••• Monday, February 28, 2005

Okay, Okay
That other one came out smuttier than I intended. No, seriously.

I was simply combining the Post-Prince-concert-Kiss-song theme with Gene-Simmons-Of-Kiss-and-Longue-Tongue-Fame theme. And that's it! It was simply a theme thing. Theme. Thing. k?

And , just so yas know, the scrunchy-cleavage-self-portrait-in-the-john shot scheduled for tomorrow, has been offically cancelled.

I mean, I find nothing remotely phallic about that camera. Now some cameras, with the big, fat, intrusive lenses, yes, I could see that being, well, suggestive, to say the least. But this camera? No. It's a Ken doll manbutton at best. And that's only come to me since I've thought upon it for about, uh, the past 10 seconds.
No. It was a Prince Kiss/Simmons Kiss combo thing, and that's it. I swear...

Blah Blah Blah de Dah
Big Balls Update: Friday, we lost.

No. Make that We got our hiney’s wiped. But not for lack of trying on my boy’s part. First half, he kept their lead scorer (and big talk about town playa) to 5 or 6 points, I think.

My son, the gnat.

We were only down by 4 at the half (remember, without 2 starters, lead scorers, etc.), after which the opposition laid their vengenance upon us. We were just too short handed and the remaining squeezes just ran out of steam.

By 4th quarter, I think the coach decided to pull the plug and gave the second string some get your hiney wiped time playing time, so the big guys can rest for upcoming Districts.

Round 1 of districts is tonight (Lord willing and the blizzard holds off). If we win, we play the Hiney Wipers again, on Wednesday. The team we play tonight is mediocre, but ended the regular season on an upswing upset.

If we "show up" from here on, I honestly believe we can go the distance, including taking down the Hiney Wipers. But if we're off, well, it won't be pretty. And since we were the media darlings early in the season, if we fall on our face now, the flying monkeys will have a hay day.

A Maxi-Pad Moment
No, not that again. I promise. I’m talking about self-absorbency at it’s best. I found a link to this place Self-Portrait Day over at Heather’s (congrats Heather, for making the list!) and was instantly intrigued, in a super-suck-maxi-thin-self-absorbent kind of way.

Okay, I’m not that self-absorbed, but I think it’s a cool idea and I’m going to enter. And here’s why: Last summer, after arriving home from the Prince concert, and feeling a little royal myself, I decided to try my lens at bathroom self-portraiture. While I have indulged in this activity in the past, it was with a purpose, as in to show off a finished knit project, or a new doo.

On the evening in question, there was no pissin' point. Only loopy-assed fun.

So, I’ve had this file of pictures sitting in my hard drive. A few times I thought to just delete them, but couldn’t make myself do it. Then I saw that Kaetchen has an entire gallery devoted to bathroom self-portraiture, and thought that I might even be on to some new cool thing. But until this site came along, I hadn’t the nerve to share my little secret of the potty.

NOW my narcissistic trip to the loo has a special purpose, after all.

So, without further ado....(cue Prince)

U don't have 2 be rich
2 be my girl
U don't have 2 be cool
2 rule my world...

....I just want your extra time and your:


I haven't submitted my application to the site, yet. In the spirit of keeping it real, I want to make up a really, really cool sandwich to put down as my favorite. I mean, did you check out the sandwiches these people eat? There is some serious bread dropping going on. This is not your average p.-b.-and-j.-off-the-floor-a-la-3-second-rule-then-wrenched-from-the-death-grip-of-a-depraved-labrador crowd. No sir.

And I am nobody's token Sandwich Trash.
Not ever.

Knittin' Knuggets
I haven't had much time for knitting over the past week, but was able to steal a few moments over the weekend, to restart the Blaze sleeve. I forgot how much I love this pattern, floppy eared cables and all.

I have been giving considerable thought to my knitting horizons, and decided that said view does not include the Bella Paquita . (Sorry Girls).

I just can't make myself order the yarn for it, because every time I think of doing it, it stresses me out, because know that I need to knit what I got.

Once I made the decision to defer da Bella, I felt a light weight lifted. A light weight, because, even though my current resolve to not indulge is strong, my Ball Bustin’ plan is neither yet crystallized, which makes for a chink in my armor. But, since I've filled up plenty of space already today, I'll save the remainder of these musings for another.

In the meantime, have a Monday.

••• Friday, February 25, 2005

Here it is, Friday already and here I am, writing the wrap-up for last weekend. Somehow, all the things I thought I wanted to say, don’t seem as interesting as they did four days ago.

I’ll start by saying that this week has been onehelluffa. After the Monday Meeting With the Muthas, aside from sleeping and eating, I pretty much didn’t sit down until Wednesday night, 9:00. My laptop is in my kitchen so I even worked my email, standing up. In fact, I really should be doing something else right now, so I’m going to try to make this short as possible. ::Short Post? You funny lady::

::Speaking of short, on the morning show I listen to every day, one of the DJ’s is reported to be a very tiny man, as in he looks 12. Yesterday his partners were giving him the business about something and he was getting pretty pissed. Then one of the guys said “I haven’t seen you this mad since that family found your pot of gold.” I chuckled at that all day. ::I guess you had to be there::

Since I’ve kind of lost my post weekend glow, I’ll just bullet the highlights:
1. Saw Napoleon Dynamite on DVD, finally. It’s now in my top five of faves. Of course, I loved the characters, but I continue to be intrigued by the fact that you never really know what year it is.

