**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.

Labels: Bitchmom Screampants, How I Met Your Father, I Work Too, Now You're Whining, Runagogo

M is for Mate. Mmmm. Mine.

You Had Me at Left Branch Bundle Block
A couple of years ago I wrote a birthday tribute to my husband and a comet called Halle-Bopp.

The story in question had a happy ending, obviously. But it almost didn't.

See, I had some unfinished business in another relationship with a sweet guy who I had been planning to break up with for a couple months. Then he lost his job so I thought I'd wait. My future husband (we'll call him E) was still on what I considered a most long-ass rebound from his most recent break-up and was quite happy in his current relationship position being raised by a flock of lesbians. Seriously.

So, after our initial, ummm, birthday meeting, Yeah, that's it, birthday meeting, Mr. E. called me a couple times and we chatted at the health club. He didn't ask me out or anything and clearly our relationship status was less than casual, which suited me fine.

That's until he showed up at my doorstep at 2:00 a.m. one evening, with a bottle of Kendall Jackson Chardonnay in one hand and Turning Leaf in the other, with the slurpy explanation that he knew I liked the wine with the leaves on the label, but he couldn't remember which one. ::Ain't he the cutest?::

That same night/morning, while we sat on my couch, I looked at this man and said "I think I could fall for you." To which he too quickly replied, "No. I'm trouble." And I said "But I can see your shiny heart." ::I have the shiny heart vision, because I really could see it.::

And that's when he told me the story about his heart. He already told me that he had been born with a heart defect and had open-heart surgery at age four and had been a subject in a study on congenital heart defects and pediatric surgery through the University of Michigan.

Obviously, I had seen the huge scar that ran from his chest to the top of his tummy, and the little scars on the sides of his abdomen where they had inserted tubes into his tender, four-year old flesh. These scars sprouted tiny tufts of hair, like tiny shrubs. But that's all I knew.

What I didn't know was the Left Branch Bundle Block part of his heart. We all have bundles in our heart. It's an electrical thing. I knew about the electrical thing, but I didn't know the bundled part.

And somehow, despite the ordinary reality of everyday heart bundles, hearing this hulking, sweet, more than slightly drunken man use bundle and heart in the same sentence was a death sentence for all my casual intentions.

That's exactly the point I decided I had to have this one. And his huge, shiny, bundled heart. Tiny shrubs and all.

That's exactly the point E decided he wasn't ready for any of this relationship crap. So he bundled his fine-assed self into his '93 Cobra Mustang and zoomed away.

Days passed and no call. I went to the club every day, at the same time I used to see him there. But no. No bundled heart.

Then I called him, but he didn't answer. I left messages on his machine, but he didn't return my calls.

One time his roommate answered and I heard a voice in the background whisper "I'm not here." And then I heard the roommate say, "He's not here." And then I felt like someone had punched me square in my heart bundles. And I couldn't breathe very well. And I felt so ashamed. And embarrassed. And alone.

That's when I took that scrap of paper with his phone number, and ripped it into tiny pieces, and threw it in the trash. ::I had memorized my last phone number in 1990. The brain can only hold so many phone numbers, I theorized.::

Weeks passed. I would see him at the club on a rare occasion, and we'd just give each other a nod. But he didn't call. And I couldn't call him.

Every once in awhile I'd talk to one of his best friends Tee, who worked the snack bar at the club. This was also the woman who had orchestrated our getting together in the first place. But I didn't ask her about him. This was partly to spare her an awkward position, but mostly because I couldn't bear to hear from a reliable source, that I should peddle my heart bundles elsewhere.

Tee soon left her job at the club, to work at a car dealership. And I just went on with my life. More weeks passed before I saw him at the club again. He nodded per usual, but he looked at me in a different way. Kind of sad. Lingering. I nodded back and went about my business. But that look bugged me. Later, I had the strong need to talk to him. To explain something. I didn't know what, exactly, I wanted to explain. But I didn't see him again.

One day, while driving past Tee's new place of employment, I stopped to see her. I told her that I needed a number.

I needed to call him.
To tell him that I threw his number away.
And would not be calling him.
Still.
Again.
Ever.
Probably.
But just to be fair, I thought I should explain.
And move on.
To forget.
About him.
And his bundled heart.
And tiny tufts.
And fine ass.
And bottles of wine.
And leafy labels.
And how my face hurt from smiling whenever he was around.
And how I just wanted to get it all behind me.
After I explained.
That I threw his number away.
And it's only fair.
To tell him why.
And that it's over.

