It says the post is posted.
It even sent me an email notification of the post.
It lies.
Oh, look! A blogdork milestone! The Blogger-ate-my-blog moment!
I feel like a real blogger now.
Seriously, it was a spectacular post, full of pathos and awe and drama and humour and sunshine. I laughed, I cried.
I probably even had pictures.
*ahem*
Monday, June 11, 2007
Slog Blog
As usual, it's Monday but I'm not going to blog the weekend until tomorrow. Because the pictures are still in the camera.
[SUMMARY: Same shit, different day.]
And I have a very exciting FO, but (again) it should probably wait until there are pictures.
So what the hell am I going to talk about today?
How 'bout Marin's World of Blogs?
[SUMMARY: Fishing... Stretching...]
I'll let you in on some of the inner workings of my mind. If that doesn't scare you straight, you're not paying attention.
Anyway, Marin's Rules for Reading Blogs:
First, when I'm reading blogs, I read them all the way through. From the very beginning.† And I don't post their links on my sidebar until I've both read all the way through them and found some merit in them.
There are a lot of bad blogs out there, by the way.
Second, there are some blogs I like but don't put on the sidebar because they haven't seen a new post in months. In fact, I took one off the sidebar for that very reason. I have a short attention span, people; your August 2006 post isn't going to keep me enthralled forever.§
Third, I almost never post comments to a blog until I've read it all the way through. There have been minor exceptions. Not many. I am a patient lurker.
Most of the blogs I find come off other people's lists. Or from the bottom of Knitty patterns. Or out of my comments.‡
I play bloggames. I'll check (as I'm cruising through the archives) as to what the person posted on my birthday or the day Mom died.
Or who never posts pictures on Monday.
*ahem*
[SUMMARY: I have remarkably high standards for someone whose favourite phrase is "holy fucking cats."]
A few weeks ago, Anna-Liza posed the question about how the Internet has affected our knitting lives. I rolled that around in my head a lot and almost answered it several times. As long as I'm in the ballpark of the subject, I'll touch on it here. For Anna-Liza's sake, you know. Not just because I love to talk about myself.#
Years back, I was a regular on the message boards on a site called Way Too Personal.& A chick showed up there who had a blog, but it was before they called it a blog. I believe they just called them online journals at the time,^ and I thought it was interesting and thought about doing my own, but at the time that required¶ special software and your own domain. All that requirement made the shiny thing dull for me and I lost interest.
Funny... I've been a citizen of the Internet for fifteen years -- longer than a lot of people -- but when I started knitting in earnest a few years ago, it never occurred to me to check the 'Net for knitting help. There would be a lot fewer single skeins of nearly-useless yarn in my stash if I'd done a little digital preparation.
Like so many of us, I credit/blame Stephanie Pearl-McPhee with my urge to blog. Probably with my blatant obsession with knitting, too. And my ready justification for having 14 projects on the needles at any given time.
Until I discovered The Yarn Harlot one day at the Tattered Cover, I thought my yarn collection was shameful and unique.
Knitting in public didn't make me part of the gang, it made me weird and may have put me on a FBI watchlist.
LYS was a non-concept.
Knitting groups? Really?
On one hand, it was a little disappointing to find out just how many Marinesque knitters there are out there. On the other, it's also a great comfort to have people around who understand the call of the alpaca.%
And I'd never have discovered drunken knitting if it wasn't for the Internet.
[SUMMARY: Tomorrow will have stories. And knitting pictures. It will all get better tomorrow.]
ETA: Here's a new one: Blogger won't let me post. I've been trying for an hour. I've seen all manner of OPBs where the authors complain about not being able to post and I've always kinda shrugged and thought, "Huh." But now I'm experiencing the true blogging experience: posts sucked into the ethernet.
If you see this, it means I've succeeded. If you don't, please send the Coast Guard.$
[SUMMARY: Same shit, different day.]
And I have a very exciting FO, but (again) it should probably wait until there are pictures.
So what the hell am I going to talk about today?
How 'bout Marin's World of Blogs?
[SUMMARY: Fishing... Stretching...]
I'll let you in on some of the inner workings of my mind. If that doesn't scare you straight, you're not paying attention.
Anyway, Marin's Rules for Reading Blogs:
First, when I'm reading blogs, I read them all the way through. From the very beginning.† And I don't post their links on my sidebar until I've both read all the way through them and found some merit in them.
There are a lot of bad blogs out there, by the way.
Second, there are some blogs I like but don't put on the sidebar because they haven't seen a new post in months. In fact, I took one off the sidebar for that very reason. I have a short attention span, people; your August 2006 post isn't going to keep me enthralled forever.§
Third, I almost never post comments to a blog until I've read it all the way through. There have been minor exceptions. Not many. I am a patient lurker.
Most of the blogs I find come off other people's lists. Or from the bottom of Knitty patterns. Or out of my comments.‡
I play bloggames. I'll check (as I'm cruising through the archives) as to what the person posted on my birthday or the day Mom died.
Or who never posts pictures on Monday.
*ahem*
[SUMMARY: I have remarkably high standards for someone whose favourite phrase is "holy fucking cats."]
A few weeks ago, Anna-Liza posed the question about how the Internet has affected our knitting lives. I rolled that around in my head a lot and almost answered it several times. As long as I'm in the ballpark of the subject, I'll touch on it here. For Anna-Liza's sake, you know. Not just because I love to talk about myself.#
Years back, I was a regular on the message boards on a site called Way Too Personal.& A chick showed up there who had a blog, but it was before they called it a blog. I believe they just called them online journals at the time,^ and I thought it was interesting and thought about doing my own, but at the time that required¶ special software and your own domain. All that requirement made the shiny thing dull for me and I lost interest.
Funny... I've been a citizen of the Internet for fifteen years -- longer than a lot of people -- but when I started knitting in earnest a few years ago, it never occurred to me to check the 'Net for knitting help. There would be a lot fewer single skeins of nearly-useless yarn in my stash if I'd done a little digital preparation.
Like so many of us, I credit/blame Stephanie Pearl-McPhee with my urge to blog. Probably with my blatant obsession with knitting, too. And my ready justification for having 14 projects on the needles at any given time.
Until I discovered The Yarn Harlot one day at the Tattered Cover, I thought my yarn collection was shameful and unique.
Knitting in public didn't make me part of the gang, it made me weird and may have put me on a FBI watchlist.
LYS was a non-concept.
Knitting groups? Really?
On one hand, it was a little disappointing to find out just how many Marinesque knitters there are out there. On the other, it's also a great comfort to have people around who understand the call of the alpaca.%
And I'd never have discovered drunken knitting if it wasn't for the Internet.
[SUMMARY: Tomorrow will have stories. And knitting pictures. It will all get better tomorrow.]
ETA: Here's a new one: Blogger won't let me post. I've been trying for an hour. I've seen all manner of OPBs where the authors complain about not being able to post and I've always kinda shrugged and thought, "Huh." But now I'm experiencing the true blogging experience: posts sucked into the ethernet.
If you see this, it means I've succeeded. If you don't, please send the Coast Guard.$
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): And you wouldn't believe how difficult some people make this. I won't mention names, but I've run across more than one blog where the archives fall under pull-down menus, one each for month and year.
This system sucks ASS.
See, you have to choose the month from the pull-down and as soon as you do, it takes you to that month in the current year. Then you choose the year from the other pull-down menu and it may give you a message that says there are no posts for that month and year. Yes, I've tried doing the year first. Inevitably, I get an error message telling me to choose a month. It takes half of forever to find an archived post and there's a reason I don't list any of those blogs in my sidebar. I can't read the fucking things, so I'm surely not going to recommend them to you.
You're welcome.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Or, you know, the Yarn Harlot mentions them once or twice.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Unless your August 2006 post has a picture of a crane on it. I dig cranes. The heavy equipment, not the birds.
&FOOTNOTE (ampersanded): Imagine... a time when online dating was more important to me than knitting. Good times, good times...
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Yeah, it probably wasn't a requirement as such. But I generally like adopting technology. The toys are part of the fun.
#FOOTNTOE (pounded): And I do like to talk about myself, but not for the spotlight-hog, me-me-me reasons you might think. Mostly because I'm the only thing I know anything about for sure.
^FOOTNOTE (careted): When I was your age. And there was a digital wolf behind every electronic tree. And we walked our 256k modems uphill both directions. Barefoot.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): Look, Ma! Only two hands!
$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): If anyone points out that if you don't see the post you won't know to send out the Coast Guard, I'll have to revoke your membership to Marin's mind. This may actually be your best hope for survival.
Friday, June 8, 2007
Stop. Me.
TTHFCIF
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): And doesn't it knit up pretty?
Anybody have a pattern?
Happy Friday.
Isn't that pretty?