2. Cakers loved skiing. Actually, I don’t know if she loved the skiing as much as she loved the golf cart rides between the hill (well, incline) and the day care trailer. We spied on her for a bit during the lesson. Too cute. One time she stopped mid-incline to put snow ON her skis, then spent the entire ride up the Magic Carpet, brushing it off. One time I heard the instructor yell “Anna! Anna!” Then saw my Cakers lean forward, toss her fists to her side and yell “I not Anna! I ANA!” That’s my girl, my little Liger. (….like a lion and tiger mixed…bred for its skills in magic.)

3. Listening to great music on the radio. I’m pretty sure Northern Michigan has one of the only remaining FM stations, in the U.S. of A., not owned by Clear Channel. It’s called The Bear. It's classic rock at its best, mostly from late 60's and 70's and includes stuff you never hear on the corporate oldie stations. I'm talking Marshall Tucker Band and Traffic and Canned Heat and The Band.

When listening to the Bear, my husband and I like to play the "Who sang this?" game. It's actually kind of hard, but being four years older than he is, gives me the competitive edge. I had planned on reminiscing some more on the old tunes, but I'm afraid it would pale in caliber/interest level to Alison's topic related post, earlier this week.

4.Weekend Things I Wondered:
A. Why, as a whole, rural news anchors are a smidge homlier than their urban counterparts? They’re so pasty (as in having no color, not as in a Cornish meat pie). And stiff. And wear glass rims from the 80's. And why are they named after Northern Michigan towns and/or townships? And since we’re here, I also want to know why they sound like they're being broadcast from Uncle Pooty's pole barn? Isn’t the same audio technology used by urban stations, available to the rural communities?

B. Why the ski lodge sells pop and water from machines which only take perfectly straight, crisp 1 dollar bills? Where would a skier keep such a bill?

C. What the hell this woman was thinking?:
Cakers and I were waiting for our ride, just inside the door of the daycare trailer at the ski resort. The place was teeming with screaming, tired, one-socked toddlers. So, this woman comes in and asks me if I know where the cross country trails are. I don’t.

She then asks what building this is (Hello? Can’t you hear them calling?). I tell her it’s the Daycare Center. Raising her voice above the din, she says “Is there any body in there?” (And People, this is not a pleasant person. She's got bitch.) The question was so ridiculous, I didn't even answer.

She then clarified, “Are there any workers in there?”

I wanted to say: "Nope. No one. I just stopped in here looking for a pop machine that takes crumpled bills, and picked me up this little cutie ::Patting the Cakers on the head:: In fact, there are still a couple quiet ones left, if you're in the market for a toddler, with a day or two of ski school under his/her belt. Just so ya know, the best picks are hiding in the bathroom. I'd stay away from the four year-old with the mustache, if I were you. He’s trouble."

Instead, I said, with a bit o bitch o my own, "Of course there's someone in there." Freakin’ IDIOT!

Who's Got Big Balls?

Pssst...Kimmy, can you see this?

A couple people asked about the outcome of Tuesday’s game. We lost. Which means we tied for first in the conference, which ain’t bad. But we coulda and shoulda beat em, like we did before.

It was my son’s last basketball game on the home court, so it was doubly sad. The last home game of the year is called “Senior Night,” so before the game, each senior player walks out with his parents and the mom gets a rose and a kiss. Before we walked out, my son said “Mom, don’t cry.” And in front of the other Muthas, I dufus-ly enthused “Honey, you know I always cry at pageantry.” To which a stiff-smiling Mutha sniffed, “Well, I wouldn't call this pageantry.”

Yeah? Well how long did it take you to grow that mustache?

Now, About the Rest of Those Muthas
In comments, Caroline expressed the opinion that I should just turn the Muthas out. I wish I could, Caroline, but tradition holds that the Senior Muthas organize the banquet. Besides, the woman in charge is a friend and a sweetie. It's the other twits, who give my soul the shits.

The spark of the afterglow from the Monday's meeting has kind of burned out. (Sorry Teresa.) Besides, this is a small town and I am suddenly a little nervous dishing it up.

I will say this: I'd rather be looked at through a tiny butthole, than spend my whole life looking out one.

When all's said and done, regarding the Banquet chores, I'm getting off pretty easy, as follows:
1. Purchase the coach a gift.
I caught you a delicious bass.

2. Bring a gallon of milk.
This one tastes like the cow got into an onion patch.

3. Serve at the buffet.
Tina, come get some ham.

4. Say "Goodbye You Muthas"
...you're supposed to go home.....because you've been ruining everybody's lives and eating all our steak.

Liddle Skiddles
No, Heather, I'm not pregnant. If I was, I'd be calling my lawyer to start the papers for some Tubal Litigation, if ya know what I mean.

Kim says she can't see my pink hat picture, but now I think she was pulling my leg on account of her being blind and all.

Norma, I'm fine, dear. In my post haste, I neglected to mention that a bottle of fabric softener had tipped and leaked in the back of my car. I can taste it on my lips after getting out.

I'm reallyreallyreally busy at work and home, so maybe the posts will be few and far for awhile.

More Big Balls
Tonight we play a state ranked team in what they call Crossover, which means nothing on paper but apparently means much to my knotted tummy. Unfortunately, our two best guys are out. Which means the sun will be shining directly upon my baby. I think it's gonna be his night.

I say we show up and kick some ass. Girls only want boyfriends who have great skills. What say ye?

In case I wasn't the last human being on Earth to see Napoleon Dynamite, the italicized quotes in this post are from the movie.

P.S. This post has not been edited. Yet. Has been edited only 2x.

