Rhinebeck Wardrobe Update

In the spirit of true femininity (oh, watch me guppy to the stereotype), I am changing my mind about what I will be wearing Saturday, for all you Rhinebeck Bingo players who may be interested.

When Shanny called last night and said, "Come on down and see if we can make last call,"* I was already, well... naked and ready for bed. So I threw on the coziest, easiest thing my eyes fell upon and I thought, "This is what I should wear for Rhinebeck."

It has so little to do with fibre, but is comfy, warm and distinctive.

I will be wearing my Hurley Midgets sweatshirt (giant, heather grey, black and orange lettering... kinda like Erin here) and my orange tennies, thus:

I will, as promised, be carrying my Delores Van Hoofen limited edition tote bag that proudly proclaims, "I'm a square!"

I'll be the one singing, "I Feel Pretty," or maybe, "I Enjoy Being a Girl," or, "I Feel Pretty"...

*I feel I should point out to anyone not a regular that this is not so much an alcoholic thing as a "cut me some slack my team won the Pennant" thing. See posts below.

Bon Voyage!

Rhinebeck Countdown: T-minus and counting, play clock at 3 days

Fewer words than you're used to, I got all manner of crap to take care of before I leave at (get this) 4:00 tomorrow morning.

And, y'know... didn't get *that* much sleep last night.

Here is how the movie people Bogart a parking lot:




Here are my new earrings (glass skulls), which I am wearing every day:




Here is a funny story that you will recognise as an ideal situation to take my car keys from me: One day last week, I went for lunch and I happened to look at the old billboard (like this) because Hans said to me once, "I don't know any of the guys they have on that billboard." So I looked at the billboard. And when I came back, I glanced out the window and said, "G Brown. I know who G Brown is."

About two hours later, I looked up and this was my view:




I never saw anyone change the artwork. Either billboard installers are sneaky like cactus or I am so completely oblivious I didn't notice an acre of change right under my nose. Almost literally.

To make it all better (in case, say, you're a D'Backs fan), here are fibre pictures.

Here is Yorick as a misshapen lump of felt:

Here is Yorick as a pinned out misshapen lump of felt:

Here are two Yoricks battling for Supremacy of the Box:

The Good News: The heads shrunk (I can't tell you how much I wish I had time to play with that whole concept. I would be really funny) more than I would have liked, but the scarf is still drapey and will likely not be possessing any cats or coffee makers any time soon.

The Bad News: I still have to cut out the eye- and nose-holes. And my scissors -- all eleventy-billion pairs of them -- are missing.

And 'cause y'all are knitters (sorry, Brother... don't mean to paint you with the knitterly brush... MANY of y'all are knitters), I know how you like to see the seams:

That's a three-needle bind-off (my first). It took about two hours because I started by binding front to back with a too-short tail, then I bound front to front with a too-short tail (what do you suppose I thought had changed?), then I had to get a separate piece of yarn to do the bind-off, then I said, "Fuck it, I'm felting. I don't have to get jiggy with the join."

And 'cause I know how y'all (sorry, Brother) like to see how the back looks:




That's all, folks! See some of you in Rhinebeck, see the rest on the flip-side next week!

XOXO
M

GO ROCKIES!

And Now to Our Marin in the Street...

Note the time...


Yeah, well, Shanny called... I was all wired... I couldn't've slept with a vat of Quaaludes... I went downtown. At least I share.

GO ROCKIES!

This Just In...

Any D'Backs fans out there?









Yes, I'm taking pictures of the TiVi. Y'all think it's cute when Crazy Aunt Purl does it. My team just won the pennant... cut me some slack.

Found the Shoes!

Found the Camera!

All Across Arizona...

...the bars went quiet.

[SUMMARY: Twenty-seven outs from glory.]

Rhinebeck Countdown: game clock at 2 days, play clock at 5 days


Is that a big ol' trip out of town looming?

I have lost my brown walking shoes, my camera and several little pieces of my mind. The house looks like I have resident trolls and the cat is starting to get clingy. Time is not on my side, particularly with this weekend's loss of hours to the totally-worth-it Rockies.

[SUMMARY: Take my car keys, but let my Rockies be!]

And for any Rhinebeck Bingo buddies checking in... Hi! My name is Marin, I'll be your dork square at this Saturday's festivities. Please look for me wearing my Ravelry t-shirt,† either a charcoal cable sweater or a teal cashmere cardigan, depending on how warm it is,‡ and maybe even a grey and black Columbia jacket.

And, of course, my Delores Van Hoofen 2007 Commemorative I'm a Square! tote bag.

[SUMMARY: I am that dork.]

I may or may not have a camera.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): the grey one with the pink writing*

*FOOTNOTE WITHIN A FOOTNOTE: pre-supposing it gets here on time.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Don't get excited, it's not one of those fabulous show-off-my-skill, finished-it-for-Rhinebeck things. I don't much knit for myself. The Gap knits for me.

Books vs. Pointy Sticks

WARNING: the following is beyond unfunny. It's anti-funny. Don't worry, I can't imagine I'll be doing this very often.

Poor Juno. Stalking her at every turn.

But this time, it's a legitimate product of inspiration rather than scary-slurpy admiration.

Her post about reading unleashed all manner of wordstorm in my fuzzy head.†

I used to be a huge reader. Way beyond the pale. I read seven to ten books *on average* every week. Trust me -- there were anti-social weekends where I'd plough through my seven to ten in a couple of days and rush head-first into five or six more.

People who knew me would ask how long it took to read a particular book (usually one with a high page count) just so they could shake their heads in wonder.

When I got my paycheck every month, I'd stop at the bank, then head to Barnes & Noble. I had to get a basket to accommodate my shopping.

Part of this was ritual; I followed a methodical, predictable and repeatable path.‡ I visited certain tables, certain authors, certain sections -- some for specifics, some hoping for buried treasure.

I'd leave with a couple hundred dollars' worth of books.

This monthly trip, augmented by book gifts and loans§ from family and friends, kept me in constant literary¶ kinesis.

I can't tell you how lonely it was.

I was living in a gorgeous, vast and varied world of clever phrases and breathtaking scientific achievement and (admittedly) pure trivia, and I couldn't share. Even when I could get someone to read a book on which I wanted to commune, they were invariably slower and had a life to fit the book among.

Six or eight months later, my cycle of panting desperation and bright-eyed anticipation faded to resigned curiosity, I might ask if they'd ever read it.

