I'm Twelve

TTHFCIF

No, really.

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

That's *so* twelve.

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

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

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

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

Only *one* Bobmas beer.

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

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

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

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

[SUMMARY: God is an iron.]

I redded my hair.

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

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

I did this about a week ago.

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

So I did.

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

I tried so hard for just a little boost!

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

OK, nobody in the office has noticed.¶

None of the knitters noticed.#

But it's making me neurotic.††

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

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

Or mine.

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

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

Only it's a lot more panicky.

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

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

How much cleavage can you show before 4:00?

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

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




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

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

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

Yeti.

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

I have madly prepped, pre-boudoir.$

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not even next week.

Not even breakfast tomorrow.

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

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

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

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

[SUMMARY: How deep, Mr. Wizard.]

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Bobmas

Bobmas Eve was a rousing success.

There will be pictures.

Probably tonight.

Meanwhile...

Bob bless us, everyone!



*the role of Bob in this morning's post will be played by Pancho the Boston Terrier. The contents of this blog do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Bob, Ravelry or Bobmas revelers. 2.8% APR WAC. Void where prohibited. All incentives will remain the property of the dealer.

I Could Just Dye!

This book...



...has a recipe for dyeing yarn with a faux ikat technique to make it look like clouds when knitted up.†

Now, the way Ms. LaBelle does it, she gets two skeins of yarn: one she dyes solid blue, the other she reskeins into a giant loop and wraps plastic wrap around bits of it at random intervals, tying either side of each piece of plastic wrap with lengths of acrylic yarn to seal off the ends. When you dye that skein, you get white bits where the plastic wrap was.

In her world, you then knit two rows with the solid skein and three rows with the ikatted skein. Theoretically, this gives you that cloud pattern.

In her world, you also use kool-aid.‡

In her world, you also knit mittens.

Welcome to Marin's world.

I figured§ with the very cool peg board dyeing rack Father made me, I could forego the separate skeins and just set it up so I would, in effect, knit two blue rounds and three whited rounds.

I also figured I'd knit socks¶... for Father, to show him the good use his gift was going to.

I also wanted to make sure the toes and heel were solid,# so I dyed some tiny little blue skeins separately so I could be sure to get that effect.

I also used Jacquard Acid Dyes. No pussy kool-aid shit for this dangermouse.

I wound the nude skeins of yarn†† into balls so I could work with them easier, with less entanglement.‡‡

So, anyway... I knitted a little more than a toe to gauge a couple of things:

1. How much total yarn does a toe take? (so I can dye some solid-coloured toe and heel yarn)
2. How much yarn in one round? (so I can determine how to get three rounds then two rounds to mimic the pattern put forth in the book)
3. Also? Gauge. I gauged my gauge.

[SUMMARY: A couple should be two, and I should be able to count to two. Life is full of disappointment.]

Having determined a round was approximately 32", I proceeded to wind three 32" diameter bits, followed by two 32" diameter bits. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Only now that I type that, I think I should have wound 16" diameter bits. Now I'm questioning my methods in a big, bad way.

Did I measure a round or a row?

Should I *ever* be allowed to do my own math?

Huh.

So, anyway... I wound them up...




...then I put the plastic wrap resist on the appropriate portion...




Cat for Scale helped.§§




I tossed the yarn in to soak...¶¶




...and mixed some dye. The directions say a teaspoon of powder dyes four ounces of fibre a nice, deep colour. I assumed I had 50 or 100 grams of fibre. I had no idea how that translated,## so I decided a teaspoon of dye powder was the way to go.

I thought I purchased a sky blue dye, but it turns out I just had blue. Like crayon blue. So I used about 3/4 tsp of blue and 1/4 tsp of yellow.




Then I dipped a napkin in to get an idea of how it would look on the yarn.

"Keep in mind," said the book, "your yarn will be darker..."




So I decided to use only about half the dye, since I was going for sky-at-10:00-am rather than sky-at-10:00-pm.

Can I just tell you how magic it is when the dye exhausts? I've read and heard dozens of casually tossed "when the dye exhausts..." or "my dye didn't exhaust this time..." and it all seemed so blasé, so take-it-for-granted.

It's not. It's pure magic.

You have this big ol' pot of blue kool-aid lookin' stuff and your yarn is getting just a little blue††† when you toss in a glug of vinegar. Within minutes, the water is clearing to a pale, swimming pool blue. Then *poof!* No colour. You have blueblueblue yarn swimming in crystal clear water.




Magic, I tell you.

Then I found there were some white areas in the yarn, so I decided to add a bit of dye and a bit of vinegar, which worked really well, only I dumped the dye over on the kitchen counter. Turns out Barkeeper's Friend scrubs the dye right off.

So, anyway... I let the yarn sit overnight and rinsed it in the morning.




Then I hung it up in the unused mystery bathroom to dry.




See the ikat resist?




Because I wound it in twos and three around two pegs, it was still a pain in the ass to wind up, though not full yarn barf.