Wouldn't it be nice if I could stand knitting ribbon enough to make myself a tank or cami out of it?
Isn't it funny that when you "save picture as" on this, the default file name is simply "balls"?
Yeah, I'm four. You're used to it. It's why I love you so.
[SUMMARY: Fiber. Fiber, fiber, fiber. Fiberfiberfiberfiberfiber.
Not to be confused with groin or panties.]
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): And doesn't it knit up pretty?
Anybody have a pattern?
Happy Friday.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Going to the Dogs
Cutest Little Car is going in for her first check-up in a few (they grow up so fast), so my time is limited.
I leave you with this news item, to be added to Snakes on a Plane in the holy fucking cats category:
Making Faces at Police Dogs.
Which is worse?
I leave you with this news item, to be added to Snakes on a Plane in the holy fucking cats category:
Making Faces at Police Dogs.
Which is worse?
- Making faces at a police dog.
- Arresting someone for making faces at a police dog.
- Asserting making faces at a police dog is animal cruelty.
- Asserting someone has a Constitutional right to make faces at a police dog.
The latest AP report says the trial has been cancelled, which speaks to the good of *someone* in that local legal system. Still...
Happy Thursday.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
"The Time Has Come," the wombat said...
"...to talk of many things."
...happy birthday, dear BROOOOOOTHER... happy birthday to you
With Red's permission, I shall brief you (pun intended) on her date Monday.
I had the honour of being Red's bail-out and safe call on a semi-blind date Monday night. She provided me the location, boy's phone number & name† and strict instructions to call at 9:00 to see how she was doing and possibly provide a graceful out. We devised an Izzard-based code word system‡ and we were ready to go.
Actually, there was a whole scenario under which I would show up at the date site in pajama pants and curlers with a little water splashed on the front of my shirt to mimic the look of an uncontrollably lactating woman, brush my hands clumsily down my breasts a couple of times and sniffle, "When you coming home, Red?"
It was REALLY funny at Goosetown Friday night.
Things were going well enough halfway through that she called to tell me they were switching locations and the 9:00 call was unnecessary.
She called at 10:30 to tell me she got home safe and, well... things went a little downhill from the mid-date call to the safe-home call.
Besides some inappropriate touching, Inappropriate Remarks Boy (as he will forever be in my mind) used the word "babble" at least three times. Not good.
The crowning jewel of his inappropriate evening, though, was when he told her, "I didn't think the date was going to go anywhere when you showed up with visible panty lines."
When Red relayed that to me, my first thought was, "Is this guy gay? Do men even notice -- or worry about -- panty lines?"
I've always suspected that the mere thought of panties, the sheer concept of panties, the presence, hope and promise of panties is enough to carbonate most boys' brains beyond the noticing of panties.%
[SUMMARY: Panties. Panties, panties, panties. Pantiespantiespantiespantiespanties. This is now a companion piece to Roger Clemens's groin.]
Taking the concept a little further, I thought, "Maybe he's a fashion snob and was saying he'd never date a girl who subjected him to the horror of panty lines."
I mulled for a second more.
It finally hit me.
"Was he saying you didn't care enough to dress properly for him, so he figured you'd already written the date off?"§
Apparently, yes.
Girls think so much about every little detail (so the story goes) that if they show up with panty lines, well... apparently it's the next generation's version of not shaving your legs and wearing ratty underwear so you don't accidentally sleep with a boy on the first date.¶ And Inappropriate Remarks Boy was pretty well convinced he'd cracked that code.
Wonder what he would have done with "babies on spikes."
Poor Red. It gets funnier every day, though she had a little setback into bitter some time between Dairy Queen last night and comments this morning. Squint, Red. Squint and turn your head to the left and maybe you can pretend I'm talking about someone else.
[SUMMARY: boys=dumb]
Here's a funny thing I got in my email Sunday:
That's from the Canadian Housing Association.
Ally? Anything you feel you need to tell me?
Or maybe the CHA just goes through the blogiverse looking for fond mentions of Canada and British spellings.
[SUMMARY: I love Canadians and now Canada wants me to live there.]
Meanwhile, back at the knitting...
I cast on for the fourth and final border bit for Stupid Blanket last night. We are talking mere hours from complete satisfaction of the obligation and frustration that has been Stupid Blanket.
And if the Drunken Knitters tell you I told them I fondle Stupid Blanket every night and think of it as a little miracle of textile goodness, I'll deny it to the ends of the earth.
Green Gables is in the final stretch... and that may be an apt phrase. I read Enchanting Juno's account of short-row shaping for us boobalicious gals and thought I'd try to wing that.
After a couple of hours of basically knitting heels into the sides of the sweater and ending up with completely backward darts on one side and something resembling a pockmarked caterpillar on the other, I gave up, frogged and decided to follow the pattern. If it's too wonky to wear happily, I'll make the next one better.#
[SUMMARY: Short row takes practice. Tailoring takes engineering.]
The toe-up, two-at-once socks have reached the heel(s) and I'm trying to do anything to avoid a lot of wrapping and turning. Anybody know a good, readily available (i.e. -- I don't have to order a two-year-old issue of Interweave Knits to get it) toe-up heel pattern that doesn't require a lace needle and double-joints to pick up wraps?
[SUMMARY: Lazy much?]
And last on our list of promised topics for today: Strings.
I just happened to discover destash.blogspot.com yesterday and showed up just moments after lovely Hazel posted her Noro Kureyon. Seems she was all excited about Knitty's Lizard Ridge^ but then found she was allergic to the Noro.$ So I got ten skeins of Noro and a damned good start on my own Lizard Ridge, after which I've been lusting,& for $70.
Not a huge savings, I know, but all that Noro, all at once, and THROUGH THE MAIL. I love yarn that comes in the mail. Well, as you know, I love anything that comes in the mail that doesn't have an obligation attached.
[SUMMARY: NORO!]
For whom shall I knit Lizard Ridge?
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Much like you are in charge of giving the police my blog as a record of hostile Male Lady activity should I be found dead in a ditch, I was in charge of making sure justice was served should Red meet a similar fate at the hands of Inappropriate Remarks Boy.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Jam = good. Babies on spikes = bad.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): It's why lingerie is not such a big deal to most men. As Steve once said, when asked if matching bra and panties mattered to men (I think I phrased it, "Doesn't it impress you when a girl's bra and panties match?"), "Marin, if I'm seeing panties, I'm not much worried about what they go with."
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Serious re-engineering of the conversation. I spat out a bunch of words that eventually got across the *idea* of "Was he saying...?" My gast was flabbered and I wasn't speaking so good.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Yeah, it didn't always work for me either.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): By this, I mostly mean I'll actually look up directions and not count on my own engineering and math skills (hello?! FOUR!) to apply advanced tailoring techniques to my knitting.
^FOOTNOTE (careted): Thus:
...happy birthday, dear BROOOOOOTHER... happy birthday to you
With Red's permission, I shall brief you (pun intended) on her date Monday.
I had the honour of being Red's bail-out and safe call on a semi-blind date Monday night. She provided me the location, boy's phone number & name† and strict instructions to call at 9:00 to see how she was doing and possibly provide a graceful out. We devised an Izzard-based code word system‡ and we were ready to go.
Actually, there was a whole scenario under which I would show up at the date site in pajama pants and curlers with a little water splashed on the front of my shirt to mimic the look of an uncontrollably lactating woman, brush my hands clumsily down my breasts a couple of times and sniffle, "When you coming home, Red?"
It was REALLY funny at Goosetown Friday night.
Things were going well enough halfway through that she called to tell me they were switching locations and the 9:00 call was unnecessary.
She called at 10:30 to tell me she got home safe and, well... things went a little downhill from the mid-date call to the safe-home call.
Besides some inappropriate touching, Inappropriate Remarks Boy (as he will forever be in my mind) used the word "babble" at least three times. Not good.
The crowning jewel of his inappropriate evening, though, was when he told her, "I didn't think the date was going to go anywhere when you showed up with visible panty lines."
When Red relayed that to me, my first thought was, "Is this guy gay? Do men even notice -- or worry about -- panty lines?"
I've always suspected that the mere thought of panties, the sheer concept of panties, the presence, hope and promise of panties is enough to carbonate most boys' brains beyond the noticing of panties.%
[SUMMARY: Panties. Panties, panties, panties. Pantiespantiespantiespantiespanties. This is now a companion piece to Roger Clemens's groin.]
Taking the concept a little further, I thought, "Maybe he's a fashion snob and was saying he'd never date a girl who subjected him to the horror of panty lines."
I mulled for a second more.
It finally hit me.
"Was he saying you didn't care enough to dress properly for him, so he figured you'd already written the date off?"§
Apparently, yes.
