The older I get, the more my one life, feels like a lot of little lives, neatly nestled within one another.

You know, kind of like those Russian nesting dolls.



I know. I'm scared too.

Anyhoo.

Last Wednesday, I returned to my full-time job, after a lovely, 10-week summer break and lots of Cakers time.

Friday past, I sent my son off to college.

Late Friday past, I intercepted two tearful phone calls from my son, who's away, at college.

Saturday, when not receiving any of the dozen plus, progressively happier-toned phone calls from my son, at college, I was shopping for additional necessities, for my son, the college student.

Sunday, the family my son left behind, as he headed off to college, piled into a vehicle and traveled two hours, one-way, to visit said son at college, and to deliver the goods purchased the day before, phone calls notwithstanding.

I’m truly doing okay with all of this. I am. Sending a kid to college is a lot like a healthy breakup. You know what I'm talking about. Those bittersweet ordeals, where both parties know it's for the best, while mourning that which was, and will never be again. Sans personal protection order.

I’ve not been crying or dwelling or calling him on the phone. In fact, I've been celebrating some newfound freedoms, as follows:

1)Working out on the elliptical, wearing just a jog bra, slippers and a rhinestone, butterfly brooch.

2)Drinking Bacardi straight from the bottle.

3)Openly fondling the cache of long lost forks and spoons and cereal bowls, the likes of which I haven’t seen in months, perhaps years.

4) Feeling no pressure or guilt when “There’s nothing to eat in this house! ” ::Onthat note, I invented a new emergency treat, for when the snack cupboards are bare. Sprinkle a layer of fresh, shredded parmesan (the real stuff, not the smelly dust found in the green can.) in a flat dish and microwave until melted and brown around the edges. Less than a minute,usually. Let cool, a little. And voila, you have Parmesan Paper Crisp. No crackers required.::

Okay. Back to the dolls. Over the past week or so, I haven't been feeling quite myself. It's like I'm living too many lives at the same time.

Or I'm living a little of someone else's life.
Or maybe someone's living a little bit of mine.

It feels like a couple of my inner lives, have lost their little heads.



That can't be a good thing, right?

Anyway. What, with the craziness of returning to work and the tiny heartache of the displanted sprout and the upcoming holiday weekend, I think I'll be taking a brief blogging break.

I haven't even been knitting. ::And I hope who ever is wearing my knitting life's little head, is doing me proud.::

P.S. I started this post a couple of days ago, before the devastation of Katrina was fully known. My heart aches for our brothers and sisters who have lost family and/or homes.

My heart swells for the rescue warriors, who refuse to rest until the job is done.

Labels: From My Loins, Passages

Today is the day,
We give babies away,
With half a pound of tea.

My mom used to sing that song, when I was but a wee. The rest of it goes something like..."So if you know any ladies, without any babies, just send them round to me." It was actually a disconcerting little ditty, to my tiny ears.

Anyway, the first verse has been running through my inner mom space, all day. Ever since I woke at dawn with the dawning: Today is the day, they give babies away. To college.

Today. My Boy. To College.

After that first rude awakening, I was able to fall back to sleep, briefly. After all, I have been preparing for/bracing against/eagerly awaiting this day since that first transitional meltdown, after the last high school basketball game (See March 6 post, Senior Moments).

But soon enough, a tiny jolt of sorrow-based-reality (aided by a preternatural taunt from The Man Who Lives in Cheddar's Mouth) had me out of bed and down the stairs, to stare at the neat piles of Brand New Gap, lined up on the dining room table.

Three preppy piles of Where'd-My-Baby-Go? To make a mother cry.

Thankfully, these moments of weakness have been few and far between. And whenever I need a healthy dose of pragmatism, I need only recall a question from The Cakers, posed earlier in the week: "Is Cameron going to College? Or Costco? I can't remember."

I Didn't Think it Would Suck Like This
Monday night, Cam was heading out for a "last hurrah" sleepover at a girl's cottage, with about a dozen of his closest friends. Before I could stop, I hear me say, "I assume her parents are going to be there?"

Immediately, I realized my error. Unless I was giving unsolicited advice on a hostess gift, my question was out of line. Because,in a few short days, ready or not, my boy was going on a very long, sleepover. No parents required. Ever. Again.

I think the hardest part, this week, has been standing by, helpless, as Cam grapples with the heartache of saying goodbye to his closest friends, as each takes his/her leave of their safe, community harbor.

"I didn't think it would suck like this." He said. "I'm excited and everything, and I know I'll see everybody again, but it's never going to be the same. We're all going to change. At least a little."

Yeah, baby. We will.



At least a little.

Labels: From My Loins, Passages

I'm not going to talk about the "Is Knitting Being Dumbed Down?" question that came up on the knatlist a few weeks ago or (of course) the subsequent/previous discussions on knit blogs.

Snotty-ass, late-knight-knatlist response notwithstanding, the truth be, I don't understand the question. So, I'll leave the sorting of this complicated issue to the experts, aka The Sacred Covenant of Knitting Knowledge and Related Societal Ills.

In the meantime, I'd like to share a little treasure I found while cleaning out my sty.



It's Rowan Book Number Four. 1988.

I started knitting in the spring of 1986. I won't bore with details, but let's just say that after that first dishcloth, I was a woman knittin' with ass afire.

Within a couple months, I taught myself shaping and cables and even a little color work; much to the chagrined admiration of my teacher, who only knew knit and purl and how to follow a simple pattern.

Back then, there weren't many sources for stylish, interesting patterns, at least for a late 20-something knitter. I remember a very hip cousin turning me on to Vogue Knitting, otherwise it was Bernat, Beehive or Sunset books. Or garter stitch scarves.

The yarn stores in my town didn't carry pattern books, aside from the occasional afghan or baby knit collection. So, when I found this Rowan Book in a chi-chi yarn shop, out of town, I thought I had come upon the Holier Grail.

At $9.50, this purchase was quite a splurge, and I remember being very anxious about my husband finding out. ::I'm biting my fingers to keep this nice. He is the father of my first-born...but it's really kind of interesting...no. No. No. However, I can say that sometimes, while at the bar, my friends can talk me into performing my oral impression of money coming out of a tightass butt-hole. Ha. How's that for a googlable moment?::

Also, in 1988, you could only buy Rowan yarn from a handful of "stockists" around in my state. Evidently Rowan wasn't interested in spreading their seed just anywhere. They had their standards. Back then. When knitting was a standard-protected craft.

This sweater here was probably my favorite, out of the entire book. It's a children's sweater. Love the colors.



