••• Friday, March 30, 2007

Better Than a Stick in Your Eye 

Candy Friday

This bud's for you.

This yarn's for me.

It's Berroco Cotton Twist, purchased via an Ebay vender. It was 25% off retail, and the best thing is she had my color, and a lot of it. It's actually a tad more greenish than depicted here.

The project du target is Ariann. I know a while back I said I was going to finish the Step-Bro for Cakers before commencing with Ariann. Even as I typed the words back then, I thought I heard some snickers. Now I hear laughing. Loud. Mean. Flat out.

Tonight I swatch.
Tomorrow I cast-on Ariann for the road trip north.
And Cakers' step-bro's gonna have to wait 'til fallish winds prevail.


••• Thursday, March 29, 2007

FO Reals 

Or...How the Prodigal Blogger Exploited the Completion of a Simple Spring Scarf So As To Give the Appearance of Having Written a Real Post, Suckass Photos Notwithstanding.

I've sprung Spring from the needles.

So let it be written.

So let winter be done.

::I know, I just screwed us, weather-wise, jinx-style. Although I admit that the first turn of the jinx screw was when I washed my summer shorts two days ago. Before they were out of the dryer, the temperature dropped 20 degrees.::
It appears that my lens was incapable of appreciating Spring's sheer magnificance. I was more than a little disappointed at how these turned out.

Here's a shot with emphasis on texture:

Here's the color gene pool angle:

And some fringe relations I'd invite to the reunion, any day.

I had hoped to get a nice picture of me and Spring and my Spring-Matching-Spring-Coat, out on the porch. Unfortunately, Cabana Boy is suffering from a case of Cabanukka Letdown, and has been spending afternoons pandering for loose change and used birthday candles, so was unavailable to provide the most essential Cabana Boy Photo Service.

Just another Cabana Boy Birthday Blunder, for which we all must suffer, through casting our eyes upon this:

I'm sorry. k?

Buttholes Are Like Excuses
I've been brain-weary and bone-tired the past two weeks, and unable to access two brain cells at the same time, so as to form a coherent thought. Despite that, I stayed up late last night, fringing Spring, so I could wear her on this most brisk Early Spring Morning. I'm here to say, finishing the job was definitely worth the risk of sleep-deprivation-induced-psychosis.

For I Love This Scarf.

::The above statement is in no way an admission or denial of guilt, as to the alleged allegations that a middle-aged woman was observed humping a magnificent scarf, early this morning, in the staff parking lot of a suburban high school. Alcohol was not considered a factor in this event, although it may be relevant in the telling. But I'm not one to gossip. So you didn't hear it from me.::
Tomorrow is the first day of Spring Break, and hopefully the first day of a sorely needed Textual Healing.

That being said, I have no idea what the hell is up with the contrived use of caps in this post, but my fingers seem to like them and my brain has no power to stop them.

And now I'm done.

Oops. Now I'm Not Done.
The specs. I Forgot the Specs.

Damn the wine.
And the grapes.
And the vines upon which they grow.

But not too much, with the damning.
For I Love The Wine.

But I Will Not Hump The Wine in a Parking Lot.

That's Just Crazy Talk.

Uh...where was I? Oh yeah.
Pattern: Amy Singer's Mimi Long Scarf, or something like that. ::Pattern is no longer available at her blog.::

Yarn: Lorna's Laces, Lion and Lamb, ::And a lovely look at alluring alliteration.:: in Glenwood.

I used 3 skeins, plus Some Extra Love, care of The Boys. ::smooches::

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••• Sunday, March 25, 2007

Sunday Sludge 

**Ramble Warning**

As my Friday post implied, my brain's been a little under the whether. As in, whether-or-not-it's-going-to-make-it-to-June-is-anyone's-guess.

The issues I have been dealing with at work are the kind that eat away at my mental and emotional reserves, and all are related to holes in administrative oversight. In such cases, the poo flows freely out said holes and up the stairs and through the crack under my door, like you'd see in a horror flick. Except I don't scream when I see it bubbling towards my feet. I just cuss a little, under my breath, and open a new, sludge-related file.
When I go through these periods at work, I'm pretty much out of words when I get home. And even if I find a minute to write a blog post, I've had nothing to say. Or maybe I've had too much to say...