Often not.

Sometimes, "Oh, yeah. It was good. Thanks!"

The best days brought, "I really liked the part where the little girl licked the pig and turned into an alpaca."

Some days I felt like I was the only person in the world who knew about the secret life of dust. Semi-comatose people who can hear and understand, but can't move or talk? They know what I felt like.

The two greatest literary confabs of my life:

1. When Brother, Dad and I realised we were reading the same book# at the same time for no particular reason. It was not the bestseller of the moment -- I think I may even purchased mine at a used book store. But we'd somehow all three of us got our hands on this book.


2. When Dad semi-retired†† and I packed up all the Terry Pratchett Discworld books‡‡, in order, and dumped them on his desk. For weeks, we traded lines and impressions and giggles and it was so *good* to be able to talk books en masse and in specific instead of in the abstract.

Somewhere in here, I started knitting a lot. I complained, half-jokingly, that knitting really ate into my reading time. At that time, I didn't know knitting groups existed. I hadn't discovered knitblogs. Knitting was almost totally solitary.

Then Mom got sick. It wasn't such a big deal at the outset. Cancer is a big word, but we like big words where I come from. When she had a seizure and a stroke Christmas night and fell into a coma... well, then things changed drastically. Even more when she came out of the coma... then fought her way back... then spiraled down and off the mortal coil.

For two months§§ I worked full-time and Mom was a second full-time occupation. From hospital to nursing home to hospice I went, meeting or passing various friends and family members, cooking, cleaning, crying, talking, arranging, transporting, fetching, shopping, sitting sitting sitting sitting... you'd think with all that sitting, it would be the ideal opportunity for knitting or reading.

I just couldn't.

I'd knit a couple of rows or a couple of stitches and have to stop. I'd read 12, 25, maybe even 50 pages in a book and... well, "meh" doesn't begin to cover it, but it's the only thing that comes close. Sitting with my hands fiddling in my lap and watching Mom deteriorate was taking me to the edge of my reason, but it was better than knitting or reading.

When she died, reading and knitting were all but out the window.

I worked like a demon when I could ("Please send me out of town"), but even *my* boss made me go home sometimes.

And then I'd go to the bar, not for the alcohol, but because I was in social limbo: I didn't want to be alone, but I didn't want to make conversation or even pretend to care about anybody else's chatter. At the Coral Room or Patrick Carroll's I could be by myself without being alone.

It was most of a year before I read a book all the way through, slightly less to finish a big-needle, big-square, garter-stitch piece. I fought each task every stitch, every page of the way, but completing them got me rolling again.

A little.

A gentle roll.

These days, you may have noticed, I knit far more than I read. Books seem more like old friends than constant companions. I tell tales of our glory days together, but it's not the same. It's so past-tense. It's so distant. It roughs up my heart some days.

I think I'm still a little afraid to be alone too much and knitting is just more social. I at least have the TiVi on when I'm knitting.

I miss my sluttish relationship with books. I don't miss the loneliness.

I don't regret or resent knitting. But I look in the mirror or stare at the ceiling and wonder who the hell it is wearing my skin.

I do get laid more. Not sayin' there's a direct correlation, just sayin'.

OK, I'm done. Have a lovely weekend, friends, family and others.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I don't think I can make y'all stand by while I lick the pig every day, so anything that brings forth more than four coherent sentences is a winner in my book.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Scientific Method, as applied to retail consumerism. And you can't imagine how discombobulated I'd get when they rearranged my B&N.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): The line was a little blurred on that sometimes. *ahem*

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): If not literal.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Robert McCannon's "Boy's Life," which is a delightful book, BTW. You should check it out.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Mom begged me to scour my library for Dad-worthy books. "He's reading two or three a day. I'm going to go broke trying to keep him out of my hair."

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Among others.

§§FOOTNOTE (double-curved): I can't adequately describe how much longer it feels. Sometimes I think if there's one thing I could get back from those days, it's a sense of scale.

Rhinebeck Countdown: game clock at 5 days, play clock at 8 days

TTHFCIF

I have to go work now. I won't get to the real post until lunch.

Meantime,

go play with this.

NLCS, Baby!

Rhinebeck Countdown: game clock at 6 days, play clock at 9 days

Any D'backs fans out there?

Bought a ticket yet?†

As a solid sports fan and a total homer, I am very, very excited about today. Today may be my best sports day since January 25, 1998. And that was mostly great because of the end result.

This day? This day is great right from the get-go.

When MLB was first looking to expand, Colorado was courting them with promises of a fabulous field‡ and good weather.§

When Colorado got the franchise, Colorado Rockies gear was the best-selling commodity in Major League Baseball by a LONG shot¶... more than a year before the team physically existed.

Mom was so excited for me 'cause the Rox sported my three favourite colours.#

The Rockies had the best attendance in the MLB for, oh, two or three years. Maybe a little more.

Then we all learned that, while Denver may have lots of sunny days, it doesn't have a lot to bite on the ball.%

Altitude kills the curve ball.††

The Rockies have sucked. Oh, yes, they have sucked. Sucked like a hooker with a habit.

They have disappointed decreasingly loyal fans year after year. Occasional brilliant runs or weirdly good early seasons have only served to punctuate the fact that they can't seem to put together a drive to the post-season.

Couldn't seem to put together a drive to the post-season, I should say.

Past tense.

For today, O my friends and O my foes, today the Rockies will play for the pennant for the first time in their fifteen year history.

I honestly believe they can beat the D'Backs.^

I'm so giddy right now you wouldn't even recognise me. Hey, Brother -- I was *singing* when I woke up this morning. And not Death Cab or the Sisters or any of the mope that normally plays in the radio in my head.

I was singing Walking on Sunshine.$

I know people who aren't sports fans don't get it. I hardly get it myself. I can't defend the insane love of a sports addict for a sport.

And I don't have to.

It's like religious faith@ -- it's something you feel or you don't, and you don't need any proof or anyone else's endorsement to make it work for you.‡‡

Even though they play baseball, my least favourite of the major sports,§§ I love the Rockies. I love their class and their drive and their location¶¶ and their colours and their field and the fact that just about anybody who doesn't still have a team in the race is rooting for them.

I love this time of year. And for once, it's not about the football.

GO ROCKIES!