And Tee said okay.

So I called him. And I actually said to him, "I'm just calling to tell you that I threw your phone number away and it's over."

And he laughed. And then he asked me if I wanted to come over. And I said okay. And I brought him a plate of black bean enchiladas. And we watched a movie, while we shared some enchiladas, and some wine and some bundled heart.

The next week we had our first official date.
And then he met my boy, who showed him some yoyo tricks.
And then we got engaged.
And then, on his way to work in the morning sometimes, he would stop at my house and come to my bedroom window and tell me he loved me, and ask me to marry him some more and then he'd go to work.
And then I'd fall back to sleep.
And then I'd wake up with a sore face. From smiling in my pillow.
And then we got married and bundled our hearts forever.
And then I offered my last good egg and we made ourselves a bundle of something the world has never known.

I am not a religious person. But I believe in a Higher Power. A Source. A Power not to be ignored. A Power that chose my eyes to really see this man as he was created. A joy. A light. A bundle.

Author's Note: I have been working on this post for days. It was really hard because it was so personal. And there was so much I wanted to say, but much of that was not for human consumption. So I wrote and wrote. Deleted and deleted and wrote some more. Last night I thought I had it done, but held off on posting it until morning.

Today I woke up with the intention of cleaning up and publishing. Instead, I deleted the entire thing and started rambling from scratch. From a whole new angle. It's this ramble that you're reading today. Pretty much unedited except for a few glaring issues. ::bloggers eating my words today.:: I got to get on with my life.

Labels: ABC, How I Met Your Father, Manpie

No knitting content today. Just dishy musings
Love Under a Hale-Bopp Sky (or Getting Some Birthday Tail)
Seven years ago today, Comet Hale-Bopp made its closest approach to Earth.

And seven years ago today, I went to a stranger's birthday party, alone, on a whim.

First of all, I'm not much of a "social crowd" person. In fact, I typically avoid/dread parties or other social gatherings, even when I know and love the people in attendance. But there I was, voluntarily attending a party where I knew only two people, a lesbian couple I'll call Tee & Dee. Tee worked the snack bar at the health club and was my "barkeep confidante." It was Tee who had passed me an invitation to the bash, then made me promise to attend.

Tee and Dee were best friends with the guest of honor, a handsome, strapping guy, with a really nice butt. I had seen him around the health club and consistently sized him up as Trouble. Fine-ass Trouble, but Trouble. I once witnessed him squealing his 1993 Cobra Mustang out of the club parking lot. Oh, grow up, I remember thinking.

Okay, back to the story. Also, at this time, I had a boyfriend. A sweet, steady, reliable boyfriend, 13 years my senior. Okay, maybe he was a tad boring. Okay, maybe he was a lot boring. But he was sweet and steady and reliable and....out of town for the weekend.

While I was pretty wild in high school and college, seven years ago today I considered myself unremarkably staid. I was a few years out of my MSW program and enjoying a new profession. I worked out, ate healthy and drank pink wine from a box, weekends only.

I don't know if it was the safety of anonymity or the Tequila Shooters or the Hot Damn! slammin', or comet kismet, but 7 years ago today, under the Hale-Bopp Trail, this unremarkably staid, middle-aged social working woman had a highly remarkable evening.

Fast Forward Seven Years to the Moment:
I have 35 pounds of precocious Trouble sleeping upstairs, a sweet and steady and reliable middle-aged man in my living room, and in my garage, a 1993 Cobra Mustang.

Happy Birthday, Honey.
I love you.
Zoom. Zoom.

Oh yeah, in appreciation of your giving me the best Trouble I've ever had, this Hella Bopp's for you:

It's a comet's tale,
Of trajected fate.
And tequila shots,
At Heaven's Gate.

With a fine-assed boy
In a badass car,
Her leashed reserve,
Unleashed too far.

While Counting Crows
Called out the dawn,
Fallen soldiers
Graced the lawn.

Where dark of heart
Did once prevail,
Floats the golden shim
From a Comet's Tale.

Labels: Deep Shit, How I Met Your Father, Manpie