Sunday afternoon, Cabana, Cakers and I headed out to the local movie theatre to see Wall-E. After the movie, we returned to our vehicle to find the passenger side window smashed and my purse was gone.

I know. I shouldn't leave my purse locked in the car. In view.

Well, I didn't think it was in view. My husband's vehicle is a big, fat hate-inducing SUV. With tinted windows. It was broad daylight. In a busy parking lot. I left it in the car because I had recently read about people having their purses stolen in movie theatres, slipped away from their rightful owners from behind. Under cover of darkness and popcorn munching.

Anyhoo. The purse was gone. Along with my new BFF, my Hewlett Packard camera. And my credit cards. And my only tubes of perfect pitch lipstick. And my only blusher. And my driver's license. And insurance card. And all my good earrings which were in a pouch, left in there from the 4th of July travels. All the good ones. And a cut-out heart my Cakers gave me last summer, decorated with multi-colored stripes, then sealed with a kiss. She asked me to take it every where I go. So I did. And whenever I rifled through that part of my wallet, I'd touch it briefly and smile.

The police were called and we waited impatiently for over an hour for them to show up. After a review of the security tape, it was determined that the heretofore unidentified assailants were looking for a target such as we, in that just minutes after we left the vehicle, a car pulled in next to ours and left 20 minutes later. Obviously they had waited there for the perfect moment to strike. The quality of the video was so poor that they could only determine the car was neon green.

The police officer was nice enough, and of course it is his job to remind us that that a purse is never safe in a car, unless locked in a trunk.

"But in the light of day...I thought it would be safe." I said.
"Crime is a 24 hour job, ma'am."

Yeah. Yeah.
Public Service TV, much? I says to self.

By the time we got home and called the credit card companies, there had been four charges made on each card, with one card being used three times at the same gas station. And one charge at Wendy's for 7 bucks.

I really was doing okay with it all until our insurance man called. This guy is a longtime friend of my husband. He's a quick-witted, scathing smartass. The kind of person with whom any conversation feels like an ego smash a la Comet the Insult Dog. As soon as I answered the phone, he started giving me shit about leaving my purse in the car. It's just not done. Blah, blah blah.

Obviously I now know this. About the purse. In the car. Then, quite lamely, I attempt to joke myself around the almost immediate urge to cry in response to this unexpected scathe. Of course with a personality like his, my lame remarks end up as further Insult Dog Fodder.

In retrospect, I find it interesting that at the time of this "playful" conversation, neither one of us thought to cast any blame toward the fuckers who took a screwdriver to the safety-glass window of our car, while we enjoyed a movie together, as a family. And it's not like I left my purse on the hood of our car, or in the back seat of an open convertible.

After I passed the phone to my husband, I quietly lost my religion. First I started beating myself with the blame chain, for bringing my family into the public spotlight of shame and nearly driving us to ruin.

My next punishment came in the form of an intrusive visual of me playing myself in one of those identity theft commercials. In said commercial I am sitting in a rocking chair, lip-syncing the voice of the 49-year-old menopausal woman who steals my identity and maxes out my good name by charging herself a dee-luxe hysterectomy and tummytuck at the local women's health center. Next, she buys enough Cashmerino and Playtex Pearl Supersuck tampons (Apparently, she wasn't the longest tampon string in the box) to fill a U-Haul semi-trailer, and heads off to Las Vegas to find herself a new boytoy. But because she is a little brighter than initially believed, she eventually realizes that said boytoy should have custody of a post-pubescent daughter who has issues of heavy flow.

From there I moved on to mental eavesdropping on a totally imaginary phone conversation between my husband and Insult the Insurance Man, which included a few yucks at my brainless expense. ::My husband has yet to blame me for leaving my purse in the car, or for any of the other related crap that has since ensued. Uh yeah. You might wanna scroll down a second, just to see that we are no where near the end of the tale.::

After being washed over by a second tsumani of guilt and responsibility and stupidity, it finally dawned on me that My Purse Was Gone. Forever. And I missed her. And this missing was not at all about function. But about emotional attachment. And loss. And worry.

I started to wonder where she was.
And how is she being treated?
Did she end up in a garbage heap or passed on to a lucky girlfriend?
Did she miss me?
Was she scared?
And worst of all: Did she blame me?

I get into my purse every day, even on days I don't leave the house. In fact, I only now realize that a daily rummage into her dark leathery goodness, around the perfect balance of pads and tampons, through prescription bottles and old receipts, until my fingernails graze the loose sunflower seeds and raisins resting at the bottom had been an integral part of my daily existence.

For, like my mother and grandmother before me, I am a purse rummager.
Like hamsters. With better stuff.

Monday: Fail
My husband's car was not drivable and needed to be taken to the body shop for repairs. So Monday, during husband's lunchhour, I'm going to follow him to the shop to give him a ride home.

But since my purse was stolen, along with my driver's license and the remote entry keys to my car, I was feeling kind of vulnerable. Like, they know where we live and have a key to my car and maybe they want some more of my shit,'cause that first sample was soooo so good.

We seldom lock our doors during the day, but with my heightened sense of vulnerability, I decided that this was going to change. I gave my husband one house key, then found the extra one. Because we hadn't used that one in awhile, I wanted to be sure it worked on the deadbolt. With the door open, I stuck the key in and turned. Sure enough, the deadbolt popped out with the speed and velocity of a 7th grade bulge in health class.