†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Of *course* you haven't. Nobody has. They'll be giving them away with a toaster if you open an account at your local bank soon.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): I think they delivered. Coors Field is beautiful, comfortable, clean and somehow cheerful. And it's in Denver, for fuck's sake. You don't get prettier night games than at Coors Field.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Seriously. One of the great concerns was that it would snow -- often -- during baseball season. Every sports fan in the region knew how many days of sunshine Denver gets every year and that it's a high desert (minimal precip) because it was trumpeted desperately from every media tower in town on a daily basis.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Particularly in California, where a certain gang adopted the purple, silver and black as its own.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Little story: Mom got me a Looney Tunes CR tshirt with all your favourite characters wearing Rockies gear, the Tasmanian Devil front and centre. When we were down on the Ice, a big, strapping Maori in the New Zealand Army badgered me until his re-deployment to give him the shirt. On the day he shipped out, I did. Turns out I couldn't get another one, but I feel I did my part for world harmony and spreading the gospel of the Rockies down under.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Heh. Biting balls.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): In 1998, Dan Patrick had Bill Nye, the Science Guy, on his ESPN radio show to explain why balls don't curve and sink in Colorado.

^FOOTNOTE (careted): For posterity, Rox in four.

$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): A song I hate on principle.

@FOOTNOTE (batted... er, *atted*): Wait... did I just pretty much say, "Sport is my god"? Wow. This just got deeper and more philosophical than I thought possible.

What's the opposite of licking the pig?

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): In this case, however, you apparently also need an assload of luck and a minimum of $65 to see your team in the World Series.

For those not privy to Coors Field standards, the Rockpile is a section of bleachers behind the centrefield backdrop. When Coors Field first opened in 1995 (the first two seasons were played at the old Mile High Stadium), Rockpile seats were $1 each, and were only sold at the field the day of the game. Somewhere along the line, prices went up to $4 a seat.

World Series tickets, which will go on sale October 22 (we're nothing if not optimistic here in Rockies-land), will be $65 in the Rockpile.

Sixty. Five. Dollars.

For four-dollar seats.

Don't think I'm not trying to get some myself... just gettin' my two cents' (or at todays new World Series prices, my 32.5 cents') worth in.

§§FOOTNOTE (throw me a curve, Jeff!): No, soccer isn't on the list. Soccer isn't a sport, but taxonomically a member of the throw pillow family.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (big bats): For a home geek like me, it doesn't hurt at all that Jeff Francis lives in my neighbourhood and has been known to tip a brew at Favourite Bar.

You can go back to your knitting now.

This Just In...

Rhinebeck Countdown: game clock at 7 days, play clock at 10 days

They were filming on the corner of 16th and Tremont (roughly three blocks from the office and on my way to Cook's Fresh Market) when I sauntered into town for lunch today.

I'm pretty sure I didn't wedge my way into any shots.

There was surprisingly little fuss and REALLY suprisingly little equipment. When they make movies in movies, they shut down streets and there are cameras on motorised vehicles and big, dangling boom mics† and stuff. This was a bunch of people relaying information via walkie-talkie (what? No Nextel?) and a single camera on a stick only three or four feet off the ground.

They would wind up for the next green light, a cop would hold a few cars until the movie car went through said light, then life would resume as normal.

So I went back to the office to eat my sandwich.

Further updates as the situation warrants.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): heheheheheheheh... I'm twelve.

Time to Lick the Pig

Yes, it's brain lint time again. That time when rug burns sing, knitting goes feral and pigs get tongue-baths from winsome tots.†

Have you ever seen one of those French slice-of-life movies? Personally, I find them boring and awful, but I've seen one so I have some basis for comparison here. This first bit is basically my own little slice-of-life. It has no purpose beyond the "Huh."

When I was cosied up in my comfy chair Monday afternoon, I heard sirens from the north. They came closer and closer and a big, white fire truck pulled up right in front of my house.‡

The driver (wearing an official-looking navy blue uniform with a badge) and a fireman (wearing the giant fire coat and fire boots and placing his fire hat on his head as he hit the ground) hopped out. The fireman grabbed an axe and they both turned toward my house.

They looked up the long flight of stairs to the front door.§ They took two steps left and looked up my neighbour's stairs. They circled around opposite sides of the truck and disappeared, presumably to look at the across-the-street neighbour's door.

They came back around to my side. The fireman put the axe back in the hold of the truck and they both hopped back in.

Then they hopped out, grabbed the axe, milled¶ for a few minutes, jumped in the truck and drove off.

[SUMMARY: Huh.]

The movie people were back across the street from the office yesterday. Now they're gone again. I imagine it would be a royal pain in the ass to put up tents, take down tents, up with port-a-potties, down with port-a-potties every single day.

George Karl, Carmelo Anthony and Allen Iverson will be filming next week.

I think George Karl is going to be surprisingly good with his seven words onscreen. I seen him on the news last night and I think he's got that certain something.

[SUMMARY: Uh... really?]

Um... Brother? You won't appreciate this. I'm going to give you this 37 seconds of your life as a gift. Just skip to the next one.

I leave for New York a week from today. I think it's about time I think about my shopping list for Rhinebeck# and travel knitting.

Yorick will be done. Sparkle Socks will be done, or nearly. I'll certainly take the Massive Debt Father's day Arrrgyles for Brother and I may start a pair of Rainbow Socks out of a nice ball of Austermann Step with Aloe and Jojoba I've been hoarding.

It would probably help if I had a better Christmas plan. Both with what I should be knitting in the tens of FAA-supported hours I'll be experiencing next week and with what I should (and shouldn't) buy at Rhinebeck.

Musing.

Pig-licking.

[SUMMARY: Are we going to do this every week, AntiM?]

Oh, wait! Not this one either. Try the next exit.

Speaking of Rhinebeck... I'm going to be a bingo square in Stitchy McYarnpants's Rhinebeck Bingo.




It's not some big, unforeseen honour or anything. I volunteered.†† But, y'know... didn't get rejected.

I just thought y'all should know, just in case it makes you happy.

[SUMMARY: Attention whore.]

OK. You can tune back in now. It's football.

Just in case y'all were sitting there wondering, "Man, I haven't heard anything about Marin's fantasy football world lately. I wonder how she's doing."

I am at the top of both of my Pick 'Em leagues (one boys, one girls). Even after picking the Broncos in both leagues last week and even picking them against the Colts in one league two weeks ago.