In fact, I have to run an early morning meeting tomorrow and should be prepping for that right now. But I'm not.

To top it off, last week was parent-teacher conferences, which gave me two 12-hour days. It was also my husband's birthday, which he is milking the shit out of, a la dinner with his parents, dinner with me, and tonight we're going to see the Blue Man Group. Oh yeah, and I bought him a guitar. A Baby Taylor Spruce Top. ::Happy Birthday Baby. 10 years of Halle-Bopping Heaven, and still going strong!::

And let me tell you, that trip to the guitar store this week, was a mass homicide blog post waiting to happen. I don't have time for the whole story. But I will say that me and stress and med rebound and a warehouse full of musical musicians, musicating on electric guitars just feet away from my befrazzled brain and musically chatty staff not waiting on me, seemingly for hours, is not a good thing.

I finally garnered some attention from a guy who had been smoking a cig in the parking lot when I came in. He still had his coat on, which kind of bugged me. I know. After finally ringing up my purchase, the cig went in search of the free guitar case, and never came back, while two feet away,the guitars jammed on. Then the chatty tattooed guy went looking after the cig who was looking for the guitar case, and then I was really scared because I know how guys look for things. They don't. They just move shit around and say, "Mom! I'm telling you, it's not here."

And I was seriously near ready to start taking hostages tears after the cig finally came back without the case or the tattoo and asked the tall, chatty guy where the tattoo went and he told him that he went looking for him, the cig, and as they discussed this issue at length and the guitars jammed on, tattoo came back with the case and then everybody laughed and hugged and I put the switchblade back into my bra. ::The woman has cup.::

Through the stupor of all this stress, I've noted to my husband that his birthday has taken on the significance of a several-day holiday, now known as Cabanukkah. I'm really joking, but really, not really.

Caker's has been revisited with yet another respiratory issue and last night was wheezing in her sleep. We're taking her to the med center today. Hopefully she won't have to miss the Blue Man Group, because she will be very sad. And so will I. After all, Cabana boy can't miss his own Cabanukkah, right? ::She actually seems much better now and no wheezing is noted.::

Ran A-Went-Went
I finished my 100 miles last week and I hear Run-a-Go-Go has gotten its second wind and is kicking off another round. I'm in. I hope. I bought a new pair of walking shoes last week and they seem to be devouring my feet, from the heel up. They felt fine at the store and are my usual brand, but I think there was a problem at the factory, where a worker accidently left a tiny cheese grater in each shoe.

Here's my updated ticker. I'm feeling kind of proud of my past 100 so left them on there.

Over at the Run-A-Go-Go blog, people have been posting pictures from their travels. Most of my miles came from the elliptical, which is in our bedroom. Here's one of my related views:

Actually, that picture angle is more from where I change my underwear, after a bad day's work. Anyway, I love the shadow of her head.

Knitting Knuggets
I'm a few inches from casting off Spring ::a.k.a. Mimi Long Gone Scarf.:: I'd show a picture but they came out blurry and I'd rather just wait until I'm done.

After that I think I'll finish Cakers' William's Step-Bro, even though it is a wintery sweater. April and May can be chilly. Besides, I made some changes in the pattern and didn't exactly write them down. Much. So I should probably finish before the changes are lost to me forever.

I do have a 14-pack of Berroco's Cotton Twist, winging its way to me as I type, via a most excellent Ebay purchase. The intended purpose of this yarn is Bonne Marie's Ariann.

My Cakers and Heart Breakers
She came clean on the boyfriend thing, although it still bothers me that she was afraid to tell me from the beginning.

Anyway, I tricked her. ::I'm a trained professional, remember. It's what I do. For Higher Goodness and shit.:: She made a picture for the boy next door and showed it to me. I innocently asked if he's her boyfriend. She looked at me most sheepish and said "No. Cody's my boyfriend." Then I yelled at her for being too young to have a boyfriend and if she ever keeps a secret from me again, there will be hell to pay and the subject has not come up again.

