••• Monday, November 29, 2004

Every Other Day of the Week is Fine (Fi-yine). Yeah.
Last night I had mixed emotions while contemplating this morning’s return to work. While it was great to be home for the long weekend with my family and family and more family, I was also painfully aware of my need to not be at home with my family and family and more family.

You see, I’m not much of a SAHOPMONOWS (Stay At Home Person, Mother Hood Not With Standing). And please understand, I don’t begrudge or judge those of you who can manage that world. I just know I can’t. Case in point, I need to pop a pill to watch pill-poppin' Lynette on Desperate Housewives.

Anyway, after a lengthy and ambiguous Sunday evening contemplation of the meaning of MOHOSHO (MotherHood OutSide the Home) and further deliberation on why there is need in our society to create, acronyize and cling to labels for humans being. (Don’t get me started. I’m a Card Carrying LAMADASS or Lazy Ass Moms Against Dependency on Acronyms in Society and Stuff) it was time to shut down the home machine and go to bed.

As I approached the kitchen sink to pop a sleepy-time pal, I came upon this:

Which made me think of this:

Which made me want some of this:

Okay. The wine didn't really fit this particular story line. I was just looking for a context for sharing this fruity find. This wine was probably one of the fullest Pinot Noir's I've had opportunity to imbibe. Perhaps I took too much opportunity, because the morning after, I felt it, cotton-mouth and all.

Baack to the story.

I used to have a set of Rider-Waite Tarot cards and was pretty good at divining. Several years ago, the deck and book of interpretations were drenched in a basement leak and thrown away. I always meant to replace them, but didn't. Soon after, I remarried, retook the kneedles and repropagated. Eventually I lost track of that side of my brain.

The image of the upside dolly sent me searching for a recollection of meaning, which I found at Aeclectic Tarot. One interpretation of the hanged man/dolly includes:
The Hanged Man is a card about suspension, not life or death.....this is a time of trial or meditation, selflessness, sacrifice, prophecy.... This card can also imply a time when everything just stands still, a time of rest and reflection before moving on. Things will continue on in a moment, but for now, they float, timeless.
Sometimes Life is a Bowl of Whimsy...

...And Excuses to Knit, Kind of Flimsy.

This is the Aquarious cap from Knitter's Stash. The yarn is Classic Elite's Inca Alpaca. It's very soft. No doye, Dora. The color is Kentucky Heather and can't be fully appreciated without becoming face to fur. The green and blue blend is magnificent.

The yarn is slight for the pattern, so I added a pattern repeat and went down one needle size.

I found a pile of Noro Fuji in my stash over the weekend. I tried making a sweater out of this shit, once. Fugly. It is my opinion that this stuff is pretty, but not garment worthy (Exemplification here).

The thick and thin mix doesn't seem to work well together. If you use the recommended needle size, you get worms and wormholes and an inconsistently weighted fabric. On a smaller than recommended needle, and 1x1 ribbing, it makes a fun and fast scarf. I have enough for a hat as well.

I didn't think I had a post in me today.
Well, I'll be hanged.

••• Saturday, November 27, 2004

Holiday Miracles and Wonder
Okay, it's over.

The miracle is that I didn't kill myself or anyone else in the process. And I wonder how I pulled it off.

So, here's a pictorial holiday weekend redux, to date.

On Wednesday I experienced the wonder of ergo-pie-namics. Yeah, six pies. From scratch. As in scratch this off to-do list for next year or, someone please scratch my eyes out with a plastic spoon if I ever look to pull off this feat again.

And later in the evening we had Dashing Through the Snow, in a One Dad Open Sleigh

Followed by this heartwarming view of ButtCracks Roasting by an Open Fire (I have no idea. I didn't even ask):

Thanksgiving morn brought yet another miracle. The Burning Bush.

If you take three shots of Hot Damn! Then squint your eyes and hold your breath, in the flame you can see the face of Madonna, eating a $28,000 grilled cheese sandwich, like a virgin, eating Velveeta for the very first time.

If you're very quiet, you'll also hear the maniacal laughter of an estruating hyena. Oh wait, that was me.