Girls think so much about every little detail (so the story goes) that if they show up with panty lines, well... apparently it's the next generation's version of not shaving your legs and wearing ratty underwear so you don't accidentally sleep with a boy on the first date.¶ And Inappropriate Remarks Boy was pretty well convinced he'd cracked that code.
Wonder what he would have done with "babies on spikes."
Poor Red. It gets funnier every day, though she had a little setback into bitter some time between Dairy Queen last night and comments this morning. Squint, Red. Squint and turn your head to the left and maybe you can pretend I'm talking about someone else.
[SUMMARY: boys=dumb]
Here's a funny thing I got in my email Sunday:
That's from the Canadian Housing Association.
Ally? Anything you feel you need to tell me?
Or maybe the CHA just goes through the blogiverse looking for fond mentions of Canada and British spellings.
[SUMMARY: I love Canadians and now Canada wants me to live there.]
Meanwhile, back at the knitting...
I cast on for the fourth and final border bit for Stupid Blanket last night. We are talking mere hours from complete satisfaction of the obligation and frustration that has been Stupid Blanket.
And if the Drunken Knitters tell you I told them I fondle Stupid Blanket every night and think of it as a little miracle of textile goodness, I'll deny it to the ends of the earth.
Green Gables is in the final stretch... and that may be an apt phrase. I read Enchanting Juno's account of short-row shaping for us boobalicious gals and thought I'd try to wing that.
After a couple of hours of basically knitting heels into the sides of the sweater and ending up with completely backward darts on one side and something resembling a pockmarked caterpillar on the other, I gave up, frogged and decided to follow the pattern. If it's too wonky to wear happily, I'll make the next one better.#
[SUMMARY: Short row takes practice. Tailoring takes engineering.]
The toe-up, two-at-once socks have reached the heel(s) and I'm trying to do anything to avoid a lot of wrapping and turning. Anybody know a good, readily available (i.e. -- I don't have to order a two-year-old issue of Interweave Knits to get it) toe-up heel pattern that doesn't require a lace needle and double-joints to pick up wraps?
[SUMMARY: Lazy much?]
And last on our list of promised topics for today: Strings.
I just happened to discover destash.blogspot.com yesterday and showed up just moments after lovely Hazel posted her Noro Kureyon. Seems she was all excited about Knitty's Lizard Ridge^ but then found she was allergic to the Noro.$ So I got ten skeins of Noro and a damned good start on my own Lizard Ridge, after which I've been lusting,& for $70.
Not a huge savings, I know, but all that Noro, all at once, and THROUGH THE MAIL. I love yarn that comes in the mail. Well, as you know, I love anything that comes in the mail that doesn't have an obligation attached.
[SUMMARY: NORO!]
For whom shall I knit Lizard Ridge?
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Much like you are in charge of giving the police my blog as a record of hostile Male Lady activity should I be found dead in a ditch, I was in charge of making sure justice was served should Red meet a similar fate at the hands of Inappropriate Remarks Boy.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Jam = good. Babies on spikes = bad.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): It's why lingerie is not such a big deal to most men. As Steve once said, when asked if matching bra and panties mattered to men (I think I phrased it, "Doesn't it impress you when a girl's bra and panties match?"), "Marin, if I'm seeing panties, I'm not much worried about what they go with."
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Serious re-engineering of the conversation. I spat out a bunch of words that eventually got across the *idea* of "Was he saying...?" My gast was flabbered and I wasn't speaking so good.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Yeah, it didn't always work for me either.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): By this, I mostly mean I'll actually look up directions and not count on my own engineering and math skills (hello?! FOUR!) to apply advanced tailoring techniques to my knitting.
^FOOTNOTE (careted): Thus:
$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): I know, I know. Breathe into a paper bag and pray for Hazel.
&FOOTNOTE (ampersanded): Yes, I know I just spent several precious words whining about wrapping and turning. I never said I was stable. Or logical. I've readily admitted to not being able to count to four. Somehow, miles of wrapping and turning...
...huh.
Did Stupid Blanket teach me NOTHING?
Monday, June 4, 2007
Birthdaybirthday irs Birthday Birthday Birthday
Oh, yes. It's birthday season.
I know I'm not the only one experiencing this. Let's count back nine months, shall we? What drives people to fuck like bunnies in... September?
It's not so cold you'd want to generate the body heat.
It's not so hot you'd be half-naked, sweaty and tempting on a daily basis.
*thinkthinkthink*
Back to school?
[SUMMARY: September is the sexiest month?]
Anyway...
Thursday night, I helped Annie make train cakes for her twins. Well, mostly I drank wine and affixed M&M's to tiny little Oreos for wheels and ate stray licorice.
And piled on extra mini-marshmallows when Annie wasn't looking.
Here is the finished product†:
All aboard the Cabernet Express! Woo-woo!
Friday was First Friday and we KIP'd at Sylvia's House of Fuzzy Crack until about 9:00, then headed to Goosetown Tavern to do some damage. This is where the IRS showed up and ruined my weekend when I found my bank account emptied and my debit card rendered worthless.††
[SUMMARY: Not that I'm bitter about the IRS thing, nor that they ruined my ENTIRE FUCKING WEEKEND. Nope. Not a bit.]
Saturday morning was the train cake party, where I was the only single person and the only person without kids and I didn't even win a prize.
But, awww... wookat da twins.‡ Reward enough and reason enough, to be sure.
And the very important blowing-the-candles-out picture with the ever-lovely Annie:§
Later, that same morning...
I went to Elitch Gardens with this man...
To ride stuff like this...
That man would be Shanny. That ride would be the Boomerang.&
There's only one person in the world I've been friends with longer than Shanny. Shanny lived around the corner from me in high school and we met around Christmas 1981 outside our houses, causing trouble. We were theatre fags together from the fall of 1982 through all our illustrious high school careers. Now we vacation together.
His daughter was born on my birthday, semi-deliberately, and his wife's birthday is the day before mine. Shanny knows from June birthdays.
Maybe he could explain the September thing.
Anyway...
Elitch's was Shanny's contribution to my 40 Days & 40 Nights celebration leading up to the big 40th birthday bash. Well, that and a radio remote which may not be that exciting for Shanny, but was interesting for me.
Anyway...
Some of the rides at Elitch's have... tailored seats. Shanny was denied access to three rides we wanted to go on, and he suggested the title for this post should be "Too Fat for Fun." Honestly, as my brother said, he's not THAT big.
Despite that, he is contemplating a diet based on wanting to get on the tailored rides. I think it would make a hell of a best-selling book.
Tangent: Shanny became aware of my total blogdorkedness when I struggled to get this photo:
That's a t-shirt on a kid in front of us for one of the roller coasters. I told Shanny I had to get it because... well, chicas, firefighters? Playing hockey? *drooldrooldrool* I want y'all to kick back for a second, close your eyes and daydream on that one.
Got it?
Good, now wipe your chin and change your panties.
[SUMMARY: Saturday...]
Anyway...
Sunday brought Red's birthday. Kathryn and I walked over to Tastes for the festivities. Would you believe... at least a half-dozen knitters and not a scrap of WIP to be seen? Truly a testimony to Red's compelling nature that we'd all rather watch her than knit.
Kathryn and Red
Dark C¶ was there, darling girl. Brian, too, but I won't darling Brian.%
It's simply not a birthday until the birthday girl has cake. Really good chocolate cake with raspberries.
Then it was time to head to Brother's house for Brother and Dad# birthdays.
Sis-in-Law had just (justjustjust) returned from her Princeton reunion@:
Hold that tiger!
Tallest, Hairiest Nephew got a tiger tail.
Dr. Doom got a tiger tail... and proceeded to soak it^ and fling the water about, sometimes sucking the water out of the tail and saying, "bleagggh!"
[SUMMARY: Sunday...]
According to Brother, Grandpa (upon watching Dr. Doom operate for awhile) said, "You don't deserve this. Now, your sister... your sister may deserve this, but you don't deserve this."
The kid is undeniably weird in ways I was weird when I was a kid. Of course, most of Tallest, Hairiest Nephew's weirdities are very familiar to me too.
What do you suppose that says about my level of weird?$
Anyway...
Brother, Sis-in-Law and Grandpa looking deceptively normal
Let me present a little evidence that there is an element of heredity, and some wayward male relatives maybe shouldn't throw those house-shattering stones *too* hard:
There's a self-portrait setting on the new camera*
Uh-huh. Everybody else is normal.
[SUMMARY: Nature vs. Nurture]
And just for the record:
Cat for Scale on Sperm Chair: a Still Life
Tomorrow? Oh, the places we'll go! We'll talk of many things, of panty lines and Canadians, of WIPs and strings...
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): perhaps more properly, "ARE the finished PRODUCTS."