••• Tuesday, February 22, 2005

You're Gonna Need a Bigger Boat Shot of Tequila
Is it Friday yet?

Weekend was great but no time to post about it now. Unfortunately, I finished up a fine time by attending another Meeting of the Muthas, Monday eve. It was so bad, and I'm not kidding, I had nightmares about these people last night.

When I finally arrived home my husband and son asked what was wrong and where I'd been. I confessed to trying to slit my wrists with my ice scraper, in the parking lot of the pizza shoppe. I then thought to drink some bleach, but there was only fabric softener, spilled all over my back seat, which tasted bad but gave my tongue a soft coat and lovely smell.


I'm now off to run the concession stand before my son's last league game of his life, for the conference title. I think I'm gonna hurl.

Anyway, here's a really stupid, I'm-No-Fluffa-And-Never-Will-Be, picture of my new hat, which worked really well, despite my having shortened it's life by about 2 inches through mortal stupidity.

The Cakers was a hoot on the slopes. Even though I forgot my camera, I was able create a reinactment of what she looked like on the 25 minute ride to the resort. Minus the pizza stains.

I am really, really late. Think winning thoughts for my boys team, as I pray to the sports gods to forgive me for missing my son's all time highest scoring game, this weekend past...sob.

Did I mention I'm really, really late? So be warned, this post was edited for jack.

••• Saturday, February 19, 2005

From the Wattam-Eye-Chopped-Liverace? File
I have arrived, my friends. Teresa has tagged me (yes, this me, the very one) to participate in the music meme. You’d think after two weeks of drooling at the bottom of approximately 15,000 tagged knitblogs (yes, that green slime was de moi), I’d have something ready, but I guess that would be like the Punch Bowl server shaving her legs on prom night.

So, without further adieu...
1.Total amount of music files on computer:
Ummm...I don't know because I can't find them. I had free AOL Music download for a month and don’t know where they, uh, downloaded to. I do remember being thrilled at finding Todd Rundgren's “Parallel Lives.”

2. Last CD you bought: Old Crow Medicine Show and Snoop Dogg.

3.Last song you listened to before reading this message: (Rock me mama, like a) “Wagon Wheel,” Old Crow Medicine Show.

4. Five songs that mean a lot to you: Peter Gabriel, “In Your Eyes,” Van Morrison, “Into the Mystic” , Jackson 5 “I’ll Be There”, Everything But the Girl, “Missing,” Counting Crows- “Anna Begins”

5. Three people to whom this will be passed on…. No one. I think this one’s been played out.
Extreme Meme Theme
Yeppers, another one. From La.
1. Do you knit continental or English? English. But here’s a weird thing…My mom learned to knit in high school. After getting married, she quit knitting and took up breast feeding. A few months ago, she decided to take it up again (knitting, not breast feeding) and called me for some beginneresque advice.

Through the course of our discussion, my mom said “Well, I learned to knit the wrong way, from my home ec. teacher, who was from Germany. People would always tell me I was knitting wrong, so it kind of took the fun out of it."

So, I’ve been knitting the dorky English method for 18 years, having no idea my own mother is a dyed in the wool continental. I told her that her method is coveted by many of us English dorks, who have been unable to switch brain paths. She didn’t believe me.

::See how I am? I can’t even complete a simple questionnaire without blathering….::

2. How long ago did you learn to knit? My Dutch Granny taught me when I was about 10, but boy, was that ugly. After knitting The Incredible Widening Scarf, I quit knitting until 1987, when a friend at work re-taught me.

After about 3 months on the needles, I was teaching that same friend how to do cables and color work. I knit 13 sweaters in one year. I would stay up until 2 am to perform some butt ugly finishing on a piece I would proudly wear to work a few hours later. Without the distraction of the internet or a happy marriage (I was still married to the first guy) I guess I had lots of time on my hands. ::Okay, I think I figured out why I've not been meme tagged 'til now. Because I can't just answer a frickin' question without a life story. I've turned into my mother. ::

5. First FO? Officially, probably that scarf. My first official garment was a two piece, capped sleeve type t-shirt sweater. It fit me like a dream. I wore it to death.

6. Favorite yarn? Alpaca blends.

7. Favorite pattern? The Diamond Lace shawl pattern from the Lion Brand site.

8. Favorite pattern source? Knitty, Vogue Knitting, Interweave Knits. Both Rowan’s “A Season’s Tale” and “A Treasury of Knits” have reserved spots in my WIP future.

9. Favorite needles? My Denise’s, definitely. But two years ago, I would’ve called you a “lyin’ ass ho” and spit in yo eye if you would’ve tried telling me this would be true, today. I used to never, ever knit on plastic, and used circs only for collars. Before Denise, my favs were Ebony.

10. Nicest thing you’ve ever knit? Hard to say, mostly because I haven’t knit, er, finished that many nice things. I guess the Aran for the Cakers is up there. Must Have Cardie…the Diamond Shawl. I can’t pick.

11. Most hated project? Easy. The garter square afghan. I don’t know what was worse, the miles and miles of garter stitch, or the hours and hours to months and months of my husband’s whining for his blankie.

12. Who are you going to pass this on to? Heather because she’s funny and I think she needs a little more attention. Go find her post on stealing a smoke while at a swim meet, between heats, in her swimsuit.. Kim, because she’s a dear and she’s busy and maybe can use a quick-n-dirty post topic and because I fear she will soon run out of cool photos to post. And Bron, because we started out on this blog journey together and she knits like a rabbit in heat. Well, rabbits don't knit, but I think you know what I'm thumping about. And I’m sorry if this is a repeat upon any of y’all. I have the attention span of a flea, on a rabbit in heat.