Here's my second favorite choice, at that time. I even bought yarn for it (something acrylic, no doubt).



But something about the pattern held me back from even swatching. I think I was intimidated.

By the collar.



Yeah. That collar. In all its limp-ass-symmetrical glory.

I think I was afraid that mine wouldn't turn out like the picture. I mean, look at it. The collar. Wouldn't you be scared too?

And the errant, protuding pube? Pure, unwaxed, Rowan genious.



Maybe today's knitting is not worthy of shaving yesterday's ass, after all. Just Sayin.

::Swear to the goddess-of-cheese-clothed-crotchiness, the pube is in the photo. I double dare anyone with this book to take a look and back me up. In fairness to the undumbed down times of yesteryear, there is something about white wool that seems a magnet for the short and curlies. ::

And didja get a load of the sleeve seams? To die for. While both are little puckers, I love how one is more puckered. Than the other.

Intelligent.
Artistic.
Not dumb.
Either.

Here's another example of that unique sleeve-fit-action. No dumbed-down pipe-fitters swimming in this artiste's gene pool.



For real, I loved this one. Still do. I'm not sure how the model feels about it, though.



Maybe she's mad because she didn't get the matching long underwear that went with the pullover version.



Oh Yeah. The Bright, Witty, Glory Days of Knitting: Lacy long-johns on a size 1 needle. On very expensive yarn.

How Undumb.

Wednesday’s Child if Full of Whoa

Thank you for indulging me in my moment of doubt, via my last post. Insecurity happens. And yes, Judith, some days I am a dry rub kinda gal. Unfortunately, it’s usually in the wrong way.

Today is Sunday. ::No shirt, shitlock.:: Wednesday of this week, I return to work, courtesy of two back-to-back days of hours-upon-hours of painfully imposed staff inservice. Talk about your dry rubs. On a humpday. Oh, the whimsy.

And now it’s time to start the annual wail-song.

Summer is done.

Wail over.

Truthfully, I always look forward to returning to work in the fall. You see, if didn’t have a job to go to in the fall, I’d not “have my summers off.” I’d not have opportunity to enjoy the lazy, hazy, days upon days of feeling like a totally indulged, spoiled brat. At 46 years old. I’m tellin’ ya, it's an annual treat, beyond my wildest, exclaimabilities. And neither is it hateful.

::Another benefit of returning to work is access to my dictionary.::

And besides, I love my job. I love the structure and routine, and the kids and the energy and the overall sense of professional competency, a la flight by the seat of my pants. And, my family and neighbors alike, always appreciate the annual return of my daily hygiene practices.

Is That an Elephant in the Living Room, or are You Just Happy to See Me Go?
On Friday, my son leaves for college. I have nothing to say on this matter. No thoughts or feelings. I’m a grown woman. Well-adjusted. Mature.

Sidenote to parting child: My job is done. You have your entire life before you. Godspeed, hey. Just one thing? Please give me a week's notice ,if you plan on coming home for Thanksgiving. This way I can give the new tenant who is renting your room, adequate notice. For the record, sometimes college students get invited home by their roommates for weekends and holiday breaks. I think this sort of thing affords excellent opportunities for interpersonal growth and exposure to other life forms. Just so ya know. See? I'm totally okay with you being gone. From our home. For weeks and weeks. You're grown. Have I mentioned, My Job is Done?

Always, your mother.

And no, I'm not in denial. Because being in denial, would suggest the existence of a problem. An impending loss. A life transition. An "oject-du-deny" or a "deny-ee," if you will.

But not me, man.
I'm good.
Solid.
The Beans.

Ass Can See Clearly Now
All day yesterday, it was evident that the lease on my contact lenses was up, and it was time to toss. So, last night, while preparing for bed, after brushing my teeth and before the nightly pee, I tossed my contacts in the toilet. (Pee and boobs..)

Then I went to bed. In my nice shortie nightie.

This morning, I got out of bed, pulled on my yoga pants, under my nightie, and went downstairs to face the Sunday. About 10 minutes into the newspaper, my right cheek started itching, a little. In an annoying, poky, itchy kind of way. Being the lazy ass that I be, I shifted weight to the other cheek and kept on reading.

The poky itchy continued. And then I started to worry, a little. What if it’s a bug? Or a spider??!!!?? A half-dead spider, half-smooshed on my ass. No, no...a half-dead, half-smooshed spider who is totally aware of her impending demise and desperately trying to lay her last sac of eggs, in my ass, before taking her last, half-smooshed breath.

Oh my god, I’m thinking, as I run the faster-you-run-the-scardier-you-get-run of childhood. (You remember that one? Running back to the house after taking the trash to the garage, after dark? Every step to safety, making you somehow more afraid?)

Once in the bathroom, I really start to panic. I pull off the pants and start swiping manically at my cheek. Because I was afraid of touching whatever it was, I really did not give this butt whacking my best effort. Instead, I hoped that the “I’m gonna get you,” frenzied, hand job would be enough to scare the half-dead-half-smooshed-lethally-venomous-egg-laying-black-widow off my ass. To make us both feel better, I promised aloud to let whatever-it-was to live, then added that a reciprocal courtesy would be the decent thing, as well.

After the hand-to-ass dance, I scanned the floor for deadly bug debris. Seeing nothing on the floor, I suddenly felt calm and brave and all grown up. And with a burst of additional courage, I rubbed my finger over the offended area. ::I still could not bring myself to look at it in the mirror. I wasn’t ready for what I might see . Besides, I think I might have some legitimate denial stuff going on with the size of my ass, a fret I’ll save for another day.:: As I gently poked at the area, I felt a distinct abnormality on my skin. Something hard and crisp and totally stuck on my ass. Realizing it was too crisp to be a half-dead-half-smooshed spider, I lost all sense of trepidation and ripped the thing from my flesh.

It was a contact lens. Blue and puckered and dry as a witches.... pork rub.

Evidently I picked up a little something off a toilet seat last night.

First I chuckled.

Then I tried to find some mystical message within, such as "What would it look at, if my ass could see?" The answer came loud and clear, "Your husbands ass. While you sleep." As asses go, his is pretty sweet, but not mystically so. Perhaps, if my once seeing-eye-ass could talk....we'd hear a differnt tail?

But for now, that's as far as my ass can see.
And officially concludes today's list of Sunday Sundries.

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, From My Loins, I Work Too, Passages

Reward for Safe Return.

Okay, so I’m reading my last post, you know, doing that post-post analysis* that some bloggers are wont to do, and suddenly someone is clutching my breastessess, in utter mortification.