T-day dinner went with almost no hitch, except that the Turkey took 1.5 hours extra hours to complete itself. My family showed up at 5ish for dessert and left at 10.

Friday is cleaning lady day, so we had to clean up and get out of Dodge so the cleaning lady could come in and do her thang. But she didn't.

So today turned into offical pajama day. I'm still very worn out and having difficulty thinking in more than one word at a time. This may be less related to fatigue and more to my having spent several hours today playing word games on-line via my new wireless wideband connection. The rest of the day has been devoted to playing with The Cakers. Whee doggy.

Here's this week's random musings, just in time for the new set to be released tomorrow.

  1. Reconnect:: Again and again
  2. Gearshiift:: Four on the floor
  3. Mania:: Lobster
  4. Manhattan:: Transfer. Hate 'em
  5. First date::Violent Femmes and Mozart
  6. District:: Finals
  7. Yearbook:: Mildewed
  8. Breakup:: It's hard to do.
  9. Episode:: Final
  10. Costume:: Dog

Feel free to play along in comments or in the privacy of your own padded cell.

Is it Spring Break yet?

••• Thursday, November 25, 2004

Give Thanks....

.....and stuff.

••• Monday, November 22, 2004

So Close, You Can Almost Baste It

Knuttin’ But Knit
I finished Knitty’s October Surprise Heart Scarf. All said and done, I’ve decided to keep this one for myself and make my mother-in-law another, in a softer, more plush yarn. I’m thinking of dipping into my Indulgence stash (currently alpaca-ear-marked for a Blaze) and try the adaptation (add more border) of the pattern for thinner yarn, which I’ve seen around the blogs.

I also finished what I have named my Raspberry Squishy scarf. The color brings to mind a blue raspberry Slurpee. Is there such thing as a blue raspberry? The yarn ended up being not so horrible to knit with after all, but it is incredibly unforgiving on mistakes. You absolutely cannot frog it. Even weaving in the ends was very painful.

On the upper right of the photo is the nearly finished pair of wrist warmers. The one on the right needs to be felted yet. I was hoping to be able to get one more pair from the yarn already in my possession, but it looks as though I will be short about two inches worth of finished product.

The item in progress is a wrist warmer pattern from the Last Minute Knitted Gift book. Really fun moving rib pattern. Yarn: Beatrice. The wrist warmers are Christmas gifts.

::Dang, if I’m not kickin’ knittin’ linkin’ass!::

That's all for today. Short week at work but busy at home. I'm fixing dinner for the in-laws. Yeah, it sounds like a pain in the ass right now, but I really love putting on a traditional Thanksgiving feast*.

Hat's off to Marilyn for telling it like it is, up close and very personal.

If you know or suspect someone you know suffers from an untreated mental illness, please take a drastic measure and talk about it.

And for those of you travelling towards your biggest fans this Thanksgiving Holiday, have a safe Tryp to...

*::Jen, sorry about the dried cherries in the traditional bread/butter/celery/onion/sage stuffing, but I swear the rest of the feast will be nuttin' but ol style bird-n-taters-n-gravy.

And olives from the can. None of this olive bar shit.::

••• Friday, November 19, 2004

A Mother's Greatest Gift?
Mom Math.

My mom's birthday was November 17. She turned 75. Last night she dropped by for a gift exchange and a little visit. She also had a thing or two to say about how she was sure there was a surprise party brewing for her. In fact, she brought it up at least three times. The exact same number of times that I ignored it and three times the exact number of birthday parties I've had in my entire life. ::I was in 4th grade. We had hotdogs. No boys allowed. No presents,either. At mom's insistence. Janet Falbe brought me a slinky anyway, but I felt kind of cheesy accepting it. But I digress.::

Anyway. For my mom's visit, I'm wearing the yoga pants and zip hoodie that my son gave me for my birthday. To set the record straight, I did ask for these items, but wasn't exactly envisioning a matched set, which ends up looking exactly like a sweat suit, which is exactly not the look I was going for.

I say to my mom "Look, I have a sweat suit ensemble. I'm officially middle-aged." She laughed. Then the following exchange ensued, starting with my mom:

So, how old are you?