Of course, I'm kidding. I was all enthusiastic and supportive and offered to knit him a future-son-in-law sweater. ::It's an inside joke with my son. Every time he mentions a girl, any girl, I ask if I should knit her a sweater.:: I was just testing to see if you were paying atention. 'Cuz I know these Sunday Sundry posts are long and tangly and boring, but it's the only way I can keep up, these days. And yeah, I didn't label this one as Sunday Sundries, so as to lure you from the usual Sunday bloglines skim.

I told you. I'm tricky.

And now I'm tricking myself out of here.

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••• Friday, March 23, 2007

In Friday I Trust. 

In Friday, Eye Can Delight.

How was my ass kicked at work this week?
Let me count the ways.

Okay, let me not.

I will say that if all my brain was a game of Scrabble, I'd be down to nothing but two Fs and a Q.

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••• Sunday, March 18, 2007

Sunday Sundries 

What She Said
There's always one more squeeze in the toothpaste.-My Mom

I realize it's a bit lacking in grammatical integrity, at best, but it's exactly what my mom said to us when we were kids, upon hearing that we were out of toothpaste.

Although it doesn't stand up to any kind of scientific logic, my mother was always right. If we rolled the tube out flat, starting at the crimped corners of the tube, and pressed and pushed and kneaded with our finger tips, there would indeed, be one more squeeze. Again. And sometimes again, some more.

The Neverending Tube. Practically magic.

Of course it wasn't really magic, but mom had a bit of an investment in our belief in a homegrown miracle of perpetual proportions, on par only with Jesus feeding the crowds with a basket of fish. ::Or was it a bucket of chicken?:: Or one peripausal mother single-crotchedly keeping Kotex financially afloat, via a mere 3- week production. So before the truth could not be squeezed from the tube, a replacement tube would appear.

As a result of recent developments at work ::Read: Shit Storms. No umbrella.:: I'm feeling much like that near-empty tube of toothpaste from my childhood. And the powers-that-be are sounding an awful lot like my mother: "There's always one more squeeze. If we roll her out flat, starting at the crimped corners of her toes, and press and push and knead her with our finger tips, there will, indeed, be one more squeeze."

I hope they realize that there's no guarantee that the product they're seeking will come from the hole they're watching, or will be of the substance they're expecting.

And So It Begins
Yesterday, says my husband: "Oh, I forgot to tell you. Cakers has a boyfriend. It's a secret. I promised not to say anything. To you."

"She told you not to tell me? Why?"

"I don't know. So don't say anything."

"How long have you known?"


Can a five year-old really be capable of breaking a mother's heart?

What am I supposed to do with the bitterness?

And the fear, for the future of our relationship?

Does she really not trust her own mother to keep a secret?

I'll keep you all posted on any breaking developments.

Oh yeah, his name is Cody.

Hair Spray
I get my hair colored every six weeks and a touchup every three weeks in between. For the three week appointment, my hairdresser applies the color to my sideburns and forehead hairline and sends me on my way, to rinse at leisure when I get home.

This system is a pain, mostly because by the time I get to the car, I look mighty strange and always get odd looks from fellow travelers on the road.

So yesterday my hairlady tells me they have a new touch-up product. Spray paint. For hair. She said it might work better than our present system, in that I could touch it up as needed at home and not have to wait for the three weeks. ::Weeks which are getting longer and longer, in direct proportion to the rate of my hair getting grayer and grayer.::

For about three seconds the idea was intriguing to me. And then I had a vision of reality. A vision of what Spray Paint For Hair, in my hands, would look like. And it went something like this:

I started laughing so hard, my hair lady had to stop cutting, so as not to accidently lop off the nearest orifice cover. My hair lady knows and loves me well. And after a few moments of contemplation of her own, she less than reluctantly agreed with my concern.

The work schedule this week will likely be blog-post/logical-thought prohibitive.
Just sayin'.
Cause I can just say that.
What I just said.