Uhh, before you grab that cocktail and sit down in titillating anticipation, forget about it. I clutch myself.

So, what, exactly is the source of the breast-clutching horror?
It seems I’ve lost my whimsy. My irrelevance. For, in that last post, ::I can hardly say this, I’m tellin’ ya:: I actually and quite seriously describe the contents of my new cabinet drawers.

As though this is interesting. Life altering, even.

As though people clicked out of this ol’ swine hole thinking “Wow, I’ll have to try that drawer thing. Now, how did that go again?”

As though, after reading my post, the ol’ knitblogger IM’s were firing up… "have you seen what Marcy did with her drawers?” And the word spread, like a cyber version of the opening scene of Bye, Bye Birdie.

Yeah. Exactly. So, let's just stick the rotisserie pole up my ass, right now, grab some sauce and fire up the grill.

How did this happen, exactly? How did Pig lose her Whimsy? Well, I think I know.

Remember that Bible story about Samsonite? The guy who disobeyed God by cutting his hair, then lost all his luggage while on vacation? He said it was just a mix-up, during a layover at the camel-stop. But we know what really happened: He cut his hair and lost his mojo. Then his world came crashing ‘round him.

You see, I’m afraid that the act of cleaning up my sty took away my mojo. My whimsy. Clean and organized goes against the very nature of my inner beast. And now I’m paying a terrible price, through the loss of interesting thoughts and words.

However, harken thee and be ye not afraid! The force of nature has my backside. For every act of cleanliness, there is a is a direct and opposing act of filth. And, like the growing out of a Wrath-of-God-Inducing haircut (And we've all had one.), we just need to give it some time.

Meanwhile, I’m up at the cottage, for the last hurrah of summer. And it’s raining. Which is a beautiful thing, today.

Knitting a Knomaly
I am currently working on a secret project, using some yarn I found during my cleaning binge. The yarn is some really weird, irritating, vintage shit, purchased during my Ebay period. It’s very strange. As you can see:



Even though it's strange, it's quite simple to describe: Two strands of silky dental floss, with a strand of Brillo pad, and the occasional embalmed fly carcass.

I’m using it with another Ebay purchase yarnomaly, to make a party shawl.

The results, so far, are pretty cool, but not very photogenic. So, I’m on a wait-and-see-how-it-goes-before-posting-picture plan. I’d hate to wind up the poster-child-knit-of-the-week of a snarky WTF knitblog post. Well, hate is a strong word…and any publicity, good or bad, is all good, right….?

Nope. Not ready.

But I’ll be sure to keep you posted.
In the mean time, I’ll just be up here, buggin’. In the rain.

*Ever notice the anal in analysis? Coincidence? Afreud not.

Labels: Deep Shit

Once upon a time there was this pig. She was a cute little pig, in that snorty, slob-esque, curly-ass-piggy kind of way.

One day, the cute little pig decided that even a sow has her shit-living limitations.



So she pulled aside her boar, looked into his beady little eyes and squealed "Do me."

A favor.

Take me shopping for a new sty.

And she wound up with this palace. A pig palace.



Ain't we purty? Ummhmmm.

Well, purty comes at a cost. These simple pictures belie not only the physical work required in this makeover, but also the mental anguish.

It was just so hard to decide how to use the space. And I still haven't quite decided on all of it, but I'm making headway. In a pigheaded kind of way. And it doesn't help that, on account of it being college season and all ::gulp. Denial. Denial.:: that the local home supply stores are all out of shelf and drawer organizers.

Here's what I got so far:



This isn't going to be yarn storage, per say. I have too much, for one thing. And I'm not of the sort who can ponder the pomposity of her yarn stash, on a daily basis. This is on account of my liking to breathe. And stuff.

And if I saw all my yarn, displayed all in one place, on a regular basis, I'd be dead in a week. Which is exactly why my yarn is stored on three separate floors of my home, in private bins.

But I digress.

In one drawer are my circular needles, and a basket of knitting tools, which were once stored in a knitting bag. In the other drawer are baskets containing works in progress, again, previously stored in another knitting bag.

That bottom shelf thingy will store current project yarns. And I'm thinking that top book shelf will be a showcase for new yarn purchases, before I put them in a bin. You know how that goes. Ya gotta coppa couple feels before sending it off to Knever-Knit Her Land.

Speaking of Knever-Knit-Her Land, while reorganizing my shit, I came across some infinished business, soon headed for Frog World:



On the left is the Smocking On the Move, from a past Interweave Knits. I still love this pattern, but my boobs have outgrown the size I knit. If it weren't a travelling cable pattern, I probably could pull it off (or at least on), but when I hold it up to test the fit, the cable pulls noticably. The yarn is a Harris blend, and will find some great new use in the future.

On the left is JStrizzy's own Dreamy Creamy design, in Rowan Calmer. I loved the pattern, but effed up the sleeves. I had planned on just cutting the sleeves out and making it into a tank thing, but again, the shifting of the boobage over the past year, brought the eyelet holes for the ribbon, just about nip level. ::yeah, boobs and pee, boobs and pee....It's who I be. No apologee::

Further rummage revealed this lost friend, the lacy tunic from Knitting the New Classics by Kristen Nichols. I really, really loved knitting this piece, but I fear it just isn't going to work out.



I found a significant error in the shaping of one armhole, which is probably why it went to the bad boy bin in the first place. It's been sitting there for two years now, and I fear it's just accumulated too much bad knarma. But damn, if I just didn't love knitting this pattern.

What's that? You don't believe that I really, really loved knitting this pattern? Well, lookie lou at what I found in an old Target bag, at the bottom of a yarn bin this week:



Yep. Same damn sweater. This one was knit a long, long time ago, when the pattern was in a Vogue Knitting. Kind of like going on a date and realizing that, 10 years prior, you threw up in the guys back seat after too many tequila shooters. As in: I had absolutely no recollection of doing either. Both All pieces are now in the trash.

Yeah. Love hurts.

::Is it just me, or do those shots of sweaters on death row, kind of bring to mind mug shots?::

Shawl-ly Goodness



Okay, I promised some knitting knews, and here it be. The Ocean Lace Wrap is a wrap. The ends are woven and it now awaits a square-off on the floor, with some pins and a spray bottle. It was a fun knit, and very easy. Too easy, toward the end. And it was the sensory delight of the yarn that kept this project afloat.

Pattern: Ocean Lace Stole, from Just One More Row
Yarn: Silk/Wool blend from Spirit Trails.

My husband just came home and announced that we're going to the cottage. Tonight.