You're 45, right?


Yes you are.

Try 47.

You're not 47.

Mom, I think I know how old I am.

She's suddenly quiet and I can see that she's firing up her internal age/time/social differential age calculator, a special tool inherent to most mothers. In case you are unfamiliar, this special machine calculates a person's age using a unique combination of historical,social and familial variables.

For example, in response to the question "How old is Jayme?" (my younger sis) it would go something like this: "Let's see. I was pregnant for Jayme when your dad accidentally blew up Uncle Poot's moonshine still. And that was when Uncle Poot's three-legged dog still had all three legs, so would have to be just before Aunt Lydia got married because it was at the outdoor reception that Uncle Poot's dog..well..you know what happened...which was the same year John Kennedy was elected president, which makes Jayme, Hmmmm, 44."

Back to the story. As suddenly as it came on, the special look of calculation vanishes, with no apparent outcome.

What year were you born?


::pause:: Oh my gosh, you really are 47! So that means you were were almost 44 when Ana was born? Wow.

44? Wait a minute...

I then notice an unfamiliar sound in my head. A whirling, rushing age/time/social-differential-age-calculator-firing-up sound. Before I could stop myself I hear me say, "Okay. When I was pregnant for Ana, Cam was in the 8th grade, which was the same year that we sold the house on Tenway, just in time to buy this house, which we moved into in August, one month after Cheddar pulled his cruciate ligament and one month before 9-11, which caused the bottom to fall out of the real estate market, which means we were really lucky to have gotten this place, which was the year 2001, the year Ana was born, which makes me...hmmmm...46!"

I'm only 46. Not 47. I'm sorry I lied. Well, I didn't lie, exactly. I'm sorry I'm an idiot.

And I know exactly how this happened. I did the same think with birthdays 36 and 37. Somewhere around August, I started thinking "I'm going to be 46." Somewhere around October it morphed to "I am 46. I will be 47."

I hereby declare myself the most joyous-newly-turned-46-year-old-woman in the state of Michigan.

Ain't it funny how time slips away?

••• Thursday, November 18, 2004

Thunky Thursday
Things…. I thunk…It’s Thursday…and stuff like that.

The Times, They Keep A Changin...
Is it just me?

K. I'm in my car. In my driveway. Seatbelt buckled. Just on time to leave for work. I realize that I forgot my lunch. The clock on the dash says 6:55.

Now, how long should it take for me to unbuckle seatbelt, run back into the unlocked house, grab an already prepared satchel, run back to my still running car, buckle up and put her in gear? Are you thinking a minute, tops? Me too.

Wrong and Wronger. By the time I'm buckled back into my seat, the clock says 7:00.

Or how about the work keys left on the dresser in the upstairs bedroom at the far end of the long hallway? How long there and back? Two minutes? That would be my guess. Tops. Definitely longer than the sprint to the much nearer kitchen. Nope. Five minutes again.

Five minutes. Rain or shine.
Five minutes. Sprint or playing Mother May I?
Five minutes. Try it.

Dead Presidents Still Get Beaver? Dam.
Would this be considered a woodsy form of fencing, or money laundering?

I am aware that my selected Thunky Thursday link has already been used this week by Jenifleur . Since I already busted a the brain cell on adequate wordplay, I’m biting anyway.

And speaking of the lovelies JenLa, in comments yesterday, La nostalgically identified the lost soft drink of my youth as Funny Face. Thanks La. I never would have come up with that from memory (but I guess I coulda googled.) And Shirley I don't recall half of the flavors listed at the site.

Hello Mutter?

  1. Childhood:: Memories
  2. Ransom:: Little Red Chief
  3. Melissa:: Etheridge
  4. Trust me:: No, really.
  5. Report:: Kinsey
  6. Give up:: Your dreams
  7. Nightgown:: Torn
  8. Smokes:: I’m outta
  9. Cookies & cream:: Strange combo
  10. Gameshow:: Vanna

…A Time in November
I spent a couple of evenings this week trying to write about my dad and birthdays. But it just wasn’t gelling. There were too many words of too little interest.