Here are my blue balls§§§:




And here is the beginnings of the Sky Sox. I actually thought of a really clever name for them as I was drifting off to sleep last night, only I can't... WAIT! Mare's Tail¶¶¶ Socks! That's what I thought of.

So, anyway... here are the beginnings of the Mare's Tail socks. The little pagoda toes are because I did a round before beginning my increases accidentally. If you put them on your feet, they smooth out fine and look like normal socks.###




Close up so you can see the tiny, wispy bits of cloud.




Next time:

Next time, I will only do one big wind, not the twos and threes.

Next time, I will go for more white.

Next time, I will do very few white bits shorter than two inches, because I'm developing an inordinate number of single-stitch clouds as the socks progress.

Next time, I will be wind the ikat plastic looser, because it doesn't have to be airtight and you### can accidentally cut your yarn while trying to remove skin-tight Saran Wrap†††† with scissors.

[SUMMARY: How educational, AntiM.]

So, yes, I believe there will be a next time.

A NOTE TO THOSE OF YOU IN THE GREATER DENVERISH AREA AND OUTLYING COMMUNITIES:

Tomorrow night is Bobmas Eve, the celebration of the anniversary of Ravelry. We will be drinking celebrating from 6:00ish to 9:00ish (pm) at Patrick Carroll's, 3963 Tennyson Street, across from the inimitable Posh, a Yarn Boutique. It is rumoured Sylvia might be moving Thursday night Stitch Therapy across to the bar in observance of the holiday.

Join us!


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Theoretically.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Or food colouring, maybe.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): No good ever comes of me figuring.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I'm so torn in the naming: Sky Sox or Tiny Fluffy Clouds? Both have the benefit of being obscure references. Maybe Sky Sox for Dad's and make myself or Brother a pair under the "Little Fluffy Clouds" banner.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): I love that look -- like the stockings hung by the chimney with care in every holiday colouring book I had when I was a kid.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): You think I'm going to say something saucy about "nude," don't you? Nope. Just here to tell you it's a superwash merino silk bamboo blend that's really lovely and soft and 100% machine washable AND dryable. How often does that happen? About as often as you find a man who's the perfect mixture of gentleman and pervert, that's how often.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Less entanglement. Heh. You'd think that'd be my watchword, both in yarn and in life. That's pretty deep for a footnote.

§§FOOTNOTE (wind the yarn over and over and over...): This picture is a stunningly accurate representation of what happened. I turned my back for a moment as he was delicately pawing the yarn on the floor. When I turned back, he was scarfing down yarn as fast as he could stuff it in his mouth. He has never eaten yarn in the entire time I've known him, but it was clear he knew he shouldn't be and was going for maximum broke before I would turn around and stop him.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (like pegs on a pegboard): Note the seemingly excessive number of yarns. I used red bits for the ikat thing, and used orange to keep the skeins orderly. Lots of orange. I've heard too many horror stories about cheerfully dyed yarn that came out yarn barf.

##FOOTNOTE (pounded like the pavement): Hell, I had a 100% margin of error on how much I was dyeing. It's a lead pipe cinch I wasn't paying that close of attention to my numbers.

†††FOOTNOTE (there's that hill I can never say right): Aw, it's OK, little yarn. Spring is here. The flowers will be up soon.

‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (surgery!): Which I'm not sure you have to do with superwash. My impression is that you don't want to shock or felt your yarn by changing temperatures drastically, and there wouldn't be a worry of that with the superwash. But I followed directions like a good girl anyway.

§§§FOOTNOTE (...and over and over and over): If you didn't snicker at that, please turn in your Brainless Twelvehood card at the door.

¶¶¶FOOTNOTE (three socks? Why?): Mare's tails are wispy little clouds that look like horse tails blowing in the breeze. My dad told me many years ago they signal good flying weather. As the girl who is storing "Darjeeling means land of the thunderbolt" as her death-bed statement, I retained that. One day last summer, we were taking a break from landscaping his yard and I looked up and said, "Mare's tails. Good day for flying." Dad looked at me in wonderment.

"You *do* listen when I talk."

"Sometimes!" I replied, cheerfully, and went back to looking at the clouds.

###FOOTNOTE (poundpoundpound): And by, "you," I mean, "I."

††††FOOTNOTE (how many crosses does one blog need?): There! I said it! Damn the tyranny of the brand name two-step! Saran Wrap! SARAN WRAP! Ahahahahahahahahah!

The World is Listening

From: "Michael Malice" michaelmalice@gmail.com
To: Marin
Subject: your email
Date: Wed, 9 Apr 2008 13:36:12 +0000

Hey Marin--That email you posted was totally cute, so I ran it on my funny emails site. If you've got other stuff, please fwd it my way.

Thanks!

Michael Malice
Editor, WorstEmailEver.com

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

Huh.

Not sure how to take this.

Do you suppose the highlighted portions have been deemed grammatically incorrect?

