Times Square, Disney has had its influence. Y'all know I've got nothing against pirates, but a good quarter of the faire now seems to be devoted to Captain Jack Sparrow.

There are no wenches, those dingy, corseted broads who kissed men with overpainted lips of crimson, neon pink and orange for a dollar. All in all, the thing where absolutely everybody is trying some gimmick to get a buck is gone.

On the bright side, there were greyhounds and ducks and the cutest little piggle## you ever did see. And a spiffy carillon.




On the other hand, a museum of medieval torture devices that was simply awful. And not for the torture.

Plus? A woman in full costume was brandished a frickin' Twilight umbrella and talking on her cell phone when the rain started. That's so not 15th century.




We decided we don't need a Renaissance Festival fix for another 20 years.

[SUMMARY: Disney should stick with movies.]

Steve and I also visited Lakeside Amusement Park.

Back in the day, Steve an I both worked at the historic Elitch Gardens,††† which was only blocks from Lakeside. From the top of the Twister at Elitch's, you could see the Vegas lights of the entry tower at Lakeside.

Now, Elitch's was classier. It maybe had better rides. And it was neater, more prone to fresh paint and never a lightbulb out of place. But Lakeside had seedy charm. There was a Fun House and far fewer families went after dark. It was a brilliant hub of overdressed late-teen and twenty-something single life.

Back in the day.

Now the Fun House is gone, possibly a victim of insurance regulations.‡‡‡ Every third ride was deconstructed or closed for repair.




Though the park was supposed to open at 6:00, there wasn't the slightest movement to test the rides, set up the ticket booths, start the hot dogs a-grillin'... it was an employee ghost town until nearly 6:30. At that time, four rides were running.

As the night went on, more rides opened - the ones that weren't under repair or chopped for parts - probably to save on payroll.§§§






The Wildcat coaster was fun and the Zoom was great fun.¶¶¶

But we left at 9:30, having ridden everything but the Merry-Go-Round, and agreed that we could go another 20 years without going to Lakeside.

[SUMMARY: We are crossing things OFF the list, Steve and I.]

That's how I spent my summer vacation.

Coming soon... current events. Like tomatoes. And knitting.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Through words, pictures and footnotes, and mostly as an exercise in cleaning off my camera.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): In April.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Nudity! Alcohol! Adult situations!

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): The only place besides Steve's living room where anyone has understood my rock-paper-scissors-lizard-spock shirt.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Seedier than field full of wheat, sadder than a lost puppy.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Except that year we didn't.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Up from 54% the previous year.

§§FOOTNOTE (a twisty, windy road): Heh. Twelve.

@FOOTNOTE (atted): Of which there may been more of even than children.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (two left feet): As a tiny, geeky confession, I worked at the Renaissance Festival in the summer of 1986. It's what you do if you're a theatre major with a Dungeons & Dragons past.

##FOOTNOTE (tic tac): So cute he made me baby talk. And I usually only do that ironically. Hey! Ironic Babytalk would be a great name for a band.

†††FOOTNOTE (my cross to bear): NOT to be confused with the travesty that is Six Flags Elitch Gardens, and current home (right across the street from the theatre) of your dear ol' AntiM - I live where (I say) the floral clock used to be. Steve says it was the administration building. Until we have pictures, I'm sticking with "floral clock."

‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (old fashioned wooden coaster tracks): Steve thinks maybe an ADA thing, though he kept saying "ADD," which I thought was funny.

§§§FOOTNOTE (a shocking turn of events): Steve thinks maybe more because the employees straggle in, hungover, whenever they straggle in.

¶¶¶FOOTNOTE (upright brigade): Which is a skyshot like the one on top of the Stratosphere in Vegas, with a slow lift followed by a free-fall. I couldn't help point out (because I'm twelve) that it looked like a giant, colour-changing penis against the dusky sky, to which Steve added the image of a cock ring carrying people up and down it. Quite ruined the ride for Steve.

Yay, Meme!

I'd like to thank Yvette for making my blog post today a no-brainer.

I'd also like to thank my iPod for not making me look like as much of a dork as it could've.†

If that Lionel Ritchie‡ ever got out, it would be TOTALLY embarrassing.§

1. Hang Wire - Pixies
2. Seven Veils - Peter Murphy
3. Hole - Catherine Wheel
4. Messin' With the Mekon - Robert Plant¶
5. True - Spandau Ballet#
6. Lucretia - Sisters of Mercy
7. Dead Man's Party - Oingo Boingo††
8. Still of the Night - Whitesnake
9. Salsbury Hill - Peter Gabriel
10. Let Me See - Morcheeba
11. La Lune - Sarah Brightman
12. Into the Fire - Sarah McLachlan
13. Add It Up - Violent Femmes
14. Rain Will Fall - I Mother Earth
15. Der Kommissar - Falco
16. Gin and Juice - Snoop Dogg
17. I Miss the Girl - Soul Coughing
18. Push It - Salt-N-Pepa
19. Golden Touch - Razorlight
20.‡‡ Over the Hills and Far Away - Gary Moore

Deep in my heart, I love this meme. I did it on Facebook and found it very pleasant. I'd highly recommend it to any of you, so tag if you want it. Just turn your music player of choice on, put it on shuffle, list the first twenty% songs (if you cheat or edit, you're missing the point) and tag anyone you want.

I'm always interested in seeing what other people listen to, so let me know if you decide to do it.

I'm leaving for The Lake in a couple of hours. This year, I may just put the old iPod on shuffle and see how that treats me.