Finally I asked myself what I wanted to say. And I answered this:

My father and I shared a birthday season. This has always been a special connection to him. However, with the exception of that last year, I cannot remember us ever celebrating his birthday as a family.

But I do remember that every November, on the evening of my birthday, he would leave for northern parts unknown, to deer hunter's camp. There, for two weeks, he would do what daddy deer hunters do, the details of which were never specifically revealed to me. But I always imagined lots of chili and campfires and cases of Blatz longnecks. And no baths. For two weeks.

While my dad was gone hunting, we kind of partied at home. Dad was a staunch meat and potatoes and coffee with dessert for dinner kind of guy. In his absence, we dined with decadence on things like fish sticks and tater tots, tuna noodle casserole (complete with canned peas and potato chip topping) or Velveeta mac and cheese with pigs in a blanket.

After a week and a half of this crazy fun, the pining would begin. That's when began the countdown of days until his return. Of course there were no cell phones then. And long distance from a pay phone was for emergencies only, back then.

When we’d finally hear that back door creak open, my sister and I would run to the door, yelling and fighting for the first hug and scratchy face rub.

But what I remember the most about those chilly, joyous nights of November is the smell.
My daddy's smell.
Like the inside cap of his favorite dirty, stinky hat.
Only bigger.
And better.
And all over.

That's the kind of November I remember.

I admit to being a little slow on the blogtake sometimes, but how in the hell did I miss last week's blog-u-drama? I did read several references to it here and there, but simply figured it was some inside info thing.

I hope it's all water under the Beaver Cache by now.

That being said, I would like to share some sage wisdom, aptly learnt at my grandmammy's bony knee.

Don't shit where ya live.


••• Tuesday, November 16, 2004

The Knits of Knovember
Thank you everyone for the lovely birthday wishes. The cave I crawled off to (with my sweetie, of course) was more like a cottage at a beautiful lake. The weather was perfect. The knitting, divine.

The only disappointment was that our favorite “Up North” restaurant was closed for the season, so we had to munch pedestrian with the deer hunters, at the local steak house. But the food was good and the wine was better and the company better than all that. Special Bonus: Restaurant crowd was Spartan-friendly. Go Green!

While preparing for the trek north, I realized that I didn’t have a hat to wear on a walk.

What's this? A knitter without a hat? Well Hells Bells, what’s a hatless knitter to do?

Why,this, I tell you:

I found this pattern in a book that I have owned for almost two years, yet never perused, until last Friday. ::Does this mean I have too many pattern books, or not enough time?::

The yarn is Beatrice, which I picked up on sale at the end of the last winter season. Dontcha just love finding such a once forgotten thing in the bottom of a tub of yarn? Yummy stuff. I'm planning matching wrist warmers.

I finished the second half of the heart scarf from Knitty October Surprise, on the ride home Sunday. Last night I grafted (with corruption) the two pieces together.

Corruption? Well, first of all, graft and corruption go together like "almost any word" and “ass”. Secondly, my 18 year-old son, feeling the guilt of forgetting his aging momma’s birthday the day before, had to pick my session of Teach-Yourself-To-Graft-In-Fifteen-Minutes-Or-Less-On-Doubled-Chunky-Wool to perform his self-imposed penance, which he evidently determined to be 15 minutes of almost mindless chit chat. By almost mindless, I mean that it required just enough thought to keep me less than focused on my task at hand, as opposed to the totally mindless stuff to which I can just nod and say "I love you. You're 18. My job's done. I'm sure you'll figure it out."

This special moment began on the heels of finally getting the most recent sprout of my loins to bed, after very long evening such as this:

See those lights in the background? They're from the Mother Ship. The Caker's Real Mother Ship. They like to swoop and hover every once in awhile, just to point and laugh. I sometimes stand by the window and shake my fists at them. I don't really mean anything by it. I just figure that if they came all this way, they might was well get their kryptonite's worth.

I think I need to see the dentist to assess the damage on my now well-ground teeth. Fortunately, the Grafted Corruption was easily remedied with some square knots. Tonight I'm going to run the scarf through the wash one time, to give it a little furry glow. Pictures promised.