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••• Thursday, March 15, 2007

Self-Portrait Thursday 

I borrowed Cakers' camera when I took those pictures for the Typical Day post. This shot was one of several that unloaded along with mine. I'm not sure what Cheddar is thinking but that girl has the look of love.

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••• Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Tell Me Tuesday 

Tell me why the vending machine dude always puts the lemon fruit pies on the top row hook.

I bought a dress online last fall. It made me look like a tumor-riddled sausage with a side of ass. Bad ass. But I kept the dress, and know not why. I currently weigh 7 pounds more than I did last fall. Last night I tried this same dress on and was pleasantly surprised at how nice it looked on me. I wore it to work today.

Tell me, did I actually look better than I thought last fall, or worse than I thought, today?

Tonight there was a Pajama Book Party at Cakers' school. We were five minutes late and the media center was already packed with pajama-clad kids, and their parents. Cakers and her friend eventually found a place to squeeze in, but about a dozen slightly-later-comer-kids did not.

Tell me how 20 parents could sit their asses in prime Pajama Book Party real estate, while some children did not have even have a place to sit?

Tell me that no one at the pajama party recognized my unbeknownst-to-me-mussed-up-hair as Conjugal-Visit-Head.

Tell me there was a certain hell waiting for father who purposely flew his airplane into a house, with his 8 year-old daughter on board.

Tell me how we think we can change time. We can't change time. We can only change schedules. There is no such thing as time. There is only decay. We decay,then die, then decay some more. Time is just a made-up construct for measuring decay. I believe that pre-death decay is exacerbated by the twice-yearly ritual of changing our schedules, a.k.a. changing time. Except we can't change time. We can only change schedules. And then repeat ourselves to death. And decay.

Tell me how you like Spring so far.

I think she's coming along nicely, amidst the death and decay of the last of winter. Although that is a sucky picture and you don't need to tell me that. It was hard taking pictures of Spring because Spring is usually windy.

The pattern is the Mimi Too Long Scarf, or whatever the hell it was called. I'm going to call it Mimi Long Gone because the pattern was removed from the blog where I found it.

Thanks to The Knit'Nabler for refreshing my memory on the patterns intricacy. Hey, it's a bias pattern. That's tricky shit on an angle.

Anyway, I tried several different pattern swatches using this yarn, but I just kept picturing it made up into the tubular goodness of this pattern. And when I swatched, I knew I had done something right.

Let's Make it a Wrap, or a Large Scarf
Let me tell you, I am now officially on the brink of Daylight Savings Time Schedule psychosis. What I really hate is that it kind of tricks you by not being so bad the first day. But midway through day two, I'm Bitchmom Screampants with Conjugal Visit Head, rolling around like a chicken with its legs cut off.

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••• Sunday, March 11, 2007

Bring Your Blog to Work Day 

Last month (I think?) Concate had a contest that involved writing a post about A Typical Day in your life.

About a week before I read about the contest, I had already started a post I cleverly titled Bring Your Blog to Work Day. When the contest was announced, I had planned on entering it, of course.

But I didn't.

I'm glad you asked.

I didn't enter the contest because my typical days are so atypical that every time I sat down to finish the post, based on Typical-As-I-Knew-It, the Atypical-Assedness of said Typical would rear its ugly, um, ass, and what was Typical just the day before was suddenly Untypicated, which made pounding out a post on Typical, atypically complicated, or otherwise explanation intensive. It was kinda like trying to write a Spider Web.

If you've ever tried to write a spider web, or even looked at one, you'll understand what I mean when I say that it can feel a bit overwhelming, if not impossible. And before I knew it, the draft post was buried under 6 gazillion other draft posts, the publishing of which you will likely never see.

Since I have nothing else to write about and the upcoming week appears to have Typically Atypical potential, I'm just going to dive in.

ATypical Day
The Job: I am a school soshul werker at a large high school in the suburbs. Most of you may not know what that job Typically entails. When you find out, let me know.