Besides, there's the dark-corridor-in-a-horror-flick thrill that Lionel Ritchie might be lurking around every corner.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Though it did want me to list La Lune three times.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): I have a GOOD EXCUSE. For our 20th high school reunion, when I was on the committee, I volunteered to make CDs for each year we were in high school (1981-1985). I (theatre geek, underachiever, fashion disaster, metal chick) picked five songs, Heidi Dowd (cheerleader, valedictorian, golden girl, mainstream) picked five songs, and I included the Billboard Top Ten for each year. Lionel Ritchie was in the top ten a LOT in those days.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): You'll all note I've decided to stop using Neil Diamond as my measure of dorkitude in music. Neil's a hero. Neil's a classic. And he's way more hip than Lionel Ritchie.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Love me some Robert Plant.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Brother says I don't like this song. "No you don't. You really don't. You may think you do, but you don't." Apparently, this embarrasses Brother more than it embarrasses me.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): This is Steve's and my song.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Then I looked back at Yvette's instructions and she only asked for 15. But if I only do 15, I don't get Snooop and that would make me sad. Gin & Juice, btw, is the only song in common between my FB list and this one. The universe is trying to tell me something. Something about gin.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): In true Marin fashion, I now find the 20 I thought I did on FB was actually 25. I'm a rebel, making up rules as I go along... if you do the meme, pick a number from 15 to 25 and use that. *ahem*

Sick and Twisted

Talking literally, here, folks.† I had a really spectacular flu the last three days. Poor Steve had it first, and I had to call him Monday to say, "Hey, hope you're feeling better, but I really need to know this is going to be over soon."

It was one of those where I spent a significant amount of time thinking I was going to die and another significant amount of time thinking it may not be the worst thing.

[SUMMARY: That's what she said.]

I've been gone so long... today I feel I'm a stranger‡ in a strange land.

It's going to be disjointed, but we'll all get there together. Without joints.§ And you know what that means...

That pig is gonna get the tongue-bath of his life.

[SUMMARY: That's what she said.]

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

First, happy Super Tuesday. Go read this book:




I'm a big fan of the "Click Clack Moo" series¶ anyway, but this isn't really a kids' book. Well, maybe. But you'll get more out of it than your five-year-old.

And you can read it standing up at your local B&N.

[SUMMARY: That's what he said.]

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

Second, happy Super Bowl. Don't drink this:

Me and My Main Shanny doin' what we do best



And maybe you think you have no call to drink Boone's Farm Sangria-Flavoured Wine Product Food Stuff, but, hey... this isn't what I thought I'd be using my college degree for either.

See, our Super Bowl is about tradition. The Elks have been Super Bowling for nearly 20 years. In fact, next year is our 20th anniversary.# Because most of us were just out of college when this whole mess started, a lot of our traditions revolve around alcohol.

Because we're all still wildly immature and in denial about our age,†† we've seen no reason to delete, modify‡‡ or render symbolic+ any of these alcoholic traditions.

These traditions include the National Anthem Chug, in which the *stated* object of the game is to begin chugging a grossly cheap beer§§ at the first note of the anthem, finishing as the anthem finishes. Around, "...does that star-spangled banner yet wave..." it devolves into a highly competitive race to finish first.

These traditions also include the Lonely Guy Hour, which used to mean passing around a bottle of Boone's Farm at half-time, but now means everybody brings four or five bottles, which are cracked right after the national anthem and somewhere around the post-game confetti explosion, someone says, "Gorrdamit! Where's the best of the Roone's Flarm?"

After years of delicate tasting, we have highly sophisticated Boone's Farm palates.

Thusly:

"Where's the pink?¶¶ The pink is really good!"

"Are you high? The pink made me barf. Now, the blue..."

"Oh, dude, the blue SUCKS! Ya gotta get the orange."

"You'd drink that peach shit?"

"Not PEACH, dumbass, ORANGE..."

"Ha! That's what she said!"

Anyway, our verdict is the Sangria is just bad. It actually tastes like blood.##

Also? This year we may have started a new tradition. Y'all twelve-year-olds will appreciate it: just about anytime anybody says anything, answer with, "That's what she said," or the occasionally snarf-worthier, "That's what he said."

Funniest thing ever. I still giggle every time I say it.

Maybe you had to be there.&

[SUMMARY: That's what I said.]

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

Soldier Boy called Friday night. I think I'm gonna get me some this weekend.

[SUMMARY: WOOOOOOOOOT! I mean... That's what she said!]

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

At one time, I had a lot of words to impart on the whole Queensryche/Dokken experience. Because it's so far gone, I'm going to give you some bullet points:

• Look! Bullet!
• We got our tickets under face value from a scalper. I didn't know that happened. I felt dangerous and hip and savvy.
• It was the first time in (probably) twenty years that I haven't been vigorously frisked going into a concert. 1) Damnit. It would have been the most action I'd seen in months, and 2) if I'd had a clue, I'd've brought my camera.
• Don Dokken now looks like Kenny Rogers.
• Don Dokken did an all-acoustic set, and all of Dokken's Greatest Hits sound pretty much alike, acoustially presented.
• Don Dokken pulled a Tragedy Vampire on the whole Heath Ledger thing with, "I wasn't going to play anything off the new album,% but this is for a guy... a guy who liked music. And he used a lot of music. And I met him a couple of times..." I will never forget the chorus to the alleged song because I was so intent on memorising it just so I could share with ya'll:

I've been driven by wild horses, dragged beneath their feet.
Why do the children cry? How can we get relief?

• All that said, Don Dokken was personable, friendly, cheerful (other than the Tragedy Vampire portion of the program), played the hits and got off stage. I think I could have a beer with Don Dokken.
• Queensryche rocked. Geoff Tate has lost the tiniest bit off his highest wail, but mostly just rocked like an antiformal syncline.$ They did not do "The Lady Wore Black," though I had a dork moment when I thought they were going to and I turned to Greg and said, "No way. No fucking way." Later, I had to confess I'd failed to recognise some Queensryche hit that sounded a lot like TLWB and Greg said he thought it was TLWB too. So... vindicated.
• Geoff Tate is DEADLY serious about his work. While that often makes art and culture more laughable, I came to the conclusion that if he wasn't so very, very serious, his work would be a joke.
• Geoff Tate doesn't cuss. Not so much as a "hell" or a "damn." Particularly in contrast to Don Dokken's every-other-word-is-fuck, it was kinda refreshing.
• Reservoir tip ski hats are back in. Half the roadies were wearing them, but I also saw a couple of escaped Abercrombie & Fitch models in front of us and one was wearing a Dolce & Gabbana reservoir tip hat and I have a strong feeling that if it was five minutes passé, the boy wouldn't be caught dead in it.
• I'm pretty sure the couple to my left at the encore actually had sex. Right there. Next to me. And she was wearing this strappy, complicated, dominatrix thing that took her about ten minutes to get straightened when the lights came up.