In the meantime, I'm working on this little number, for Me, Me, Me! I declare. I'm turning into a regular Scarflett O'Whora out of MicioSomething stuff I picked up at the Little Shop of Bears.

This yarn is divine all knit up, but not so fun to knit with and a total pain in the ass to undo. It absolutely cannot be frogged, so if a mistake isn't caught and tinked within two rows, it stays. The pattern is just knit rows 1 and 2. Row 3: Knit 1, knit 2tog, yo.

The Fathers of November
Please keep Bron in your thoughts and prayers (if such is your leaning). Her father passed on November 13. If you read her blog regularly, you'll know that this has been a painful journey for her and her family. I hope they all find peace and reconciliation, on both the spiritual and physical planes.

My father's birthday was November 13, the day before mine. We celebrated his 41st and last in 1969. I was turning 11. He was already dying.

Today's post was going to be about what it's been like for me, over the years, to almost share a birthday of such significance, with nothing to show for it.

But I just couldn't get it right. It's hard to pull this one off without sounding in a lot of pain, which isn't the look I was going for. But maybe it's what I need to do. ::As I'm typing this, I see little lights in my periphery. I take that as big 10-4 from somebody over there. ::

Anyway. I hope to get it done this week, while it's still relevant, to me anyway.
If I can't, it probably wasn't meant to be.

Have a Rootin' Tootin' Toosday. Everyone.
What was that soft drink, like Kool-aid, circa the 60's. Had flavors Rootin' Tootin' Raspberry and Jolly Olly Orange? Strange hauntings...

Labels: , ,

••• Friday, November 12, 2004

If She, Wants to Be a Freakin' On Her Birthday Weekend...
...It's none of your bizniz.

Some time during the next two days, I will crawl my sorry ass off to a cave and turn 47. That would be as in years old, not tricks.

As far as I'm concerned, 47 is looking directly up the butthole of 50. At 48, I'll be smelling it. And beyond that I cannot speculate. I can only hope and pray that there will be no involvement of additional senses.

At Threadbears last week, I had the opportunity to meet or at least look at some fellow bloggers. CJ and I chatted a bit and shared tales of the olfactory. Nice lady.

It was great seeing Deb again and I'm glad we had the chance to break bread.

Now, it gets a little weird from here. I was witness to Kristen's photo session with Amy, and company, but I had no idea she was a fellow knit blogger until I happend upon her blog a couple of days ago, and saw a picture of me!

And I also stood right next to Sharon, and had no idea who she was until I saw her picture at her blog. Dang again. Next time a flock of knitters gather in one area we oughta wear our blogtags. (Here's a link to my two posts at my first blog run, which Sharon references in her most recent post).

The Right to Bear Arms
On MSNBC this week, I caught a story about a five legged frog. His "extra" arm is stuck out of his neck, in a perpetual state of class participation.

Speaking of class participation, imagine how difficult the school environment must be for this little multi-tasker. Well, if you can't imagine it, maybe this will help: (Okay, it's primitive. Buffoonish even. But I'm almost 47 fucking years old. I have pubic hair growing on my chin and brow. Break?. Much Obliged.)

Me and Mrs. Skank. We Got a Thing, Going On

Have Weekends, Everyone.

••• Thursday, November 11, 2004

Thunky Thursday: Some Stuff I Thunk, On Thursday
I'm very excited at having lost a few pounds over the last few months. I'm particularly noticing that my ass is smaller, but still nice and round. My thighs have shrunk considerably too. Problem is, my stomach has stayed the same size. And still, nice and round. Because the rest of me is shrinking, it appears even bigger. And still, nice and round. I fear I'm gonna end up looking like this:

Aunt Guacapolie Olie*.

In case you didn't know, the Olies are a Disney Playhouse family.

While doctoring the photo last night, I consulted with my sweet hubby on caricature accuracy. He said it was pretty good but wondered if I couldn't find an Olie standing sideways, you know, to get the truest impression of my tummy. You know, nice and round. Gosh, how I love that man.