Maybe Michael Malice heard about my elementary reading level rating...

ETA:

From: "Michael Malice" michaelmalice@gmail.com
To: Marin
Subject: comment
Date: Wed, 9 Apr 2008 15:32:27 +0000

Hey--Not making fun of you--the highlighted lines are just things I find noteworthy. In this case, they were cute! (with other emails, it's more of a judgment) ;-)

--

Michael Malice
Editor, WorstEmailEver.com

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

My co-workers will be so glad. They were getting tired of me coming into their offices and saying, "Look at this. I used 'different' right, right? It's not an adverb... I know what I'm doing, right?"

Almost Forgot

Rock.

Chalk.

Damnit.

I'm in the Wrong Business

People get paid for this?

And here I am, having my heart attack for free...

The Score

Y'know what? Sometimes you check and it turns out there *isn't* a dial tone% and it's not just him blowing you off.

Imagine.

The first thing The Spelling Bee Champ said to me when he called last night† was, "How's your spelling today?"‡ [8] five for calling, three for teasing.

He thanked me for my email.§ [5] two for polite, three for sincere.

He explained he wanted to call me the next day¶ but couldn't find my card. [2] one for taking the time to explain, one for worrying about me.

At one point he said, "Is this an awkward pause? It's not, right? Just a normal pause," which was contextually charming. [2] one for candid, one for charming

He told me he mentioned to Sarah -- before I even got 'hold of Sue -- he wanted to get 'hold of me. [2] one for thinking of me at all in the interim, one for at least trying to find me.

He thinks bar spelling bees would be an excellent pastime, and thinks we should form teams. Those who couldn't spell could still enjoy the fun by forming Fantasy Spelling Bee Leagues. [5] funny, funny, funny

He seemed refreshingly... candid. [1] refreshing!

He allowed me to teach him a little street slang,# and is now all over "hot mess."†† [2] nearly as white and goofy as me.

He was happy to keep telling me knitting is hot, and has been heard to elaborate by saying, "so hot" and using the phrase, "hot knitter." This became a sort of running joke. [6] three for sucking up to the primary hobby, one for continued use of the word "hot" in my presence and about my person, two for ongoing hilarity.

He wants to see me, spend time with me, and made a date with me for lunch on Saturday. [5] instant gratification! immediate ego boost! that's worth five points!

He told me I have nice skin, but allowed that it was dark, so... [3] two for the compliment, one for the tease.

He has at least one step-sister and many female cousins. [2] training.

He said he remembered kissing my ear. I said, "Neck too." "I kissed your neck?" "Oh, yeah." "That's hot." "Yes, it was." [1] hot... again

I said something racy and told him I was just trying to make him blush. He said he was. [2] sucking up

He is dog-sitting for friends for a week. [4] loyalty, kindness

The dogs arrived while I was on the phone with him. He said he'd call back. He did. [5] follow-through

He lives in the neighbourhood. [4] proximity

He noted my British orthography,^ heard the tale and correctly identified it as "pretentious." [3] one for noticing, one for teasing and one for just getting it.

Did I mention the kissing? [8] kissing!

He's very, very easy to talk to and he does it well, using good words and grammar. [12] two for low maintenance, two for ease of use, five for intelligence, three for articulation

He asked a lot of good questions, remembered a lot of key things and also just talked, like a conversation rather than just an interview/rake-over-the-coals. [6] four for attentiveness, two for versatility

He's an insomniac. [2] one for consanguinity,‡‡ one for potential for late night activity

He was the perfect mix of gentelman and pervert. [8] how often do you find that?

Now, he doesn't know who Mike Krzyzewski is, which means he's not a sports guy, which is unfortunate, but not a deal-breaker. And since I'm currently a card-carrying member of The Spelling Bee Champ Fan Club,§§ I'm not going to dock him any points.

Seriously? One thing I'm enjoying immensely is that I'm not all spun on this, but I am rather delighted. I think giddy, dizzy Marin isn't necessarily the best thing, the best omen, but I'm delighted to be delighted.

[SUMMARY: By my reckoning, The Champ has 98 points and is well on his way to cashing in for a lovely toaster, or any of hundreds of other prizes in the Rickety Blog Kharmic Green Stamp program.]

Thank you to the voters... all three of you. Yes, I realise there may have been more if I'd *told* you there was a poll in the sidebar.

Tomorrow: Blue Dye

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Figuratively speaking, I mean. At least in this case.

†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Note how subtly I slipped that in. Yes! He called!

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Dontcha love a guy who knows the fine art of dishing shit? It's so much friendlier when nobody's too delicate for a little joshing.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Like, sincerely. More than once.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Woke up hung over and thought he needed to call and maybe apologise because he was too forward. Dug in his pocket to find a business card from a psychologist at CU. Thought, "I must have been a real dick last night. She thinks I need help," and then, "either that or I'm going to end up being the dick who doesn't call her."