There are many professional faces of school soshul werk. Some school soshul werkers are what we call "general education" soshul werkers, who work with general education students who need some sort of support, through 1:1 counseling, group work and behavioral consultation. I used to perform this kind of service when I worked at the elementary schools. It was kind of nice and kind of not. The "kind of not" part was that a school of 300 kids provides quite a pool of potential clients who are often signed up for services by non-clinical types (school principals) who would do so without consulting with me and therefore, had no real idea whether or not it was an appropriate referral.

See? One paragraph into this thing, and I'm already describing the wrong Atypical day.

I am now what is called a Speshul Ejacayshun Soshul Werker, which means that my caseload is comprised of speshul ejacayshun students, who need soshul werk support as identified through their individualized speshul ejacayshun plan, known as an Eiie-EE-PEe. This is a complicated process, an explanation of which I will not heap upon you. In other words, I still get screwed, only with more K-Y pomp and ceremony.

I typically have 20-30 students on my caseload. The level of service for each varies, but again; complicated and dull. I will say that the caseload numbers are meaningless at face value. In other words, one service assignment can weigh more than the total of six others, in time-intensive units. Yup. There I go again.

All that being said, here is the meat of my duty: ::Heh. She said duty.::
1) See clients as mandated by their respective Eiie-EE-PEes.

2) See clients above and beyond as mandated, as need arises.

3) Consult with teachers regarding behavior issues on above mentioned clients.

4) Consult with administrators who handle discipline on above mentioned clients AND speshul ejacayshun laws that protect said clients from being kicked out of school willy nilly.

5) Perform speshul ejacayshun evaluations on students in my building, with Emoshunal Disterbince, Awtism, AyDeeAychDee and Turette. Some students are already in the system, and the evals are re-evals to determine ongoing eligibilty. Others are referred for evaluation for the first time.

6) Attend lots and lots of meetings on these students. In the spring, I also attend meetings for students coming to me next year.

7) Some of those meetings are arranged and run by yours truly. These meetings are known as Funkshunal Behayveeyor Assessmints, whereupon we put the student under a psychological microscope and pretend we know what we are looking at and what the student needs. I then type it up all perty and share with friends and family. This year, every time, to a student, I finished writing up and distributing the plan, the student has left the school district.

8)Consult some more with teachers and administrators and diagnostic evaluation teammates. ::I've been in the school biz for 13 years. There are lots of rules, which take years to learn and even more years to comprehend. I'm becoming the crazy oracle lady on the block, cause I know some obsure yet relevant shit.::
In addition to the above non-descriptive duties, ::Heh, she said duties.:: I am also a member of the district's Awtism Specktrim Disodor diagnostic team. When a student is suspected of ASD, my team is assigned to do an assessment. I kinda sorta volunteered for the job after kinda sorta being begged and then threatened with being assigned anyway. There are no perks except that I get out of my building, I get to meet some very interesting and amazing kids and I feel like I'm performing a vital service. I actually very much enjoy this part of my job. I would enjoy it much more if it didn't entail three or four more evaluations per year than what I was promised when I was shanghaied volunteered for the job or if I were relieved of some of my other job duties. ::heh::

There are still more tiers to this web, but it's just too damn complicated and truly not worth it. Let's just say that whatever I put in writing as A Typical description, will be double trumped by something totally unique and unexpected and ATypical, which requires drop-everything levels of attention.

And before you feel too sorry for me, remember that I get summers off. I also get paid well compared to my contempories who work year-round in agencies. Without snow days. ::gasp.::

The Ride. If I take the expressway, on a clear pavement day, it can take me anywhere from 18 to 25 minutes to drive to work. The highway I travel is quite hazardous under even the mildest, icy or snowy conditions, on account of the multiple overpasses near or over water. On bad days, I travel the city streets, which takes anywhere from 25-30 minutes.

