I should be packing, but it occurred to me that the Brooke Shieldiness of my brows may not be evident in the other picture.

::Please know that I did not get my usual 1 hour pre-blog-publish obsessing time, today.::

::You know you all do it.::

::Obsess on posts::

::You do, right?::

God Bless America. And stuff.

I've been tout busy around here, getting ready to go back to the cottage for the holiday weekend. We leave this afternoon, and I'm not nearly ready. Read: 'Nother shit blog post, today.

I was looking around my brain for something interesting to write, but came up with nothing. So I went to Plan B. Or, plan B.D.B. (Blogger Draft Bin).

I often get an idea for a post, get it started, save it in draft form, then abandon/forget my intent/get-hit-by-a-lost-train-of-thought-and-sustain-severe-cognition-injury.

Today, I'm purging the draft bin. Grab a bucket and a mop. There will be no logic or flow to this post, from this point on.

::And this is something new? I says to myself::

Starting Now......

No, Now.

k.

Spaybacks Are a Bitch
I don't remember what googlenastics I was performing, when I found this website.

Aside from the rather aggressive name of the organization, I was first struck, and then alarmed by this picture:



It appears to be the surgical recovery room for recently spayed kittens and toddlers.

And this picture, set my whiskers on end:



I know! I couldn't believe my eyes. They let girls into the boys bathroom.....to perform surgery, on helpless animals (and toddlers?)

Done.

It's No Global Perspective
(Hint: Say it slooooooo)

K.

After my son's graduation open house, I had planned on writing a party-survival-afterglow post. All I came up with, however, was this picture:



These are the snowglobes I made for table decorations for the party. My intent was to brag on my cleverness, and give any of you future open house throwers a clever idea. So, there it is. A clever idea.

You can order the globes here.

Almost Done.

Following is a sampling of pictures that went into my son's graduation party scrap book.

Here, I'm wearing probably the first fully sleeved sweater I ever knit. The yarn was a high end red heart acrylic. The pattern was from a pattern company with the name Bee in it. I loved that sweater so much, I made one for each of my sisters and my mom, too. Same yarn, different colors.



The dinosaur sweater on my boy was my first attempt at knitting with different colors. There's a name for that kind of knitting, but it escapes me. Frequently. You can't see the details, but there are 3-D dinosaur scales on the tail, going down the arm.

This is a shot from my first vacation, after the divorce. Check out the brows. Yeah, I know, Brooke Shields called....



White Boys can jump.



Done.

California Dreamin'
Yesterday, the Post Toasty Man (it was 99 degrees, give me a break.) brought me a special treat from La, of West Coast JenLa Fame. It was a prize for supporting her recent participation in a walk-a-thon in the fight against breast cancer. (Would a booby prize joke be inappropriate here? Yeah, probably).



That there is three skeins of Reynolds Mandalay (silk! Whee!)....



....And some stitch markers, two deliciously scented candles and novelty soap! (Which Cakers opened immediately and which also smell curiously like beer, in a good way....).

La, to show my heartfelt appreciation for this special treat, I'm sending you this:



Whatever you do, La, DO NOT remove the eye stickers or let it have water after midnight.

Done.

P.S. I tried bloggers new photo feature. Works good. No more middle man photo agent required.

P.P.S. I haven't sewn my tank up, yet.

Labels: From My Loins, My Daughter Scares Me, Passages

I really had plans to be a more attentive blogger, this summer. In both the giving and receiving of the blessings of blog.

But dang, if shit don't happen.

Considering that it was 95 degrees at the lake on Sunday (yes, in Northern Michigan), we decided to stay another day. When we pulled out of the cottage driveway yesterday, at 3:00, it was 99.5 degrees.

When it's 100 degrees outside, even at a lake, you gotta be skilled in finding ways to be cool. It appears that some of us possess such a knack.

She's Cool.



He's Cool.



They're Cool.



She's a Dork.*



You Wanna Piece of This?



How 'bout this?



I hardly did any knitting on my most recent mini-cation. In fact, I finished the front of The Rebastardization of Nina just this morning, here at home.

But I did have lots of fun and relaxation with my fam, including my son, Cam. I even learned something new, about my boy: He's a crack tuber. ::And no,he's not a crack-smoking, potato head. Maybe a potato head, sometimes...::

Evidently, this is a very non-dorky way to wait for the rope slack to be taken by the boat:






Tubular.