[SUMMARY: That's what she said.]

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

THIS JUST IN:

I received an plane ticket sales email thingie* from Frontier under the heading, "Why Hibernate?" and saying you could escape with low airfare. On the "to/from Denver" list? Anchorage. Chicago. Billings. Rapid City. Detroit.

What exactly am I escaping? And why would I leave hibernation to do it?

[SUMMARY: That's what he said!]

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

Speaking of concerts, did I mention Rush? At Red Rocks?@ I got my ticket last week. $120. Fuck me.^

So I guess I won't be leaving the eighties any time this year. It's a total celebration of lack of maturation.

[SUMMARY: That's what she said.]

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

While I was sick, I spent a lot of time in front of the TiVi,††† and this is on Comcast On-Demand. Watch it:



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

Dang. I'm sure there's lots more. I'll probably have to lick that lucky pig tomorrow.

[SUMMARY: All together now: THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!]


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I know you're used to my metaphorical... um... flights of fancy and purple prose whatsits, but there I was, sick (throwing up every hour on the hour for 22 hours) and twisted (wrapping myself around the toilet in new ways I never I could manage).

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Well, even stranger than usual.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Not those kind. If you ever saw me stoned, you'd know why I never, ever mean *those* kind. Mentally, I went straight to Lyda's zombies.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Don't judge. Anyone who has kids or has bedtimed for, "Read it again. Read it again. Read it again," appreciates a book you can both appreciate.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): There will be T-shirts.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Except for some of the guys whose daughters are rapidly approaching teenage-hood. Ah, Mateo... this is where you get it back for all your slick, horn-dog years.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): At least not to save our souls and livers.

+FOOTNOTE (plussed): You know... like substituting Crystal Light for Boone's Farm or tossing confetti instead of our cookies.

§§FOOTNOTE (now, there's a nice, tight spiral... that's what she said): In honour of our humble beginnings.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (two bottles for the price of one!): Because Boone's Farm, like Gatorade, doesn't so much come in flavours as colours.

##FOOTNOTE (pounded like a Patriot): Well, Blood-Flavoured Wine Food Product Stuff, in any case.

&FOOTNOTE (ampersanded): I will, of course, be forcing it down your throat for the rest of the post. *pause* *think* *giggle* That's what he said!

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Yes, Don Dokken has a new album coming out. Acoustic. All new stuff. Seriously.

$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): A little geology humour for those of you who are so inclined. Or synclined. Or anticlined, if you'd rather. Gosh, I think I'm funny.

*FOOTNOTE (asterisked, if you can believe that): Plane Ticket Sales Email Thingie® Frontier Airlines. All saints preserve us.

@FOOTNOTE (atted): The place where U2's "Sunday Bloody Sunday" video was shot. You know, where the girl in the polar bear jacket mauls Bono, then he waves a flag.

^FOOTNOTE (careted): That's what he said.

†††FOOTNOTE (triple your pleasure): Except for Monday, when I spent a lot of time in front of the toilet and the rest of the time chasing ducks in fever delusions. Fever delusions are kinda cool.

"The Time Has Come," the wombat said...

"...to talk of many things."

...happy birthday, dear BROOOOOOTHER... happy birthday to you

With Red's permission, I shall brief you (pun intended) on her date Monday.

I had the honour of being Red's bail-out and safe call on a semi-blind date Monday night. She provided me the location, boy's phone number & name† and strict instructions to call at 9:00 to see how she was doing and possibly provide a graceful out. We devised an Izzard-based code word system‡ and we were ready to go.

Actually, there was a whole scenario under which I would show up at the date site in pajama pants and curlers with a little water splashed on the front of my shirt to mimic the look of an uncontrollably lactating woman, brush my hands clumsily down my breasts a couple of times and sniffle, "When you coming home, Red?"

It was REALLY funny at Goosetown Friday night.

Things were going well enough halfway through that she called to tell me they were switching locations and the 9:00 call was unnecessary.

She called at 10:30 to tell me she got home safe and, well... things went a little downhill from the mid-date call to the safe-home call.

Besides some inappropriate touching, Inappropriate Remarks Boy (as he will forever be in my mind) used the word "babble" at least three times. Not good.

The crowning jewel of his inappropriate evening, though, was when he told her, "I didn't think the date was going to go anywhere when you showed up with visible panty lines."

When Red relayed that to me, my first thought was, "Is this guy gay? Do men even notice -- or worry about -- panty lines?"

I've always suspected that the mere thought of panties, the sheer concept of panties, the presence, hope and promise of panties is enough to carbonate most boys' brains beyond the noticing of panties.%

[SUMMARY: Panties. Panties, panties, panties. Pantiespantiespantiespantiespanties. This is now a companion piece to Roger Clemens's groin.]

Taking the concept a little further, I thought, "Maybe he's a fashion snob and was saying he'd never date a girl who subjected him to the horror of panty lines."

I mulled for a second more.

It finally hit me.

"Was he saying you didn't care enough to dress properly for him, so he figured you'd already written the date off?"§

Apparently, yes.

Girls think so much about every little detail (so the story goes) that if they show up with panty lines, well... apparently it's the next generation's version of not shaving your legs and wearing ratty underwear so you don't accidentally sleep with a boy on the first date.¶ And Inappropriate Remarks Boy was pretty well convinced he'd cracked that code.

Wonder what he would have done with "babies on spikes."

Poor Red. It gets funnier every day, though she had a little setback into bitter some time between Dairy Queen last night and comments this morning. Squint, Red. Squint and turn your head to the left and maybe you can pretend I'm talking about someone else.

[SUMMARY: boys=dumb]

Here's a funny thing I got in my email Sunday:




That's from the Canadian Housing Association.

Ally? Anything you feel you need to tell me?

Or maybe the CHA just goes through the blogiverse looking for fond mentions of Canada and British spellings.

[SUMMARY: I love Canadians and now Canada wants me to live there.]