I am firmly planted in the middle of my fantasy league, a stunningly mediocre 3-2 record and a supa-hot one-game winning streak to my name. Or the name of BOB, as it goes. Brother -- because I know you're dying to know -- has crept out of the sub-basement and is in second-to-last place with a far inferior 2-3 record.

And, while our feisty Canadian friend remains a few points ahead of me in the overall standings in the Onion Shattered Fantasies League, I whipped her sassy Canadian ass this week and am roaring toward a comeback.

[SUMMARY: I don't suck at sucking as much as you thought.]

DayQuil isn't supposed to make you dopey, is it?

You don't suppose it's just me, do you?

[SUMMARY: Getting warmer.]

I miss my Fling. I think I even miss the Male Lady just a little. Mostly I miss being able to breathe. I'm pretty sure a lack of snot-free oxygen to the brain is causing these blogblahs.

Please have a lovely Wednesday. For all our sakes.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): My father, for the record, says the kid in the pig-licking photo reminds him oh, so much of me. I was afraid to ask if it's just the blond curls or if it's the insouciant tongue action.

Hey! Stop that! My father is NOT thinking that kind of tongue action!

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): I suddenly became very aware of my insurance.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): For a moment, I honestly wondered if my house was on fire and they were seriously contemplating letting it burn so they wouldn't have to climb the stairs.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Two people can mill. I've seen it with my own two eyes. Which... don't mill. Even though there's two. Like the story about the people. Please make me stop.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Because pretty yarn out of context is a dangerous thing for the pocketbook and the stash. There are so many (whisper) useless hunks of fibre in my stash because I bought a ball or a skein in magpie mode and don't have enough to do anything compelling with it.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): With my hand waving madly in the air, shrieking, "Oo! Oo! Pick me! Pick me!"

Alas, Poor Yorick...

...I pinned him to the sofa, Horatio.†

I figured thus: I am knitting socks for Lorree and Yorick for Jeff. Yorick must be felted, blocked and dried prior to next Wednesday. The socks can be knit in the six-plus hours I will be on planes and in airports and such. The socks can be finished on the bus from Newark to Grand Central Station. The socks, if needs be, can be finished sitting at Riverside Park across the street from Jeff's building.

So Yorick wins, for the time being.%

Praise be, Yorick is a pretty quick knit, though I have made two skulls now and neither one of them came out to the right number of stitches, or even to the same number of stitches. For some reason, multiple yarn-overs can be difficult to knit in and out of while trying to count properly.




Don't Panic.‡ The one on the left is not all wonky due to my inability to count,§ I just didn't pin that one.

I'm having some palpitations over the felting process, not for any typical reason, but because I used Ella Rae Classic for this and the pattern calls for something alpaca or angora -- y'all know... bunny yarn -- but I thought bunny yarn might not be masculine enough, so I switched to this.

Then I poked at one of Bag Lady Kathryn's felted Ella Rae bags and I'm worried about it getting too dense for a scarf. I'm envisioning Jeff laying it across the back of his neck, then bending and twisting and capturing it quickly under the front of his jacket before it springs loose again.¶

I'll just have to keep a very close eye on the felting process so it gets felted enough for me to trim out the eye- and nose-holes, but not so felted it becomes a neck pillow.

I guess if worse comes to worst,# I can tell him it's one of those draft dodger things to put across the bottom of a door or window to keep cold air out.

I also turned the heel on the second Sparkle Sock yesterday just for variety. No dick warmers in my house.††

[SUMMARY: Knitting!]

Speaking of Bag Lady Kathryn,‡‡ when we went to Hotcakes (a recommended experience) Sunday morning, we came out to this:




Kathryn said, "Do you have your camera?"

Why, yes. Yes, I do.

[SUMMARY: Mini Coopers!]

Can we backtrack for a minute?^

I didn't take my camera Saturday night because I figured they wouldn't allow cameras in the concert. Turns out they didn't check anything very carefully and I could have smuggled it in just fine. As it stands, I have these great pictures on my camera phone,§§ but I don't know if I can do anything other than send them in text messages. If I can, I sure as hell don't know *how* to do it.

[SUMMARY: Technology!]

I forgot to tell you a little tidbit: when we ran up to Coors Field Saturday after Genesis, Shanny gave me his media pass to go inside and poke around. Mostly, I took pictures of the media pass on my camera phone, but I did enjoy waving that thing at all the Coors Field official-types who wanted to get in my way.

"Media!" I said,¶¶ sticking it in their faces with all the grace and cool of a three-year-old meeting Mickey Mouse at Disneyland for the first time.

[SUMMARY: Sport!]

And this last bit is just a pretty picture of a historical building across the street from my office. I thought the sky particulalry pretty. I'm sharing.




[SUMMARY: Art!]

Happy Tuesday, ev'ry-bahdy!


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): That's not even funny. I just wanted the chance to show off my crazy-big Shakespearean knowledge. The day I can toss out the primrose path speech here with jaded nonchalance... that'll be a proud, proud day. And y'all know I'm going to be looking for excuses now.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): I bet you're *stunned* at the unprecedented level of logic I am able to reach. It's all the sleep yesterday, I tell you.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): I miss Douglas Adams.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Both in and out of triple yarn-overs and to four.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): In my mental movie, he forgets about the rogue scarf and goes to pull his wallet out of his jacket to pay for a newpaper at a newsstand. He yanks the zipper down a couple of inches and starts to reach his hand into his inner pocket. The scarf pops out, the recoil snapping Jeff's wrist and zinging a woman (buying gum next to him) in the face.

THEN... the scarf's eyes glow red but only the guy in the newsstand sees it. He goes home in his '57 Chevy and dismembers his wife, then climbs into their chest freezer with a 45 of "My Boyfriend's Back."

The scarf whispers to Jeff's cat at night, causing the usually-docile feline to eat the neighbour's dog and several small children.

One night, the scarf inches into the kitchen, humming to itself before it slithers into the coffee maker.

Jeff and Lorree have friends over for brunch the next day and everybody drinks coffee filtered through the demon scarf and they all go mad, giving in to their basest impulses and acting out 1950s dead teenager songs.

Later that day, they all die on separate railroad tracks before the folksy sheriff with the dark past can capture them.

The scarf is last seen disappearing into a cargo crate off Battery Park.

Voilá. Stephen King story.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): "Worse comes to worst" or "worst comes to worse"? Each makes a sort of elegant sense... of course, I may just be high on my recent think-tank triumph in figuring out which project to knit first for the imminent trip.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): I could get all dirty-sassy-funny here if it weren't so pathetically true on so many levels.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Nice segueway.