All Crap, All Day Long
I missed my three year blogiversary last week, some time.

So, Yay Me.

But mostly, Yay Youse Guys, for reading and laughing and egging me on.

Doo Wop
In response to some comments left on my shoe last post, I feel compelled to point out that the subject of crap is not a new one, around here. To you recent newcomers to these here pig parts, and in honor of the current season, I refer to my most shitty post, circa August 19, 2004, titled A Waste is a Terrible Thing to Mind.

Again: Tanks, tanks alot.

*But get a load of those well behaved breastesses.

Labels: Cottage, From My Loins

Here I am, facing that hateful, daunting task, of trying to write a marginally interesting post, on the heels of having blown, what may have been, my last creative blog wad.

Additional Pressure: I have to be at a meeting at work, in 30 minutes, after which we're leaving for the cottage, for a long weekend. With the in-laws. And my son (yeah!) and his best friend. And only one phone line (no wireless) (of course), which means stealth-like blogging opps will be dearth-like.

Anyway...
Uh...
So...Okay, I know.

So, my husband bought the Cakers this carton of gummi bears, see? And they looked real yummi. And since the Cakers doesn't really like gummi bears, but really, really likes to yank daddy's wallet chain, at the grocery store, the sucking of gummi bear head was left to me.

So, suck did I.
And suck I did.

After consuming approximately half of the carton, over a 2 hour period, I notice on the top of the container the words "Sugar Free."

My first thought pertained to why my husband bought sugar free gummi bears, at a price of 5 fucking bucks a container. 'Cause, I'm here to say, We Eat the Sugar. Round Here. My second thought was Damn, these gummi bears are good. And sugar free, too? How day do dat?

So, after poppin' half a fistful more of them-there-dad-gum-bears(I was a southern girl in a previous lifetime. It was a good life. Mostly spent with Billy Joe McAllister. Up on Chocktaw Ridge. Throwing shit.), I commence to reading the ingredients. I'm not typically an ingredient checker-outer, but was merely curious as to how these jellicul-iscious bears could taste so good, without sugar.

I never did get my answer, on account of being distracted and disturbed by this:



(the highlighted part, is what I'm referencing.)

Evidently, "excessive consumption" is defined as about half a handful more than I consumed. That being said, about one hour after my last dose of bear shit enhancers, I knew some pain. Serious pain. Intestinal pain. It felt like the yummi gummis were holding a pogo stick marathon, deep in my innards. I was doubled over a couple times, praying for the 'rreah. For relief.

But dang, if those things didn't taste good.

The Re-Bastardization of Nina
Here's the front of Nina, which I've changed up even more than the back. I decided that the wide expanse of reverse stockinette, meeting the ribbing right down the middle of my tatas, was not a look for me, either. So I added five stitches of ribbing down the middle.



I really would love to sit and chat some more about my two favorite topics, shit and boobs, but I really gotta get.

There may not be much (if any) posting over the weekend. So mabes I sees ya all on the other side.

Of the weekend.

Monday.

Toodles.

::Due to time restraints, post was unedited::

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, Unhealth

Recently, while traveling, I found myself in urgent need of a restroom. So I pulled into the next available, hot potty spot, a McDonald’s/Super-Mini-Mart/Gas station.

::Am I the only one bugged and/or confused by these odd little conglomerations? For some reason, I’m not comfortable with the housing of Big Macs with Special Sauce and Preparation-H and French Fries with ketchup and Playtex Tampons and napkins and straws, all under the same roof.::

I was quite pleased to see that the bathroom was very clean, and not smelling of cinnamon ass.

::Has anyone else noticed the recent Cinnamon bathroom spray revolution? People, cinnamon and shit make Cinnamon-ass. ugg.::

::Evidently, a cinnamon bear doesn't shit in the woods. But perhaps he should?::

::And, why do I keep writing stuff inside these little domino dots?::

I enter the stall, do my business, take care of the business-end of business, pull up my pants and turn to flush. No flush. It appears to be an automatic-for-the-people flush job thangy. Looks brand new, in fact. So I wait. And watch the bowl. Nothing.

Hmmm. This thing looks real high tech. Maybe it uses a cutting-edge, weight-differential system, which compares the weight of the bowl contents before, to the weight of the bowl contents after, the evacuating event. This way the flush brain knows how much whoosh to push. Yeah, that's it. Amazing.