And much like said bulge, it would not go down, erm, back in.
After much twisting and pounding, followed by gentle shaking and sweet talk cajoling, it still wouldn't go down. It was stuck. Out. So not only could we not lock the door, we couldn't even shut it.

Cabana was already in a hurry, so quickly dismantled the deadbolt, with the hopes of finding a switch or a groove to get the protusion back into its rightful pants.

No go. It was broke.

With no time to go to hardware store for a new lock, we had to make do. With duct tape. Please meet our new security system: Deadhole.



The news at the shop was not good, in that they don't have any windows on hand for our particular model of car. ::Ahem. We're at the dealership...:: We are warned that it could be as late as Thursday before the car can be fixed.

Tuesday Cabana takes my car to work and we are stuck at home. While I have the option of driving my husband to work to have the car for the day or the afternoon, in my current emotionally beaten down state, it sounds like too much work. Besides, I have no where to go, what with no credit cards or picture i.d. to back up a written check. But, stuck at home is not so bad, I knit and get laundry going.

Wednesday is the day my emotional mettle gets tested. Every potential playmate on the block is either gone on vacation or at Vacation Bible School. Cakers' makes several phone calls for playdates. With the understanding we can provide no transportation. Every call is a dead end and every call seems to further drive her increasingly frenzied need to have contact with anyone else except her visually and olfactorily unkempt, emotionally edgy mother. And it's about 90 degrees, and humid.
And she starts to cry. I want so hard to do the right thing and be empathic. She had already declined all my "as-is" offers to do something together. Once she sensed my sympathy, she tried to milk it.

Then I started thinking about wishing we could go to the cottage. With Cabana's new job, the frequency and duration of our cottage excursions have been significantly curbed. I have experienced some sorrow with this necessary development, but have so far handled it while wearing my big girl pants. Wednesday , the pants came off and the pity party began.

Earlier in the summer we agreed that when the weather turned hot, and especially if the in-laws were up there, I would gather the Cakers and head up there, as needed. To be joined on the next weekend by Cabana. This is exactly what I wanted to do right now. But had no car.

And just as Cakers was overfocusing on the unfairness of having no playmates, so I began the brood on my currently denied entitlement to cool northwesterlies on the beach and evening swims. And it was all my fault.

By the time my husband got home, I was a fully baked and frosted box of bitchcakes. Poor guy. He had no idea what he was coming home to. Then the dealership called to announce they couldn't find a window for his violated, so we had no idea when it was going to be done.

Cakers needed pajamas, so after dinner we went on a family excursion to Target, with the plans of hitting a nicer place to replace my purse. After Target, however, storm clouds were brewing, so we headed home, to find the power out.

It is rare when our power goes out, so in that, we are lucky.
Yesterday the timing could not have been worse, for this unlucky strike.

I did get some alone time before bed, knitting cables by candlelight, while watching Jay Leno on my b/w, battery operated T.V. Cakers had never heard of B/W T.V. and was kind of intrigued, until she found out it didn't have cable. Come February, my little buddy will be worthless as tits on a bore. But I digress.

The power came on around midnight, just in time for me to find my jammies in the drawer and go to bed.

And Along Came Thursday
Cabana gets up this morning to go to work. The power is on. He is up on time. Life is good.

I hear him messing around in the kitchen, then leaving the house. I hear my car start up and apparently I fall back to sleep. Likely moments later, I am awakened by the sound of my name being called from the garage, and a gentle rapping on the door.

He must be locked out, I think.
He must have forgotten his key to the deadhole.
Had I not heard the car start before I dozed back to sleep, I would have been sure that the thieves had finally come for my car. A fear that I have been expressing and Cabana Poo-Poohing, since Sunday.

But no. The car has not been thieved.
It's been thusly this-sed:



Anyway.
Actually, the above flat tire was the spare replacement from an earlier flat, which has not yet been fixed.

So the plan is for Cabana to call in to work to say he'll be late, then call Insult the Insurance Man to get temporary insurance coverage on the Cobra, pull the tire off, put it in the Cobra and drive it to the Discount tire for repair.

Except the lugnuts are too tight. And two of them don't fit the lug-nutter thangy.
And the Cobra won't start.

So he calls a wrecker.
Who gets lost.
And shows up 2 hours later.

The wrecker guy plumps the tire and follows Cabana to the tire store, where the tire is fixed.

I just now drove to the store to mail a package that should have went out yesterday. And I was so stricken with fear that something else was going to happen, that I could hardly pay attention to street signs and oncoming traffic and even forgot where I was going and turned down the wrong street.

Once we get our car situation back to normal, I'll get my license renewed and buy a new purse to put it in. I wasn't all that enthused about buying a new purse initially, seeing as how I still wasn't over the cruel loss of my last one. And until purchasing a lipstick and emery board last night, I had not a thing to put in a new purse anyway.

But my new insurance cards showed up today already, which gave me an odd sense of hope. Between the insurance cards and a tube of perfect pitch lipstick, I am feeling almost encouraged that the worst of the shitstorm is behind us.

The Good News
One day last week, Cakers yells to me from the other room: "Mom! I have good news!"

"What!?" I yell back, with rapt enthusiasm.

"I just found out that when you're done wearing a Poncho for a Poncho, you can wear it as a skirt!"



And wear it she did. All day.
There is still goodness out there.
Yay.

Labels: What the Hell and Oh Yea

*You'll have to read yesterday's post for reference. But you don't have to comment. But you can. If you want.

I really need to clear the blog cache in my brain before moving on to a fresh, clean summer, so I'm just gonna let her spray.