^FOOTNOTE (careted): Just playing at polite. My blog, my backtrack.

§§FOOTNOTE (double-D curvy): Well, they seem really great when I blow them up from postage stamp-size in my head.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (para-para-para-paragraph): OK, OK... squealed.

Knitting! Mini Coopers! Technology! Sport! Art! Sometimes Sex!

Man, this blog has *everything*!

Live on Location

From our studios in beautiful downtownish Denver.

I felt like hell this morning so I called in sick. I feel a little better and probably *could* work, but I don't really want to. I want to sit home and curl up in something warm† and knit and watch TiVi and go to bed really, really early.

And I was supposed to dine with Genius Sarah and Red tonight. I probably could, but did you ever have one of those totally drained, utterly meh days?

So a quick weekend recap, then I'll go knit something so I have good fibre pictures to show you tomorrow.‡

I mitigated months of granddaughterly neglect on Saturday. I think another couple of Saturdays and I'll be worthy of my Most Favoured Grandchild status again. I'm still a bit of a fraud, but at least I'm a fraud with good intentions.

Genesis was amazing. I wasn't even part of the Genesis crowd in high school so much, but the Genesis crowd heavily overlapped the Rush crowd, so there you are.

And now you don't even need to *ask* what kind of geek I really am.

Hey... the geek test didn't have any Prog Rock questions at all! How can anyone expect to get the full scope of geekiness without Monty Python and Rush?

But I digress.¶

I had both my brother and Kelley texting me through the whole concert about the Rockies' progress. Shanny works for KOA, the local radio station that carries the Rox and he was listening to streaming of the game and occasionally calling the crew. So between us, we were the best informed sports fans in geek arena world. We were solely responsible for keeping our constituency informed, since the band didn't much seem to care.

I don't think Phil Collins even blinked when the Rox made their first score.#

Anyway, the final text of the night:

Ballgame. Rockies win.

There was shrieking, jumping, arm waving of the finest ecstasy.

Once the concert was over, we booked out and swam with the sea of other fans flowing from Coors Field. We had dinner at 1:00 in the morning, then Shanny brought me home and showered quick before heading out to set up for Race for the Cure.§

I TiVo'd the game (in HD), so we watched many highlights before he went.

What an awesome time to be a fan.

On Sunday, breakfast with Bag Lady Kathryn, possibly an ill-conceived plan given the 60,000 or more Race for the Curers out brunching, but the pumpkin spice pancake at Hotcakes really were worth it.

I baked a beautiful cherry pie, which could have used a little more cinnamon and maybe a little less cloves, but still drove my father and brother to new heights of suck-up in currying favour for the one leftover piece and future pies.

The Broncos sucked like a turbo-charged Hoover.

Thank the gods for the Rockies.

Wow. Anybody ever think I'd be saying *that* in October?

I'm going to go curl up in my comfy chair. Speaking of comfy chairs... I guest blogged over at Sylvia's House of Fuzzy Crack (a/k/a Posh, a Yarn Boutique).

It was quite an honour, and much harder than I would have thought. Not being able to talk about rug burns in my own special context or post videos of Paul McCartney telling a dirty joke really takes me out of my comfort zone.

Huh. Now that I think of it, I bet Sylvia would have let me post a pig-licking child.

Oh, wait! Wait! Besides fibre, you know what else makes it all better?

A frog!




†FOOTNOTE (crossed): The heater came on for the first time this morning. Normally, I'd like to celebrate by wrapping up in someONE warm, but my big ol' fluffy comforter will work just fine for a meh like today.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): To the chorus, everyone: 'cause fibre makes it all better.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): First, I sold that event totally short last week. Denver has the largest local Race for the Cure in the country. Last year, it was 60,000. I think I said 8,000 Friday, and I thought I was exaggerating. Second, can you imagine Shanny's world the last couple of days? If he wasn't hallucinating (and I'm not even talking chemicals here) when those 60,000-plus pink hats rolled toward his broadcast tent... well, he's a better man than I am.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): If ever you think I *don't* digress, call the Coast Guard; somebody's usurped my identity and is blogging in my stead.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): In the eighth, if I remember correctly. The Rockies in a pitchers' duel... imagine.

Feeding Your Pirate Frenzy

You simply *must* go see this.

This is My Brain on Zamboni

TTHFCIF

Any Philly's fans out there?

So yesterday I was nowhere near a computer I could use all day. Then I went home and TiVi'd and knitted until bedtime.

It was lovely not going anywhere or doing anything.†

I intend to maybe do a little more of the same tonight.

[SUMMARY: Lazy and loving it.]

I'm rapidly approaching the heel on the last Sparkle Sock and I cast on Yorick last night and got the first skull and two or six or ten inches% of the scarf part done.

I may finish those up before New York after all.

[SUMMARY: Still a knitblog!]

I can't get all wild-hairy tonight anyway. I accidentally^ blew off my grandmother two weekends running and I *must* go see her tomorrow. Otherwise they will revoke my granddaughter card and my cousin Tani will take over Most Favoured Granchild status solely on the basis of having the most recent baby.

We can't be having that.

[SUMMARY: Family politics.]

Besides,‡ I do love my grandmother and it makes her really happy when I come to visit. And if we get the conversation steered the right way, I learn really cool things about Dad that I can use as leverage should I need it. Or just for fun table talk at family dinners.

[SUMMARY: And the family politics just keep coming.]

It's going to be a busy, busy weekend. Before I talk futures, let's visit Wednesday night's hockey opener.$

I love mechanical things, toys. From C-batteries to supercharged cars to jet engines, I love them all. Perhaps the Zamboni most of all.§

And look at this one:




Feng-schwogie!

Huh. It just occurred to me that I may have sub-consciously bought the Mini Cooper because it is the car that most closely resembles the Zamboni.&

Anyway...

The preamble for a game has all the subtlety of a drag queen.

The ice goes red...




...the ice goes blue...




...the ice spins and dapples and goes red and blue and flashy from all sides and there's stuff that looks like leopard spots or maybe ripples in a pond and spotlights swing in mad circles and...




...and then they bring the players on. Loudly.

Look!

One hockey player... two hockey players... three hockey players... four, four beautiful hockey players!¶




That's it, I'm out.

[SUMMARY: Can't count past four.#]

Then skate-around...