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): It's OK. It was their error and they're fixing it fairly quickly. With one exception (and I suspect that exception was the bitch who precipitated this little cash-flow debacle), every single person I've ever talked to at the IRS has been lovely and helpful and kind and all that... I just wish they'd get a little more organised.
And stop fucking stealing my money.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): And it means NOTHING that that's almost exactly how I reacted to Ally's new puppy.
&FOOTNOTE (ampersanded): I think. Anyway...
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Not to be confused with the Annie referenced yesterday. Though this Annie has a sandy sort of dog and isn't very tall, she's much less likely to burst into song.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I think that's what the kids are calling her these days. At least Red is calling her that.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): I hardly know Brian. I don't even know if he's a Brian or a Bryan. You'd think I had no background in journalism at all, as cavalier as I am about people's names on this thing.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): OK, mostly we call him "Grandpa" these days, but my dad. Anyway...
@FOOTNOTE (at'd): Yeah, I know. We love her anyway... through all the math and the degrees and the Ivy League.
^FOOTNOTE (carated): Prompting one of the great phrases of the day: "If you're going to water your tail, do it on the grass." As a parent, you get to say all variety of shit you never thought you'd say. You never thought *anyone* would say. Anyway...
*FOOTNOTE (asterisked): My brother and I have climbed a 14,000-foot mountain together. We've survived hundreds of family gatherings together. We've braved the wilds of Antarctica and enjoyed the fruits of New Zealand together. We survived my aunt in Los Angeles together. And every single event has a photo of us that looks an awful lot like this.
The self-portrait setting on the camera is a real boon, let me tell you. We can be all goofy and shit in much clearer format than ever before.
Hey! you can see up my nose holes from here!
$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): Rhetorical.
I know I'm not the only one experiencing this. Let's count back nine months, shall we? What drives people to fuck like bunnies in... September?
It's not so cold you'd want to generate the body heat.
It's not so hot you'd be half-naked, sweaty and tempting on a daily basis.
*thinkthinkthink*
Back to school?
[SUMMARY: September is the sexiest month?]
Anyway...
Thursday night, I helped Annie make train cakes for her twins. Well, mostly I drank wine and affixed M&M's to tiny little Oreos for wheels and ate stray licorice.
And piled on extra mini-marshmallows when Annie wasn't looking.
Here is the finished product†:
All aboard the Cabernet Express! Woo-woo!
Friday was First Friday and we KIP'd at Sylvia's House of Fuzzy Crack until about 9:00, then headed to Goosetown Tavern to do some damage. This is where the IRS showed up and ruined my weekend when I found my bank account emptied and my debit card rendered worthless.††
[SUMMARY: Not that I'm bitter about the IRS thing, nor that they ruined my ENTIRE FUCKING WEEKEND. Nope. Not a bit.]
Saturday morning was the train cake party, where I was the only single person and the only person without kids and I didn't even win a prize.
But, awww... wookat da twins.‡ Reward enough and reason enough, to be sure.
And the very important blowing-the-candles-out picture with the ever-lovely Annie:§
Later, that same morning...
I went to Elitch Gardens with this man...
To ride stuff like this...
That man would be Shanny. That ride would be the Boomerang.&
There's only one person in the world I've been friends with longer than Shanny. Shanny lived around the corner from me in high school and we met around Christmas 1981 outside our houses, causing trouble. We were theatre fags together from the fall of 1982 through all our illustrious high school careers. Now we vacation together.
His daughter was born on my birthday, semi-deliberately, and his wife's birthday is the day before mine. Shanny knows from June birthdays.
Maybe he could explain the September thing.
Anyway...
Elitch's was Shanny's contribution to my 40 Days & 40 Nights celebration leading up to the big 40th birthday bash. Well, that and a radio remote which may not be that exciting for Shanny, but was interesting for me.
Anyway...
Some of the rides at Elitch's have... tailored seats. Shanny was denied access to three rides we wanted to go on, and he suggested the title for this post should be "Too Fat for Fun." Honestly, as my brother said, he's not THAT big.
Despite that, he is contemplating a diet based on wanting to get on the tailored rides. I think it would make a hell of a best-selling book.
Tangent: Shanny became aware of my total blogdorkedness when I struggled to get this photo:
That's a t-shirt on a kid in front of us for one of the roller coasters. I told Shanny I had to get it because... well, chicas, firefighters? Playing hockey? *drooldrooldrool* I want y'all to kick back for a second, close your eyes and daydream on that one.
Got it?
Good, now wipe your chin and change your panties.
[SUMMARY: Saturday...]
Anyway...
Sunday brought Red's birthday. Kathryn and I walked over to Tastes for the festivities. Would you believe... at least a half-dozen knitters and not a scrap of WIP to be seen? Truly a testimony to Red's compelling nature that we'd all rather watch her than knit.
Kathryn and Red
Dark C¶ was there, darling girl. Brian, too, but I won't darling Brian.%
It's simply not a birthday until the birthday girl has cake. Really good chocolate cake with raspberries.
Then it was time to head to Brother's house for Brother and Dad# birthdays.
Sis-in-Law had just (justjustjust) returned from her Princeton reunion@:
Hold that tiger!
Tallest, Hairiest Nephew got a tiger tail.
Dr. Doom got a tiger tail... and proceeded to soak it^ and fling the water about, sometimes sucking the water out of the tail and saying, "bleagggh!"
[SUMMARY: Sunday...]
According to Brother, Grandpa (upon watching Dr. Doom operate for awhile) said, "You don't deserve this. Now, your sister... your sister may deserve this, but you don't deserve this."
The kid is undeniably weird in ways I was weird when I was a kid. Of course, most of Tallest, Hairiest Nephew's weirdities are very familiar to me too.
What do you suppose that says about my level of weird?$
Anyway...
Brother, Sis-in-Law and Grandpa looking deceptively normal
Let me present a little evidence that there is an element of heredity, and some wayward male relatives maybe shouldn't throw those house-shattering stones *too* hard:
There's a self-portrait setting on the new camera*
Uh-huh. Everybody else is normal.
[SUMMARY: Nature vs. Nurture]
And just for the record:
Cat for Scale on Sperm Chair: a Still Life
Tomorrow? Oh, the places we'll go! We'll talk of many things, of panty lines and Canadians, of WIPs and strings...
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): perhaps more properly, "ARE the finished PRODUCTS."
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): It's OK. It was their error and they're fixing it fairly quickly. With one exception (and I suspect that exception was the bitch who precipitated this little cash-flow debacle), every single person I've ever talked to at the IRS has been lovely and helpful and kind and all that... I just wish they'd get a little more organised.
And stop fucking stealing my money.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): And it means NOTHING that that's almost exactly how I reacted to Ally's new puppy.
&FOOTNOTE (ampersanded): I think. Anyway...
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Not to be confused with the Annie referenced yesterday. Though this Annie has a sandy sort of dog and isn't very tall, she's much less likely to burst into song.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I think that's what the kids are calling her these days. At least Red is calling her that.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): I hardly know Brian. I don't even know if he's a Brian or a Bryan. You'd think I had no background in journalism at all, as cavalier as I am about people's names on this thing.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): OK, mostly we call him "Grandpa" these days, but my dad. Anyway...
@FOOTNOTE (at'd): Yeah, I know. We love her anyway... through all the math and the degrees and the Ivy League.
^FOOTNOTE (carated): Prompting one of the great phrases of the day: "If you're going to water your tail, do it on the grass." As a parent, you get to say all variety of shit you never thought you'd say. You never thought *anyone* would say. Anyway...
*FOOTNOTE (asterisked): My brother and I have climbed a 14,000-foot mountain together. We've survived hundreds of family gatherings together. We've braved the wilds of Antarctica and enjoyed the fruits of New Zealand together. We survived my aunt in Los Angeles together. And every single event has a photo of us that looks an awful lot like this.
The self-portrait setting on the camera is a real boon, let me tell you. We can be all goofy and shit in much clearer format than ever before.
Hey! you can see up my nose holes from here!
$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): Rhetorical.
You Had Me at pbthththphphbth
Dudes, I have so little to say right now. I have a whole flock of photos* from a full and frolicsome weekend, but they haven't made it from camera to computer. Tomorrow will have to be the weekend update day.†
Let's see... items that don't require photos...
I have spent the weekend experiencing the IRS in a way that is making me sosososososo cranky. It has caused me some embarrassment, though now that I know what's going on, I'm not all weepy and hot-eared, just pissed.
[SUMMARY: Tea in China? What?]
Oooooh! Oooooh! I do have a picture I forgot to post last week! You are SO excited!
Remember Media Day at Stitch 'n' Bitch at Sylvia's House of Fuzzy Crack? Here's the group shot, including Ligia (who, it turns out, is not "Lijia" no matter how I said she should spell it) and Red and Genius-Knitter-Sarah and Lisa-Pronounced-Liza and Heidi and Mary Kay (best friend!) and Sylvia and Janet and Irma and Alicia and the usual couple of people whose names I've never gathered...§
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Not in any particular order. And that's me, front and centre on the ground, next to Ligia and her newly-finished Clapotis.