Cue Alice Cooper, circa 1972
Wednesday was my last day of work for the 2006-07 school year. For the first time in years, I was actually ahead of schedule in completing my final duties. What a great feeling it was, to know that I was not going to be the Last Day Old Maid, sitting amidst a pile of "to-file", while office mates bid me summer adieus on their way out the door.

Earlier in the day I was not so confident I would be out on time. I had scheduled a very important meeting in another district. The Family of the Purpose of this meeting assured me that they had made arrangements to take a taxi to the meeting, were expected to arrive early. And I know this to be true, because I saw the taxi at the Purpose's house as I drove myself to the meeting, and per my estimation, they would be early. So, I get to the meeting place, and wait. And wait. Finally there's a phone call to say the taxi had a flat tire and another was coming and all would be even later.

They did make it, and the meeting went well, despite the time limitations. No harm, no foul. ::What the hell does that mean?::

Fast forward to my final drive out of the parking lot,after completing all my last day chores. I have my window down and am about to crank some Freddy Mercury/David Bowie, when I hear a weird slapping noise coming from the outside my car. Sounds like a flat tire.

I get out. It looks good. So I figured I was just being a little sensitive because of the event earlier in the day. But it was still kinda weird.

I get home, pull into the garage a smidge too fast, and harshly bump my front right tire off of the cement step of the garage entry to the house. I've scraped tire on that mutha many a time, but this was no scrape.

This was the all-weather, radial version of a Uranus Surprise.*

Yup. I popped a hole right in my tire. I don't think I've ever had a flat tire. Ever. Yet, 30 minutes earlier, I was pretty sure I did have a flat. But I didn't. And even earlier,I was practically related to a flat tire event.

There's got to me some universal meaning to this.
All I can think of is that sometimes, it just blows.

And Then
My husband is a self-employed contractor.
My husband has been self-unemployed for several months now.

His line of work is quite fickle, and even the most trusted intention or promise of a contract can fall apart at the last minute. He's had a few nibbles these past weeks, but no purchase orders.

With the high hopes of work later in the summer, we decided to take our vacation right away.

Anyway. Thursday. Cabana gets a call to see if he's available to take a job, with more details available Monday. ::Which means it's still not a sure thing.:: In the meantime, another shop is pretty sure they are going to need him to take two jobs, but they aren't entirely sure that they yet have the jobs to offer. In another meantime, still on Thursday, another guy calls to see if Cabana can take a seat ::that means sit at a computer and work on a job.:: in his shop for a couple of days, to finish up some easy detail work on a rush order.

This last item will give us some nice financial wiggle for vacation. A vacation we're postponing for a few days, with high hopes of Cabana being able to accept a couple of jobs, and turn down a couple of more. I'm not complaining at all, because he needs the work, but the timing is fuckily weird.

If he does get the work, he'll bring his computer to the cottage and squeeze in some vacation around the clicking. He may be able to handle all communications from the cottage, via email and phone, otherwise he'll need to commute once or twice. In order to correspond via email, he'll need my laptop from time to time. ::His work computers are work horses and don't have modems. We only have dial-up at the cottage.::

Butt Then
My laptop is fucked in the head. Evidently she picked up some nasty bug last time we were at the cottage, on dial-up. I don't know what the hell Mc*afee was doing as this bug was crawling up my back portal, without benefit of booze, lube or foreplay, but apparently, once this bug gets in, has the ability to temporaily disarm the McIffy.

The laptop is now at the cleaners and we won't know the verdict until late Sunday night. But if Cabana gets these jobs, we can't go on vacation without email capabilities. Outside of the base issues just described, I need my laptop.

And before sending the laptop to the cleaners, I spent hours fussing over her, cleaning and running ad-ware and spy-ware and going through the motions of believing that McIffy can do anything. It was kind of like taking care of a sick baby.

Thursday night, when I should've been drinking and resting up for my one and only stint as room mother, for Cakers' last day of Kindergarten, I was up late backing up my hard drive, in case she was going to need full frontal and ass-al lobotomies. And I was drinking.

::I was going to include my morning at Monster Kindergarten in this post, but it has the potential for too many complicated off-shot musings. I will say that by the time 1:00 a.m. Friday rolled around, and I was still backing up photos from my laptop, I was kind of wishing I hadn't volunteered myself for Kindergarten Mom. See, even the digressions on the topic are complicated.::

The only other computer available to me is a very old desktop. It's slow. It blocks shit that shouldn't be blocked. It blocks 90% of attempted photo uploads on Blagger, and instead gives me a Pop-Ups Are Blocked message, even after I Unpop the Blockups. It only lets me into AOL Webmail on even numbered dates, between the hours, er, minutes of 3:03 and 3:11 a.m. pst. It seeks permission to enter any and all websites, any and every time. And appears to be stone deaf, as it doesn't respond to any of my commands to knock that shit off.

And it's also pretty much Cakers' computer for her Dizney.com pleasure. While she's a bright girl, she's not quite understanding the concept of Eminent Domain.

On a positive note, I haven't killed anyone. Yet. I think that's a pretty positive start to the Summer of Uranal Surprise.*

And Then
I'm almost Effed Oh on the charity sweater.
I'm almost thinking about blocking Ariann.

On a Positive Note
I may have mentioned here, more than once, that I'm kind of not very physically coordinated. Well, I've got some good news on a newly developed, lifelong skill ::or what's left of it. My life.::

I can now sneeze and pee at the same time.
In fact, I do sneeze and pee at the same time.
Every time.

That's what I call Assure thing.