Another World
I’m posting this from the cottage, in great Northern Michigan, where we’re enjoying a four day weekend. Eric has some work to do, but Sunday we’re hoping to hit the slopes. The cottage is about 15 minutes from this place, where I'll ski, my husband will "shred" and The Cakers is enrolled in “Adventure Cubs” for the afternoon.

I haven’t skied since I was about 2 days preggers with the Cakers, ::Toomuchinformationahead Warning::who was a little goodbye present from my husband, as I headed off for a girl’s weekend. Anyway, I received a new ski jacket this past Christmas, and Thursday evening, I realized I don’t have a matching hat.

So, I found a pile of yarn and a cool, free pattern on line, and went to town. Unfortunately, I left my camera at home, so no pictures ‘til Tuesday. But I am using the exact same yarn as is in the pattern picture. The pattern is fun, but it’s not recommended for intense, “get it done” quick knitting. I have the beginnings of a blister on a finger and my hands ache.

Hopefully, I’ll get to that Blaze sleeve any day, now. Regardless, posting may be sparse for the rest of the weekend. But if you're new, or having been here in a while, you got plenty reading here, to keep you occupied.

And I feel like I’m gimp posting without my photo op.

Have great weekends, all.

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••• Thursday, February 17, 2005

From the Midgina Dialogues File
A while back, I mentioned that a Barbie tale has been sitting in my draft bin since February, 2004. I have finally come to grips with the reality that that I will not be able to give this story the time and attention it needs, in order for it to be presented as I originally intended. Therefore, it's time to just do what I can and move on.

First, I gotta say this: One of the reasons I held back on posting this, was that I wanted to find my dolls, so I could hold them, and reflect. Actually, I really wanted to take pictures of them as evidence, in support of my tale. Thus ensued the search for my beloved Midge and Ken and Skipper and Francie and Casey and Gumby and Pokey (It was a weird tale. Surely. Of Love. And flexibility. And don't call me Surely.)

Anyway, I know that my mom had my dolls. I know this because I remember her asking me if I wanted them, or if she should keep them, or give them away. I asked her to keep them, because I was going through a divorce and would soon be moving out of my current home. Besides, I DISTINCTLY remember her saying that “the girls” liked playing with them when they came to visit. (“The Girls” = my nieces, of which there are four.)

Anyway, jump ahead 12 years and I’m looking for my dolls, because I want to tell this story and show their pictures and also because my daughter likes Barbies. ::Gasp. I know, Real Muthas don't let their babies play Barbies::

Anyway, I recently asked my mom if she still has my dolls. She doesn’t. She remembers having them. She remembers her GRANDAUGHTERS playing with them, but she doesn’t know where they are, today.

So, this past Christmas I asked my sisters about my Barbies. And by their responses, you’d think I was asking them if their kids, as young children, ever made or smoked crack.

The sisterly conversations went something like this:
Me to sister #1: Do you have my Barbies? (Read: Do you have my Easy Crack Oven?) Ana’s showing an interest in Barbies (Read: an interest in learning how to make Crack) and I thought it would be fun to let her play with my old stuff.

Sister: My daughters never, EVER, EVER played with Barbies/Easy Crack Ovens. In fact, I don’t think we ever, EVER had Barbies/Crack in our home. EVER.

Me: I'm pretty sure mom said that your girls used to...

Sister: NEVER, EVER…

Me: All Righty, then.

Me to sister #2: I’m looking for my old Barbies/Easy Crack Oven and mom thinks you might have them.

Sister: No way.

Me: Are you sure?

Sister: Are you kidding me? My daughter wouldn’t be caught dead with Barbie/Crack.

Me: Maybe she’s so ashamed of her filthy habit that she hides the dolls/kiddie crack pipe in her closet. Have you checked between her box spring and mattress? Kids with a Barbie/Crack problem, can be very, very deceitful. I mean, how well can you really know your own children???

Sister: I’m tellin’ ya, she’d rather drink bleach. Then throw it up. And drink it, again.
So, I'm sorry to say, I won't have my dolls to share with you today. But they are out there, somewhere. And yah, this is another long post. And getting longer. And yah, there's no knitting today. So either shut up and strap in or shut up and ship out.

Having dumped about 2/3 of my original story line from the Midgina Chronicles, it comes down to this, An open letter to Ken (with visual aids):
Dear Ken,
I'm sorry for all the times I popped your arms out of their arm holes and made you into Flipper Ken, (See Illustration 1 in Appendix) then had Francie and Midge lean you over my dog’s water dish and take turns spanking your bare, Mattel-embossed ass.

And Ken, I very much regret the time I was not careful enough, and let one of your arms fall into your body cavity. As you know, after hours and hours of poking your arm hole with tweezers, then an ink pen and finally trying to wittle a larger arm hole using my dad's rat tail file, we finally came to grips with your destiny in a world of one hand clapping. (See Illustration 2, in Appendage) And since spanking a one armed Flipper Ken just wasn’t the same, your sex life, as we knew it, was also over. Adding insult to injury, was my nicknaming you "Snake," on account of the rattling sound you now made, whenever you moved.