I smile in admiration, as I watch and wait. For nothing.

Okay. I need to be somewhere. People are waiting. There must be an emergency flush.

No emergency flush.

Again, I wait and watch. Not even a bubble.

I then wave my hand in front of the “magic eye,” and stare into the pool. A slight shift in the toilet paper, offers a brief glimmer of hope. But no.

Perhaps my lift-off was too quick, or too slow. These magic eyes can be quite discerning, I hear.

So, with pants on, I sit down, count to 10, and stand back up, real slow.

Then I wait. And watch.

I repeat the above action, only this time, I count to 30. In Spanish. Which takes a long time, because I only know a little French. And almost no Spanish.

But, nada.

Hmmm…. It’s the jeans! The magic eye doesn’t respond to denim. It needs to see the real deal. The flesh of the ass.

So, swear to gawd, I pull down my pants, and once again, re-enact lift-off. And, as I slooowly remove my booty from the throne, I mutter, "Look at my ass, bitch. It's leaving the premises. Look. Ass. Flesh. Flush."

I felt it was my finest launch, to date. But no.

What the fuck? Now I panic. I need to get out of here, but no way in hell am I leaving shit, as is. I’ll die here, first. And neither am I going to the adolescent, multi-pierced, McDonalds/Super-Mini-Mart/Gas Station attendant for help. I’d just as soon pluck it from the bowl with my bare hands, and drop it in my purse.

Suddenly, I realize that I have been the butt of a huge, stankin,' adolescent prank. Come to think of it, there are no real adults on the premises. Maybe there is no magic eye flush. Maybe the "eye" is at the end of a giant peep hole, leading from the employee breakroom. The flush mechanism is activated manually, at the viewer's discretion. But only after everyone's had their way, with your ass.

Bending over a little, to catch my breath, I start to shake.

My ass.

For the camera.

Shake it fast.
Shake it slow.
Wave it to, and
Wave it fro.

And...

Whoosh. There it is.

Nearly crying with relief, I pull up my pants and unlatch the door. Thank God.

Then....Is that muffled giggling I hear?

Kewl.

Knittin' Knuggets
Outside of Father's Day festivities, I spent most of the getting tanked.



I better get the front finished, or I'll be giving a new meaning to "hangover." Have a Monday.

My father died when I was 11. I don't remember any Father's Day celebrations when he was alive, but I guess we didn't do it up back then, like we do now. In fact, I'm afraid I have lost many distinct memories of him, over the years.

But if the reallocation of memory space is necessary, to make room for new images, like the one above, I guess that ain't such a bad thing.

I hadn't really planned on writing any of this, but here it is. I think the true impetus for sharing these thoughts, is that I feel so damn lucky to have found such a wonderful, loving partner. Who, not coincidentally, is an equally wonderful, loving father.

And a special Father's Day nod to my father-in-law, one of the dearest and most generous men I know, for showing us all, the way it's supposed to be done.

And for creating a legacy which will not be forgotten.

Go.

It's good to be home. Isn't it funny how your house smells different when you get home from vacation? Like you're smelling how other people sniff it for the first time? ::And no, I'm not talking the rotten banana peel in the trash under the sink::

To Frog, Perchance to Scream
AHHHHHHH...!!!





Yeah. I did it.

Why?

Because I could.

And, because I seem to have favored one armhole over the other, while doling out stitch decreases, and I feared for the visual integrity of the finished product.

But you frogged well past the armhole.

Oh, yeah.

Actually (Cakers new favorite word, btw), I also wanted the sides on the back piece to match the front. They didn't. Not a huge deal, but if I was already a-froggin', might as well do it for all the right reasons.

Besides, after such a heartbreak, it's nice to console oneself with a little something new.



This is a bastardization of Nina, a free tank pattern offered online, by Berroco.

Knit as directed, the resulting garment would cloak one boob in reverse stockinette, and the other boob in 1x1 rib. For some reason, this did not sound like a good look for me. So I'm ribbing on the side and stockinetting in reverse, up the middle, for the whole piece.

When I searched the Berroco site, looking for a tank pattern, this one did not show up. I found Nina through a link at The Daily Knitter. I've had this site bookmarked for months, and totally forgot about it. If you're looking for a free, online pattern, this is the place to start. They not only have a wide selection of categories, but each subcategory is also sorted by needle size.