Can you hear me now?
I'm sensing a new a new wireless marketing campaign on the verizon. I'm seeing dogs with little reception bars hanging over their asses, while they perform various doggy chores in notoriously low reception areas such as the Iditarod. And just remember, you heard it here first.

Associate This...

  1. Small Talk:: I suck at it
  2. Evidence:: Sneeze juice
  3. Drifting:: My brain, always
  4. Hostage:: Crisis
  5. Beauty:: Crisis
  6. Automatic:: For the People
  7. Asking for it:: Rape victim
  8. Visene:: Tears that glow (under black light)
  9. No strings attached:: Runaway kite
  10. Frizz:: (frizzy) Blues
And don't forget

*You never see her. Lives in the attic. A little on the Butch side. Not Disney material

••• Wednesday, November 10, 2004

Wednesday's Special: Knuttin' But Knittin'
In comments, Bron asked if I was really, truly all done with the garter square afghan. Well Bron, that's a mighty fine question. Straight forward and direct and highly suspect. 'Cause I think you've been keeping count of my squares. That being the case, then you already know that I'm not entirely done with the afghan. But it's good enough for me and it's good enough for him, per a recent afghan square deal. The afghan is done in terms of required length. It needs one more row to maintain pattern symmetry.

Symmetry Schymmetry. I'm free.

After I finished the square Friday night, I was desperate for some immediate knitification. And there's no better immediate knitification than a nice phat wristwarmer.

The yarn is Lion Brand Landscapes, which I was reluctantly impressed with. This piece was a tad on the large size, but after one round of washing, it came out just right. The yarn is 50% wool, so it felts a bit and gets nice furry glow. (Picture depicts pre-washing state.)

After finishing one wrist warmer late Saturday, I simply had to start in on the day's Booty from Threadbear (..ain't nothing like that weekend Booty...).

This is the first half of the Heart Scarf from Knitty's October Surprise insert. The yarn in use is two strands of Cascade 128 Tweed. This is a really fast knit and fun.

Here's a closeup shot.
Wouldn't this scarf pattern make a cute ::someone stop me now!:: afghan pattern? I'm thinking long heart strips sewn together in alternating direction. Hmmm.

And about my last post, I wrote it piecemeal over two days, under a variety of brain blurring circumstances. I have no idea what "mini session" refers to. Not only does it not belong in the paragraph, I have no recollection of writing it. And I hear the laughter of ye grammar gods...so y'all just simmah dawhn nawh.

Today's post was intentionally all about knitting. For the record, this was a difficult task for me.

May your humpday be as a fine Chardonnay. Light and dry with just a hint of woody.

••• Monday, November 08, 2004

Dawn of the Knitting Dead: The Final Chapter
While an inebriant-induced spittle dangled precariously from her chin, her rum-numbed fingers worked a clumsied frenzy, in a valiant effort to close the deal.

Examining the completed garter square of oatish hue, her eyes welled with tears of rapture. And relief. And overwhelm. ::And perhaps just a smidge of disgust at the flatulent flavor of the month wafting from the Shit Eating Wonder. Briefly she recalled the turds of Novembers past. Frosty and firm. Yet, no freezer burn. But she digresses.::

The depth of the implication for finishing the mealy-mouthed piece was beyond her immediate fathom. "Irony," she mumbled, as she swiped the square at the rope of saliva, which now connected her chin to a breast. Ironic, how one simple garter square could at once symbolize unwavering love and commitment to the man of her dreams and also be her ticket to ride away.
From him.
To Lansing.
On Saturday.
To see the T-Bears.
And Amy.
And a book.
And some yarn.
And another book.
And some more yarn.

It was a thrill to meet Amy in person. She’s as great a treat as you’d imagine. Friendly and approachable, in an up-front, sassy kind of way. After signing my book, she helped me find yarn for the Heart Scarf from the Knitty October Surprise edition, and agreed to let me take her picture, which I did only after apologizing for being such a dorkass "Fudgy." ::Side note: "Fudgy" is Michiganspeak for obnoxious tourist types. And Amy even knew what it was without explanation. I was unsurprised. 'Cause she's cool like that.