Meanwhile, back at the knitting...

I cast on for the fourth and final border bit for Stupid Blanket last night. We are talking mere hours from complete satisfaction of the obligation and frustration that has been Stupid Blanket.

And if the Drunken Knitters tell you I told them I fondle Stupid Blanket every night and think of it as a little miracle of textile goodness, I'll deny it to the ends of the earth.

Green Gables is in the final stretch... and that may be an apt phrase. I read Enchanting Juno's account of short-row shaping for us boobalicious gals and thought I'd try to wing that.

After a couple of hours of basically knitting heels into the sides of the sweater and ending up with completely backward darts on one side and something resembling a pockmarked caterpillar on the other, I gave up, frogged and decided to follow the pattern. If it's too wonky to wear happily, I'll make the next one better.#

[SUMMARY: Short row takes practice. Tailoring takes engineering.]

The toe-up, two-at-once socks have reached the heel(s) and I'm trying to do anything to avoid a lot of wrapping and turning. Anybody know a good, readily available (i.e. -- I don't have to order a two-year-old issue of Interweave Knits to get it) toe-up heel pattern that doesn't require a lace needle and double-joints to pick up wraps?

[SUMMARY: Lazy much?]

And last on our list of promised topics for today: Strings.

I just happened to discover destash.blogspot.com yesterday and showed up just moments after lovely Hazel posted her Noro Kureyon. Seems she was all excited about Knitty's Lizard Ridge^ but then found she was allergic to the Noro.$ So I got ten skeins of Noro and a damned good start on my own Lizard Ridge, after which I've been lusting,& for $70.

Not a huge savings, I know, but all that Noro, all at once, and THROUGH THE MAIL. I love yarn that comes in the mail. Well, as you know, I love anything that comes in the mail that doesn't have an obligation attached.

[SUMMARY: NORO!]

For whom shall I knit Lizard Ridge?


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Much like you are in charge of giving the police my blog as a record of hostile Male Lady activity should I be found dead in a ditch, I was in charge of making sure justice was served should Red meet a similar fate at the hands of Inappropriate Remarks Boy.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Jam = good. Babies on spikes = bad.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): It's why lingerie is not such a big deal to most men. As Steve once said, when asked if matching bra and panties mattered to men (I think I phrased it, "Doesn't it impress you when a girl's bra and panties match?"), "Marin, if I'm seeing panties, I'm not much worried about what they go with."

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Serious re-engineering of the conversation. I spat out a bunch of words that eventually got across the *idea* of "Was he saying...?" My gast was flabbered and I wasn't speaking so good.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Yeah, it didn't always work for me either.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): By this, I mostly mean I'll actually look up directions and not count on my own engineering and math skills (hello?! FOUR!) to apply advanced tailoring techniques to my knitting.

^FOOTNOTE (careted): Thus:

$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): I know, I know. Breathe into a paper bag and pray for Hazel.

&FOOTNOTE (ampersanded): Yes, I know I just spent several precious words whining about wrapping and turning. I never said I was stable. Or logical. I've readily admitted to not being able to count to four. Somehow, miles of wrapping and turning...

...huh.

Did Stupid Blanket teach me NOTHING?

Another Day, Another Random

This post says, "I have a digital camera and I know how to use it (more or less)."**

Sunday, I went and dug these out of MJ's garden. Guess what they are.



Those poor, downtrodden creatures are Cascade Hops (probably not supposed to be capitalised when it's all said and done, but it's beer ingredients). If they don't die, I intend to grow them for the purpose God and Benjamin Franklin intended them: love beer.

I don't kill all my plants, but I can't prove it to you right now. Three out of my four orchids are blooming and I took pictures, but (per normal) the pictures sucked so I'm just telling you and you'll have to believe me.

I live in fear that, in Marin's world, orchids are easier to grow than hops.

[SUMMARY: Orchids, easy to grow, not useful. Hops, hard to transport, very useful. It's like my own little experiment in botanical Darwinism.]

Knitting! Exciting knitting! And knitting pictures to make it all better!

First, that's the Heathers ("Great paté,** mom, but I gotta motor if I wanna be ready for that party tonight.") so that's the end of the Heathers quotes.

Second, when did my camera get purple?

Third, don't you love my ultra-catalogue shots of the Heathers over the birds of paradise in my tropical bathroom? Trés, trés artistique (I know zero French that wasn't in a 70s song, so if "artistique" isn't a word, I don't need to know), no?

The particulars:

Name: Heathers

Pattern: Wavy from knitty.com

Yarn: Cascade 220 Heathers (duh), colour 2421

Needle: Denise (not that the brand matters) size 7 US (but size *definitely* matters)

Finished dimensions: 5" x 68"

Like how I did that all professional, like I'm a real knitter-with-a-capital-K?

[SUMMARY: FO! Not the Stupid Blanket!**]

In future knitting... the Green Gables Drunken Knit Along starts tonight.

KIB, y'all.

[SUMMARY: Apparently anything to avoid Stupid Blanket.]

So there I am, not going to buy a thing, not needing a thing, until I saw...

Let's zoom in for a closer look, shall we?



If only she had red hair.

IRL Kelley has her own Angry Little Girls bag that simply says, "I hate people." Picture Kelley and I, a couple of misfit joiners, calling each other in the morning: "Are you wearing your Angry Little Girls bag? Cool! I'll wear my Angry Little Girls bag! We'll be twins! And BFF!"

[SUMMARY: Who doesn't need a F*@K! bag?**]

What picture blog would be complete without a cat for scale?

You'll note said cat is NOT sleeping on his nice, comfy kitty bed. No, no, he chooses to sleep right where he will get the most cat hair per square inch where my nose goes when I'm trying to sleep. It's an evil but brilliant plot to keep me awake and ear-scratching** late into the night.

[SUMMARY: Cats are sexy. *ahem*]

I mentioned I saw Casino Royale with Steve Friday night. A quick review: not bad. I could look at Daniel Craig all day, the opening sequence was brilliant, there were some very funny bits, but there was too much romantic for James Bond for my taste.