This was a godsend for me (give us this day, our Daily Knitter...?) since my yarn is worsted and most of the cool, tank patterns I possess (or accessed on line) are for dk or lighter.

Yikes...where's the morning gone? I gotta get.

No clever, final thoughts today, so I'll borrow from one of the greats of modern thinkers, Jack Handey...

If trees could scream, would we be so cavalier about cutting them down? We might, if they screamed all the time, for no good reason.

On the First Day of Summer Vacation, I got up, went to the yarn shop, then I hung out in front of the drugstore.



On the Second Day of Summer Vacation, I got up, knit a swatch of my new yarn, burned out my retinas, then I hung out in front of the drugstore.



On The Third Day of Summer Vacation, I got up, introduced my three year-old daughter to the Joys of Candyland, then remembered the True Joys of Candyland, then I tried to gouge my eyes out with a rusty fondue fork, then I hung out in front of the drugstore.



The End.

Seriously
That new batch of yarn is Plymouth Fantasy. A worsted weight, mercerized cotton. It doesn't look as mercerizy as other yarns of its ilk, and it's pretty soft. When I grabbed it from the sale bin, I thought I was getting a deal at 30% off. At the checkout, the yarn shop owner gave me 40% off, as a reward for buying the last of it,because she really doesn't care for the color.

Gee...Thanks.

::She's a nice lady, but a bit of a beehead, which is old slang for bumbling, I believe, but I can't find it in an online dictionary, to save my bumbling ass.::

I'd link to the yarn shop website, but I think the owner has developed a soft spot for me, and if she has a site meter, she could find my blog, and read it, and she may not approve of my use of the F word or my taking the name of Baby Jesus in bathing suit vain, and she might stop giving me extra deals on ugly yarn and start to follow me around the shop, like I'm some kind of common, blaspheming,yarn whore.

But then again, she's kind of ditzy. She may not know that she has a website.

At the back of the yarn store is a little bead shop, where they also sell handmade jewelry. I picked up this little Cleopatric number, for only 12 bucks. It's just gold toned disc and seed beads, on stretchy string. Striking, no?



(The picture was taken on one of the 90 degreed days. I was a bit, well, retentive. )

About Candyland....They've made some significant changes since I last played this game, about 12 years ago. I clearly remember that last game, with my son. It was Candyland Game from Willie Wonkonian Hell. This game would not end.

It went at least an hour.

At least.

We went through the card deck, at least four times.

At least.

And every time someone would approach the finish, he/she would draw a newly reshuffled "Mr. Plumpy" card, and have to go way back to the beginning. Then the other player would draw a card, that sent him/her way back, to nearly the beginning. Then we'd run out of cards, restock, get almost to the end, and along comes Mr. Plumpy. Again.

After about 45 minutes, I tried to give us an out and call it a tie, but my boy was a bit competitive (those jock types, I swear!) and wanted to see it through.

I must of did Mr. Plumpy at least three times, that day.

At least.

Finally, I thought to sneak Mr. Plumpy out of the pile, during a card reshuffle-reload sequence. Sans the Plump One, we still ended up going through the entire deck. And when Cam was three squares from the end, and about to draw the last card of the pile, he started crying. Because he knew it was Mr. Plumpy.

When he finally picked it up, and saw that it wasn't Mr. P., but a color square that won him the game, he cried some more. Because I cheated. By pulling out Mr. Plumpy.

Anyway.
Game over.
Never to be played, again.

So, twas a tad ironic that I was disappointed to see that Milton Bradley has removed Mr. Plumpy from the Candyland lineup. And why did they replace Queen Frostine, with her daughter, the Princess? That doesn't even rhyme.

I seem to recall hearing tales, back in the day, about the Candyland board being used as an adult sex game. I think they called it CandyAss. If that was the case, I guess Mr.Plumpy could be taken in more than one way. And give the game a bad name.

Anyhoo, they have improved the rules of Candyland, for the sake of expeditousness and sensitivity to the fragile ego of a young child. For example, if you draw a character card that sends you backwards, you now disregard it, and draw again. And you no longer need to draw a purple square (I believe purple was the last square, on the old board?) to win. The last square is a rainbow of colors.