Here's a shot of my daily morning blur, out the driver's side window:

The blur of the parking lot:

I know that picture sucks, but there were people around and I was not going risk being labelled anything weirder than I already have legitimately earned, amongst peers. You might notice the squiggly red things in that picture. Those are lights on the buses that are lined up, dropping off students. I really wish I could give you a clearer shot of the buses, because many mornings that view provides me with an odd, diesel-infused inspiration to start my day.

And so it begins:

That's my desk, about mid-morning. Since I don't have Typical days on my job, it's hard to walk you through what I do. First thing in the morning, I grab a cup of coffee and look at my calendar. A couple days a week I try to get in client contacts ::I have to see them so many times per month, as Eie-Ee-PEe dictates.:: It works best for my brain, to see a bunch in one day, as each contact requires specific paperwork followup and it's easier for me to do it in batch. If it is such a day, I plan out my contact schedule and put out passes demanding the respective student's audience, which will be delivered to them throughout the day. I then fill out a little schedule, which reminds me who's coming when. If an emergency arises, I will pull the passes for the hour, or rest of day, depending.

After perusing the calendar and passing out passes, I get out my little pile of saved intra-department mail envelopes and pore over the crossed out names of previous recipients, looking for my name as well as names of friends and family, etc.

Sometimes these envelopes go to other districts, so I also check for any familiar names from outside our little mail circle. This task was much more exciting a few years ago, before they threw a bunch of old envelopes away and replaced them with new, boringly blank ones. There was one envelope that I saved for a few years, because of some amazingly, weird-ass synchronicitious pattern in list of addressees. But after awhile I forgot what the pattern was and couldn't recognize it again, so I put the envelope back into rotation. ::It may have been related to names of people who died. I know. I put it back.Okay?::

This here is a shot of the view that actually got me thinking about the Take Your Blog to Work Day.

About a month ago, I was furiously trying to finish a report, that had to be in the mail that day. This is a legal parameter that I must follow. Tres important. No excuses. Blah blah.

So, I shut my office door and stick some paper over the upper window. Putting the paper over the window does not stop people from coming into my office. It does slow them down a little, as they have to take the time to peek over the top ::If their stature allows.:: before knocking.

The blocked view is mostly to curb my visual distractibility. My office is in the guidance office, next to the nurses office ::many students mistake me for her personal secretary.:: and during certain times of the year ::scheduling::, there are many students waiting to see someone other than myself, hovering outside my door.

So there I was, on a Friday afternoon, sitting in my office under the pink-papered-properties-of-a-placebo-affected-delusion-of-being-the-only-person-in-universe, typing away on this report which MUST be in the hands of some mail person by the end of the day, when I see a pair of non-adolescent feet* standing at my lower window. Then I hear a knock.

A teacher enters and tells me about a significant issue with a student. After hearing the story, and considering my current need to complete this report, I send the teacher to a higher authority.

This story repeats itself about seven times throughout the afternoon, with about seven different staff people, regarding seven different students. Being the experienced, professional that I am, I aptly defer and deflect all potential ramifications from myself and proceed with my report writing.

Now, it sounds like I handled the situation with calm and reason. And the teachers with whom I was conversing likely perceived me in the same light. But they were wrong. And so are you.

Because after about the third showing of sensible shoes at my lower office door window, I developed what I can only call a Post-Dramatic-Stress-Response. And from that point on, I could hardly concentrate on the time-sensitive-task-at-hand, because I could not pry my eyes away from that lower window, because I knew there would be more.

More feet. Coming for me.
News-bearing feet.
Advice-seeking feet.
Pushing, er, kicking me over the edge of emotional propriety.

At one point, I jokingly told a particular bearer of good shoes and bad news that I was fixing to hang a sign outside the door that read: If the keyboard's a-tappin', Don't come a-rappin'. Said bearer did not find that funny, nor did he take it as the good-natured hint to leave me alone, as intended.**

But I did finish the report. And come Monday, I went on a soshul werk calamity-fixing-bender. And all was right with the world. Until it wasn't.

Because the nature of my job is that it has no nature.

But I really need to get going, and so do you.

Just a couple more things.

Here's my bookshelf.