...then face-off...




...then a hat trick by Stastny. I do have a picture of hats on the ice and little maintenance people shuffling around with garbage cans, picking up the hats off the ice. But it's at home. In my other computer.

I'm pretty sure that, in looking at the 27,000 pictures I took to get this one...




...I didn't realise one of them was the hat trick and forgot to upload it so I could share.

Things you might want to know:

That shot that I am claiming is the best of 27,000 is because of the reflected skaters in the glass around the ice.

See, I have a strong shiny-object lobe in my brain.†† It finds objects and fixates on them and won't let go until some loud noise or person next to me waving their hands in front of my eyes snaps me out of it.

When I watch basketball, if I hear a shoe squeak -- just once -- I can no longer focus on the game because I can hear *all* the shoes squeaking. With football, it's night games where the lights turn the players and their shadows into highly mobile jacks.‡‡

Wednesday night, for the first time, I noticed how cool the reflections are when skaters go by the panels of glass in the corners. This may be what passes for artsy in hockey.

Despite all that distraction, I do know the Avs won. I cheered every goal.§§

[SUMMARY: Hockey hockey hockey hockey hockey hockey hockey]

Kelley drove and picked a parking lot+ under not one, but TWO cranes.

[SUMMARY: Always the cranes...]

So this weekend... ah, this weekend.

Tomorrow morning, I go see Grandma. Tomorrow night, I go see Genesis.

Sunday morning, breakfast with Bag Lady Kathryn (not too early, I admonished, Marin will be shutting down a bar Saturday night).

Possible snow.

Broncos.

Family dinner.¶¶

Avs.##

Possible Rockies.†††

Drinking with Kelley.‡‡‡

[SUMMARY: Is there such thing as too much fun?]

And late to work on Monday.

Happy Friday, ev'ry-bahdy!



†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I say that like that isn't exactly what I did all weekend last weekend. Well, except for the part where I helped Bag Lady Kathryn paint her dining room. Well, I be. I guess I was useful last weekend. Yea, me!

%FOOTNOTE (percented): How am I supposed to gauge this? The boys keep telling me ten inches looks like *this*, but then the sweaters never fit.

^FOOTNOTE (careted): Yes, it's possible. No, I won't teach you how.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): This is not the afterthought it seems. I'm nicer than that. Shut up.

$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): Mostly because I'm in love with how well my camera handled hockey.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Yes, even more than the variable-speed, purple, g-spot vibrator. That's a *lot* of Zamboni love.

And that sounds ten more kinds of dirty. What is wrong with me today?

&FOOTNOTE (ampersanded): So much Freud, so little time.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): And I do mean beautiful. Hockey players are hot. So hot. Oh, my C-batteries! Seriously, other than Scotty Bowman, who is the exceptional toad that proves the rule, hockey players have a minimum level of hotness that rivals the upper echelons of real-world male hotness.

Does the ice keep their skin pretty or something?

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Some of you may recognise the amazing improvement this represents, since I couldn't count *to* four earlier this year. Knitting has helped me grow, and I'm a better person for it. Or at least less likely to blindly accept the wrong change at Starbucks.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): No, AntiM! Say it ain't so!

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): The pick-up kind that comes with a red ball that you got when you were a kid.

§§FOOTNOTE (curvalicious): Sometimes smacking the guy in front of me in the head with my camera as I did. It's OK -- he was cheering for the other team.

+FOOTNOTE (plussed -- the opposite of non-plussed?): I just want to be sure you understand that I didn't park us somewhere just to get under the cranes (dirty!). It was Kelley's choice, all her own free will and everything.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (all the pretty paragraphs): For which I will bake the first cherry pie of safe-to-turn-the-oven-on season.

##FOOTNOTE (pounded like a beer at last call): Who moved gametime Sunday to allow for a possible Rox game.

†††FOOTNOTE (tres... tres cruces bonitos!): Y'know... if they don't put the Phillies away Saturday. Also, if you're in Denverish on Sunday, don't be. At least not downtown. Sportsfest, Oktoberfest, 12,000 women in pink hats (Race for the Cure, in case I out-clevered myself on the reference), free parking... it'll be a madhouse.

‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (railroad tracks!): Who works for a credit union and has Monday off for Columbus Day. Hey, I can't let my girl drink alone.

Keep Your Penis in Your Genus

Take that, Google!

Did anyone else watch "Cavemen" last night?

I just have a crapload of brain lint for you today, as I did nothing useful last night and apparently don't intend to do anything useful in the very near future.

Well, except for hockey.

Because I volunteered to help Interweave Press with this year's Sticks 'n' Stitches,† I'm on this special offers mailing list for the Colorodo Avalanche. It's not totally rockstar-VIP, but it is a nice litte tweak.

Kelley and I are attending tonight's season opener. I don't know if you've ever attended one sporting event (i.e. -- tonight's hockey game) while a big sporting event from another sport is going on (i.e. -- tonight's Rox playoff game)... it's really wound up.

The Rox score will be updated frequently -- maybe even constantly displayed. During TiVi timeouts and such, they'll show highlights from the baseball game. The Pepsi Center will hum and vibrate with the energy of 19,000 swept up sports fans.

So don't call me tonight 'cause it's going to be off the hook.‡

[SUMMARY: With hip talk like that, I could write sitcoms for CW.]

Can I just say here than anyone who doesn't read the comments... well, they're not necessary to your mental health or your understanding of the complexities of this blog (*ahem*), but brilliant and incisive minds come from all corners of the Innernets to comment, kibbutz and debate the merits of the term "pounded like a two-dollar whore."

It's a regular Algonquin Roundtable there under the surface. You should try it some time.

[SUMMARY: This may partly be a shameless slurp to ameliorate the ick that is to follow. But it works 'cause it's true.]

Right across from the office I'm working in (I can see it from my window) is a Hampton Inn Suites. I walk right past it on my way from the parking lot to the office in which I'm working

Every morning, there's about a half-dozen tourists waiting for their rental cars from valet or catching a cab or gearing up§ for a big day's cruise around downtown. An odd pattern I've noticed: they're almost always wearing Bronco shirts -- the entire family -- and the wife and daughter are more often than not wearing pink Bronco shirts.

Every day. For two months.

And about three-quarters of the nights when I'm heading to my car, Papa John's is delivering pizza. Doesn't matter if it's 4:00 or 7:00. Papa John's is there.