Let's see... items that don't require photos...
I have spent the weekend experiencing the IRS in a way that is making me sosososososo cranky. It has caused me some embarrassment, though now that I know what's going on, I'm not all weepy and hot-eared, just pissed.
[SUMMARY: Tea in China? What?]
Oooooh! Oooooh! I do have a picture I forgot to post last week! You are SO excited!
Remember Media Day at Stitch 'n' Bitch at Sylvia's House of Fuzzy Crack? Here's the group shot, including Ligia (who, it turns out, is not "Lijia" no matter how I said she should spell it) and Red and Genius-Knitter-Sarah and Lisa-Pronounced-Liza and Heidi and Mary Kay (best friend!) and Sylvia and Janet and Irma and Alicia and the usual couple of people whose names I've never gathered...§
Enough about me...
In baseball news, Roger Clemens called DURING THE GAME Sunday to tell... whomever baseball players tell when they *coughcough* won't be in to work today *cough*... to say he has a fatigued groin. I thought nothing could be better than spending the weekend watching "Clemens scratched (groin)" on the ESPN crawl, but "fatigued groin" definitely tops that for sheer, ongoing# entertainment value.
[SUMMARY: Groin. Groin, groin, groin. GROINGROINGROINGROINGROIN!]
OK, back to me.
As for today's title, I frequently go around the office talking to myself, making little noises to myself and -- when I'm frustrated and unfocused -- flapping my hands in little circles and blowing raspberries to indicate (in my mind) "I am a bug. Probably a fly." Yeah, it's weird. No, it's not pathological. Megan-from-Work thinks it's funny and I live to entertain Megan, so... *shrug*
Well, Megan stopped by my door a little while ago, twirling belt ends suggestively in the manner of a 1920's flapper/hooker.‡ When I told her it was certainly sassy but didn't do much for me personally, she made the fly noise and cracked me up. At which point I said, "You had me at pbthththphphbth."
Because I am a blogdork, I immediately asked how you spell "pbthththphphbth" so I could use that for my title.
A little insight into the workings of the AntiM mind.
You're welcome.
In the immortal words of Annie, orphan extraordinaire, tomorrow is only a day away.
Happy Monday.
[SUMMARY: Can you believe I didn't do my "picture may be worth a thousand words but I bet I can tell you in three thousand" thing?]
*FOOTNOTE (asterisked): Some of which may even be publishable.
(Hey, did you notice how I only used asterisks when I forgot to footnote something and have to do an interim/insert sort of footnote mark? I'm sure Secret Pal is rolling her eyes somewhere for my lack of respect for the stylebook protocol. Sorry, Secret Pal! Not trying to make your head explode!
Um, speaking of... Secret Pal? Are you OK? Has anyone seen Secret Pal recently?)
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I say that like my weekend update isn't usually on some day other than the day right after the weekend. I know you know better. Please humour me.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded and out of order): 'Cause "Clemens scratched (groin)" is a one-off (heh) but you can really MULL "fatigued groin."
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Thus:
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Not in any particular order. And that's me, front and centre on the ground, next to Ligia and her newly-finished Clapotis.
Friday, June 1, 2007
Pssssst...
...they gave me the day off. I'm taking it.
Have a fantabulous weekend. I leave you with this utterly knitterly weirdness from an email my dad sent me.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
So Late It's Early
Take my car keys.
Talk sensible to me.
Eye. Fucking. Candy. Both of 'em.†
Click for big. Seriously, if you don't click for big, there's something wrong with our relationship. Trust me. You WANT to click for big.
And if I can't feel better, the next best thing is that y'all should feel better.
I know, I'm a train wreck. Don't worry about me. Weakness shines through some days. While it ain't pretty, it's nothing to worry about.
[SUMMARY: Look at the fucking time. Does it look like a good time for coherent thought?]
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): In my next life, I want to be this photogenic.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed -- oh, the irony): I'd jump The Boy in any public place in a heartbeat. I'd gladly bake Shane cookies. See the objectivity?
Revoke my intelligent feminist membership.
Talk sensible to me.
For fuck's sake, invoke an intervention.
Boys carbonate me.
The Boy confuses me.
Oh... look at the time. I gotta leave you with better than that.
This is Shane (and Carna/Karna -- see, I didn't ask the spelling... bad blogdork, bad! -- not that CKarna's an afterthought, just that I've known Shane longer. KCarna? TOTALLY cool.). I've known him my whole life. He's the best-looking guy I know that wasn't drawn by Marvel Comics. Totally objective there.‡
Eye. Fucking. Candy. Both of 'em.†
Click for big. Seriously, if you don't click for big, there's something wrong with our relationship. Trust me. You WANT to click for big.
That should make you feel better.
And if I can't feel better, the next best thing is that y'all should feel better.
I know, I'm a train wreck. Don't worry about me. Weakness shines through some days. While it ain't pretty, it's nothing to worry about.
[SUMMARY: Look at the fucking time. Does it look like a good time for coherent thought?]
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): In my next life, I want to be this photogenic.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed -- oh, the irony): I'd jump The Boy in any public place in a heartbeat. I'd gladly bake Shane cookies. See the objectivity?
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
All Hail!
Yeah, I think I'm funny.
So we had some weather here in Denverish yesterday. And I feel this is my opportunity to really anger the various gods and become smote and probably change the course of weather for the entire country.
I have been making predictions on the weather since last spring. So far, I've been just about dead on.† People who've heard me in all my weather goddess sturm und drang‡ would tell you I've been pretty accurate.
[SUMMARY: Have I never heard the word "hubris"?]
I figure the real test is to make a big ol' public production of it.
So here it is: In general, it's going to be a wild summer here in Denverish. It will be wetter than last summer, with storms almost every afternoon from mid- to late-June through July. Maybe before and beyond, but those hot central summer days are surely going to be like the summers of my childhood when all I wanted to do was swim all day and we got lighteninged out every fucking afternoon.
There will be an abnormal amount of thunderstorms and hailstorms and we can expect to see tornadoes as far inland as Aurora.
It will totally suck to be in Holyoke.^
I'm not sure about the fall and winter yet, but I'm going to re-iterate last year's prediction and go for a mid- to late-September snow of the sopping wet type that crashes trees and power lines and makes the newscasters go frowny-faced as they report on the number of little old ladies who have been without electricity for days.
Honestly, I know almost nothing about the weather.
[SUMMARY: Heh. I'm still laughing at "sturm und drang." I'm turning into Bob the Jackass. I should have said "Ah."]
I see cycles like that little kid in the Bruce Willis movie saw dead people. Of course, you can laugh§ because I'm talking 20-year hard cycles and 10-year interim cycles and my sample is running on 30 years now¶ so I'm just blowing smoke.
Really, really accurate smoke.
And now that I've said this -- here, in this very public venue, where all manner of mouse, man and god can surf it -- it will be hot and dry and nothing extreme in the slightest because that's how Murphy$ plays me each and every fucking time.
Besides, I used up all my Kharmic Green Stamps yesterday on a $4 parking discount.#
But the weather was cool and extreme yesterday and fit into my grand prediction nicely.
Here are some pictures I took, for I am a blogdork with a new camera:
From the 10th storey of Writer's Square, south
From the 10th storey of Writer's Square, north
Hail to the left of me...
...hail to the right.
Let's zoom in for a closer look at that hail, shall we?
Now I get all artsy and stuff.
Oh, hail... my umbrella!
Patio at Cheesecake Factory from 10th storey
Brimfire and hailstones - 16th Street Mall from 10th storey
Damnit, Jim! This is a knitblog, not the Weather Channel!
[SUMMARY: Enough talking about the weather already! Sheesh, hasn't our relationship progressed enough that we don't have to talk about the weather?]
SNSNBNW was last night, but it didn't get too crazy. How crazy could it possibly get... five women (two redheads), a bunch of beer, some pointy sticks, ranch dressing and string?
Yeah, I know. If we took pictures, we could probably make a fortune in internet p0rn.
Red did bring the horrifying pink fuzzy synthetic stuff (don't ask so many questions -- go look it up) and knit it into some truly festive mary jane slippers for her wayward sister.
[late edit: That's Wayward Sister. Carry on. But not a snake.]
And I did an impression of myself trying to count to four, which would probably have been funnier if it wasn't so tragic.
Other than that (and the ranch dressing thing), pretty tame.
I got some yarn in the mail yesterday from Rabbitch's shop.