I said FTS. We go tomorrow. 'Cause I need to line up some car knitting and map out the pee stops. ::Boobs and pee, pee and boobs...Get over it.::

Clever Closings
The other day The Cakers and I were talking about our broken jogger and how it needs to be fixed. After some thinking on the matter, she said "Only daddy can fix it. Right? Or Cameron. Because he's a dolt, just like daddy."

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo

For the record, it’s getting much harder to come up with original word plays on the MEME scheme. That being said, Her-Finely-Fur-Tailed Rabbitchness has thumped me for a MEME, and I’m happy to oblige.

Not that I don’t love me a good meme now and again, but the timing on this particular invitation is divine. ‘Cause I got lots going on,and can really use the Get-Out-of-a-Blog-Post-Free card.

Today’s Screming Memie is: Write down 5 of your own idiosyncrasies. ::When I asked my husband for input on this, his first response was “What's an idiosyncrasy?". After hearing an abbreviated definition, he says “Would that be something like you fixing dinner with a potato chip clip thingy, hanging from the end of your boob thingy?" Uh, no. That’s called A Terrible-Wonderful-Accident-in-the-Pantry-Thingy.::

1) I never finish any cup of coffee. At least one sip before refilling, I dump it. And I leave at least two sips in the cup, when I’m done for the day.

2) If someone says something that triggers a thought about a song, I must spontaneously sing that song, before the conversation can continue. For example, when a toddler of mine would ask to “get down” from the high chair, I’d have to sing (and dance) “Get down, get down….” My brother lived for a time in San Mateo, near the bay. While I was visiting him, we’d go for walks by the bay. He’d say “The tide is high…” and of course, I’d sing. Now, whenever someone says “The tide is high” around my brother, he bursts into Blondie. Then silently curses me.

Sometimes I burst into song after a triggering thought. This is most disturbing to my family. Just before Ana was born, we moved to a big, brick house. A few days after the dust settled, Cam had a friend over. They were eating breakfast and I was doing dishes nearby. As I looked out the front window of my new home, I had a sudden surge of joy,causing me to spontaneously belt out “She’s a brick... hah-owse," much to Cam's embarrassment, and his friend's awkward delight. I was hugely pregnant. Singing brick house, without warning. My boy still brings it up now and then.

The spontaneous song thing is a curse gift I inherited from me mom. We used to challenge her with topics. She always won. Of course, she was a country music buff, which I now understand gave her a considerable edge.

3) When I’m out walking for exercise, and a jogger passes me on the sidewalk, I hold my breath from when the jogger is two sidewalk squares in front of me, until what I guess to be two squares past. I live in a pedestrian community. By that, I mean there are lots of walkers and joggers. One day, what appeared to be a jogging club of some 15-odd people, jogged past me. Slowly. I nearly passed out.

And if someone jogs upon me from behind, I must hold my breath until they are at least three sidewalk squares in front of me. The last time I was out walking, a woman passed me from behind and as I held my breath and counted sidewalk squares, I noticed that her butt crack was eating her shorts and I started laughing, and therefore breathing before the allotted square. I think I might have cured myself.

4) I will continuously edit, revise and/or rewrite a report or document until it’s time to turn it in, regardless of whether or not it is done to apparent perfection. To me, there is always a better word or a better way to turn a phrase or perhaps a vital piece of information unintentionally omitted. Because of this, I cannot complete reports much before the due date. In my line of work, I can't turn in the report until it's been discussed at a meeting, so there's no turning it in early.

It takes me at least 6 attempts to write an acceptable post-it note, to attach to a document. I obsess on wording and spelling and legibility. A scratch-out is an automatic do-over.

5) When nervous or preoccupied or trying to focus, I flick my thumb and my fingers, as though I’m silently counting on them. At important meetings, I do it under the table.

.
Well, that’s it for today. It seems that this meme has been around the block and since I haven’t been keeping up with my blog reads, I think I’ll pass on passing it on to five people, except for Kim. Otherwise you are hereby invited to Meme yourself.

And speaking of Kim, check out the gorgeous stuff she did on commission for Norma. (towards the bottom of the August 12 post). Yummaroni.

I should have a Knuttin' But Knit post real soon. I have much on my mind these days. It's hard to get stuff out, when I'm in this mode.

Today's ponder: Why does Blogger spellcheck not recognize the word "blog?"

Labels: MEME

I know to you, this might sound strange (and lyrically familiar), but wish it would rain. Just a day or two. Or three.

Yeah, yeah, we really need rain. And yeah, it's been hotter than a turd on a silver platter, despite the recent cold front that drop-kicked temperatures from the mid 90's, all the way down to the upper 80's.

But the motivation behind my special rain prayer is not out of concern for the parched and thirsty countryside. It stems not from worry for the locally-grown blueberries, going raisin on the vine, long before making it to the back of my refrigerator, where they typically shrivel under my direct supervision.

No. This all about my being sick to frickin' death of having to take The Cakers to the park. Every day.

To the park, where there is no shade.

To the park, where there is no breeze.

To the park, where the combination of blacktop and woodchip creates a temperature variable of up to 15 degrees.

To the park, where the drinking fountain water tastes like the smell of 3-day roadkill, and is just 5 degrees cooler than the air temperature, blacktop variable notwithstanding.

To the park, where, there are no public restrooms, aside from the well-baked lovely port-a-john.

Yeah, you guessed it. It's that last pointe du pottay which is the real issue for me. Because ever since my trip to the hospital, with my special variation of bladder wrack, I've been a bit peeanoid ::or paravoid?:: of going out in public, without proper, porcelain support. And I'd go in the sandbox before I'd use the park porta-sewer.

So that is why I wish it would rain. Just a day. Or two. To reduce the pressure and restore my sense of security.

And to stop a mother's lying (The park is closed....been overrun by rabid dogs.....and bumble bees, on crack. See that little boy over there? In the wheelchair? He was walking fine when he got up this morning, before he went to, the park...)

I guess I am managing my pee fear a little better, considering that I actually got in the car with my husband, last weekend, and went on an 150-mile car trip. This was especially meaningful, since I had somehow associated my illness with having to boldly hold what no man has ever held before, on our previous ride home from the cottage, a couple weeks back.

Not that my husband is a cold-hearted,healthy-pee-hole killer (tormenter, maybe, killer, non), but he's a guy. And when we're on the road and I need to go, I typically endure the standard peequest protocal, as follows:

1) Can it wait until we see a pink elephant, with a monkey flying out of it's butt? No.

2) Can it wait until we get home? No.

3) If I slow down to 80 mph, can you go in that Pringles can? No.