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, I Work Too, Now You're Whining, Tales of a Klutz, What the Hell and Oh Yea

Haloscan has been operating under The No Lo Commento Edict of Non-Manifestational Feasibility of Two Aught Aught Four all day today, and maybe yesterday.

While I may not offer comment-worthy blogging, I do offer Blogger-worthy commenting. So, in the absence of a viable commentable alternative, you can access Blogger commenting by clicking on the # sign next to my name, at the bottom of any post.

Labels: What the Hell and Oh Yea

I had a very busy week, this past, so both my calendar and brain were full. A full brain makes for fine blog fodder. A full calendar is fodder-expression prohibitive.

Anyway. I need to get a recap on the past week before commencing with the next, which so far appears to be even tighter on the calendar. Of course, I cannot anticipate what holiday jewels my work load will be bringing to the table, but I do know that anytime I'm overscheduled with the mandatory, the impromptu invites itsself to the party. In full regalia.

Monday: I had a 7:00 a.m. meeting. Muy importante. Procedural legal stuff related to speshul edukayshun and naughtiness. So I stop at my favorite early morning coffee drive-thru for a cuppa. The Dunkin' Donuts.

I was thrilled to see that there was no one in line, which meant I was in and out real quick. Whew. At the same time I was pulling out of the parking lot, I was making a move to cram the change from my 5 bill into my purse. But something felt wrong. Too heavy. Too many bills. She had given me change for a 20 instead of a 5.

Yes. I'm sure.

You see, the only money I had in my purse was a five dollar bill with a Where's George? stamp on it. I'd been saving it.

Back before I started knitting again and blogging, I spent most of my free time tracking a one dollar bill I got from the pizza shop. I'm not kidding. I don't have time to go into all that right now, though. Let's just say that I eventually lost track of my baby George, through no fault of my own. ::again, long story::.

Anyway. Even though I had already logged the sighting of this particular bill at the site, because I was no longer a member of the site, I wasn't able to make comments or observations on my new buddy. ::Which is really the best part.::

But I had planned on re-registering at the site, so had been saving the bill until I had the opportunity to fully and properly disclose and therefore feel mentally prepared to let it go ::Tracking money is an emotionally rich and cognitively complex process. No, really.::

So at 6:45 on a Monday morning, at the take-out window of the local Dunkin' Donuts, I had been faced with a horrible dilemma.Give up the Coffee or My New Best Friend? I chose the coffee. ::Yeah, be warned any who have me marked as New Best Friend Material. It's a long hard fall.::

Crumps. This story is getting much longer than I originally planned.

That is how I knew, in no uncertain terms ::Or in certain terms for those on a word diet:: that I had not given the woman a 20 dollar bill.

I didn't have time to take the money back right then. But let me tell you, that was hard thing to do, to drive away with illicit funds. I felt sheepish even putting it in my purse, because it seemed like it looked like I was claiming it as my own. So I stuffed it in my coat pocket, with an assortment of tampons and fresh lady-like liners.

Tuesday Morning: I make a point to leave for work early to make it to the Dunkin' Donuts to return the change. ::I don't usually stop for coffee on the way to work because there is usually some perkin' at the office, but not at 6:45 a.m.::

This time there is a car in front of me at the window. The customer inside the car is apparently buying donuts. Lots of donuts. A big-ass bag of boxes of donuts.

I'm not sure which took longer, for the donut lady to fill the order or for them, as a team, to figure out that a bag of boxes of donuts will not fit through the take-out window.

Umm hmm.

If I wasn't so pissed and anxious to get to work on time, I may have found the whole thing kind of funny. But I was, so it wasn't.

First I was mad at the lazy ass customer who couldn't park the car and walk into the store to get her bags of boxes of donuts. And if the donuts are all for her, then hell yeah, she needs the exercise.

And then there was the Donut girl, who clearly should have known better. I mean, this is her job. Her profession. She is, after all, a Donutista.

Finally the woman pulls her car ahead a little so she can get out of the car to wrench the bags of boxes of donuts from the window jam.

I'd say the woman was a donut shy of a dozen...

So finally I get to the window. I had ordered a coffee and after I paid for it, I handed the window girl the 15 bucks and told her what happened. She was immediately suspicious, and looked at me as though I were trying to pull a grift. And instead of taking the money, she just peered at it.

I don't think so, she said.

Uh, yeah. I gave you a five.

Are you sure?

Yeah, I'm sure. It was a five dollar bill with a red stamp on it. ::And I cried my good-byes, all the way to work...::

I was half-tempted to ask if they might still have the stamped bill and if she'd be willing to trade, but I was already late and clearly the woman was an idiot.

As we talked she still couldn't make herself take the bills, and continued to eye them with contempt and suspicion. I'm still convinced she thought I was pulling a scam. Eventually it must have dawned upon Her Dullness that I was giving her money and asking for nothing.

She finally took it and hesitantly said "thanks." Not that I was expecting free coffee for life, but I guess I was expecting this to feel a little more gratifying. Honest, even.

Yah Rabbitch, no good deed and all that. ::Thanks for the meme tag. ahem. Later this week, k? Or next.::

Kno Knitting For You
I put myself on another knitting time out. Except I did't really know I was on a time out until I realized that every time I thought I'd sit down to knit, I would find something else to do, like clean toilets or scrub grease traps. yeah.

Last week was a charity auction at work. All year I had been planning on donating some packets of photo note cards. It seemed like a simple thing until a couple of weeks ago, when I realized that I needed to individually wrap each card so bidders could see what they were bidding on and therefore needed some sort of something to set the cards in.