The colour is actually pretty good on my monitor... it runs from a deep, red orange, right through sunset into dreamsicle. I'm going to make socks like this for Bronco season.%
A cameo appearance by Cat for Scale, who seems to be very suspicious of sock yarn in general, but this orange stuff in particular. He actually circled it long enough for me to get about ten pictures of his orange-sock-yarn paranoia.
Kelley's birthday today. We're hitting up Vita (New Bar) before meeting the boys (yes, The Boy too) at Three Dogs. Maybe that will generate some interesting blogfodder.
Keep y'all's fingers crossed, K?
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): TELL me that's not funny. And clever.
^FOOTNOTE (careted): I know a whole office of people who might want to remind me it pretty much sucks to be in Holyoke anyway, but I'm talking river-of-blood-plague-of-locusts-rain-of-frogs-your-Honda-has-holes-in-the-hood kinda sucks.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): And I would expect no less of you. You're too smart to take me seriously.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I can't count to four; you do the math.
$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): Murphy the Bastard Lawmaker, not Murphy the Darling Doggy. In case you (and Sarah) haven't noticed, I have a little long-distance puppy-crush on Murphy the Doggy.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): If I get into the parking garage by 8:30 in the morning and park in the 20 spaces allotted to early bird parking, it's only $8 to park. Otherwise it's $12. When I arrived -- LITERALLY -- at 8:31, the ticket dispenser wasn't working, so I parked in the early bird anyway and they gave me my early bird ticket (which I probably didn't deserve, but, hey -- ONE minute!) so I only had to pay the $8. Yep. All those Kharmic Green Stamps I was saving for a pony have been delegated to $4 off parking.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): I can't *tell* you how proud my mom would be.
So we had some weather here in Denverish yesterday. And I feel this is my opportunity to really anger the various gods and become smote and probably change the course of weather for the entire country.
I have been making predictions on the weather since last spring. So far, I've been just about dead on.† People who've heard me in all my weather goddess sturm und drang‡ would tell you I've been pretty accurate.
[SUMMARY: Have I never heard the word "hubris"?]
I figure the real test is to make a big ol' public production of it.
So here it is: In general, it's going to be a wild summer here in Denverish. It will be wetter than last summer, with storms almost every afternoon from mid- to late-June through July. Maybe before and beyond, but those hot central summer days are surely going to be like the summers of my childhood when all I wanted to do was swim all day and we got lighteninged out every fucking afternoon.
There will be an abnormal amount of thunderstorms and hailstorms and we can expect to see tornadoes as far inland as Aurora.
It will totally suck to be in Holyoke.^
I'm not sure about the fall and winter yet, but I'm going to re-iterate last year's prediction and go for a mid- to late-September snow of the sopping wet type that crashes trees and power lines and makes the newscasters go frowny-faced as they report on the number of little old ladies who have been without electricity for days.
If it makes y'all feel any better, we're going to have an absolutely stunning autumn this year because of all the water in the spring and summer.
Honestly, I know almost nothing about the weather.
[SUMMARY: Heh. I'm still laughing at "sturm und drang." I'm turning into Bob the Jackass. I should have said "Ah."]
I see cycles like that little kid in the Bruce Willis movie saw dead people. Of course, you can laugh§ because I'm talking 20-year hard cycles and 10-year interim cycles and my sample is running on 30 years now¶ so I'm just blowing smoke.
Really, really accurate smoke.
And now that I've said this -- here, in this very public venue, where all manner of mouse, man and god can surf it -- it will be hot and dry and nothing extreme in the slightest because that's how Murphy$ plays me each and every fucking time.
Besides, I used up all my Kharmic Green Stamps yesterday on a $4 parking discount.#
But the weather was cool and extreme yesterday and fit into my grand prediction nicely.
Here are some pictures I took, for I am a blogdork with a new camera:
From the 10th storey of Writer's Square, south
From the 10th storey of Writer's Square, north
Hail to the left of me...
...hail to the right.
Let's zoom in for a closer look at that hail, shall we?
Now I get all artsy and stuff.
Oh, hail... my umbrella!
Patio at Cheesecake Factory from 10th storey
Brimfire and hailstones - 16th Street Mall from 10th storey
Damnit, Jim! This is a knitblog, not the Weather Channel!
[SUMMARY: Enough talking about the weather already! Sheesh, hasn't our relationship progressed enough that we don't have to talk about the weather?]
SNSNBNW was last night, but it didn't get too crazy. How crazy could it possibly get... five women (two redheads), a bunch of beer, some pointy sticks, ranch dressing and string?
Yeah, I know. If we took pictures, we could probably make a fortune in internet p0rn.
Red did bring the horrifying pink fuzzy synthetic stuff (don't ask so many questions -- go look it up) and knit it into some truly festive mary jane slippers for her wayward sister.
[late edit: That's Wayward Sister. Carry on. But not a snake.]
And I did an impression of myself trying to count to four, which would probably have been funnier if it wasn't so tragic.
Other than that (and the ranch dressing thing), pretty tame.
I got some yarn in the mail yesterday from Rabbitch's shop.
The colour is actually pretty good on my monitor... it runs from a deep, red orange, right through sunset into dreamsicle. I'm going to make socks like this for Bronco season.%
A cameo appearance by Cat for Scale, who seems to be very suspicious of sock yarn in general, but this orange stuff in particular. He actually circled it long enough for me to get about ten pictures of his orange-sock-yarn paranoia.
Kelley's birthday today. We're hitting up Vita (New Bar) before meeting the boys (yes, The Boy too) at Three Dogs. Maybe that will generate some interesting blogfodder.
Keep y'all's fingers crossed, K?
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Except the proclamation that Denverish would have a very wet, very heavy early fall snow in 2006. That wasn't right.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): TELL me that's not funny. And clever.
^FOOTNOTE (careted): I know a whole office of people who might want to remind me it pretty much sucks to be in Holyoke anyway, but I'm talking river-of-blood-plague-of-locusts-rain-of-frogs-your-Honda-has-holes-in-the-hood kinda sucks.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): And I would expect no less of you. You're too smart to take me seriously.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I can't count to four; you do the math.
$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): Murphy the Bastard Lawmaker, not Murphy the Darling Doggy. In case you (and Sarah) haven't noticed, I have a little long-distance puppy-crush on Murphy the Doggy.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): If I get into the parking garage by 8:30 in the morning and park in the 20 spaces allotted to early bird parking, it's only $8 to park. Otherwise it's $12. When I arrived -- LITERALLY -- at 8:31, the ticket dispenser wasn't working, so I parked in the early bird anyway and they gave me my early bird ticket (which I probably didn't deserve, but, hey -- ONE minute!) so I only had to pay the $8. Yep. All those Kharmic Green Stamps I was saving for a pony have been delegated to $4 off parking.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): I can't *tell* you how proud my mom would be.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
A Case of the Mondays... er, Tuesdays
What'd y'all do this weekend?
Friday, I took a half-day and met Kelley, who also only worked a half-day† and was starting her two week vacation. We had lunch, shopped a little, visited Kelly the Bartendress and Fast Eddie, popped by Favourite Bar and hung out with The Boy. And Sex Toy. Until the two of them got weird and abandoned us, so we went to Patrick Carroll's, which I liked a lot.
See, Kelley pretty much has Favourite Bar wrapped. Don't matter that I was there the second day they were open (not for the bar, mind you -- I used to get take-out elk medallions about once a week for dinner) and was a regular, known by name to several bartenders, for a year before I even met Kelley. Don't matter that I go in there all the time by myself. It's still Kelley's bar.
But Patrick Carroll's? Patrick Carroll's is definitely my bar. When Kelley and I walked in, the bar was crowded and we decided to walk down to see if there were two seats we could cobble together. By the time we got to the centre of the bar, Jim had shuffled a guy down and had my Smithwick's on a coaster and waiting for me.
It's good to be a rock star.
[SUMMARY: Do I think I'm a rock star AGAIN?]
Cute Jim, making Marin points on the evening.
Shylin (sp?) and Cute Christopher as well.
After a single, lonely beer and a shot, The Boy called Kelley and asked us to come back, so we did. Because, y'all know... I'm not quite over the whole Boy thing.
I may be an idiot. But maybe not.
[SUMMARY: Bars & boys & The Boy. Check.]
So we went back to Favourite Bar, where Sex Toy was adamant that we (he and me) should spend a little quality time when he was done for the night. Then he quit (his night job, suddenly, under a cloud of ill will) and was in a pissy mood, so said, "Not tonight, dear," and that was that. He promised to call Saturday.
Here's a fun little tweak to the weekend: The Male Lady showed up for the first time in weeks right about then, and Kelley decided she missed the Male Lady. She insisted that Male Lady is really a good person, that everything would have been OK except that The Boy fucks everything up, that Male Lady and your dear ol' AntiM would probably get along really well, but...