After you lost your arm, I felt terrible. Responsible. To make it up to you, I decided to give you some manjunk. Because I was only 10 years old, the only manjunk I had ever seen was on my baby cousin, Ricky. Because he was a baby, his stuff was better described as "babyjunk." Cousin Ricky’s babyjunk, to me, looked like two concentric circles of flesh. A button, if you will. That's what I saw, so that's what you got. A button, drawn on with a black permanent marker. But the manjunk button, somehow, ended up looking like a donut. Which was not at all the look we were going for. (See Illustration 3 in Appenddicks)

As you may recall, I instantly regretted the disfigurement and immediately tried undoing that which had been done. But instead of successfully taking back your manbutton man-donut, I learned a valuable lesson; the definition of Permanent. But Ken, you know I tried. In retrospect, I suppose the the x'ing of the manbutton (See Illustration 3 in Amendix) only made matters worse. But please remember, I was a merely a deranged babe.

My Darling Ken, the last time I saw you,(I'm pretty damn sure you were clutched in the loving arms of one of my nieces who never, EVER played with Barbies) you looked/sounded well enough.

I'm still plagued, however by the memory of trading all your clothes to Nee-Nee Tunning, just for a chance to watch her brother Dewey, take a piss on their sister Chi-Chi’s new training bra. Although the whole thought of piss-on-a-sister's-bra was intriguing, I had really hoped to catch a glimpse of some real boy junk. Unfortunately, Dewey had quite a grip, and all I saw was the golden shower, followed by Nee-Nee gingerly tucking your wardrobe into a black, shiney rollerskate case, from under her bed.

Because you no longer had any pants, I was forced to make you a pair out of a cabled knee-high sock. Red. Although I was pretty impressed with how the ribbing made the perfect waistband, I can't shake the thought of you, right now, Rattling around my sister's basement, for all eternity, in nothing but a red, cabled, knee high sock. And, of course, your eternal manshame.

So, my once-randy little one-armed wonder, please know that I think of you often, with both love, and regret.

Yours Truly,

P.S. A few months back, I came across this picture, somewhere on line. And I couldn't help but wonder if..well...maybe...nah.

Illustration 1, Flipper Ken:

Illustration 2, One Hand Clappin' Ken:

Illustration 3, Manbutton:

Illustration 4, Amendicks:

And in defense of my seemingly corrupt moral aptitude, I'm not the only one who thought Ken needed a headier profile. Read about it here

Then have yourselves a Thursday.


••• Tuesday, February 15, 2005

Muffler Shuffler
Here's my scarf in the yarn I bought at the coffee shop in Dead Cow Palace. This is probably the best color shot of this yarn, so far, but it's still not doing it justice. There's a smattering of cobalt throughout that just ties it all together.

We're Gonna Turn This Mutha Out
Last week, I attended a meeting of the Moms, to make plans for the end-of-the-season basketball banquet. Before I get going on this, I’d first like to give you a bit of background on the community in which I live.

In my town, mothers who work outside the home, are a rarity. (And unaccommodated for. No evening PTA meetings. Ever. Never.) Don’t get me wrong, I’m not making fun of mothers who work at home. The mothers in my community are really, really good at what they do. They are professionals.

And I’m not talking Soccer Moms here. Next to these women, Soccer Moms are trifling, whinin’, over-highlighted, amateurish snipe- asses.

The women I’m talking about are the real deal. They are The Real Muthas.

So what is a Real Mutha, exactly?

The Real Mutha is a woman who comes to the basketball banquet planning meeting, straight from a hospital bed, where she has been recuperating from pneumonia. ::cough:: But she’s safe, ::cough:: having been on antibiotics for two days.

Then there are the two Real Muthas Married to Doctors (or Real Doctor Muthas by Proxy) who won’t be outdone by a post-near-death-bed performance by the mere accountant's wife, and commence with the classic We're-Married-to-Doctors-and-Can- Guess-What-Meds-You're-on-in-Less-Than-Two-Tries game.

But this Real Mutha is prepared. She anticipates. Always. She's on an antibiotic the Real Doctor Muthas by Proxy have never heard of. Gasp. Oh, Really? ::exchanging glances:: I’ll have to ask Bobby about that one.

Next, The Real Mutha, with the Real Breath Threatening Disease, pulls out a clipboard. On the clipboard is a 3-page, double-spaced, typed report, summarizing phone conversations with about 25-200 local caterers. Phone calls made, of course, from her hospital bed, during the intravaneous rehydration process. I'll go out on a limb and assume she was also catheterized at that time, although, in fairness to all involved, it never actually came up.

Next was a nauseatingly detailed discussion about the politics of the school district's food service:
....She said we can use utensils and serving bowls, but we can’t touch the ovens. Excuse me? We can’t touch the ovens? I don’t think so. I said to her, technically, those ovens belong to us... And, by the way, I will be taking this up with Carol....
Ahhh, nod the Muthas approvingly, murmuring in unison, Carol...

So far this evening, I’ve said nothing past the introductions.
But I’m thinking.
Who the fuck is Carol?

Anyway, after a painfully tedious narrowing down of the potential caterers list, and an unrelated discussion about beverages….
Mutha Says: We’re serving milk.
Marcy Thinks: Snort. They won’t drink milk.
Mutha Says: My son will drink milk, if I tell him to.
Marcy Thinks: You’re going to make your Freshman son drink milk at the basketball banquet?
Marcy Thinks some more: In front of the JV and Varsity teams?
I hope you have a good therapist.
And, Marcy:And you think your son is going to actually sit with you at the banquet? Honey, he ain’t even gonna look atchu.
Mutha Says: We’re serving milk. It's final. Every freshman brings a gallon.
Marcy's Final Cohesive Thought for the Evening: Ashton? Is that you?
...The topic turned to table decorations.