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Yeah, that's twice as funny as it sounds. The pasty leading the white.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): How proud are you right now, Stacey?

^FOOTNOTE (careted): Take that, elementary readers!

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): I can spell "consanguinity," and also use it properly in a sentence.

§§FOOTNOTE (turn, turn, turn): He also gets a pass since, y'know, Duke lost three months ago. Let us not speak of it again.

Whaddya Want?

I have two blogposts in the pipe for tomorrow.

One is about dyeing a batch of yarn, complete with pictures.

The other is about The Spelling Bee Champ.

I'll check after lunch on Tuesday and see which one I'll spiff up and post today. The other will be posted tomorrow, so don't feel you're making some blog version of Sophie's choice.

Like Getting My Yarbles Slammed in a Car Door

From: Marin
To: The Spelling Bee Champ
Subject: Hey, Spelling Bee Champ
Date: Tue, 08 Apr 2008 00:02:39 +0000

Hi, Champ!

It's me, Marin!

Perhaps I should misspell something so I can be sure you know who I am.

Ever since I got your email address from Sarah, I've been rolling a bunch of cute and coy stuff around in my head with an eye to enticing you to get in touch with me.

Oh! And clever -- can't believe I forgot clever. I do clever pretty well.

Anyway, after a few weird attempts, I've decided on straight and (relatively) to the point:

I really enjoyed your company spelling bee night. I think you're cute, smart, funny -- y'know, all those sweet things the Playboy centrefolds are always looking for in a guy. You also laid some memorable kisses on me and... wow.

I'd like to spend more time with you and see if the chemistry bears out (and maybe get another kiss or twelve if it seems the right thing to do). You may feel the same. Then again, you may have been drunk on Jager shots or the giddy triumph of your spelling bee win and felt different in the sober light of day.

Either way, thanks for the good company and the great kisses.

You have my email address. My home phone is [some seven-digit number]. If you'd like to make a date, please do get in touch. If not, could you please take a minute to tell me "no" so I don't waste any time checking to see if my phone has a dial tone?

Yours in spelling accuracy (so long as it's not French),
Marin

ACKNOWLEDGE MY PROPOSAL!!!

That's the subject line of a spammail on my Yahoo account. It made me laugh, but I'm thinking it might be a good subject line for my email to The Spelling Bee Champ.

But Does He Like-Like Me?

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

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

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

(do you like me? check yes or no)

Enough girly stupidity.
See you soon,
XOXO
M

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

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

hey marin,

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

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

good luck!!
sarah

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

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

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

To Quote a Famous Person I Know

As the blizzard continues here in downtown Denver, I am reminded of the words of a wise man:

"How are we supposed to watch the parking lot when we can't even see the parking lot?"

--Hans

Look! It's a Kilt... It's a Plane...

...a brooch... a pterodactyl...

I have a handful of pictures I took off the camera last night, and I can't tell you how proud I am of myself.

Not just 'cause of the photo thing, either.

I had brunch with the Breakfast Club† yesterday, then actually ran some errands, filled CLCWWW's tank‡ and went home to tidy up, do laundry and -- yes -- offload the pictures from my camera.

None of this may seem particularly noteworthy to you, but you have to understand:

1. I got up for breakfast. I even drove, which means I put in that extra effort AND my front seat was empty enough to carry another person.§
2. I ran errands instead of reverting to my natural ass-on-chair state.
3. I filled the car instead of talking myself into waiting until today, when the indicator would have been flashing red lights and probably screaming at me and I might have even whined my way out of doing it on the way to work then I would have been sweating the couple of miles to the gas station after work and it would have been stressful.¶
4. I repeat: I do not clean unless I have a good reason. "It's dirty" really isn't sufficient motivation for me.
5. I love doing laundry, but it does require some time commitment, however ass-on-couch that commitment may be. Also? I did clothes AND sheets yesterday, where I usually do one on Sunday and one on Monday. Or Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Or next week... I can wear my prom dress to work, right?
6. I don't know how other people do it, but I have to power up the Olympus software, transfer the photos from the camera to albums therein, copy the ones I want to a folder called "blogstuff" on my desktop, run them through Corel Photo to make them smaller than 42" wide and sharpen them up for the Innernets, then upload them to Blogger. It takes a long time.

So I'm feeling particularly saintly# and particularly flush†† this morning.

Also oddly chipper for a Monday.‡‡

Also? I packed my breakfast AND my lunch.

[SUMMARY: Sometimes it's the little things...]

I will be approaching this week's blogfodder in a somewhat logical manner.§§

[SUMMARY: Saintly, flush and clever!]

For today's offering, we will have a brief recap of what happened Out My Office Window last week.

Uncharacteristically, there will be no cranes.

The copy place up the street apparently got a bunch of new copiers.




And celebrated by painting new four square courts in the alley...




...and indulging in a company-wide four square tournament.