4) What if we eat the Pringles first? No.

5) Can it wait 20 minutes? Ummmm, I guess.

And a couple of weeks ago, less than 24 hours after the most recent, bladder-stressed trip, I was in the ER, fearing my imminent demise.

And once the diagnosis of UTI was announced, I looked at my frightened, bleary-eyed husband and slurred "You Bastard."

And he looked away. Ashamed.

So, when it was time to leave for our anniversary trip, I balked.

I'm not ready.

Your peeing pleasure will be at my command. I promise. Just say the word and we stop.

Too much pressure. I'll end up with the dry urges, then I'll just sit there, and feel guilty for wasting time, while praying for no weird noises or smells or drop-and-roll colostomy bags from the stall next door...shit happens. And I'm scared.

But I thought you wanted me to tie you up??

Oh yeah. Mmmmm. Okay. But we stop, drop and pee, on a dime.

Promise.

Well, 6.5 hours later, we arrived at the cottage, bladders unharmed. And the rest is recently blogged history.

Okay, so I tested the integrity of the husband's p-promise. A little. So, maybe a few p-stops weren't so necessary. So, maybe a couple of times I just washed my hands and checked my ass in the mirror.

But I was scared, dammit.

And my ass was lookin' mighty fine.

And now, I just wish it would rain. Just a day. Or two.

In the meantime, there's been an emergency public service announcement on the TV. Seems that the local parks have been over run by senior citizen nudists. Public officials are urging people to stay in their homes, close to their toilets televisions, until the crisis is under control. And the swings and teeters are thoroughly sanitized.

Crap. That one won't work. She'd wanna go watch....

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, From My Loins, Now You're Whining

To celebrate the anniversary, my husband and I went to the cottage, for a romantic, overnight getaway.

Now, at the risk of sounding like a cold, jaded, shriveled up ol’ bitty, and, while I love my hunky guy to all get-out, the romantic piece of the excursion was not necessarily the meat on my weekend platter.

I know, I know.

But truth be, what I really looked forward to on our little escape, was doing stuff we can’t usually do, with The Cakers around. And further truth be, it is possible to find romance, after hours, with a sleeping toddler in the house.

But if your main freaky hankerin’includes asking your husband to tie you up, outdoors, in broad daylight, well, you're going to need some special, lone, circumstances. And baby, my strappin’ lone ranger, he delivered the goods.

Immediately upon arrival at the lake, and well before we unpacked (well, we never really did unpack, exactly.), I was half naked, with rope in tow, begging my husband to do the deed.

Okay. The other half of my naked was covered with a bathing suit.

Okay. At the end of the rope was huge turtle floaty thing.

Okay. My husband tied me and my turtle island to the end of the dock.

And before you could say “lasso-a-ho’" (i.e. within minutes,seconds even) the gentle motion of the lake, under the turtle, brought me to that strange place of consciousness, where one is aware of one’s surroundings, whilst drooling the spittle of the besotted.

In fact, the successful implementation of this very event was my only real wish, for the weekend. And I was not disappointed.

Other points of weekend interest:

-A late afternoon boat date.

-A scrumptious, Wharfside dinner in Frankfort. ::Shitake-dusted sea scallops in a mango chutney butter and asparagus the size of blades of grass and crème brulee cheese-cake::.

-A late evening boat ride to the sand bar (it’s a lake thing, no bartenders), where we got a little slurpy and a lot giggly. On our dusky ride back to the cottage, my Captain treated me to donuts on the high sea. My jaws were aching from the perpetual grin. ::Gawd, how I loves me a bad boy!::

-A campfire.

-Star gazing from the end of the dock. ::The night was clear and the stars were thick as a woolen blanket::.

-With my sweetie at my side, from the end of the dock, catching the biggest and most colorful shooting star either of us has ever seen. Ever. It was like a love wink from the Big Guy.

I guess it was a pretty romantic escape, after all. And the best part? We didn't even have to try. And, just like a periwinkle shooting twinkle, I figure that’s a pretty good sign.





I wasn't able to get any good sunset shots, what with the spinning of the boat in the middle of the lake, and all. But I did capitalize in this op, as we pulled up to the dock. ::speed boatin' gives us both the hair of TV evangelistas.::




Knitting Knuggets
I'm almost done with the wrap, so I'll save pictures for the final product.

I have been snooping around the blogosphere, looking for future, knitworthy inspiration. And I must say, the blogosphere has delivered.

First on my eyeball list is the Cafe Cardi, from the summer Cast-On. In fact, the ever-bustling Bron is whipping one out, as we speak.

Second on the list is this incredibly edible number, from Girl From Auntie. I have been the consummate, drooling admirer of the Rogue, since its birth, but never had much interest in knitting a hoodie,for some reason.

But this Eris cardigan, is perfect.

Now, all I have to do is save my pennies so I can buy enough ink to enable me to print the 40 pages of pdf instruction, currently resting in (on?) my hard drive.

And then pray that someone, somewhere, is translating the chart instructions to text. And further pray that this someone, somewhere, will be willing to share the chart translation.

::Is that legal? I mean I bought the pattern. I just hate the charts. And really, this complaint is absolutely no reflection on the designer, I'm just a rut-row-by-row-text-instruction-kind-of gal. What can I say?::.

That's it for today. With the invitations for my return to work showing up in the mail, on a daily basis, I think I'll go cry, a minute.



In the meantime, here's another shot of my handsome frog prince, from the weekend. This was taken at the sand bar. Yes, that's really the color of the water. And yes, those are his real shoulders.

Labels: Cottage, Manpie

…Got you on my, my-hind.

That was my husband, singing to me, first thing this morning.

“Uh, honey?” I sez.

“Yeah?”

“I hate to smack down a precious, romantic, albeit off-key moment, but, ummm, that’s a break-up song.”

“It is? That’s stupid.”

“Have you ever listened to the lyrics?"

"Uh, no."



Anyway, here we are, six years (and 15 pounds and ½ head of gray) ago, today.

Because I could not think of any other even mildly anniversary-related songs for dedication to my big guy, on this most auspicious occasion, I hereby bastardize this Johnny Cash favorite.

So, my darling man,
Without further ado,
A lyrical anomaly,
Messed up just for you:

If you were a Carpenter
And I were a lady,
You'd sing Close To You.
I'd have your baby.

If a thinker was your trade,
I would still find you.
Carrying the thoughts you made.
Clarifying behind you.

If your hands were made of wood,
Would I still love you?
I’d answer “I think I could."
"If you’d just remind me.”