The Mutha of a freshman asks “What did they do last year?”

I think, “I know this one! Pick me, pick me!” And before I could stop it, I hear my voice say “Shoe.”

The Muthas, like a synchronized swim team, turn their heads, and smile. And wait.

And smile. And wait.

While I count on my fingers, the hours since my early morning Conce*rta dose. 6:30, 7:30, 8:30…....4:30, 5:30.

Damn. Damn. Damn. Rebound.

Mortified at being the focus, at the very moment my neurons are being released from their daily imprisonment, I try to fill a social gap through which, by now, you could drive a twin set of Pamela Andersons.

A Big Shoe. ::I nod:: Filled with stuff.

What kind of shoe? Inquires a Mutha.


::Smiles Waning::

Like, a basketball shoe? Asks Anutha, Mutha.

Yes! Yes! That’s it! I say. It was a Basketball Shoe.
With stuff.

I'm now pleased as punch. I'm making a contribution. A connection. I think they like me. Maybe I'll get to meet Carol....finally.

But before I could dab my tear-welled eye and proceed, a JV Mutha announces: “I was wondering what you guys think about something like this...” And right out of her butt hole, she pulls a cute little Styrofoam ball, painted up to look (and I kid you not) exactly like a basketball. Only smaller, of course.

Ooh, says the Real Muthas Collective.

Then someone says “What about one of those cute little mylar balloons, in the school colors...?"

"I’m on it," says the Back Hoe Mutha, with a wink and a nod, and a deep, writhing twist.

After what seemed like a butt digger's eternity, she pulls not one, but two mylar balloons, from her hole. In the school colors, of course.

Bravo, they sing.

Do you have any Xanax in there? I joke.
No one laughed.

Hopefully, in a plastic baggie. Though.
No one laughed, some more.

Fortunately for all, the meeting concluded soon after that, although I do suspect that they reconvened the following day, to get some serious work accomplished.

These are, after all, The Real Muthas.

And needless to say, I will not be expecting a call from Carol any time soon.

Post edit note: This post originally contained a narration of my first experience running the concession stand at the high school, which also occurred last week. It was a good story, but too long for this already dragged out mutha. Here's the punchline: Exploding weinies, with just a look.

••• Monday, February 14, 2005

No Valentines For Me
This is a good description of me, although the 48% seems kind of high. I think that score was a result of my numerous anti-social-esque responses, which I think makes me more of a loner, than a total B. But I definitely got my B. moments, fur shure. My first quiz run through resulted in a picture of Howard Stern. So, I went back and rethunk a couple responses.

I am 48% Asshole/Bitch.
Part Time Asshole/Bitch.
I may think I am an asshole or a bitch, but the truth is I am a good person at heart. Yeah sure, I can have a mean streak in me, but most of the people I meet like me.

Okay, Maybe a Couple Valentines for Me
Yah, the heart is kinda funny lookin'.

But sometimes, I think, we have to bend our hearts in a kinda funny lookin' way, to ensure everybody fits just right.

This shot was taken just before my son left for the Valentines dance (girls ask guys, of course).

So, girls, remember getting ready for the big high school dance? Prom, Valentines, homecoming? It was an all day affair. A soak in the tub, a shaving of the legs, nail polish, toe polish and an afternoon nap in pink sponge rollers. Okay, I’m old.

At my son’s school, the girls spend the afternoon at the beauty shop (I know this because I had a Saturday afternoon appointment, myself).

Here’s my son’s Dance Day itinerary:

10:30 a.m.-Get up “early” to pick up corsage.
10:40-Back in bed.
1:00-Get up again, and this time he really means it.
1:15-2:00- Lift weights in basement
2:00-3:00-Visit best friend who is in hospital with bad case of flu.
3:00-5:55-Hang out at other friend's house, shooting some hoops outdoors (beautiful day, dontcha know?) then playing poker.
5:55-Arrive home to frantic mother.
5:55-Inform frantic mother that he needs to be at his friend's house, ready for the dance, by 6:30.
5:58-6:01 Shower, Shave.
6:05-6:20-Drive over to dad's house, get dressed, drive back to mom’s house.
6:20-6:21-Pictures with baby sister.
6:23-Call friend (who was also playing b-ball and poker until 5:55) to ask if he can just swing by and pick him up, since it's on the way to the girls' rendezvous point.
6:25-6:30-Pace around waiting for ride to arrive while avoiding floating dog fur.
6:30-Ride arrives. Leave for dance.

Girls, remember the morning after the dance? Sharing little snippets of the evening with mom? Well, not all the snippets, but still, there was always a little bit of gossip, a little fashion critique, maybe a little romantic afterglow.

Here's my son's Sunday afternoon afterglow, which took place while he prepared and chowed down peanut butter and jelly waffles:

Mom: How was the dance?

Son: It was good.

Mom: Yeah? Like what?

Son: Well, ::chewing:: I only got a little bit sweaty.

Mom: I was thinking more along the lines of a love connection....

Son: Uh, no.

Mom: *Makeout?

Son: ::laughs:: Uh, no.

Mom: How was dinner? ::It was at a high society country club::

Son: Small portions. Great cheesecake.

Mom: Sounds like fun.

Son: Yeah. Good times.

Knittin' Knuttins
I really haven't had much time to assign myself a moment to get re-started on that Blaze sleeve. I did finish the coffee shop scarf last night, while watching Fargo on the VCR, between laundry loads, doncha know. (So Norma, how many times ya think they say Yah in that there film?)