I wonder if the people at the front desk of the Hampton Inn Suites notice these vignettes.

[SUMMARY: Now that work has slowed down a bit, I apparently have too much time on my mind.]

I was trying to come up with a title for today's post. I got stuck in a "bits and bobs" loop, but (or because) Franklin just used that delightful little phrase. So I thought, "Google. Maybe there's a sort of thesaurus for phrases¶ and I can discover an equally delightful little phrase."

Read the footnote -- I didn't find a phrasal thesaurus,# but I did come across a website for English idiom, including a message board for ESL linguists trying to get by in the English-speaking world. I read through several of the forum entries and it fascinates me that they are so fascinated with phrases like, "to grease a palm"†† or "work like a dog."‡‡

[SUMMARY: English, she is more interesting than we remember.]

There's a girl on Ravelry with the screen name "Diva de los Muertos."

Best. Screen. Name. Ever.

Don't think I didn't stalk her and tell her so.

[SUMMARY: *slurp*]

My rug burn is almost completely healed. I need a new one.

[SUMMARY: Is she whining about sex again?§§]

Heh. I've been waiting for a good opportunity to use this picture from Cute Overload. Perhaps it could be the first installment in the Phrasaurus:

Lick the pig: jump the shark, screw the pooch, bite the big one, cock a snook, take the mickey, wag the dog, milk the joke.

[SUMMARY: This has to end soon.]

You know, when Enchanting Juno gets whimsical and musey, it's like a soft summer evening, warm and golden and jasmine-scented. It brushes melancholy and touches on philosophy and there's wisdom and usually fibre somewhere.

When I get whimsical and musey, somehow we end up with rug burns and children licking pigs.

[SUMMARY: Where do I go wrong?]

Ooh! Ooh! Fibre! I started the second Sparkle Sock last night and am halfway up the foot.

[SUMMARY: Weak attempt at knitblog.]

Second choice for TiVi quote blogtitle: "You all have numbers so we'll be doing this alphabetically."

[SUMMARY: Wow. This passes for blogfodder?¶¶]

You're right. I'm done.

Go Rox! Go Avs!##


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): January 5. Mark your calendar. $27 gets you tickets -- much better than last year, my buddy Brendan in the Avs' ticket office tells me (he also tells me, "You have my direct line. If you need tickets this season, just give me a call and I'll see what I can do." I love Brendan. I wonder if Brendan has ever operated a crane...). Your $27 also gets you a hot dog and a drink, plus a goody bag (which I will be helping to assemble in one fashion or another).

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): I may have full-circled right past dork and back to cool. Humour me.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Camera, fanny pack for Mom, fishing vest with guidebook for Dad, comfortable shoes, bermuda shorts, Barbie backpack for little Amber... it's a daily festival of guppying up to the stereotype

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Nope. Not that I could find. There should be.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Phrasaurus?

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): I never realised how dirty that sounds until just now.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): You may be wondering why, after a certain amount of research, that's the title I came up with. Hey, a chance to use the word "genus"? I'm there.

§§FOOTNOTE (Pamela Lee got nothing on me): Why, yes. Yes, I am.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (more paragraphs than sense); Why, yes. Yes, it does.

##FOOTNOTE (pint's a pound the world around... believe I'll take two): Take Marin with you!

All Better

Any Padres fans out there?

WOOT!

Welcome to Tuesday. Before I soothe your weary knitter's soul with pictures of yarn an a half-FO,† allow me to make one last play for your sympathy after the last few weeks of long work days and 5-fucking-30 in the ayem days and such.

This is what I worked:



I saw every document in every box and wrote a little ditty about each well associated with all those documents. I caught errors‡ and put together prospect packages.

It was a LOT of work.

OK. You can stop sympathising now. I'm all better.

[SUMMARY: You just skipped the entire first section of this post, didn't you?]

Now let me make you all better.

Yarn!




I believe I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that I went a little crazy over a dishcloth pattern.This was how I discovered Herrschner's is not quite as craptastic as I'd always believed. Anyway, these will someday§ be lovely hand-knit cloths.¶

[SUMMARY: I am a sucker.]

I decided to knit We Call Them Pirates.# I decided to knit it out of something comparable to the pattern yarn from Sylvia's House of Fuzzy Crack. So I ventured into the Innernets to do my due diligence, get the particulars so I could substitute with style.

Turns out the Dalegarn Hauk from the pattern is treated with TEFLON for water and wind resistance.

[SUMMARY: I am a sucker for yarn technology.]




Many of you may already have seen the next yarn at Red's place.

I have no fear of redundancy.

If nothing else, Red doesn't talk as much as I do and didn't liken deadly sins to Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.

Keep reading. You'll get there.

This is the second installment in the Seven Deadly Sins Sock Club. I'm far happier with the colours in this shipment than the wishy-washy ones in the last. And it's been educational.

The lovely red-purple is Lust, and I'm all about that. I'm pretty sure my lust is all reddish and purple.

However, I was a little skeptical about Sloth being blue. Turns out, light blue is the colour classically associated with Sloth.

Of course, it also turns out orange is the colour of Gluttony and red is the colour of Wrath, so there's very little consistency in the colour selection at Fearless Fibers, but how else do you pick what colour Sloth is?

In my head, the poor girl is looking at the mutt-brown she used for gluttony and saying, "I should have used that for Sloth.†† Now what am I going to do?"

So like any good denizen of the twenty-first century, she Googled and found myriad references‡‡ to Sloth as light blue.

Anyway, it's a pretty blue and I like it, even if it doesn't make me feel particularly slothful.

Here's another thought (apparently, the presence of sin makes me think): How do you suppose she decided which pairs to send? Lust and Sloth: two great tastes that taste great together?

Hey, you got your Sloth in my Lust!

Well you got your Lust in my Sloth!

[SUMMARY: This is how my mind works. And you read the whole thing. Who's the sucker now?]




At Alpacas on the Rocks last weekend,§§ I got this stuff:




I had the conscious thought that it would knit up REALLY FAST, so it would be good to have some around in case I needed to whip up a scarf at the last minute for someone. Kinda like the trick of keeping cookie dough in your freezer so you can always whip up some homemade cookies for guests.¶¶

[SUMMARY: Martha Stewart got nothin' on me.]

And if I never find a worthy recipient, I'll just pet it and love it... it's baby alpaca, after all, and soft as a bunny.