Friday, there was a man with a kilt.¶¶




There was also the customary home-opener fly-over% by some branch of the military with really sleek, fast jets that made my chair vibrate in a most pleasant way, but I was too busy watching## to take a picture.

[SUMMARY: Use your imagination.]

And isn't that what life's all about? Enjoying instead of documenting?†††

Says the blogger who just told you all about her laundry habits.

Remember: there will be knitting, if you stick around long enough. And that will make it all better.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): You know them as Bag Lady Kathryn and Angel-eek.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Premium! Ouch!

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Hey, single contractor people living alone don't have cars, they have rolling file cabinets. That's my story and I'm sticking with it.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I frequently run my gas tank to white-knuckle level; always have. The fact that I've almost never run out of gas on the freeway made that one time I did shocking in the extreme. Oh, look at me not learning my lesson.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Sarah? Are you still keeping score?

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): 'Cause, y'all know -- full gas tank, full fridge, full complement of clean clothes, tidy living room, healthy and cheap food for the day... I'm rich!

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): I'm blaming it on barometric pressure.

§§FOOTNOTE (hey, is this room spinning or is it just me?): Mostly driven by the fact that, while I cleaned off my camera, there is a whole set of photos I haven't Corel'd yet. I'm going to pretend to do this in sort of chronological order while buying myself time to use the time I would have used on laundry tonight on Corelling my photos so I can show you some knitting later this week. And dyeing!

¶¶FOOTNOTE (ball clubs): I'm sure he was heading for Coors Field for some sort of opening day festivities, but I like to close my eyes and fantasise that he was just this guy... in a kilt... on a workday... in downtown Denver.

##FOOTNOTE (pounded like jado juice): And vibrating!

%FOOTNOTE (percented): In case I didn't feel like mentioning it, the Rox lost the home opener 8 to 1 and proceeded to get swept. I don't want to talk about it. Could we talk about how they won the season opener in St. Louis instead?

†††FOOTNOTE (triple dip! wait, what did you call me?): A coat of shiny self-help shellac on the fact that I completely forgot to grab my camera when Hans said, "Look out your window! The fly-over is coming!"

Four Four

TTHFCIF

All due respect to Moses Malone.

Maybe it's just 'cause I can't count to four, but today seems extra significant somehow.

Like: Early morning, April four, shot rang out in the Memphis sky...%

A brief moment for Dr. King and all he stands for.

***

***

***

***

***

***

***

***

[SUMMARY: We all should have a dream.]

But it's hard to stay all solemn when it's Rockies Home Opening Day.

I used to go to the home opener every year. Oh, I missed the first one† and the last couple,‡ but I went every year other than that.

Some years it was for the vibe.§ Some years to get it over and out of the way.

This year... well, this year they might actually be *good*. And, of course, there's no frickin' way to get tickets.

Shanny, who works for KOA radio, says most years they were wallpapering the bathrooms with opening day tickets they couldn't give away. This year, the only seats they could get for giveaway are the Rock Pile. The $5 seats. Way out behind center field. Bleachers. Cheap seats.

[SUMMARY: We saints-to-be should get bonus points for our years of martyrdom.]

And have you been to Coors Field? I believe it is one of the most comfortable and attractive fields in all of baseball. I haven't been to that many, mind you, but it's unbelievable how clean and neat they keep it. And it's just so pretty, all deep green paint and red brick.

And mountains.

And breezes.

And Colorado sunsets.

And gorgeous Denver weather.

[SUMMARY: Testify, homer girl!]

OK, off the 4/4 track.

The last two nights, I've had knitblog-based dreams. And not even my knitblog.

Inspired, I'm sure, by Rabbitch's concert oddyssey,¶ I dreamed something the other night that left me almost as soon as I woke, but I remember this one thing: a guy saying to me, "If Springsteen hands off Dylan's dog to you, just take the damned dog."

And, apropos of NOTHING, I dreamed last night that I spent an entire afternoon driving around the Canadian countryside in the winter, listening to the Yarn Harlot on the radio and stopping occasionally to try to call her nephew, Hank, because I had to get some information from him.#

I finally got through to Hank's home phone and his dad answered. I was suddenly aware that it might seem terribly odd that a random 40-year-old woman was calling an eight-year-old boy, but when he answered, I just said, "Is Hank there?"

And he yelled for Hank and Hank picked up the phone, but then Hank and his dad had a protracted conversation about the things Hank was supposed to do before his mother got home and I kept trying to interject, "Hey, I'm here... and this is international long distance, probably... hello?" but they just kept talking.

[SUMMARY: Perhaps I need a new hobby.]

Speaking of the Yarn Harlot, she's going to be in Denverish tonight.

Well, no, actually, she's not.

She's going to be in Highlands Ranch tonight, which is why I'm not going.

Highlands Ranch is reprehensible.

The first of the beige neighbourhoods, it is a yuppie-scum, insular suburban sprawl that ruined a gorgeous storm-watching vista. It was founded in 1981, but didn't truly blight the landscape for years, when it burst forth like alien larvae out of a Nostromo crew member.