So, after having months and months to prepare for this event, one week prior I decide I'm going to knit and felt some little boxes. Heh. So I get my hands on a pattern that I can bastardize (i.e. ruin) and go to town. Of course I was in a hurry so didn't swatch. The first box turned out just right in concept but too small. So I made a second box, in a bigger size. And in a different yarn. Yarn number two didn't felt the same as yarn number one, so the second box was too small, by a p.b. ::swatch first?:: So one day before the auction (after having months and months to prepare) I am cruising craft stores on my lunch hour, looking for holiday baskets.

Blogger won't let me load pictures, so here's a link to the basket in question. Cute eh? And fairly worthless. And I have two. And a third even larger one on the needles,which I abandoned in disgust.

Dang, this post is way too long and I'm not even half done with my week. But I really need to go. The Cakers has been bugging me all morning to join her in some creative, crafty endeavor. I asked her why she can't be happy watching TV like normal children?

On that note I'll leave you with a Cakers WTH? moment. ::I don't like using the other word when it comes to the delicate sensibilities of a five year old. Although, there seems to be nothing much delicate about this Miss Thang, and most days she kind of frightens me.::

Wednesday: Every day, it seems, The Cakers is spouting off on something she wants for Christmas. Bratz dolls, a Barbie House, A Mermaid kitchen set, Camera, Dancing Magical Somethings or Others...etc. So finally this week we asked her to pin some things down for us. Make a choice. Be specific. You know, for Santa's sake. Of course she clammed up, except to say "I want to tell Santa."

Okay, that's fair.

Wednesday night daddy takes The Cakers to see the ol' man. Daddy listens closely to what is being said, with hopes of gathering a clue or two, with which to guide our sleigh.

So what does she tell Santa she wants for Christmas? A basket of marbles. That's it. And to this day, that's her story and she's sticking to it.

What the hell and OH YA.

::Cakers Christmas List Update Just Before Publishing This Post: At this very moment she is declaring a huge Floam kit as seen on TV as her new top gift idea. "Can I Floam my bike?" She asks. I swear that girl is trying to Drive Me to Newberry.::

Speaking of that Kinda House, this upcoming work week is already wound pretty tight and I'll likely be bringing work home near nightly. This could be my only post until late in the week, 'lessin' I get to that damn meme.

And I guess you'll know otherwise, otherwise.

P.S. I'm pretty sure there is a state psychiatric hospital in Newberry (in da UP), thus the context of the phrase. When I was a kid, one of the finest, most scathing insults one could hurl was just one word, "Kalamazoo". That's where the state hospital for our region was located. It wasn't until I was much older when I realized that Kalamazoo is just a city with a funny name.

Labels: Now You're Whining, What the Hell and Oh Yea

I know there's not really such thing as WTF's Wrong With Blogger? Tuesday. Seeing that Every Day is WTF's Wrong With Blogger? Day, that would be redundant.

Today's WTF Blogger Du Jour: Okay, We'll Give You a 10-minute Window to Load Pictures, But You're Not Going to Like It. Comes with a side-dish of fucked up margins when you use italics.

Here's a Trudie Jacket sleeve that is now prit near done.



I'm not getting much knitting time these days. And it feels like I'm never going to finish this sweater. I think I need a weekend at the cottage.

Oh, did I mention I'm rambly today? Or is it gassy?

Anyway. I still haven't found my autumnal schedule sync. It seems that every night after work for the past two weeks, there's been something I gotta do, or some place I gotta go.

Last week Tuesday was a cut-n-color. ::I went back to my natural state of un-bling.:: While there, I found out that my beloved stylist ::I lurve her.:: has been seeing another school soshul werker behind my back. From a rival school. I even know her. She a B. With great body. She showed up a little early for her appointment, an act I'm sure was fully intended. They were soo busted. My girl couldn't look me in the eye and was totally off point on the final spritz.

Thursday was the Carnival at Cakers' school. Oy. Remember the days of school carnival? The ol' Fishing Booth with poles made up of dowels and string and clothes pins? The ol' Ring Toss? The Cake Walk? The Dig For Quarters in Mr. Pzyrski's Pocket?

Well, let me tell you. This carnival was not my daughter's mother's carnival. This carnival had a climbing wall. You needed 47 tickets, to climb. And a helmet. And a harness. And a signed waiver of liability. For a four-year-old.

And there was The Inflatable Bouncy Basketball Court of Death, where more heads were bounced than balls or ass. And there was a D.J. playing children's dance music, like the Chicken Dance and Macarena. I hope someone dropped a bug in this guys' ear that just because Pass the Dutchie is sung by kids, doesn't make it a kids song.

My very most favorite booth was the Bobbing for Ritalins. Having a psychiatrist for president of the P.T.O. can be annoying at times, but it definitely has its perks. Especially for those of us with limited capacity for watching tiny children fall from heights of 30 feet, or so.

From the carnival we went to a Kindergarten Graduation open house at Cakers' former daycare. That was a snotfest. I could hardly speak most of our time there, from looking at all the babies that have come into the home since; replacements for my baby-now-so-grown. It just goes so fast. I wanted to yell at their parents "Beware of the climbing wall! It cometh! Fasteth!"

It was a long ass night.

Remember, I warned I was rambly.

And, I can't even remember what we did over the weekend. Something. I know.