The Sparkle Socks I started so long ago (see: Club Level Beverage Station... that would be one of the earlier games the Rox won) are nearly due. It's a good thing I work better under deadlines.

I finished the first one last night. It's just a basic sock pattern, but I went all rogue knitter and added some cables## and some calf shaping††† and now I feel just like Grumperina.

Except that I will finish both socks.






[SUMMARY: Delusions of grandeur...]




Crane truck!

[SUMMARY: It pretends to be about the knitting, but it's always about the cranes.]

Happy Tuesday, ev'ry-bahdy!


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): One half of a finished pair, that is. Not one half of a whole. Well, it is one half of a whole, but the math was really easy 'cause it's socks and that means one sock is done, rather than "I'm going to knit a six-foot scarf and, oh, let me measure... lessee... aught plus aught, carry the aught... yes, it looks to be three feet."

You're so glad you stuck around for the footnotes.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): The people I'm working with love me. Twenty-seven emails a day of, "Please confirm these numbers, it appears there is a payout situation that's not being accounted for..." or "Oil and Gas Commission records indicate the spacing in this area is 160 acres encompassing the SE of Section 17. Your records show 640 spacing..."

Another footnote you're glad you read.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): But not today.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Except the stripey one, which I suspect will suck ass and not show off the stitch pattern at all. I looked right at the word "stripe" at herrschners.com and... I don't know... decided they didn't mean me? Oh, yes. It *says* stripe, but I'm sure it will variegate for me. I am SUCH a dork.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Thus:




††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): 'Cause, y'know... sloths are brown.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Which is, of course, what I did when I read the letter that said Sloth is blue. If you go here, there's a cool thing where you can turn a cow blue.* Click "skip intro."

*FOOTNOTE WITHIN A FOOTNOTE: That is not my cow!

§§FOOTNOTE (Brick House): Not the very last weekend. Not like two days ago, when the Colts beat the Broncos. More like last last weekend when the Jaguars beat the Broncos.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphs everywhere, but nary a drop to think): For the record, I don't have cookie dough in my freezer just waiting for company. I have Grey Goose in my freezer and it's mostly mine. I just don't want you to be disappointed if you drop by and there are no cookies in the offing.

##FOOTNOTE (pounded like a two-dollar whore): One big one on the front, two little ones on the back. For simplicity's sake, we can just call it Marin's own design.

†††FOOTNOTE (wow. That's a lot of crosses): You can see the calf shaping in the picture. Doesn't it look like I knew what I was doing? Grumperina wants to be me.

p.s. -- Still a knitblog!

Brush With Fame

Hey, guys!

They're making a movie and the whole crew is right across the street! For the next two weeks!

There's trailers and costumery and bin after bin of cowboy boots, even though it doesn't appear to be a western.

I will take pictures of the parking lot across the street for your edification and my preening joy.

Feng Schwogie!

Hey! Any Mets fans out there?

OK, this post actually has nothing to do with Feng Shui, I'm just so taken by the Frontier animals and the new-ish ads with Jack... well, I'm in love. I plan to start interjecting, "Feng Schwogie!" almost as often as I do, "That is not my cow!"†

Anyway, this post is *really* about paying it forward, apple style:

As Robin found out last week, people are oddly opinionated about apples.‡

And, oddly enough, Bag Lady Kathryn and I had an apple discussion, oh, a little over a week ago. Her bemoaning the fact that she can't always find the Pink Lady apples she prefers led to me extolling the virtues of Honeycrisp apples.

Once upon a time, maybe three years ago, I found Honeycrisp apples at Safeway. I bought a couple to try -- hey, with a name as evocative as "Honeycrisp," it seemed a good investment.

They were outstanding.

I went back and bought a whole bag and foisted a bunch on friends and family. My parents really liked them, so I thought I'd bring them a whole bag all their own.

Only there weren't any at the store.

Or a bunch of other stores.

King Soopers had never heard of them. Safeway shrugged and said it was a specialty item, available for a limited time only.

It seemed I would never see them again.

[SUMMARY: I don't have enough drama in my life, clearly. Starting to miss The Boy...]

Last fall, I went drift-boating with my father in Oregon. My aunt went on the trip too, and she and I travelled together. We took a field trip to the Harry & David compound in Medford.

Lo and behold!

Honeycrisp!

I bought a half-dozen, lugged them home in my carry-on and savoured them.

[SUMMARY: Obsession can take a strange path.]

Fast-forward to 2007, last weekend.§

Somewhere in our breakfast-at-DJ's, alpaca-stalking travels Saturday morning, Kathryn mentioned her Pink Ladies. I, in turn, rhapsodised, soliloquised, damn near canonised¶ the elusive Honeycrisp apple. When I left Kathryn Saturday afternoon, I headed to Whole Foods.

Yep. Right there in the produce section. There were Honeycrisp apples. Dozens of them. Hundreds.

It was like Christmas. Only with apples.

I decided to take one to Kathryn at Tuesday's installment of Drunken Knitting.

She was elated; I was gratified.

Then she told me a story:

She had brought an apple to the school where she works, thinking she'd probably have to go get something for lunch, but the apple could tide her over. A colleague had forgotten her apple... or her apple had been taken out of the fridge... I don't precisely remember.# The important part is that Kathryn gave the woman her Pink Lady.

It was an apple pay-forward.

Then I showed up that evening with the prize from her Kharmic Green Stamp catalog, the surprisingly straighforward balancing gift of an apple.

[SUMMARY: Kharmic Chain Letter? Will I get hundreds of apples within the next couple of weeks?]

But it doesn't end there, exactly.

Kathryn sent me an email Friday saying she'd shared the Honeycrisp I gave her with the awesome librarian at the school and he was impressed.

[SUMMARY: Apple dating? I should write a book...]

If Kathryn gets married because of that Honeycrisp, I want her to name her first-born after me.

Maybe the kid's middle name should be Honeycrisp.

Happy Monday.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): It's a Pratchett thing.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): And pears. That's a Harry & David thing. If you've had the Royal Rivieras, you know of what we speak.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Not the very last weekend. Not like yesterday, when the Colts beat the Broncos. More like last last weekend when the Jaguars beat the Broncos.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Like the way I juxtaposed "damn" and "canonised"? I think I'm clever, but I'm probably just going to hell.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): The details aren't nearly as important as the message, people -- let's not get bogged down by facts.

Um... where's the knitting?

Don't worry, little campers. The knitting will be back when the camera battery is charged.