If you were Steve Miller
Flying like an Eagle,
I’d walk your dog, below.
A cute little Beagle.

Save my love through loneliness.
Save my love through sorrow.
I give you my onliness.
Give me your tomorrow.

(Heartfelt apologies to John and June Carter Cash. Original lyrics found here.)

Happy Anniversary Baby. Got on my mind.

Would that it were 26 years instead of these piddly six, except you would've been in, like, middle school or something, at the time. Then I'd be, like, in jail.

But, well, you know what I mean.
Love You Huge.

So, last week Thursday evening, I was putting my knitting to bed, in its little brown paper bag. And I picked up my little zippy bag doo-hicky, which faithfully follows my current project, every where we go.

What's a little zippy bag do-hicky? Well, my little zippy bag do-hicky is about 5x4 inches, red mesh, and came from the inside of a funky little day planner I received in a free Clinique gift set, a few years back.

I guess my little zippy bag do-hicky was supposed to serve as a storage pouch for keeping tiny day planner-related what-nots, but also happened to be the perfect size for holding one small pair of scissors, stitch markers, a crochet hook, a measuring tape and a clicky row counter.

And I loved it.

And now it's gone. And I know not where.

Thursday night, I put it in the bag. Saturday evening, it was gone. I have since emptied The Cakers toy boxes, drawers and even her bed linens. I've pulled couch cushions and emptied kitchen drawers. I even looked down the basement. And in my undies drawer. No. Where.

This is the kind of thing that, well, just grinds me. I know these items can be replaced, sort of. Although I'm sure I won't find another perfectly sized red mesh pouch. But the pisser for me, is that I don't think I should have to replace these items. Because they were rightfully mine and perfectly fine, right where they were. Where they belonged. With my knitting. In the brown paper bag.

So, yesterday, I get a call from my ex-husband, who tells me that the son of a couple we used to know, just died of bacterial meningitis. Of course I was stunned. And saddened.

He was the youngest of five boys. Only 16. We were not particularly close with his parents, although my ex and the boy's father were once best friends. In fact, I didn't even know they had a fifth child. And I haven't seen either parent in years. But still, it just breaks my heart.

And it scares my heart, to the core. Because, Tuesday night, this strapping high school athlete went to bed complaining of a headache and fever, and never woke up. He died within 24 hours of the first complaint of symptoms.

When my children were babies, I was always frightened of the fever and listlessness of the common virus. Babies seem so vulnerable. And they can't tell us how they feel, or what hurts, or how badly. And when they get sick, a mother just worries. No matter what the doctor says.

But a 16 year-old going to bed early, with a fever and headache? I guess I wouldn't think much about it, unless it lingered. I just can't wrap my brain around an illness coming on so quick, and so lethal. Stealing babies, while they sleep.

So, today The Cakers went to daycare, so I could run some errands. One of the items on my agenda was to replace my little lost zippy bag do-hicky and the contents. Between Joanne Fabrics and Office-Max and Hancock Fabrics, I pretty much got what I needed. But it will never be the same.

I initially felt crabby that I had to spend a free afternoon, replacing items that shouldn't be gone. But then I remembered that on this very day, some very good people were burying a child.

Then I sent up a prayer for healing.
And another, of thanksgiving.
For so many blessings.
For the lost and the found.

...With grace; apt and able.

Yep, that's me, right behind you, at the grocery store, simultaneously chewing gum, checking a shopping list and plucking camel toe from my cho-cho, without once running my grocery cart into your Achilles.

You likely don't recognize me in my current form, skipping across this playground of adult competency, with nary a stumble.

That's right, you hardly know me, now, all standing without falling, and shit.

But you knew me then, that girl:

1) On the playground, face down in the dirt, after a spontaneous dead fall from a simple sit position, on the horizontal monkey bar thingy. The very same thingy, where most of her female classmates (plus or minus Evan Spielmacher, in his mother's nylon leggin's), would spend every recess, hangin' by a knee, while snapping their bodies around and around the bar, pony tails whipping through wood chips, like the curb brush on a street cleaner.

2) In elementary gym class, hanging from the chin-up bar, like dead cow on a meat hook, while classmates watched on, eerily quiet. Where sweet Mrs. Czuhai, the wall-eyed gym teacher, recited the usual words of encouragement.*

And even worse than the immediate embarrassment, was her most sincere (and mortifying) belief that word of her failure to meet the national standard for chin-ups, was being passed on to the President of the United States, himself, as she hung.**

3) In gym class, again. Sitting on the knot at the bottom of the rope climb. Staring at the ceiling. And staring at the ceiling. Some more. ::Although, there is something to be said about sitting on a knot, at the end of a rope. But not with the entire fifth grade class watching. ::

4) The only kid in the school who ever struck out three times, in one game, of kickball.

5) The only kid who was not just chosen last, every time, but on at least two occasions, not chosen at all. They just walked away.

6) The girl on the 7th grade softball team, who was easily convinced that there is such a position as Right Field Backstop (backup for the real right fielder).

7) The young woman playing catcher, on the adult, rec. softball team, who was sweetly asked by the homeplate ump, to quit fetching missed pitches (i.e., every pitch). "I'll get those, hon. You stay put." She said.

8) The coed in the Intro to Racquetball class at Michigan State, who, on account of repeatedly hitting herself in the forehead with racquet, was nicknamed "Ace" by the instructor, and assigned a full-time spotter.

In racquetball.

A spotter.

9) The young adult snorkler at John Pennekamp state park, who was convinced she was drowning, but didn't have the 50 dollars to pay for pulling the emergency cord on the life vest, so repeatedly put her feet on the coral, causing the guy on the boat to yell at her, a la megaphone. So, out of desperation (this was life, or death, I'm tellin' ya), she gingerly snuck little tip-toes on the coral, while coughing and gagging and clawing savagely at her now very embarrassed date (and collegiate athlete, whom she had flown hundreds of miles, on the second day of the Air Traffic Controllers strike, to see, and who didn't speak to her for the rest of the seven day vacation. And, of course, never called her, again).

Of course, there's more. But I'll spare you. I think you get the picture.

So, what's with all the clumsy reminiscing?

Well, me and The Cakers have been doing alot of hanging at the local parks. And, the other day I noticed that there didn't seem to be any kids there, like the one that I once was.

No shrinking violets, skulking in the shadows of the school building.

No soccer-impaired, 4th grade vixens, luring boys into the bushes.

No fitness pathetics, rolling potato bugs along the blacktop, at the end of a tiny stick.