Robin, Denise, Gina, Kelley: VIPs
If you have a really good memory or a weird trick memory that holds on to odd bits (see: Darjeeling means "land of the thunderbolt"), you may remember Touch from St. Patrick's Day. He bought me a couple of drinks and presented each with a kiss... not because Touch (young, adorable Touch) is into AntiM, just because Touch is Touch.
This is what our corner of Le Rouge looked like at 9:30.
This is what the club looked like at 10:30
And these nice couples...
Couple #2
They also managed to knock over those drinks you see in the bottom left onto the table three times. I spent a lot of the night picking ice cubes out of my purse.
On the way home, Kelley got that old time religion and re-renounced the Male Lady with a hardy whatthefuckwasIthinking.
[SUMMARY: Bars & boys & klutziness. Check.]
[SUMMARY: Bars & The Boy & Knitting. Check.]
[SUMMARY: Knitting. Check.]
[SUMMARY: I still think knitting pictures make things better.]
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Can you say, "train wreck"?
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): As in, he just became an uncle. Not that he just got an uncle. That would be weird and improbable.
+FOOTNOTE (plussed): The music was so loud my ass was vibrating. It made the garage door at the golf course look (feel?) like butterfly wings.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Kelley bone connected to the Gina bone, Gina bone connected to the Daddy bone, Daddy bone connected to the Le Rouge bone...
[SUMMARY: Yada. Yada. Yada.]
Friday, I took a half-day and met Kelley, who also only worked a half-day† and was starting her two week vacation. We had lunch, shopped a little, visited Kelly the Bartendress and Fast Eddie, popped by Favourite Bar and hung out with The Boy. And Sex Toy. Until the two of them got weird and abandoned us, so we went to Patrick Carroll's, which I liked a lot.
See, Kelley pretty much has Favourite Bar wrapped. Don't matter that I was there the second day they were open (not for the bar, mind you -- I used to get take-out elk medallions about once a week for dinner) and was a regular, known by name to several bartenders, for a year before I even met Kelley. Don't matter that I go in there all the time by myself. It's still Kelley's bar.
But Patrick Carroll's? Patrick Carroll's is definitely my bar. When Kelley and I walked in, the bar was crowded and we decided to walk down to see if there were two seats we could cobble together. By the time we got to the centre of the bar, Jim had shuffled a guy down and had my Smithwick's on a coaster and waiting for me.
It's good to be a rock star.
[SUMMARY: Do I think I'm a rock star AGAIN?]
Cute Jim, making Marin points on the evening.
Shylin (sp?) and Cute Christopher as well.
After a single, lonely beer and a shot, The Boy called Kelley and asked us to come back, so we did. Because, y'all know... I'm not quite over the whole Boy thing.
I may be an idiot. But maybe not.
[SUMMARY: Bars & boys & The Boy. Check.]
So we went back to Favourite Bar, where Sex Toy was adamant that we (he and me) should spend a little quality time when he was done for the night. Then he quit (his night job, suddenly, under a cloud of ill will) and was in a pissy mood, so said, "Not tonight, dear," and that was that. He promised to call Saturday.
Here's a fun little tweak to the weekend: The Male Lady showed up for the first time in weeks right about then, and Kelley decided she missed the Male Lady. She insisted that Male Lady is really a good person, that everything would have been OK except that The Boy fucks everything up, that Male Lady and your dear ol' AntiM would probably get along really well, but...
- Ship has sailed. There was a point when I was willing to go so far as to be civil to the Male Lady in public places and other people's houses for the sake of the comfort of others. Lookin' out for the world, that's just how I roll. That pretty much went out the window when she called me a fucking bitch and picked a fight at Favourite Bar.
- The Boy and I were getting along pretty well Friday. He's newly uncled‡ and I think the endorphins of delivery are still swimming in his veins, 'cause we talked a lot and he was all mellow and nice and wanted to be Marin's friend. Consequently, Kelley was in a down-phase with The Boy, 'cause if he and I are getting along, she's pissy about him and if I'm pissy about him, she defends him to the end of the earth. I'm not sure how much of that is by design. I'd really rather not think about it too much. In any case, I wasn't really down with the whole "Everything would have been fine if it wasn't for The Boy" path.
Here's a question I'd like to put out to the peeps: Do you think people are more honest when they're drunk?
[SUMMARY: Of course I have a reason for asking. And yes, cagey is my middle name.]
Then Saturday I kicked back for most of the day, did summa that knittin' stuff what y'all like so much, and got ready to go back out Saturday night.
Fuck me shoes. I remembered the heels being higher, but it's just as well they're not.
Kelley's friend, Gina, was in town from Texas for a few days, and her dad§ is head of security at Le Rouge, which is a pretty hip spot here in Denverish. Lines around the block, maddening crowds¶, outrageous drink prices... all the things that mark a truly hip venue.
Here are the girls at our reserved table.#
Robin, Denise, Gina, Kelley: VIPs
If you have a really good memory or a weird trick memory that holds on to odd bits (see: Darjeeling means "land of the thunderbolt"), you may remember Touch from St. Patrick's Day. He bought me a couple of drinks and presented each with a kiss... not because Touch (young, adorable Touch) is into AntiM, just because Touch is Touch.
Anyway, Touch tends bar at Le Rouge, so we got a photo.
Kelley, Touch, Marin... please don't aks me what was going on with my hair. Or chins. Both have become completely unmanagable in all the humidity.
This is what our corner of Le Rouge looked like at 9:30.
This is what the club looked like at 10:30
There were many pretty, pretty people.
And these nice couples...
Couple #1
Couple #2
...came to our table 'specially to swab tonsils and girl-swap. Seriously, they were practically in my lap, we could *hear* the slurping over the amazingly loud music+ and I would almost swear they switched partners a few times.
I would just flat out swear to it, but you may notice in the pictures the boys are wearing identical white polo shirts and the girls are wearing remarkably similar tank/cami tops, so I might just have missed the details that indicated who was who.
See? Same shirts.
See? Same shirts.
They also managed to knock over those drinks you see in the bottom left onto the table three times. I spent a lot of the night picking ice cubes out of my purse.
Of course, I went to the bathroom and knocked my own water glass over, so I can't say too much.
On the way home, Kelley got that old time religion and re-renounced the Male Lady with a hardy whatthefuckwasIthinking.
Sex Toy did not call.
[SUMMARY: Bars & boys & klutziness. Check.]
Sunday brought a phone call from The Boy#, a little KIP/KIB with Kathryn at New Bar% and dinner and drinks at Favourite Bar with Kelley and Jenny D.
[SUMMARY: Bars & The Boy & Knitting. Check.]
On Monday, I knitted.
And knitted.
And caught up on The Riches.
And Studio 60.
And knitted.
I F'd an O! Another cable clutch for Kelley's Bday (tomorrow -- I hope it dries by then). Took about half the time the first one did. I guess learning curves really don't mark the shortest distance between two events.
[SUMMARY: Knitting. Check.]
Here's a little WIP action to make this boring, boring post so much better:
L to R: Green Gables, Kelley's Cable Clutch, a to-be-felted bag, socks for dad (toe up! two at once!), a linen stitch$ washcloth, a drop-stitch scarf out of lavender-infused novelty yarn^
[SUMMARY: I still think knitting pictures make things better.]
DK nation meets tonight. Maybe they can fab me up a little.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Can you say, "train wreck"?
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): As in, he just became an uncle. Not that he just got an uncle. That would be weird and improbable.
+FOOTNOTE (plussed): The music was so loud my ass was vibrating. It made the garage door at the golf course look (feel?) like butterfly wings.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Former DEA agent, all 'round nice guy, looks like a Soprano
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Kelley bone connected to the Gina bone, Gina bone connected to the Daddy bone, Daddy bone connected to the Le Rouge bone...
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I know the phrase is "Madding Crowd." I did "maddening" on purpose. And for good reason, though the crowd was probably madding as well.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded - again. What the heck is my fascination with the pound thing today? Don't answer that): I know. And I'm still processing some of this. Some day, maybe I'll have a story.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): ...who doesn't want her picture taken, so you'll have to look back at last Tuesday and just imagine her on the patio at New Bar, sipping a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and knitting.
$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): Well, because linen stitch is SOOOOO money. *snarf*
^FOOTNOTE (careted): How much farther from wool can you get? None! None more farther!
[SUMMARY: Yada. Yada. Yada.]
Friday, May 25, 2007
Snakes on a Plane
TTHFCIF
I did something brilliant yesterday. Well, I think it's brilliant. Sarah laughed at me.*
See, Sarah, genius knitter, writes her patterns out on index cards, which helps eliminate that thing I do where I read the first six instructions on one row, then accidentally let my eyes drop to the next row and end up with some truly wonky cables.
Sarah has suggested several times, after watching me de-wonk my cables, I might want to try the index card method.