Now the funny. Well, it falls into the category of "I think I'm funny," but Steve thought it was funny too, so you have to sit through it (a little validation goes a long way with me):

For those who haven't seen the movie, it's the first of the 007 stories, and sets up a lot of the James Bond schtick for future episodes. In one scene, Vesper, the love interest, witnesses Bond killing two bad guys. He sends her to arrange clean-up and proceeds to his James Bond thing. Later, he goes to the hotel room and finds her sitting in the shower, fully clothed, water running over her.

He goes to her and takes her in his arms. She says, "I feel like I can't get the blood off my hands." He gently takes her hands and starts sucking on her fingers.**

I turned to Steve and said, "See? If Lord Macbeth had just managed a little of that action, the story could have ended right there. Happily ever after."

Thinks-she's-funny and snobbily literary. Throw in the cat and the knitting and how am I still single?**

[SUMMARY: Macbeth is my favourite play of all time. Any blood-on-hands reference is going to get the Macbeth treatment from me.]

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): ...and it doesn't say much else. I'm only mentioning it so you don't have to.

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Yeah, boooyyyy! All thanks to Secret Pal for the accent mark that makes it all worthwhile!

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Stupid Blanket? The baby was due yesterday...

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): That's me scratching the cat's ears, not me scratching my ears.

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Huh. Look at that. The computer thinks it's an email address just 'cause there's a "@" in it. Where do you suppose the email would go? Do you think it's like 867-5309 Jenny and some marketing genius has claimed that handle so he can get email from all over the world? Contrast and compare.**

. . . **FOOTNOTE WITHIN A FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Sorry. The Macbeth thing has me on an AP English kick.

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Show of hands for who loves finger-sucking! Yeah, me too.

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Rhetorical. And I'm rolling my eyes at least as much as you are.

BoyCraft

Don't you wish?

No, your dear ol' AntiM is neither custom-crafting boys** nor practising her craft on boys,** but speaking of boys and crafts.

After Boy-Best-Friend Steve got me all mellow and serotonin-happy on Brasilian meatstuffs, we went to his place to watch Casino Royale (funny comment and review tomorrow. We're talking BoyCraft today). Prior to, I dropped by home to change into something more comfortable (read: less waistband to fight the immense quantity of Brasilian meatstuffs) and pee, so I grabbed my knitting as long as I was there. (*ahem*)

[SUMMARY: I'm fooling nobody. If I'd been wearing pajamas, I'd still have stopped home to pick up my knitting.]

Steve is a fine man, fully tolerant of my knitting foible and even evinces an interest -- at least enough to politely enquire as to what I'm knitting now. Once the movie was over, we turned to knitting, then to Steve's foray into the world of JoAnn, Michael's, etc.

See, Steve jumps. Out of airplanes. And he does all kinds of sewing stuff to that end.** When Steve goes to JoAnn for, say, nylon thread, the doily-crocheting denizens of that establishment can get a little... out of kilter.

Now, Knittas, I've noticed we are (or try to be) very open minded about the gender of our partners in purling, but it sometimes borders on that "some of my best friends are Mexican" territory. It's often still novel and maybe a little discomfiting when we're actually faced with boys with sticks and strings.

In honour of Steve and by his request, I'm addressing the Boys-at-Craft-Stores question today.

Have you ever noticed that when you buy something at Michael's or JoAnn, the check-out clerk always asks what you're going to be making with your purchase? I'm pretty sure it's part of their training, the "would you like fries with that?" of the craft store world.

Steve says he doesn't get that so much.

The picture he painted shows a cultural gap not unlike the racial gap: people with their minds blown attempting to be open-minded and managing only to highlight their prejudices in blinking neon.

Steve says they generally don't ask the rote, "Oh, what are you making with this?" they ask of all the women before and after him in line. To draw the analogy again, I figure they feel the same way about asking him what he's making as they would asking a black person if he likes chicken. Like somehow they're breaching some politically correct boundary.

So they hint around. They say, "Now, I see you got nylon thread. You know, you don't want to be sewing cotton with that..." (pointed, questioning stare)

Steve's a bright guy (the brightest) and has a wicked sense of humour.** So he very genially toys with these mini-Martha Stewarts.

"Oh, yes. I'm not." (big, goofy smile)

The longer they dance around the question they want to ask, the more oblique Steve becomes, leading them by his answers to finally ask the leading question:

"Oh, what are you making with this?"

Now, I've seen men at JoAnn. I've seen men who are clearly deeply into their own craft (I've run into -- for me -- a surprising number of male quilters at my local fabric store). Men who know what they're doing, know what they want, understand the nuances of their tools and materials. And I've seen men who are clearly out of their element. These men generally fall into two camps: the Chest Pounding Fronter and the I-Have-a-Right-to-Be-Here Defenseman (guess which goes with which).

The first talks loudly and in an improbably deep voice about how he's sewing something for his boat or just needs velcro to fix his laptop case. He hopes nobody will mistake him for (*whisper*) the gays. Or maybe a woman. He hopes everybody in earshot understands he's really very, very manly.

The second will open conversation with anyone around him about the extent of his dedication to this craft. He'll tell the young mother behind him how he's been knitting for five years, how his grandmother taught him, how he mostly knits stuff with skulls on it and really, the reason he's buying a yard of silk is to line a messenger bag he's making for a friend. A girlfriend. Sometimes he'll even come right out and yack about the difficulties of being a male crafter. All this? Totally unsolicited. It's pre-emptive stereotype bashing. And it's almost as silly as the chest pounding.

Men, boys, male crafters world-wide: EMBRACE the comedy. Fuck with the counter-girl.** Tell the checkout clerk you're knitting tea cosies or sewing slip covers for your toilet tank. Refuse to answer the leading questions in any constructive form. Make the craft world your kitty toy.

Someone who is generally prejudiced against whatever you are will probably not change barring an act of the gods, and you may as well screw with them for your own amusement. They probably deserve that much.

Someone who is simply awkward and doesn't know how they should handle you is looking for an excuse to be on your side, and you may as well help them out and make the world a better place. They probably deserve that much.

Hey, it's how I handle the hardware store.