Not only do I loathe the ultra-suburban, beige nature of Highlands Ranch, it has street names like "Meadowvale Lane" and "Cherryhurst Avenue East" and "Wildflower Creek Way."

Highlands Ranch is 95% white.

Don't get me wrong, I like white people. Some of my best friends are white,^ but part of the reason I've lived near the urban centre for so long is to get away from the all-Applebee's mentality that seems to grow as white people lose touch with their ethnic brethren.

Chili's does NOT count as Mexican food.

Besides, it's a 20-mile-each-way trip that crosses all the major traffic belts in the metro area. I would be coming from where everybody else is coming from (downtown) and going where everybody else is going (Highlands Ranch) at rush hour.@

Or I could leave at 1:00 and find a way to kill six hours in Highlands Ranch.

I can think of happier ways to lose my soul.

I'm very sorry I won't hear Stephanie speak. She is warm and funny and personable with impeccable comedic timing. I'm sure the vast store of south suburban and Colorado Springs Harlot fans†† will have a lovely time.

[SUMMARY: Yeah, I'm judging.]

Instead, tonight I'll be heading to Sengers on the Fax‡‡ for Shane's 40th birthday party to do a little misbehaving.




[SUMMARY: Just a little.]

Well, after I hit Blake Street Tavern to quaff a cold one with Shanny after the game.

Friday night in the heart of the city: less sheep, more fun.


%FOOTNOTE (percented): If we could just get U2 to write songs about all the historical events in our history, our students wouldn't be so woefully ill-equipped.

†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Like this year, tickets too hard to come by.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Annie had kids and I didn't have anyone to go with.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): The mystique of opening day endures, despite the decline of the sport. Also? Sitting at the ballpark when everybody else is working.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I know how to spell "oddyssey."

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): I don't remember exactly what I needed from Hank, but it was knitting-related.

^FOOTNOTE (careted): Actually, I have good friends who live in Highlands Ranch. Hate the game, not the playa.

@FOOTNOTE (atted): And I wouldn't be a bit surprised if rush hour is compounded today by people going from the baseball game downtown to the darkest suburbs.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): I can't help think Colorado Springs approves of Stephanie's choice of hobby, but not her chosen blogname. Colorado Springs has the second-highest suicide rate among major urban areas in the country. Speculation says it's because of the migrant worker population or the by-your-bootstraps Protestant mentality, but I think it's because it's a fucking creepy place that has been taken over by aggressively evangelical Christians (see: Focus on the Family) in a way that makes Colorado City look like San Francisco.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Note: I could walk home from Sengers if necessary. It would be a long walk, but I could do it. I could *not* walk home from Highlands Ranch. Not by sunrise.

Dear Mary Kay,

It was lovely seeing you Tuesday evening, even if we had to share you with the motley crew at the bar. I guess that's OK, since you blew kisses on your way out so we knew you still loved us.

Anyway, we've missed you.

I'm delighted you've entered the Ravelry vortex. Let me tell you about my absolute favourite Ravelry time-suck: Friend Activity.

See, if you go to your friends page and click on the "friend activity" tab, you can see what your friends are finishing, stashing and queueing.† Since a lot of my Ravelry friends are also blogfriends, I sometimes see divaknitting post her new purse to Ravelry before she posts it to her blog and I feel like a total insider when she does blog about it.‡

Or I see that KellyGirlKnits queued twenty-seven sock patterns and blackbunny stashed twenty-seven sock yarns and think, "Huh. They should get together."§

Of course, I've added 729¶ projects to my wish list discovering them through my friends' discoveries.#

Like a good conversation with friends, sometimes I follow one thread to another until I'm happy and educated and entertained... but I have no idea how I got where I got.††

You probably already know this, but I'd be totally remiss if you didn't and I didn't tell you.

Say, "Hi!" to The Professor for me, and tell him it's perfectly OK to cruise Ravelry at work. On your lunch hour. Or during a break. Or when the wind blows from the west.

XOXO
M


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I can spell "queueing."

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Thus far, I have refrained from actually commenting on someone's blog to say, "Oh, saw you on Ravelry, dahling... love your hair, hope you win! Ta!" but the day is coming.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Also, "Huh. I wonder how many years I would get for mugging blackbunny for her twenty-seven skeins of sock yarn."

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): 27 x 27 - I did the math.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): The Sadie sweater is pretty cool. I like those big ribby things on the collar -- I fantasise that they'd make me look like I have shoulders.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): cuball35's Sadie to the Berroco Design Team to Harry Bear to 99 projects in Berroco Chinchilla to dctfibers's Buggs-Baby Uggs! to Candi Jensen to Woven Knit Scarf (looks like Stupid Blanket!) to 145 projects in Colinette Prism... oh, that's what that looks like knitted up... wait, where's cueball35?