And last night was the Open House at my school, so I worked from 7:30 a.m. to 9:00 p.m. Last night my husband went to a Roger Waters concert in Detroit. Last week I had this terrifying vision that my husband died, so was convinced it was going to happen on this trip. He told me he was so worked up and anxious about going that he thought of driving off an overpass just to get it over with. But damn if I wasn't happy to see him, this morning.

And tonight was the Open House at Cakers' school.

And...and...I just ran out of gas. Or is it rambles?

I guess I'll wrap this worthless post with a little Frosting on the Cakers.

Two nights ago at dinner, while speaking to my husband, I noticed The Cakers repeating everything I said, in that annoying way that kids do. I stopped the conversation with my hub and entered another:

You can play the repeat game with your friends, but you should never repeat after adults like that. It's disrespectful and bad manners. Okay?

Okay.

Thank You.

Thank You.

I know. We're in trouble.

I know. We're in trouble.

Labels: Knit In Progress, What the Hell and Oh Yea

I'm worn out people. Flatter'n a pope cake.

What's a pope cake?
This is a pope cake:


A pancake that contains a picture of the pope. This pope cake was cooked up by some people here in Michigan.

They say it's a miracle. I say pass the Mrs. Butterworth.

I'm too tired to explain why I'm so tired. It's a big bunch of little things and a little bunch of big. I really just need a good night's sleep, or two. In the meantime, I ain't got two brain cells to rub together.

I have been doing some knitting. I've finished both front pieces of the cardigan.



I found this Meme over at Isela's. You google your name with the word "needs."

All Marcia needs is her scarecrow….
Marcia needs to be fired.
Marcia needs to grow up.
Marcia needs new shoes every 500 miles.
Marcia needs to die.
Marcia needs dick.....
Marcia needs to be slapped over the head with a fence post.
Marcia needs to shut the fuck up.

If Google said it, it must be true.

I'm outta here.

Labels: MEME, What the Hell and Oh Yea

Well, we’re on the back half of our week plus of vacation, and, truthfully, I’m about ready to go home, because:

It’s been really, really hot.

We’ve had some glorious times.

Too much glory, in a short period of time, can burn out the retinas of your soul.

It’s been really, really hot.

I miss my air conditioning.

My husband has been working throughout this vacation, and when you’re the parents of a three year-old, and on vacation, but one of you is not really on vacation, no one is on vacation.

I miss feeling like I don’t have to worry about feeling like I’m on vacation when I really don’t feel like I’m on vacation.

I’m tired of applying sunscreen.

I’m tired of scraping off sunscreen.

I’m tired of squeezing in and out of my fabulous Land’s End Waterside Breast Management System, several times a day. By the third time, it's like trying to put two squeezes back into the toothpaste tube.

I’m tired of that stretch of pond scum in the middle my back, seemingly unfazed by current cottage water pressure.

I miss my water pressure.

I miss doing laundry and dishes and wondering if my husband is ever going to finish this job, from within the comfort of my own, air-conditioned home.

I’m tired of feeling bitchy and whiny in such a beautiful place.

I miss feeling bitchy and whiny from witin the comfort of my own home.

I miss my cat.

I miss my wireless. (hah)

My in-laws are coming.

I miss missing my in-laws.

We’ve had some glorious times, but too much of that shit can really get on an inherently crabby person’s nerves.

Pre-Post-Vacation Ponderings
S’mores. So, what the hell is up with this shit? Did we just pretend to love them, as young campers? Was it to appease our counselors? Did we hope the graham-mallow combo would compensate for not brushing our teeth for days on end? Was it a case of The Emperors New Dessert, where everyone just convinced themselves that it tasted good?

So, after gagging on re-visiting this childhood nostalgia, I have concluded the following:

1) Marshmallows belong only in combination with Rice Krispies, hot cocoa or pistachio pudding.

2) Graham crackers belong only sandwiched around left over cake frosting, under cheese cake or dipped in cold milk.

3) The use of a perfectly good Hershey bar in this vile concoction is not only a perverse waste of chocolate, it should be prosecutable.

Catch a Skeeter By the Toe


Have you ever tried this stuff? What a joke. By the time you catch the damn thing, get someone to hold it down, so you can wipe it, you’ll have been bitten by seven of his angry friends. To say nothing of the mid- procedural mortality rate.

Well....I had a bunch more to bitch upon say, but my husband just returned from a trip to town, and announced that the job he's been working on is currently on its way to the customer, via overnight express. And that he's now free to enjoy the last two days of vacation.

Well, yea!

So, later.
Much.

P.S. Okay, about the s'mores. Does anyone really like these things? Really. I need to know.

Labels: Cottage, Now You're Whining, What the Hell and Oh Yea

A review: Back in the spring of 2005, my son took an axe to the TV/Wireless underground cable, in the backyard. This was an act for which he received a financial stipend, because, as he hacked the cable to death, he also happened to catch and clear some underbrush.

Clearly, the taking of the axe to the t.v. cable, by a paid employee of this homeowner, is the fault of said homeowner. Why the underground cable was not exactly underground is an issue of moot, since we have already paid for the repair. Although, the question lingers.

So, for one week we were without wireless internet and cable tv. But we owned it. We survived.

After the cable enabler guy pieced once and spliced twice, we were once again wired, and left with a bill for 138 bucks.

One week later, my wireless went wonky. The rare times I made a connection, I was hanging by a pube. Or otherwise booted, without ceremony.

So I called Comcast, and spoke to a Geek God named Wally. Now, I’ve placed several phone calls to Comcast since we’ve had wireless, and always felt that I received good service, over the phone, anyway. That is, until I met Wally.