Nope. Not a one. Just a bunch of physically confident children, jumping and climbing and whipping themselves around monkey bars, with wild-haired abandon. ::The Cakers so badly wants to try that, but she doesn't understand that just because she's the size of a fourth grader, doesn't mean she can play like one::. And I said to myself, well, yay.

I'm sure that the kids like me are still around. But I also think that, today, kids are afforded better, safer and more structured opportunities for learning and practicing physical coordination. And I believe that the opportunity to build physical confidence, in an emotionally safe environment, is key.

In fact, my first exposure to organized fitness was kindergarten PE. My one and only recollection of kindergarten PE, is of me wearing my rabbit-fur hand muff, while running relays (Hey, if you're a fit-tard, might was well look good, while falling down).

Then I barfed. On my muff. And on the floor. The smell of crunchy, sour bunny fur and cedar chips and school floor wax, will forever be married, in my mind. Sadly, the muff was never the same.

And yeah, I was a cheerleader in high school. But only because there were 14 uniforms, and 13 girls who tried out. I still recall tryouts, where I spent 10 minutes on the gym floor, trying to get a knot out of my sneaker ties, after I kicked them off to do the splits. And my friends, first staring at me in wide-eyed horror, then giggling. Unashamed. But through years of practice, I did improve. And by senior year, I earned it outright.

I guess my point here is that there seems to be hope, now, for the child I once was. And I know there will always be the non-athletic scapegoat***, who hobbles through school, until their PE requirements are met in 10th grade. But at least there appears to be a better sensitivity to our ilk. And safer opportunities to grow and learn.

So, go hug an oaf.
And have a Thursday.

*I attended middle school with Mrs. Czuhai's son; a nice kid who, unfortunately, inherited his mother's ocular gifts, if not her physical prowess. Not a good look, in middle school.

**I later redeemed myself with the big guy on Pennsylvania Avenue, by performing surprisingly well in the final event of the fitness challenge: The Cock Shuttle. In fact, I think that one is still one of my all time favorites. Thank you, Mr. President.

***For the record, back in the caveman days, I played a vital role in the survival of our species. Remember, back then, when the saber tooth tiger would come along, and every body would scramble up a tree, and wait for the danger to pass? Remember that? Well, I was the one who, distracted by the dingleberries in her personal undergrowth, would unceremoniously drop from the tree, like a coconut turd, thus satisfying the sabertooth and saving the clan, for another day. You can thank me in comments, personal email or by sending me presents, via UPS.

Edit note: I realize my blog has been wonky, for viewing purposes. I don't know what it was,but the only cure was to change the number of posts per page, to one or two. So, if you haven't been here in a few days, there check the August archives for updates. Sorry for any inconvenience or confusion and for any blogline upheaval, yesterday.

Labels: Tales of a Klutz

First of all, I didn't mean to frighten anyone with that last post. Sometimes I just feel the need to kind of open her up, ya know?

So, today we're going to talk about something a little less scary than the contents of my brain. Parasites. I got one. A big one. For the most part, the entity that is my parasite, goes mostly unseen. Although, yesterday I did detect a strong parasitic odor around the refrigerator door.

So, aside from a refrigerator door handle smelling of Liz Claiborne's Curve, how do I know I have a parasite? Mostly its the disappearance of little things, like the last can of diet Coke (with lime), the tiny peanut butter cups from the moose tracks ice cream, spoons and forks. And more forks. (I have, like, four forks left). And my car. Okay, a car is not so small.

This parasite doesn't just feed off this hostess. He also moves her shit around. You know, stuff like a huge load of clean laundry, mysteriously moved from the dryer, to the ironing board. Heaped so precariously, that it tumbles when the phone rings.

And speaking of phones, those disappear as well. And run out of charge. At which point, they mysteriously reappear, in a neat pile, in the hallway. ::This is most irritating, as, with our particular phone model, the empty phone base rings when there is an incoming call, making it impossible to find the handset by sound.::

I guess I shouldn't complain too much about my mysterious blood-sucker. It could be worse. It could be money or booze or my underwear, on the MIA list.

And the car is disappearing every morning at 6 a.m., for a good cause. A job.

And I really shouldn't complain too much, because in a few short weeks I'll be driving this diet coke-suckin', fork-hoardin', phone-talkin', saggin'-ass parasite, to a new host setting. Far away.

Then, he won't suck 'round here no more.

Except from our bank account.

Then I'll be here, crying in my diet coke, sniffing the refrigerator door, and sneaking dirty forks into desk drawers.

So, I really shouldn't complain too much. I just wish I could see the little turd, ever once a while. Face-to-face. 'Cause I'm really gonna miss him.

And I'd really, really like my forks back.

Knittin' Knuggets
In comments, Daphne asked about the yarn for my wrap. ::I guess I have been a bad girl about keeping my Works in Progress updated, on sidebar. :: Daphne, it's a silk/wool blend, from Spirit Trail Fiberworks , which was so generously gifted to me by Kim.

The wrap pattern is the Ocean Lace Stole from Just One More Row. Wow. Getting a little linky today, now am I?

The wrap is coming along. I added a couple more inches last night. I'm finding it harder and harder to carve out knitting time with The Cakers around, these days. She's a girl on the go. And that's a serious understatement.

While on vacation, I purchased this book from the local yarn shop. ::I'm trying real hard not to buy yarn, until I dent my stash a bit more. More? Heh. I crack myself up. But still wanted to show my support....Yeah, that's it::.



I'm not going to review or critique this book, or anything like that. ::Picturing flying monkeys from the witches castle and the straw that be my innards, strewn hither and yarn.:: Because, truthfully, I don't know shit of such things. I do know what appeals to me, and care not what makes "good design."

Anyhoo, you knat listers might recall that this book came up in discussion, early in the summer. The knat list complaints were mostly that the pictures don't really show what the finished product looks like.

I agree that some of the sweater models aren't shown in full detail. I guess that doesn't bug me so much. I was mostly interested in the afghan and pillow patterns, and there is also a pattern for a gorgeous shawl.

But what I really like about this book, is that it's really, really wide. So, when it's on the bookshelf with the rest of my books, it makes itself readily known.

And when I pull out a neighboring book, to peruse, the Dallas book becomes unbalanced, on account of its width, and slips to the floor. Thus making itself impossible to ignore. On account of this, I highly recommend this book. Because it indicates the sheer genius of the designer. And for that reason, alone, I think she deserves both the recognition and revenue.

And I'm gonna wrap this up with a little something from Jack. ::Do you know Jack?::

I can picture in my mind a world without war, a world without hate. And I can picture us attacking that world, because they'd never expect it. -Jack Handey

Edit Note, 8/3: I took out the picture because I think it was messing up my parameters, or something, because my posts weren't fitting. Sorry for any bloglines confusion. It's been bugging the shit...