I tidied it up for the picture. ::I'm a slob, but it works for me. I don't apologize. There is no right or wrong way to live, organizationally-speaking. That's all I'm saying on this subject.::

On the shelves are important manuals and reference tools which I use in my evaluations. Also are some things for students to look at while not listening to a word I say.

Here's a close-up of the topshelf. Some angels and my Kurt Gibson cup, from back when I still had a crush on him. Before I knew he was dummern a bench of bald, aging jocks.

This is my stack of evaluation files. Typically ::Heh. She said Typically.::
in a year, I will have assigned to me, anywhere from 15 to 20 evaluations. At this moment, I have 15 on my docket, to complete from now until June. I've already completed about 10, this year. Many of these were what I call "unpleasant surprise" evals, in addition to the half-dozen Awtism Spektrim evals I knew could be coming. But there's no whining in baseball or jobs that give you the summer off.

Spring Hopes
Spring is knitting along quite nicely. I will share more in a couple of days, including answers to the multitude of questions left in comments, regarding this project.

But no, it's not a hammock or a hair net or a hootchy spring cho-cho cloaklet.

*In winter, this means the feet are wearing suitable shoes or otherwise not flip-flops.

**There are many delicate, political issues related to soshul workers working in what is referred to as a "host environment," which is another way of saying "you're a fish out of water and therefore you sometimes flop around and smell badly."

P.S. There are two extra, unintended commas in this post. I went back for them, but now I can't find them. And I have to pee. So I'll let them bee.

P.P.S. I don't usually work on Sundays, so therefore would not Typically Take my Blog to Work today. That means....oh, never mind.


••• Friday, March 09, 2007

Eye Candy, My Eye 

When March gives you the winter blues...

...Grab your camera and snap out of it.

Spring Hopes Eternal
For those who were about done in by our most recent weather blow job, hang on. Help is on its way.

I'm knitting Spring.

Ain't she purty?
Can't you just smell the sunshine?
And fresh, ripe dirt?

Here's a close-up, for a real good whiff.

I better get back to her. I know all y'all's waiting.

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••• Wednesday, March 07, 2007

WTF and Oh Yeah. 

You can lead a boy to college, but you can't make him think. - Elbert Hubbard

In case any of you are curious what $30,000 worth of college tuition will get you, feast your eyes:

Accumulated snowfall?

Sub-zero wind chill?

Car buried under snow?


Down Coat?




Brain cells fried, over easy?

WTF Wednesday?

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••• Sunday, March 04, 2007

Sunday Sundries 

Icehole Drivers
Friday's drive to work was the worst I'd experienced all winter. I don't usually take the expressway unless I know it will be safe and dry. Friday I didn't know it wasn't safe and dry until I was already well into my route.

And far from safe and dry it was. It was windy, icy, snowy and blowy. As soon as my AWD treads hit the pavement, I could feel it was going to be a bumpy ride.

Lucky for me, I was immediately able to nestle behind a semi-truck with his flashers on, evidently in fair warning that he was going slow, no matter. I followed him the entire 14 mile stretch to work.

In fact, he got off at the same exit I did. I gave him a nod of appreciation at the stop light, but I'm pretty sure he had no idea who the hell I was. Maybe he thought he was going to get lucky at the next vacant parking lot. Or not. He looked only about 30 years old and sometimes I forget I'm almost 50 and no longer hold much of a hey-there-trucker-you-want-summa-this? kind of allure.

But anyway, I was appreciative of my little tug boat leading me to safe harbor. This is especially true in light of the gazillion asshole drivers that were going too fast to notice the half-dozen or so recent spin-outs, resting in the ditch, or the flashing lights of police and rescue vehicles along the side of the highway. Neither did they seem to recognize that what appeared to be harmless moisture on the road, was in fact a thin glaze of ice. ::Clue: If it's 20 degrees or colder, not counting a windchill, that water on the road is probably ice.::

Friday through Saturday, we were dumped upon with another 10-12 inches, leaving poor Cheddar with not much room to twirl for his morning poo.

I missed the shot I intended, which was him sitting in that snow hole staring forlornly towards his favorite pooping grounds, now a snow pile too far.