I guess, since it is Valentines Day, and this is a knitting blog, it's a good time to share my new knit crush; this sweater.

A modified version (and my newest true love) can be found at Marnie's blog, under the February 9 post.

I gotta tell ya, I just can't stop thinking about this sweater. The directions (especially with modifications) look a little intimidating, but mostly it's in the construction, which I should be able to handle, being a former seamstress. Her instructions actually look very detailed and I like that she provides both charts and "verbose" instructions.

And I that she uses the word "verbose."

As the Cakers would say: "You mean it's Love Day? Today?"

Happy Love Day, everyone.

*Starting in the 7th grade, whenever Cam would leave the house to hang out with friends (sometimes including girls, but mostly not.) I'd give him the mom routine (I need to know where you are at all times, a parent/adult must be in the house...etc.) then I'd wrap it up with "And no making out." This has been our little joke for years.

When he was in the 8th grade, however, after the usual wrap up, he surprised me with "So Mom, when can I make out?" He was serious. Because we were in the car, one block from his dropoff destination, I deferred the discussion. And prayed all the way home that the question was not relevant to the evening's activities.

••• Thursday, February 10, 2005

The Road to Recovery is Paved with Lugies
I’m feeling muchly better, thank you. Although yesterday, the school nurse asked me if maybe I had pneumonia. I don’t. My body is just cleaning house. And it ain’t a pretty sight, or sound.

For whatever reason, most of this cleansing has been taking place on the drive to work in the morning. This is a problem on account of the fact that I can't spit. To save my life.

No, really. I’m a spittard.

I can drop it. Drip it. Or Drool. But I have no projection. No arc. No velocity.

In a true lugemergency while driving, I have to resort to actually opening my car door at a stop light, to drop it like it's hot, hopefully on the pavement. But usually on the running board. Or in the map cubbie on the door. Or my lapel. ::The latter of which really bugs me, since I can do that without drawing attention to my business at a busy intersection::

Yesterday, on the ride to work, the green lights were working against me. This meant I had to dribble out my car window, while in motion. By the time I arrived at work, the bloog had crystallized on the pane.

But isn't that why God invented ice scrapers?

Knittin' Knuttins'
I knit last night for the first time in a week. Because I only had an hour available, I just worked on my coffee shop yarn scarf. It's been another one of those weeks, so far, with 2 basketball games, a meeting to plan the basketball banquet, and my maiden voyage running the concession stand. I should be able to squeeze at least one good post out of one these activities, but not today.

Maybe tomorrow (or, as The Cakers would say "Not today. Maybe next year." )

Speaking of....Here's a shot of my girl on her Sick. Not. Day. last Friday. She called me into the play room to show me her new trick.

"Look Mommy! I'm a parrot!"
I hope I'm up for this one....

••• Monday, February 07, 2005

Psickology 101
This flu bug appears to be splattering itself across the windshield of America. As someone who is almost thinking about being declared practically cured, I thought I'd pass on some helpful, flu dealin' tips.

Daytime Phglemmies
Sick TV is and should be a different kind of viewing than, let's say, watching TV on a regular day off. Sick TV should be cheesy and decadent and embarrassing to admit to.

Following are the shows I will admit to watching while home sick last week:
1) Starting Over. I actually considered staying home the rest of the week just to watch the remainder of this week-long series. In case you haven't see it, it's a lot like the Real World, with therapy.

2)Judge Hatchett. Don't get me up here testifying. I'll go face to face. All. Day. Long.

3) Montel. I saw the most amazing (amazingly sad) video of a middle aged man, under the effects of GHB. I've seem some shit in my day, nothing like this.

4) TLC's A baby story. Now with this show, I have a little bit of history. In fact, the summer I had a Cakers in the oven, I watched this show nearly every day.

It's not so much that I related to any of the Polly and Pauly Purebred tales. (Ex: Here's a summary of one of last week's episodes: "Marlene and Steven met in college during one of their earth science classes. They already have two children, a three-year-old named Alex and his two-year-old sister, Randi. They're ready to add a third child to their family.")

I was waiting for a real story. A story about a 42ish, divorced, once remarried (so far), mother to a teenager. A woman who, after successfully pissing on a pregnancy alert wand, locks herself in the bathroom for three days, with a jug of cheap Merlot.

During the three day lockdown, she sends her haplessly confused husband to the pharmacy a total of 17 times, for more pregancy wands. After 34 more, poorly aimed pregnancy confirmations, she emerges from the bathroom, complete with purple teeth and a well crusted Merlot mustache. It's then she learns that, in her absence, her dearly befuddled had been on a single malt, three-day bender of his own.

Finally, after several more hours of barfing up their collective disbelief, the middle aged, shell-shocked couple finally look each other in the eye, smile, and say in unison "We're having a baby!"

That's the story I wanna see. The Merlot's on the other lip.