[SUMMARY: Stereotypes are bad and injurious to everybody. And damned funny sometimes too.]

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Girls! Get your orders in now!

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Boys! Get your orders in now!

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Funny story: a big, burly, biker-type guy that jumps with Steve asked Steve to patch his jumpsuit. Steve doesn't really like that kind of work and balked. But the guy insisted, with an ill-natured "Just patch the damned jumpsuit." So Steve said, "OK, I'll patch your jumpsuit, but I get to pick the patch."

Does that not sound like fair warning to you?

Steve went to JoAnn and got Tinkerbell fabric, then appliqued (seriously, people, where is the accent mark?) Tinkerbell on some rip-stop fabric and patched the jumpsuit. So the big, burly, biker-type guy has Tinkerbell at knees and ass and Steve is hoping that will discourage any future requests for such sewing.

. . . FOOTNOTE WITHIN A FOOTNOTE (unasterisked): Truth be told, it kinda backfired because the big, burly, biker-type dude got a LOT of female attention for his whimsical patches.

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Of *course* Steve has a wicked sense of humour. Do you think he'd qualify as Boy-Best-Friend if he didn't?

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Not literally. Unless she's hot. And that's the way you swing... hey, in the interest of all fairness to boys in crafts, just because all guys in a craft store aren't gay doesn't mean they're all straight.

This public service announcement has been brought to you by my sense of guilt and fairness.

And the number four.

Hodge Podge

Let's see...

Lotta little stuff. Nada so big.

I went to Posh for their sale yesterday. Sylvia, my pusher, allowed me out of the store with at least one ball of sock yarn more than I really needed. See, I wanted to get some of that nice Elsebeth Lavold Silky Wool (a hank or two maybe) to make more Branching Outs, 'cause I thought IRL Kelly's was such fun and I figured they'd make great keep-on-hand gifts.

Well, Elsebeth Lavold is 20% off at Sylvia's crack den. I got five.**

And the sock yarn. But it has aloe vera, which makes it totally new and different** and thus worthy of a place in my stash.

Here's the damage (I posted that middle picture because my camera almost captured the rich burgundy purplocity of the rich burgundy-purple-brown yarn. If my camera can find the purple, I think it's worth encouraging it with a little good pub).

[SUMMARY: If I get hit by a bus tomorrow, who will knit all the socks and scarves from my stash?]

So as long as I had the camera out last night, I took pictures of the non-fuckme shoes I got at Nordy's last week. The girl noises shoes. Note they are satin (what the HELL was I thinking? Oh, right, I wasn't thinking, I was overtaken by cute shoe fumes and it-fits-my-fat-little-feet hormones and wasn't thinking AT ALL, just waving the credit card in the air madly and making girl noises), which means they have the lifespan of a fruit fly in my world, but what a ride we'll have while the riding's good!

The bow... oh, the bow (*moan*)

[SUMMARY: I really don't have the time, patience or cashflow for another passion, but the shoes... *moan*]

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

Some time in the near future, maybe on your lunch hour, I want you to go listen to this song,** which I dedicate to the ones I love.**

[SUMMARY: Sandra Boynton rocks. Or maybe waddles. You know, like a penguin.]

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

Here is the list of non-knitting Google searches that brought people to this blog:

horse "laurie post"

where the beer canteloupe play

watches run backward

naughty librarian

g&h green stamps
"what killed the dinosaurs, darling"

I have no idea about that first one.

[SUMMARY: I'm a little surprised "balls" and "fuck me" didn't figure a little more prominently in that.]

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

I KIB'd at New Bar last night, much to the delight of Kelly the Bartendress. However, it turns out she's kind of the NASCAR fan of knitting, 'cause she mostly wanted to see what happened if I screwed up. When I failed to count to three in the universally prescribed fashion, I told her I was getting ready to tink, should she care to watch. She was so disappointed. She wanted to see a big hole in my knitting.

Kelly mixes a hell of a drink, but I worry about her around my knitting. She may have a... counter-productive attitude.

New Bar is opening a rooftop patio in June. Fast Eddie is strongly advocating water balloons for the rooftop denizens. And he mixes a hell of a drink too.

[SUMMARY: A good bar is a joy forever. A good bartender, doubly so.]

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

I will be experiencing a Brasilian meatfest tonight.

Yeah, I wish. If you know any Brasilian meats that'd like to meet me in a dimly-lit room for the kind of Marinhandling you just thought about, let me know.

Boy-best-friend Steve has a hankering for Rodizio, so off we go. I haven't actually seen Steve since the Super Bowl, so that'll be nice.

Not much to say there, but telling y'all gave me a chance to use the Brasilian meatfest line.

Style over substance, baby. Style over substance.

[SUMMARY: Did I really offer to give up sex for the sake of knitting a couple of blogposts back? Did anybody believe me?]

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

Dr. Doom's (third) birthday is this weekend. Cutest, appealingest destructo-child EVER.

[SUMMARY: My nephew did the cutest thing...]

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

Check this: IRL Kelley and I frequently have conversations that start like, "Have you been to..." On those occasions where the answer is "no," we do the we-have-to-do-that dance. So we decided to make a checklist so we'll get to some of it.

Then Kelley came up with the brilliant idea to each come up with ten things, write each on its own scrap of paper, then pull one out of a hat when the question of, "What do you want to do, sister?" comes up.

It appeals to the slut-for-ritual and the little kid interactive sides of me.

[SUMMARY: It's good to know where you're going. Or sometimes not.]

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

I was walking down the 16th Street Mall** and got in a weird (and disturbing) mental zone where I was accutely aware of panty lines all around me. Then I saw a girl with no panty lines of any kind and I'm not sure I like knowing so clearly what she's not wearing under her clothes.

[SUMMARY: You can please some of the people none of the time.]

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

If you go to Red's blog, you can see her pictures of Woolstock, and even a picture of yours truly amongst the knitters, standing next to that pusher, Sylvia.

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

In a sort of best-for-last bit, I just want y'all to know I got an EMAIL from the YARN HARLOT yesterday.

Yeah, you'd wet your pants if you got one, trust me.