Today's post is really just a bunch of nonsense. So, if you're looking for stimulating, intellectual discussion, you'll need to move on.

Hey. Still here?
How's it going?
::tap tap:: Is this thing on?

The morning after my evening at the ER, my husband asked me if I wanted a little something for breakfast. Evidently, CAT Scans and vaginal ultrasounds can make a girl hungry. I asked for eggs and toast.

How you want em? Asked the chef.

Ovary See. I replied.

I can see this is quickly going down the tubes. But no, really, think about it...*

Okay, Let us move on.

Back when, like, two weeks ago, while on vacation, I started writing a piece about, well, vacations. It was supposed to be a lovely little blend of nostalgia and anectdotal recollections, peppered with philosophical, deepass shit, like 30 Years After: The true meaning of iodine and baby oil, upon the nubile flesh..

Then it got bigger. And deeper. Then I fell in. And ended up with a nasty bump on my imgination.

The piece is still a something in progress, but I don’t know what, quite. Yet.

In the meantime, I shall fill our shared space today with meaningless, self-absorbed chatter. A little Monobloggoblasterbation. If You Will.

Reminder: The meaningful segue gets Mondays off. ::With a little elbow grease and ingenuity. Wink::

So, where was I?

Oh yeah.

Hair: I got a new haircut today. I look like an artichoke. I love artichokes. I do. Whether or not I love looking like an artichoke, remains to be seen. At least I got the midriff for it, which makes this the classic good-news-bad-news-hair-like-an-artichoke story.

Six Feet Under: What the fuck? You may recall that I just started watching this show this past spring. I’ve spent hours on end, with this family, courtesy of Blockbuster Video. So this new, unspeakable development, strikes me at a most personal core. I mean, I never, ever saw this coming: Claire dating a Republican. I. know.

Dudley Do Me: I caught a showing of “10” the other night. I don’t think I’ve ever really seen the entire movie before. Although, it’s possible I did but don’t remember. I mean, it was 1979. ‘Nuf said.

As I watched the movie, I found myself feeling kind of sad and nostalgic. First I was sad for poor, tiny, dead Dudley. Such a fine musician and one of the best character drunks I’ve ever seen in movies or on TV.

Then I felt sad for Bo, because I once read that her now dead husband John, wouldn't let her eat candy and once snatched a Snickers Bar out of her hand, before she could eat it. She reportedly saw this behavior as a sign of his love and devotion to her. And I was also sad for her because she married that guy when she was, like, twelve, which means that she likely went years and years without a Snickers Bar.

And then I wondered if she’s had a Snickers Bar since her father’s husband’s untimely demise, and further wondered if she noticed right away, that there aren’t as many peanuts as there used to be, and that the chocolate is kind of waxy. And then I wondered if she drooled.

Then I felt sad for Linda Evans, who (whom?) John Derek dumped to marry the pre-pubescent Bo, and wondered if John left Linda because she had wider shoulders than he did, which made him worry that she might be able to kick his ass. Then I hoped that she did just that.

Then I felt sad for Qiana. The same fabric, I believe, that Bo’s yellow dress she wore to dinner, in the movie, was made of.

I grew up kind of poor. Not real poor, but we didn’t splurge much on stuff like full-priced clothing. Anyway. During my sophomore year in college, a bunch of my high school friends got married. So, I splurged, full-price, on this scrumptious, Qiana dress, with a very risqué, key-hole top. The color was “Dusty Rose,” but I think I would’ve called it “Frosted Plum in the Pale Moonlight,” which kind of sounds like a T.J. Swann wine, but wasn’t.

That Qiana piece was probably one of my favorite dresses of all time. Because of the way it moved. It was clingy and swishy and when I walked, it took on a movement, all its own.

I also bought some platform heels, which did not match the dress. And a macramé purse, which matched neither dress or shoes. The purse had a linen lining. Into this macramé purse with the linen lining, I put an ink pen.

The first wedding reception I attended, in my beloved Qiana, was held at the St. Josapaitis, VFW hall. This was a fairly monumental event, for me, as I was seeing some high school pals I hadn’t seen in, hell, 18 months. I wanted to look my best. And damn, if I was NOT disappointed.

So, I enter the reception hall, and swish my way to the bar, for a cheap wedding reception rendition of a 7 - 7 (called a 10 - 10 (10 O’Clock whiskey and Upper 10). As I swished my way around the room, I’m telling ya, I thought, no, I KNEW that I was the cat’s ass.

So, finally, I meet up with some familiar faces, and we start chatting. Then a good friend points to my skirt and says, “What’s that?”

Fuck Me.

Ink marks. Dozens of them. It looked like a half formed spirograph arc. In the shape of a crescent moon.

Evidently, the pen in my purse had poked it’s way through the fabrics. And unbeknownst to me, as I was sashaying my cat’s ass around the room, bursting with bad-permed confidence, the pen was marking my every swaggle. Swish, Swish, Sunnuvabitch.

The Qiana responded pretty well to the ol’ hairspray treatment, but it was never the same. I had to wear it to the remainder of the weddings, because I had no money to buy anything else. Fortunately, Big Purses were in, so I managed to cover it discreetly, most of the time. And didn’t dance much.

So, I was sad for Qiana.

I don’t remember feeling sad for Julie Andrews though. Seems like she’s had it pretty good, overall, despite that little gender identity issue, a while back.

Wow, this came out about 3 miles longer than I anticipated. Sorry.
And I’m not done.
Sorry again.

TV Commercials: When I was sick, I couldn’t really handle clicking between stations. Yeah, I felt THAT bad. Anyway, in my narcotic induced state, I would kind of let the TV commercials wash over me. One commercial I kept hearing, over and over, was for the Lap Dance Weigh Loss System. Sounds like fun! I later figured out that they were saying Lap Bands…Lap Bands. It's kind of like surgery, which didn’t sound like much fun. And that made me sad.

I used to dance to the Direct TV shadow dancer. You know, that skinny-assed shadow, with the pony-tail and hiphuggers? She always looked so happy, twirling all around, to the little salsa jingle. Since they added a couple more shadowy figures to the dance party, it’s just not been the same. And that makes me sad.

I guess I’m done now, which makes me feel happy. But I feel like I'm missing something...

Please, No! you say?

Oh, all right. I guess I’ve given the blog snipes at least something to talk about. ::wink wink::


*They looked at my ovaries, in the CAT scan and ultrasound. Now...?