From the moment Wally asked “what seems to be the problem?” it was Signal Strength Excellent, all the way.

After he asked me which lights on the modem were lit, he was patient and loving as I apologized for being old and feeble and unable to read the pixie print from across the room.

When Wally asked if I had unplugged and replugged the modem, it was as though we were plugging and unplugging, together. Uncannily, Wally sensed that ours was not a typical connection, and therefore dispensed with the remainder of the usually painful protocol of questions. You know, like did I unplug the cordless, reboot the computer, check for morning bikini line stubble?

Then, Wally did something no cable guy has has ever done before. In a calm, assuring, moderately nasal tone, Wally told me of my wireless history. My personal story.

As though my connectivity to the internet was the sweetest of all love songs, in his tiny work cubby, upon his tiny keyboard, he was tapping my fate with his fingers.

And it went something like this:

According to our records, it looks like on May 24, you had excellent reception between 8 and 8:10 in the morning, then again at noon, for about 7 minutes. No, make that 8.

Exactly

Between 9 and 10 pm, you were in pretty good shape, then….nothing.

Yes. Yes!

The next day, you started off slow in the morning, but escalated throughout the day, reaching a phenomenal peak at about 4:12.

Say my name...!

Then: Nothing.

::sigh:: I remember that day. All too well.

Well, it looks to me like the problem is in the outside line.

You mean, it’s not my fault?

No, my darling Mrs. G., it’s absolutely not your fault. In fact, I’m sending a technician to your home on Thursday. Since the problem is obviously outside the home, you won’t even have to let him in.

Should I give him water, or nourishment?

Ma’am, that’s entirely up to you.

Thank you, Wally.

You’re welcome, ma’am.

Wally?

Yes, ma’am?

Umm…well…No one’s ever…well…I’ve never had… I mean, nobody’s ever been able to.. it’s like you knew exactly what I needed. And, I’ll never forget this. Ever.

Happy to help, ma’am. Is there anything else I can help you with today?

No, Wally. You’ve done quite enough.

Fast forward to Thursday, June 2, when Tech Blob Joe knocks on the door, saying he’s come to fix the wireless, and invites himself in.

Have you talked to Wally? I asked.

Who?

The service rep phone guy. Surely, you know Wally. He's Godlike.

No. I don’t. And don’t call me, surely.

Anyway. Wally said you wouldn’t have to come into the house. That the problem was the outside line.

Wally’s wrong.

Stunned by this outrageous blasphemy, I clutch my breastesses and swoon gently into the wall. Tech Blob Joe takes my movement as an invitiation to enter, and ambles past, asking what seems to be the problem.

So, I tell him. But he doesn’t listen. He asks to see the basement. Then all the computers. He thinks we have too many t.v.'s on one cable, and there’s a problem with the splicer in the basement, but he thinks he can fix it with a couple adjustments. And after 20 minutes, Tech Blob Joe has hooked me up and is out the door.

For about a week following Tech Blob Joe's visit, I admit to enjoying full wireless benefits. Then I went to the cottage for a long weekend. When I returned, the wireless benefits were not so good. Not bad, but not good.

Then I went for another long weekend. Upon my return, the wireless connection was nearly non-existent, with the exception of early morning and late evenings. And by now, I’m about to lose my mind.

So, once again, I call the InCompetent Cast hotline. This time, I speak to Wanda. And I ask her to help me.

Wanda was a doll. Very empathic and reassuring. ::I think I recognized Wanda's voice from the Butterball Thanksgiving Suicide Hotline. Wanda could talk a turkey into a roasting pan. No kidding.::

Without strumming my fate with her fingers, or singing my internet life, with her words, Wanda makes an appointment for the cable guy to come to my house. Again. July 11 (almost one week from the phone call), some time between 8 and noon.

::How convenient. Wanda, I thought you cared! How’s Wally, by the way?::

So, about 11:30 a.m., July 11, Tech Stub Steve* comes knocking at the door, with a piss poor attitude and a chin full of chaw.

*::Tech Stub Steve is dubbed such on account of his having legs just about two inches too short for the rest of his athletic, well-toned body. I imagine Tech Stub Steve was a fairly good athlete, but the distance between his thang and the ground consistently kept him out of the starting lineup. I think you’ve all known a Tech Stub Steve. A short-legged man, with tall dreams. And deep resentments. The emotional issues of the Short Legger is not the same of that of the merely short, well-proportioned man. In fact, I believe that short men, as a species, have gotten the short end of the stereotype stick, so to speak. It’s the Short-Leggers of whom you must be wary. The Disproportionate, if you will. But I really, really digress. I tend to digress a lot, although I try hard to stay away from digression. And Short-Leggers. k. ::

::I’m running out of time and space here, so I’m gonna bring her on home. Sort of. ::

So Tech Stub Steve is here for about 10 minutes, before determining we need a new cable hole outlet thangy.

Trying to be helpful, I tell him what Wally said, so long ago. You remember, about the problem being on the outside line. That it’s not my fault. But Tech Stub Steve only gives me a stare, while sucking long and hard from the chin chaw.

After drilling me a new hole (Short Leggers like that kind of thing. I think it’s The Power. The Power of Hole. Truthfully, it’s kind of fun to say, too. Try it. The Power of Hole.) Tech Stub Steve then packs his tiny tools into his tiny tool kit, and leaves.

Just behind him, I leave for a hair appointment. When I get home, I eagerly fire up the wireless. But instead of getting the smooth sail into my AOL greeting, I get Jack. Squat.