See, when I told y'all I have ten projects on the needles, I *accidentally* left out maybe four. Or five. Not that you can trust me to count to four. Or five. Since the Harlot was talking UFOs, yesterday, I just commented on my dorkitude and lack of math skills and how the curly scarf is in the basket BEHIND my TiVi chair, so I can't see it so in a solipsistic sort of world it doesn't exist (Schroedinger's Scarf)... anyway. I said that I simply didn't mean to lie.

She replied to say "You're not lying. You're being selective in your admission."

Now, if only she could explain my stash to Sex Toy, we might be getting somewhere.

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

Happy Friday!

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Sylvia-the-Pusher kept reminding me that if I bought ten skeins of something, I'd get an additional discount.

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Sock yarn is not simply sock yarn. There are shades of sock yarn. There is sock yarn technology. That's my story and I'm sticking with it.

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): If you were sullen in the 80s, you might get "Personal Penguin" dovetailing into the tune of "Personal Jesus." There is nothing wrong with this, unless you're horrified to find you think very much like me.

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked and almost forgotten): This would be most of you guys, in case you didn't get that.

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): When the 16th Street Mall was first installed in downtown Denver, the Denver Post had a contest to name it. Much had been made of it being a mile long in the mile high city and on 16th Street, so, naturally, they wanted a name that wasn't so trite as to use any of those devices.

It has never been anything but the 16th Street Mall.

Fd an O!

Yes, Kelly's Medium Blue Branching Out is done, at least as far as the knitting goes. Tonight I will head into the darkest wilds of blocking. I don't believe the 45" scarf will block to the 59" the pattern says it will. It's too much. But it's not a horrible length as it is, so if I only get a couple of inches of new scarf out of the blocking adventure, it's OK by me.

OK, the O and the C actually really want me to undo that last knot in the scarf and rip it out and add another repeat or two (the pattern says I'll get 27 repeats out of the ball of yarn, but I'd bet my Mini Cooper I'd get at least two more), but the cooler voices in my head will prevail and I'll leave it the hell alone and let the blocking do its magic, no matter how much I don't believe in magic.

In any case, there will be pictures tomorrow -- before and after blocking.

I'm having a weird day. You know it's weird when I'm more or less rendered speechless. Or blogless. I'm having lunch with Laurie-without-a-Link and the Suburban Sedation Crew today, so maybe I'll have more to say tomorrow.

I'll at least have pictures. Knitting pictures too! And we all know knitting pictures make everything better!

[SUMMARY: No pictures, not even a thousand words to make up for it. I sure set a lot of store in the healing powers of knitting pictures.]

Meanwhile, I leave you with these little bits I've been saving up for a snarky, twisty day like today:

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

One day, I saw a navy blue PT Cruiser one lane over and a few cars in front of me on my way home. In silver letters, oh, I'd say ten inches tall, it said, "Praise Jesus."

The first thought in my fuzzy little head? "Good Jesus! Good boy! And wearing your big-boy pants too!"

[SUMMARY: so. going. to. hell.]

*************
True story:

TROPICANA PURE 100% ORANGE JUICE
from concentrate with other natural flavors

Could someone explain what part of 100% "other natural flavors" fits in?

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

What do you suppose I have against the number four?

I've spent two months tweaking a spreadsheet on which I had to make sure well names (oil wells, gas wells, just how I roll) were correct and in line with what the engineering department (petroleum engineers... don't get me started) thinks they should be and in line with what the Colorado Oil and Gas Commission thinks they should be... so I did a lot of cutting'n'pasting, since well names tend to look like this:

METAPHYSICAL RAINBOW RANCH FEDERAL #06-15 A**...

and come in clumps like this:

METAPHYSICAL RAINBOW RANCH FEDERAL #06-15 A**
METAPHYSICAL RAINBOW RANCH FEDERAL #06-15 B, C & D**

This is the stuff cutting'n'pasting was born for. Only I (somehow) cut'n'pasted one particular well randomly all over the spreadsheet

(Um, Marin? Hi, it's Sue? I'm looking at your spreadsheet? And where it should say Bob's Big House of Oil and Gas Fun 36-16** it says Kitty Cat 17-2**? And where it should say Metaphysical Rainbow Ranch Federal 14-8** it says Kitty Cat 17-2**? Um... and where it should say Uber Oil 22-11** it says, well, Kitty Cat 17-2**? If I'm wrong, just tell me...).

I am a bigger dork than I ever knew. I can't even figure out why the Kitty Cat 17-2** was my very favourite well and I thought it the alpha well over all other puny beta wells... I couldn't explain. I could do naught but to correct the error of my wells.

THEN... Sue brings a printout of my spreadsheet to me with about thirty wells highlighted. They all have the right names, wrong numbers. Except they're all SUPPOSED to be Something Something number-4 (like the Kitty Cat Federal 15-4** and Bob's Big House of Oil and Gas Fun 22-4**) only they're all Something Something number-5 (like the Kitty Cat Federal 15-5** and Bob's Big House of Oil and Gas Fun 22-5**).

Again, I have no explanation. I don't know what I had against the number four that fateful day. O, remedial Sesame Street, where is thy sting?

What I do know is that I just cut'n'pasted that whole parenthetic Kitty Cat/Big Bob thing to illustrate the difference between the numbers 4 and 5 (Huh. I occurs to me that, given some of my knitting adventures, I may not be real solid on the difference between the numbers 4 and 5) and it seemed to work fine. Was it just that one day? Just this one spreadsheet? Just the number 4 and the Kitty Cat Federal 17-2**?

I'm going with poltergeist.

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

Boy-Best-Friend Steve and I were watching "Invincible," the Mark Wahlberg movie about Vince Papale. Papale benefited from a 1970s-era publicity stunt in which the Philadelphia Eagles opened try-outs to all comers. It's based on a true story, with Papale being the only schlump good enough to actually win a job under this system.

There is a scene in which Papale is leaving the tryout or his first practise or something and his crappy Camaro-esque car won't start (for the 15th time in the movie. Illustration! Vince is poor!) and Dick Vermeil (yes, that Dick Vermeil, though -- oddly -- he didn't cry once) walks up to the driver's side of the car to give him some good news and his (Papale's) arm moves in what (to some of us, born before the dawn of auto automation) is easily recognisable as the action of a man rolling down a window. Manually. I turned to Steve and said, "150,000 young people across the country have no idea what just happened."