Hustle and Flow
All that being said, ain't no blizzard blizzy enough to keep me from one of the biggest yarn events in the history of our little tri-state region. ::And all that being said, ain't no blizzard blizzy enough to keep me from any hyerbolic frenzy. And I don't know exactly to which tri-state area I'm referring, but I've always wanted to use that tri-state term in a hyerbolic, frenzied kind of way, and personally, I'm glad to have it out now out of the way.::

The Threadbears were having a huge sale, with 20-70% off a broad selection of yarns. But they weren't giving away the farm, as I erroneously surmised in an email to Rob, the previous day. Upon my arrival and after a couple big hugs, Rob was quick to assure me, again, that they were not giving away the farm or the yarn or any other damn thing, which I read as a warning to not stuff my pockets with farms or yarns or any other damn thing, without expecting to pay. Duly noted.

It's been over a year since my last trip to Lansing, and I was not disappointed. After breaking up a verbal-turned-physical altercation between Matt and some guy, I had a lovely shop-about, followed by a recap with Rob of my infamous period piece. Said recap included my yelling "I need a tampon that sucks!" to a complete stranger sitting halfway across the room, in earshot of several other strangers.

Rob made me.

::Gosh. I'd been thinking maybe I need to get out more, but now I'm thinking maybe, uh, no.::

Between the inappropriate disclosures and unsolicited therapeutic interventions, I also managed to snag myself some yarn.

REAL yarn. The kind REAL knitters use.
And it went something like this:

Ummm-hmmm. This is not a filiment of your imagination. Marcia got the shit. Lorna's Laces Lion and Lamb.

Ummm-hmmm. That's right. Me and Lorna's Laces. A perfect match. Like doorknobs and a box. Bags and hair. Baby Jesus and butter.

I also grabbed some Berroco Hip-Hop at 70% off.

I've been fussing all day today, trying to get a good read on an intended purpose for the Lion and Lamb stuff. Rob pointed out that this is the yarn for the Clapotis,a pattern that never seemed my cuppa tea. But I'm definitely thinking a lacey spring shawl or drapey, oversized scarf. And I might now be regretting putting back that fourth skein.

I definitely need to not stay away so long this time, guys, and maybe even come up with some new interesting blog posts in the meantime. Heh. Something in a dangling 'gina, perhaps?

Fur the Love of Feet
La is having a contest. All you have to do is post pictures of cute critter feet from your household, and drop her a comment to come and see.

So here are some pictures guaranteed to give you paws.

Work is wicked crazy these days, and will likely remain so from here through mid-May. Or more. Just sayin'. That. What I just said. I did.

Speaking of no sayin' just sayin' go say hi to Marin, a new blogger I found in my site meter. ::And boy, was she happy to see me. Can you imagine being stuck in my site meter? On a Sunday?:: Just make sure you read her slow. If you go too fast, your heart might start racing and you'll find yourself having to take a break and a deep breath, about halfway through. Of course, if you're not double dosing on cough medicine, it might be entirely different for you.

I apologize for the behemoth post. With my current and upcoming employment demands, this was the only way for me get caught up on my sharing.

But now I'm done.


And I'm really leaving.

And I really mean it.

This time.


No, wait.



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••• Thursday, March 01, 2007

I Need Therapy Thursday 

In my recent life there has been too much rain, wind, snow, ice, fog, thunder, lightening, driving in above conditions, exposure to asshole drivers driving in above conditions, boogs in my nose, wearing of elastic waist pants, hair on my left leg, stepfather in a hospital, Dayquil-induced dementia, take-out dining, college student on my couch and fat on my ass.

In my recent life there has not been near enough wine,knitting, fresh air, writing blog, reading blog, writing email, reading email, sleeping, feelings of professional accomplishment, bugs laying eggs in the ears of my enemies, canoodling, lessening of boogs in my nose, Judge Judy, opportunity to use the word "dearth" in a sentence, leg shaving, pudding eating and reduction of fat on my ass.