Dear eBeth,

I didn't forget your birthday. Angel-eek could vouch for me saying, "It's my sister-in-law's birthday! I *have* to call her when I get home!" But it was after 9:00 and your father-in-law instilled a pretty strong "not after 9:00" mechanism in me that I can only override with specific people after specific permission.

And you know what? I don't know how old you are. I think I've asked your husband ten or eleventy billion times, but the information just seeps out the back of my head, even as it's coming in my ears. So you can be how ever old you want with me. I'll believe you, even if I won't remember.

So, belated by a day, but no less enthusiastic, HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Thank you for feeding me and listening to me† and providing a key ingredient in my nephews. Thank you for being my friend and my brother's keeper and the best sister-in-law a girl could hope to have.

XOXO
M


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Particulary that *one night*... you know, the snot-blowing, blubbering, wailing night. That was above and beyond, so thanks. Now let us not speak of it again. Marin doesn't cry about stupid boys.

Here, Piggy, Piggy...

A luscious little lapping of lickable pig today!†

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

I live in fear.‡

Brother's boss§ is a little... anal.

I like sitting at his desk before he arrives in the office and skewing his stapler just a tiny bit out of true just to watch him put it right when he gets there. Then he systematically touches and arranges everything on the desk just to be sure nothing else got fucked up while he wasn't looking.

I've dealt with worse, but he definitely teeters toward that end of the spectrum.

Yesterday, I had chicken fajitas for lunch while I was in his Littleton office. And I got a tiny, annoying shred of chicken stuck between my teeth. Brother's boss reached a toothpick down for me,¶ and I attended to the chicken and went on to groom my other teeth because... well, if nothing else, I kinda like chewing on toothpicks.#

I woke up this morning all groggy and warm and with a cat purring in my ear, then sat bolt upright, heart pounding like a footnote,†† suddenly aware I couldn't remember throwing the toothpick away. Try as I might, I can't visualise when or where I may have thrown it away and that means it could be anywhere.

It could be sitting in the middle of his desk.

Or chair.

Or dining room table.

Not only would this be disgusting and an abuse of toothpick privileges, but it would annoy him more than it would annoy most people. And he'd never let me forget it.

[SUMMARY: The petroleum industry: no country for odd women.]

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

They've gone to a new recycling program here at Patrick's dad's office.‡‡

We used to have individual paper recycling in our offices, with similar, larger recycling bins in the copy rooms. And there is a recycling can in the kitchen for aluminum and plastic.

Under the new system, they've taken away our individual recycling boxes and our trash can liners. We are supposed to use the trash cans for recycling and they're supposed to provide us a "piggy back" to attach to the side of our trash cans to put trash that can't be recycled.§§

For one, I fail to see how this is better than the old way. It's certainly more of a pain in the ass because, for two, our recycling boxes and trash can liners have already disappeared, but the mysterious "piggy backs" have yet to be installed.

I know the dedicated enviroweenies are too caught up in the beauty of recycling to realise that the PTB basically expect us to live without trash cans.

And it may seem like a small thing to whine about, but if you are rolling your eyes at me right now, I challenge you to get rid of the trash can in your office for a week and see how you like it.

[SUMMARY: This may be kharmic payback for leaving my disgusting, chicken-blobbed toothpick on John's desk.]

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

I knitted a monkey this weekend. No pictures, no details, I'm just thrilled to be able to utter that sentence.

Camera work to follow.

[SUMMARY: Non Sequiturs¶¶ backwards-R Us.]

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

There is a new plague.

It seems like everybody's getting it -- Hans, Genius Sarah, Bag Lady Kathryn... and I thought it was the same thing I had from mid-December until some time the first week in February, but it appears it may be an entirely different animal. In which case, I'm probably not immune.

In fact, I'm a little headachy and tired today and that's apparently how it starts.

Now, I figure I can look at this one of three ways:

In the glass half empty way, I am being punished for digressions both known and inferred.##

In the glass half full way, Job had to suffer plagues on his way to biblical stardom, right? And my primary resolution for 2008 is still to reach sainthood.

In the not-getting-the-cart-before-the-horse way, I'm not actually sick yet.

[SUMMARY: Inside my head is a swirling, volatile place. Watch your footing.]

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

Remember the big ol' deadline I had January 31? Well, the buyer to whom we sold bought us lunch today.†††

That is not what this little porcine tongue tango is about.

No, I started giggling helplessly to myself -- but in front of all the key players in Patrick's dad's office -- because of a whole tangential story in my head.

**WARNING**

Please see previous summary for caveat. Not responsible for dizziness, headache, nausea or disorientation.

See, the nice delivery girl was setting up on the conference table. She wanted to put this red-checkered, disposable tablecloth on the table, but there was a conference call thingie in the middle, which couldn't be moved without an ethernet expert, so the consensus was to leave said conference call thingie and just throw the tablecloth over it.

Which took me back a few years to when my parents‡‡‡ had their roof replaced right before they went on their annual four-week vacation. The roof didn't pass inspection, so they asked me to handle what I could in getting the job done right while they were out of town.