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

Happy Friday!

What?

Oh, for fuck's sake...

**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): I made up those well names. Can you tell?

L I B

ABCD ducks...
LMNO ducks...
SMR some ducks...
LIB... MR ducks!

I think there's another line in there, but I can't remember what it is exactly. In my horrible little mind, it goes something like SMR some ducks... CMP?

Ugh. I'm back at blogpost one. I've written and edited and reduced and erased and deleted... The pressure to be engaging here is fierce. I'm not sure I can be anything but boring, maybe a little whiny, definitely bordering on philosophical. Would you still respect me in the morning?

[SUMMARY: I still have OC stuff, but mostly O stuff. I still have issues. They haven't changed since yesterday.]

A list**. A list would keep the mental shitstorm semi-brief, semi-controlled. Besides, lists are oh-so-blog. All the cool bloggers do lists.

I present to you mindbits, in no particular order... Well, we could get all Freudian about it and determine there are no accidents, nothing is random, but I'll leave that up to you. You're young, you're strong. You're full of piss and vinegar and high hopes... I'm old and I don't think I have the energy.

1. Um, no knitting pictures. Awake at 4:00, up at 4:30 (the noise of the morning papers hitting the porches makes it almost impossible for me to go back to sleep), did a load of laundry, cleaned a little in anticipation of Book Club, found too late the camera battery was dead. It's on the charger. Knitting pictures are still forthcoming. Things will still get better.
2. I did not finish the Book Club book, though I only have 40 pages and I read fast.
3. Kelly called at 11:00 yesterday morning to say, "I already need a cocktail if you still want to go out." We did. It was good. I was mostly good -- i.e. I didn't ask a lot of questions about The Boy (like "Why, Kelly? Why did The Boy leave like that? Did he tell you anything? Was it something I said? Something I did? Does he ever talk about me? Is he seeing anyone? Do you think you could tell him I got my nipples pierced and remind him of my phone number?" Yeah, that would have been embarrassing). And I'm sorry and a little ashamed for writing her off under the heavy cloud of my own paranoia and self-esteem issues. She's better than that, even if I'm a mess. And today's title? My reaction to finding Kelly had called. I said it out loud, "L I B..."
4. Called my boy-best-friend, Steve, when I got home. I like to talk to Steve, and it's not just 'cause he's a boy who will give me strokes (yet generally be honest with me, even about hard stuff, so I can *trust* the strokes). It's because he's way up as one of the smartest people I know and thinks things like The Traffic Channel are funny too ("too" as in, "AntiM thinks the concept of The Traffic Channel is funny and Steve does too.") Anyway... Told him I blog. Gave him the URL. Realised...
5. ...there is a sort of moral issue (or at least a timeless, internal struggle) to all this, isn't there? I mean, I've watched Laurie post her Christmas presents on her blog (instructing the future recipients to forget they saw them), blithely talk of vibrators and wine ("Not wine, Dad! No sir! Coke for me! And all those batteries are really coming in handy for my vast collection of remote controls!") I'm paraphrasing -- Laurie may never have mentioned remote controls. And Marcy actually had a sort of coming out process. So what if I want my dad to read this and it's all full of "fuck" and stuff? And what if I want to whine about a Steve thing but I know he might read it? And do I really want written proof of my dorkitude and angst? How does one maintain blogtherapy under these anti-confidential circumstances?
6. HOWEVER... If you were passive-aggressive, this could be a real boon. All you'd have to do is post about the things you don't want to say real-live-in-person and you'd accomplish the communication, if under the auspices of cowardice. Hmmmm... I'll have to remember that. I'm not a big fan of passive-aggressive (being solidly in the "aggressive" camp myself), but it can be a useful tool. If nothing else, it might be a good way to hint for the right birthday and Christmas presents.
7. Last week, I uttered (actually emailed) the following phrase, which is so good out of context I'm not even going to tell you how it came about: I know the juggling is all in my mind.
8. I have to bake something for Book Club tonight. Or at least provide something. It's a good thing I work well under pressure.
9. I'm hungry. Lunch isn't for another three hours (I'm meeting Laurie -- not that Laurie, Laurie-without-a-link -- and the Suburban Sedation Crew for lunch. BIG social week for this little black duck. Speaking of ducks, remind me to tell you someday about all-purpose ducks. This has just become the mother of all parenthetic boondoggles. Was I really talking about ducks?) and I'm starving. I think eating 200 calories of Lean Cuisine yesterday, then capping the day with 1000 calories of alcohol didn't do my body good. OK, now thinking about being up at 4:30 is making me tired. I'm like a four-year-old.
10. Every list needs a ten (unless, in Spinal Tap fashion, the list goes to eleven). Do y'all watch Pardon the Interruption on ESPN? Love me some Tony Kornheiser. Here's a Mr. Tony phrase (that's not me, that's what he calls himself. I know your loathing of him is growing by the second, but he's really a good and funny head), used when there is such an elite group it bears pointing out just how *tiny* the list is: "That's it, that's the list."

[SUMMARY: I still have no knitting pictures. I am *really* pushing my realm of possibility with tonight's Book Club. I drink, and if I'm lucky, I drink with Kelly. Or Steve. Speaking of Steve (and ducks), I'm worried about having to censor myself, either via limiting my talking points or limiting my audience. I'm a four-year-old who likes Tony Kornheiser who calls himself "Mr. Tony," and that's not as vile as it sounds. I may always have these same issues.]

So that's it, that's the list. Boring, babbling, bungling and all. But I will discipline myself not to edit again... STICK, DAMNIT, STICK!

Knitting pictures. It will all be better with knitting pictures.

**FOOTNOTE: Does anybody else find it weird that the list function places bullets inside the numbers on the list? Also, I didn't asterisk it (don't you love verbing nouns?), but did y'all notice the very festive links I inserted under number 9 up there? I am so proud. I am such a dork.