A Spoonful of Sugar
With the complex mixture of symptoms with this bug, it was hard to find the just right remedy. Following is a review of various medications my husband and I have tried over the past week:

1) DayQuil-Tastes like orange liquid shit, works only a little bit better.
2) NyQuil Cough-Tastes better than the orange shit. Worked well on the cough, but I woke up both nights at 4 a.m., feeling like my head was stuffed with circus peanuts.
3) NoonerQuil- Tastes suspiciously like tequila. Nice, warm burn going down. Nasty headache three hours later.
4)Robitussin Cough, Daytime formula- Tastes like home. Works better than DayQuil for cough and congestion. Don't take it at bedtime. Its ability to keep you up, trumps Nyquil's ability to make you drowsy. You'll be up all night, with a very clear head.
5) Robitussin Pediatric- You gotta drink about half a bottle to get little relief.
6) Robitussin Cough and Cold-Bedtime Formula- Still tastes good. Nice Drowse, but I woke up at 4 am, all stuffed up. Again.
7) Robitussin Cough and Colon Polyps- Not your mother's multipurpose Elixir.
8) Robitussin Nighttime Cough and Nipple Hair Relaxer- We're saving this one for our 10-year wedding anniversary. Thank you very much.
9) Alka Seltzer Plus, Flu (bedtime formula)- This shit rocked. I slept like a babe, all three nights, all night long. No coughing, no stuffy, no cold medicine hangover. It even tasted good.

Didya Hear?
Richard Nixon saw the movie DeepThroat seven times. And still couldn't get it down Pat.

••• Sunday, February 06, 2005

Get Stubbie
I was pretty busy this weekend, playing ketchup on leftover chores from my flu hiatus. Because the latest phase of this flu bug involves coughing until you piss your pants, I've also been doing a lot of laundry.

What I haven't been doing a lot of is knitting. And here's why. Ladies and Gentleman, meet Stubbie:

Stubbie is what remains of the Blaze sleeve I had to 86 after knitting the entire thing in the wrong size needles. Stubbie is not a hopeless case, but as you can see, he needs considerable rehabilitation. And it's all my fault. And for whatever reason, this weekend, I wasn't ready to face it.

So every time I'd approach my favorite knitting spot, I'd find myself face to cuff with Stubbie. Overcome with guilt and anxiety, I'd cough, partial-piss my pants, grab my chough-chough and amble awkwardly from the room.

By Sunday, my little pissy-pants-coughing-dance had piqued the interest of Bella Boosky.

"Are you done with this, or what?" she asks, hairy tongue in furry cheek (do cats have cheeks?). As I flee the room, holding myself without discretion, I swear I hear cat snickers.

After a cough and a piss and a changing of the undies, I reapproach the scene, where a kinder, gentler Bella asks, "No really, what are you going to do with this?

Well, I'm thinking of stuffing it in a bag, taking it for a drive and dropping it in the river. Wanna come along?

That's not funny, she says.

••• Friday, February 04, 2005

Must Have Done Right
Thanks, everyone, for the kudos on my cardie. This having a finished knit product to wear, is all that it's cracked up to be, plus more!

In details, I did forget to mention that my Must Have was knit up in size large. I'm usually a medium (or small, even, without the kahunas) but this pattern ran smallish.

I do feel badly about joining the knit along, only to finish before the official start. But you know me, when it comes to knitting, I'm the village idiot pride. Never to be out done. Snort.

I did have to climb down from my pedestal last night, to frog that damn Blaze sleeve. This was no painless matter, either. Cabled Indulgence does not frog well. It pulls and knots and shoots off fury fiber boogs.

Speaking of boogs, I'm still not quite myself from my bug and am very much behind in both my chores both at home and work. So, at noon today, my sick husband called to tell me that The Cakers is sick and I need to come home, so he can go to a meeting and blow boogs all over some customers.

So I grabbed some easy paperwork tasks and hopped in the car. On the drive home, I pictured the Cakers resting peacably on the couch, enabling me to work quietly at the dining room table.

Once home, however, I find a rather chipper Cakers with an Earache My Eye, wreaking havoc in our tiny office, with my husband and a dog and a cat, while the cleaning lady has her way with the rest of my domicile. My ill-looking (albeit slimmer)Husband then leaves for his meeting, and I take over as the Keeper-of-the-Beasts-Who-Fear-The-Vacuum-Cleaner, for the next hour. This was not exactly how I pictured things.

Finally, the nice, clean lady leaves, so my daughter can run and jump through the entire house, stopping only to make frequent, unsicklike demands of her professionally and domestically overwrought, coughing-like-a-crack-ho, momma. ::Yesterday, I worried about coughing up a spleen. Today I fear finding my girl junk in my shoe. It ain't ova 'til it's ova?::

I had another post in the works for today, but it wasn't meant to be. As they used to say on the B-side of a Jackson-5 45, Maybe Tomorrow.

Tonight is basketball, again (We're just over halfway through. Lawd, help me.) Tomorrow dance, maybe. And over the weekend, two weeks worth of laundry.

Enough About Meme
Here's a quirky little quiz I found over at Hatamaran's. I was rather pleased with the outcome. The mucoidesque quality of my dish seems fitting, somehow.

You are Fluffy Mackerel Pudding!! You somehow
manage to combine seafood and dessert into your
wonderfully fluffy world. We should all be as
tolerant of New Taste Sensations. And of
big-yolked eggs.

What Weight Watchers recipe card from 1974 are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

••• Wednesday, February 02, 2005

The Following Aberration is Not the Fault of Your Receiver
Yes, it's true. I finished a frickin' sweater. And I'm here to tell ya, she's a beaut. The sweater, that is. The model, unfortunately, appears to have been rode hard and hung up wet.

I was back to work today, after two glorious days of coughing up vital organs and bouncing quarters for shots of Dayquil. But more on that tomorrow. Today's post is all about me hardie cardie.
Here's a bit of a closeup:

Pattern: Must Have Cardie, Patons
Yarn: Elann's Peruvian Collection Highland Wool. Blue.

Best comment: Your finishing is beautiful.
Worst comment: Honey, you really should finish stuff more often.
Best Repartee: Shut the fuck up.