Knitty designer Jillian Moreno was there too, but I didn’t have the Fudgeballs to ask her for a picture 'cause I was still reeling dorklike from the previous request.

But here's a totally spontaneous and impromptu photo of Amy and me, taken by a stranger who somehow managed to steal my camera, get in a sneaky shot, develop a sudden allergic reaction to air, drop the camera and run from the store, gasping for alternative breathing sources. Which means that I was not so lameass dorkfudged to ask a perfect stranger to take a posed-to-look-candid shot of Amy and me. So there.

I did meet some other cool people, but, as you can see from the picture, their names and faces are kind of a blur.

I am very busy this week with parent/teacher conferences at my place of employment, plus all the usual mini-sessions. Later in the week I'll provide more details on purchases and some thoughs on the Knitwits book.

Until then, I'll leave you with a Pearl a la Cakers.

On the way home from the grocery store recently, we were telling Cakers that we had to hurry because Cheddar had to be let out to go potty. To which she replied, "Yeah, and he probably has his paw in his butt, right now."


Note: This post has not enjoyed my usual obsessive perusal for error. And the first few paragraphs are intentionally bad. And wrong. And wronger.

Say Goodnight Gracie....

••• Thursday, November 04, 2004

Thunky Thursday
::Post edited late afternoon. 11-04. Could someone drop me a comment next time the links don't link? Thanks.M::

Has anyone else noticed how many songs on the radio contain noises indigenous to driving? Over the past few weeks I've been fooled several times by convincing replications of turn signals, “check engine” and door ajar alarms, large vehicle reverse warnings and emergency vehicle sirens.

Am I losing my mind? Ding-Ding-Ding

From the Ray Charles School of Driving Files
Another Kahunas of Steel story out of Romania.

I Wonder, Stevie, if there's something in the coffee over there. I can only hope that this guy's kept his rubber glued on good and tight.

From the Special Insert File
Remember my September menstrual lament? ::see 9-16 post:: Well, Emma has brought me the cure for my woe of flow. That's what I'm talking about.

  1. Right now:: Right Here
  2. Halloween:: Done
  3. Provider::Insurance
  4. Rescue me:: C'mon baby
  5. Confidence:: Deodorant
  6. Fungus:: Amungus
  7. Candy corn:: With peanuts yum
  8. Reunion:: Psych ward
  9. Winner:: Loser
  10. Tradition:: Loser
(Feel free to play along in comments)

And.... ....Out.

••• Wednesday, November 03, 2004

Dragon My Heart Around
I don't want to talk about it. I felt the same about my Spartans losing in triple overtime (except this is more important, of course). An ass whooping would almost make it easier.

I meant to get these pictures out on Monday, but it's been kind of nutsy around here.

Speaking of nuts, I went on a walk over the weekend and came upon some acorns scattered across the sidewalk. I thought to grab a couple for The Cakers. As I reached down for a scoop, I saw that some of the brown rounds weren't acorns, but little poopballs. Ew.

Knittin' Knuggets
My freetime dance card is pretty full this week (and the next as well), which means I won't be toastin' on my postin'and likely digging deep into my MEME reserves.

I am hoping to get to the T-Bears this weekend, for Amy's book signing fiesta. She's supposed to have a mystery guest in tow. I might have a guess on who that be.

And speaking of designer's named Jenna, I'm officially one gagger square away from starting on Blaze. I just need someone to tie me to the couch and make me do it. Again. ::This time, honey, make me finish the afghan square. Too.::

Remember this shot? Go read about Staceyjoy's childhood recollection of a bad face day. ::Traumatic Lipstick Story link in November 1 post::

While we're on the topic, remember the Avon lipstick extandatubes? Tiny, colorful tubes, stuck end on end. They looked exactly like something a kid should play with. Such trickery.

Piglet Trivia: Our Avon lady came to call every other Saturday morning. She was a middle aged biker chick, with a mustache. And always smelling like Avon-Over-The-Morning-After-Bowling-League.

Clearly, this tube's run dry, so I'll be on my way. Happy Humpin'.

....and Beware the Turd Amidst the Acorns.