So after the second round of inspection rejection, I called the roofing company to read them the latest litany of inspection woes, and I added, "And there's a big lump in the top, eastern portion of the roof at the front of the house that looks like you shingled over a squirrel." Which I didn't really know I was going to say until it was out of my mouth.

It caught me so by surprise that I started laughing. The customer service wench at the roofing company didn't think it was funny at all,§§§ which made me laugh harder. I excused myself and said I'd call back later.

When I saw the conference call thingie lumping under the tablecloth today, it reminded me of the squirrel bump in Brother's parents' roof.

And I giggled. And excused myself.

[SUMMARY: Some of us will never rise above our own dorkedness in this world.]

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

Last but not least, stealing from Lyda once again:




[SUMMARY: That's what he said!]

Probably because I can spell "fellatio."


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I linked to the picture's source, but you may not want to go there. There are PIG RECIPES, and that seems a little wrong, like having Cat Foo Yung recipe cards at the desk at the Denver Dumb Friends League.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Good start!

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): We also occasionally talk about Brother's father, Brother's grandmother or Brother's cousin Tani.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): John is 6'2" or 6'3". I am 5'4". It's a math thing. Or a physics thing. Both. I couldn't reach the damned toothpicks and had to ask for help.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Until I get splinters in my tongue.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): That's pretty funny. Or at least self-referential in the extreme.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): See? Now Patrick's practically family.

§§FOOTNOTE (like two enviroweenies dancing in the glen): What can't be recycled? I quote: "We can recycle most items; here are the exceptions Kleenex tissues, food, gum, paper towels, styrofoam, light bulbs, plastic bags and garbage." [sic, mostly because I feel they're missing a period and a colon and have tossed in an ill-advised semi-colon]. I take great exception, much like Kraft claiming to have salad dressing with ingredients. As "ingredients" means nothing specific, "garbage" means fuck-all. It's like saying, "and other stuff."

¶¶FOOTNOTE (noses!): I can spell "non sequitur." Also? Take *that* elementary school readers!

##FOOTNOTE (pounding like a flu ache): Y'know... like, "I may not know why I'm grounding you, but YOU know why I'm grounding you."

†††FOOTNOTE (cross purposes?): Maggiano's, for those of you scoring at home.

‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (bird tracks): Or, as we like to call them, "Brother's parents."

§§§FOOTNOTE (marching monkeys): In fact, she took me so seriously she wanted details of how I knew it was a squirrel and it took me a good fifteen minutes (when I called back) to talk her into the idea that I was just being flip and was pretty sure there was no squirrel involved, just a lump that suggested what it might look like if a squirrel had been shingled over.

Drat.

I'm pimping Patrick's blog.

Y'all knitters may not be totally with the climbing lingo†, but he's funny and frenetic and... well, his boss is my boss and his dad is my current client and he's already mentioned both in the short time he's been living out loud.

Who knows? He may occasionally say something about some relevant people in my life that will explain the mindset that is Marin.

You know you want to stay tuned for that.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Much like Patrick might be a leetle WTF about garter stitch and skpo.

Thief!

Oh, yes. I'm caught stealing.

Something going on behind the scenes at Chez Pollyanna has me giggly and *needing* to do a quick post about it. I need to because 1) it's funny, at least to me,† and 2) I get to mention sex, which always makes me happy.‡

It starts with Lyda suggesting the members of our Brainless Twelvehood Club§ will be the last survivors of the Zombie Apocalypse, at which time, we will have free reign over the stashes of the world. Because, y'know... zombies don't knit.

Unless, as Anna-Liza pointed out, they still have flesh on their fingers, in which case they can probably still knit,¶ in which case I suppose we'd have to fight for our right to alpaca.#

[SUMMARY: We put too much thought into zombies.]

Oh, how I wish I had the l33t skillz to develop a video game, one where zombies with fleshy fingertips still defend their yarn, where they are powerless to save their stash once that last bit of skin leaves their hands, where you can garrotte a zombie with a 32" circular needle, where you get bonus points for stealing live alpaca from brainless, brain-eating alpaca herders...

The more I think about it, the more excited I get. Maybe I could find someone with the right skill set to help fulfill this dream. I think of all the wicked little twists and turns I could apply, the graphic images, the long nights of creative interaction, the judicious application of technology and electronics, bending over backward to get the job done... if only I had a partner to fill in the blanks†† for me, a man of action to flesh out my dreams and fantasies.

Dear gods, I'm so frustrated right now.

[SUMMARY: Twelve!]

What!? I'm talking about computer games!


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Because, as has been over-noted, almost everything is funny to me.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): If unnecessarily horny.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Did you laugh at "horny" from the last footnote? Then you can join.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Albeit only in garter stitch rectangles. No-brain knitting... y'all know.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Yes, I'm singing the Beastie Boys right now. You should be too.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Is that what the kids are calling it these days?