Red has seconded.
I have mostly ignored.
Until I had this brainstorm.†
I trotted over to my friendly neighbourhood Office Depot‡ yesterday and got some index cards for ink jet and laser printer.
Yeah, baby.
I put the cabled clutch pattern (row by row, with all the arcane cable instructions printed on each appropriate card) on MS Word index card templates and voilá!%
Cards I can reprint when wine is spilled on them.¶
Cards I can correct at will.§
[SUMMARY: Techmology. Making our lives better every day.]
I also discovered yesterday that it isn't easy taking a photo of a computer screen.
The cards in their natural habitat.
[SUMMARY: Techmology. Dangerous in the wrong hands.]
But look how pretty when they're all printed.
As I mentioned, there was media coverage of last night's Stitch Therapy. I still don't know where they came from (Hoboken? Mars?), but they were very nice and if I ever find my picture has been published or I've been quoted, I'll certainly make all of you read it/look at it and give me a Scooby treat and scratch behind my ears and all that.
[SUMMARY: Limelight ho!]
Anyway, Stitch Therapy meets New Camera:
Red brought her wheel.
Mary Kay spent her night patterning a 50-year-old crocheted skirt Lijia brought, while Sarah spent her night finding errors in the Vogue Stitchionary. Mary kay and Sarah may be WAYYYYY beyond my knitterly scope.
Heidi and Lisa-prounounced-Liza are just happy I didn't run the first picture I took of them. Mad photo skillz.
I hate to admit I don't remember the name of the lovely woman (hello, what's-her-name! I'm your new best friend!) on the left, and I'm not sure I know how to spell Lijia there on the right, though that's what we'll spell her for now, since that's how her name is pronounced.
Sylvia's sister, and by far the best photo I've ever taken of Sylvia, even though she looks terribly serious and she's mostly not terribly serious.
You know how I kinda dropped (clumsily) head-first into the DK Nation? ("Um, I don't know if anybody's interested or whatever but I kind of like knit at this bar...")
Well, last night Sarah was talking about hot springs and Red is planning a white-water rafting trip for Sunday and I said, "We should have a knitters' retreat to Jackson. I know a natural hot springs you hike into and we can go white-water rafting and last time I checked there's a really cool yarn store in Jackson..."
I guess I'm planning a knitters' retreat to Jackson, Wyoming in, say, September. Just puttin' that out there.
[SUMMARY: Joiner to leader in a blurt.]
By the by, I spoke too soon the other day: First Among Imaginary Kellys's blog has definite purplocity.
OK, enough of this knitting crap. Bob and Mira would be so proud if they knew I was actually delving into the socially relevant here.
There's an AP story y'all need to know about. And maybe help me out a little.
You can read the actual story here. Go now. I don't know how long it will be there.
The short of it: A man tried to smuggle 700 live snakes, including two cobras, onto a plane in his carryon bag at the Cairo airport yesterday.
Here's where you can help:
Happy Friday, ev'rybody.
*FOOTNOTE (asterisked, oddly enough): More because I was so pleased with myself than because of the actual idea, I'm sure.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Where, if you're into this sort of thing (and I have the feeling some of you are), they have Mr. Clean Erasers, the four-pack, on clearance for $5.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): How do you like my accent now? Boo-yah!
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Not that I would ever spill wine on my knitting patterns. Actually, Sarah spilled wine on my cards and I said, "No big deal! I can reprint that at will!" That's just how I roll.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Not that I would ever accidentally put in an extra p2 on Card 4 or anything.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): OK, I made it a little about knitting. Just for you.
I'm getting a block (or maybe just two) of tickets for Stitch n' Pitch at Coors Field on July 28. Anyone interested (including cousins, sisters-in-law, brothers, random tourists, ladies, gentlemen, boys, girls, those undecided...) can let me know by, say, next Thursday (May 31st) and I'll include you.
It's $19 and you get a gift bag (you like gift bags), in case that sways your vote.
Blurt.
I did something brilliant yesterday. Well, I think it's brilliant. Sarah laughed at me.*
See, Sarah, genius knitter, writes her patterns out on index cards, which helps eliminate that thing I do where I read the first six instructions on one row, then accidentally let my eyes drop to the next row and end up with some truly wonky cables.
Sarah has suggested several times, after watching me de-wonk my cables, I might want to try the index card method.
Red has seconded.
I have mostly ignored.
Until I had this brainstorm.†
I trotted over to my friendly neighbourhood Office Depot‡ yesterday and got some index cards for ink jet and laser printer.
Yeah, baby.
I put the cabled clutch pattern (row by row, with all the arcane cable instructions printed on each appropriate card) on MS Word index card templates and voilá!%
Cards I can reprint when wine is spilled on them.¶
Cards I can correct at will.§
[SUMMARY: Techmology. Making our lives better every day.]
I also discovered yesterday that it isn't easy taking a photo of a computer screen.
The cards in their natural habitat.
[SUMMARY: Techmology. Dangerous in the wrong hands.]
But look how pretty when they're all printed.
As I mentioned, there was media coverage of last night's Stitch Therapy. I still don't know where they came from (Hoboken? Mars?), but they were very nice and if I ever find my picture has been published or I've been quoted, I'll certainly make all of you read it/look at it and give me a Scooby treat and scratch behind my ears and all that.
[SUMMARY: Limelight ho!]
Anyway, Stitch Therapy meets New Camera:
Red brought her wheel.
Mary Kay spent her night patterning a 50-year-old crocheted skirt Lijia brought, while Sarah spent her night finding errors in the Vogue Stitchionary. Mary kay and Sarah may be WAYYYYY beyond my knitterly scope.
Heidi and Lisa-prounounced-Liza are just happy I didn't run the first picture I took of them. Mad photo skillz.
I hate to admit I don't remember the name of the lovely woman (hello, what's-her-name! I'm your new best friend!) on the left, and I'm not sure I know how to spell Lijia there on the right, though that's what we'll spell her for now, since that's how her name is pronounced.
Sylvia's sister, and by far the best photo I've ever taken of Sylvia, even though she looks terribly serious and she's mostly not terribly serious.
You know how I kinda dropped (clumsily) head-first into the DK Nation? ("Um, I don't know if anybody's interested or whatever but I kind of like knit at this bar...")
Well, last night Sarah was talking about hot springs and Red is planning a white-water rafting trip for Sunday and I said, "We should have a knitters' retreat to Jackson. I know a natural hot springs you hike into and we can go white-water rafting and last time I checked there's a really cool yarn store in Jackson..."
I guess I'm planning a knitters' retreat to Jackson, Wyoming in, say, September. Just puttin' that out there.
[SUMMARY: Joiner to leader in a blurt.]
By the by, I spoke too soon the other day: First Among Imaginary Kellys's blog has definite purplocity.
OK, enough of this knitting crap. Bob and Mira would be so proud if they knew I was actually delving into the socially relevant here.
There's an AP story y'all need to know about. And maybe help me out a little.
You can read the actual story here. Go now. I don't know how long it will be there.
The short of it: A man tried to smuggle 700 live snakes, including two cobras, onto a plane in his carryon bag at the Cairo airport yesterday.
Here's where you can help:
- Does the term "smuggle" not connote some sort of... covertness?
- How covert can you be with 700 carryon snakes?
- Did Samuel L. Jackson ruin plane travel for the rest of us?
- You can carry on cobras but not DPNs?#
- As Brother pointed out, how fucked up does the security at the Cairo airport have to be that the guy even THOUGHT he might be able to bring live snakes (of any kind, of any number) on a plane?
- How funny is the concept of carryon snakes?
[SUMMARY: Snakes on a plane!]
Happy Friday, ev'rybody.
*FOOTNOTE (asterisked, oddly enough): More because I was so pleased with myself than because of the actual idea, I'm sure.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): And I'm sure it has nothing to do with my need to never, ever do anything the way someone else tells me I should, like a two-year-old saying, "I can do it myself!"
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Where, if you're into this sort of thing (and I have the feeling some of you are), they have Mr. Clean Erasers, the four-pack, on clearance for $5.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): How do you like my accent now? Boo-yah!
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Not that I would ever spill wine on my knitting patterns. Actually, Sarah spilled wine on my cards and I said, "No big deal! I can reprint that at will!" That's just how I roll.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Not that I would ever accidentally put in an extra p2 on Card 4 or anything.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): OK, I made it a little about knitting. Just for you.
I'm getting a block (or maybe just two) of tickets for Stitch n' Pitch at Coors Field on July 28. Anyone interested (including cousins, sisters-in-law, brothers, random tourists, ladies, gentlemen, boys, girls, those undecided...) can let me know by, say, next Thursday (May 31st) and I'll include you.
It's $19 and you get a gift bag (you like gift bags), in case that sways your vote.
Blurt.
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