I check the modem. Light is off.
Same Ol’ shit.
Fucking A.

So, I call the NinComPoopCast hotline, once more. This time I get Jen, who apologizes profusely and says she can have someone out as soon as Wednesday. I tell her, in a calm, professional tone, that before I hang up from this call, I want to hear that someone is coming to my house, today, to bring me some fucking wireless, or the next call I’m making is to the local DSL service provider.

After being forwarded to a higher up and being put on hold for a total of 30 minutes, I was informed that Tech Stub Steve would be coming back to service me, as I see fit.

Five minutes later, the now Very Pissy Tech Stub Steve calls to report that he will be here in 15 minutes.

When he finally shows up, he is not happy.

But neither am I. But, years ago I vowed to never again, act a crazy ass bitch in front of a Short Legger. It makes them feel tall, for a minute. And I just ain't giving it up.

He said “I can’t believe this.”
I said “Me either.”

And after about two hours of hooking up new modems, talking to smarter guys on the phone, laying a new line of cable, Tech Stub Steve pronounces that the problem was, actually, outside the house. That the guys who fixed the axed cable, did a very bad job of splicing it, and eventually the wireless connection eroded.

Oh, so the problem was actually outside the house?

Yes, ma’am.

All this time?

Wally.
Baby.
I’ll never forget. Ever.

As the Fiber Turns, Some More
Amidst all the boolshit, yesterday, the mailman brought me a package of silky, woolly goodness. All the way from Idaho.

The yarn is a 50/50 silk/wool blend, from Spirit Trail Fiberworks and may be the softest stuff I've ever had chance to caress.

And hugs to my very special benefactress, Miss Kim, who sent me this bounty, just because.

Evidently, Just Because happens. And I'm okay with that. Thanks again, sweetie!

I'm thinking a lacey shawl, but will need to find the perfect pattern. Last night I swatched for Meadow Flowers from The Knitters Stash, but I was disappointed with the look. This yarn needs a special pattern. Lacey, but not too prissy. It needs a pattern with Power. You know, The Power of the Hole.

Any ideas or direction to specific pattern, would be greatly appreciated.

*
P.S. I've been working on a what has become quite a lengthy post, over the past several days. No, it's not this one. Yes, this one is lengthy. I'm sorry, but the other one is too lengthy,too. Sorry again. I'm just trying to warn you. Anyway, with all the internet issues I wasn't able to finish it, but it's coming. But I don't know when. We leave for vacation tomorrow. Yes, I'm on vacation all summer. Okay, let's just say I'm relocating my current vacation location to a place further north, on a lake. Better? Okay. Please, quit with the distractions, already. Actually, I don't know why I'm telling you this. I guess I'm hoping you're still with me, here. After all this. Or maybe I'm trying to see how much shit one blog post can hold. Blogger, don't fail me now.

Later. Much.

Labels: What the Hell and Oh Yea

Friday was my last official day of work, before starting 10 weeks of summer vacation. I’ve been working in a school setting for 11 years, and I'm here to say, the thrill of the onset of summer break has not waned.

However, the thrill of summer break also doesn’t typically reveal its lovely ass to me, until about, hmmm, day three. That’s how long it takes me to unwind from the stress of wrapping up nine months of work, in one day.

In fact, that last day of school is a lot like checking out of a hotel, after a week’s vacation. You think it’s going to be a piece of cake, so you stay up half the night before, then sleep until nine, then take a quick shower and a breakfast.

Next thing you know, you’re stuffing dirty underwear and miniature shampoo bottles into your husband’s back pants pockets, as he schleps baggage down the hallway, while both of you are wishing you would’ve skipped the house wine at the piano bar, the night before. Wine that tasted much better by last call, than it did first sip, then pretty bad, again, on the way back up. And one of you has a hazy recollection of barfing a green bean out of his/her nose, but possesses not the nerve to mention it. Ever. Again.

Yeah, preparing to check out of work for the summer is a lot like that. Minus the green bean.

Right now we’re at the cottage (I’ll skip the detailed whine on how I spent the morning of my first day of summer vacation, doing laundry, packing for a week’s vacation and cleaning up for the cleaning lady, who was set to arrive at noon, at which time we all needed to be off the premises, lock, stock and Cakers. And Cheddar. And knitting. Yeah, I’ll just skip that one.) (You’re welcome.)

Anyway.

So, that’s where the hell I’ve been.

What the Hell Have I Been Knitting?
I finished the back of Peaches, except I’m not really liking how that neckline is looking. I finished it up early yesterday morning, before chores, so I could cast on the front piece, for the car ride north.



Depending on how the first front piece turns out, I may end up frogging the back, either to death, or close to it. The directions called to incorporate the lace pattern into the increases or leave them in stockinette.

I tried the incorporation thing, a couple of times, and somehow ended up with a lacey mess, and too many stitches. Repeatedly. I'm now thinking, however, that the stockinette section will be noticably wide, once joined with the fronts.

But hey. It’s summer. I'll sweat about it tomorrow.

I hope to post more regularly now, without the pressures of work and graduation and all that shit. And there’s something about this fresh northern air, that makes me want to get down and dirty with my writing.

And my husband.

And I promise to get around to some long lost blogs and comment sections and late emails (Miss Kimmy) and other lost connections.

What the Hell Is That Thing?
I don’t know flowers from a bleeding hole in the butt, but this bud seems mighty peculiar.

Que?
Anyone?

Labels: What the Hell and Oh Yea