Also, remember the squares with the black dots? Where you'd be stuck until you drew a card of the same color? They have replaced those evil black holes with licorice squares, where upon landing, you only skip one turn, instead of the potential 5 or 6 turns(a game dynamic which is hard to explain to a crying, stuck three-year old.)

So, I hearby declare the Candyland changes are definitely for the better. Although, I miss me Mr. Plumpy, something awful.

Over and Out
After enjoying four days of gorgeous, sunny, hot weather, it's now rainy and overcast. And cold. One shut-in day, with the Cakers and the inlaws, was tolerable. The thought of a second such day, with the Cakers (no inlaws), is enough to send me packing. Especially since she woke up at 5:30 this morning. And will soon be psychotic with fatigue.

With the forecast calling for three more days of this crap, (weather,Cakers,whatnot), today we're heading home. It's supposed to heat up again next week, at which point we'll return.

Oh yeah, when I told Cakers "You got up very early this morning." She tossed her hair, and said "Thank You."

Sky Candy



Life is good.

Heaven Must Be Missing a Swimsuit
Dear Baby Jesus,
Thank you for the following:

1) Lands End.
2) Your giving Lands End the ultimate wisdom and craftmanship, to enable them to offer to me, for purchase, this most excellent Waterside Breast Management System (aka, a size 8 tankini top, in a D cup.)
3) The matching skirt bottom, which is cute and slenderizing, and provides adequate coverage of my-monkey-business-at-the-top-of-the- stairs.
4) UPS
5) Overnight shipping.

Speaking of Heaven, have you ever wondered what really happens to people in hell? Well, I think I figured it out. People who get sent to hell, spend all of eternity putting wet, one piece swimsuits on three year-olds.

So, Be warned and Behave.

(Do you think that writing a silly letter to Baby Jesus, on a knitting blog, is a sent-to-hellworthy offense?)

Rut Row
It would appear that I am not as free to blog with wild abandon, as I thought I would be. This is mostly because the in-laws are here for three days, and stealth blogging, in a closet, at a cottage, in 90 degree heat, puts a bit of a crunk in the juice. If you know what I mean.

I have done some knitting. This is the left front of Peaches.


For those of you who still believe that I have anything worth while to say about our beloved craft, I hereby proclaim: I was able to successfully incorporate the lace pattern into the increased stitches. ::I know, Whoopdeefuckingdoo. But hey, when you're on vacation, shaving a knee cap is rocket science. ::

Til Tuesday.....

Labels: Cottage, Pho-Ho'

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

Amidst the storm warnings, tornado watch, straight winds, hail, power outages, more hail, street flooding, no-shows, too much food and too little wine (for me, anyway), a good time was had by all.

No, really. The Open House went well.
Freakishly well.
No. Really.

Someone to Watch Over Me
After the party, I sat and relaxed in my favorite spot, with my favorite knitting project, and a scrumptious Beaujolais.

From that spot, I had this view of the fireplace mantel:



It made me smile
To see,
That even the Watchers
Need a little watchin' over.
Sometimes.

Well, the countdown to the Open House has been reduced from days to hours. 31 hours, actually, at this writing, per my Dell desktop. But I’m okay. Really.

The food and cake* are on order. The carpets are clean. We got the balloons and the helium and the school spirited paper plates. And the memory book debaucle is merely a bad memory.

All that’s left is the last minute, final detail shopping. You know, stuff like, cheese. Cheddar. Shredded.

Yeah, that's my list. Cheese.

There should be more. I know it. But it seems that the stress of planning a Graduation Open Wound House has tapped my cognitive resources and I’ve lost my ability to make lists. I’m listless.

Yesterday at work, I started work on the final list. I began, of course, with cheese. Then the phone rang. Then a client came in. Then it’s lunch, followed by a two hour meeting. Then my day is done.

On the drive home, I am horrified to realize that I left my final, detailed list, of cheese, on my desk at work.

Once home, I sat with crayon in hand, (My husband has wisely removed all sharps from the immediate environment.) to commence with round two of the last list. Okay, first we had, uh, the cheese. Cheddar, I believe. Shredded.

And then….then….I gotta pee. Bad. Ly.

And then, The Cakers comes home from daycare.

And I give her a hug.

And then, my little sister calls, needing help with yet another crisis. (Crisis: Blockbuster isn’t going to carry Season 3 of Six Feet Under and do I wanna go halvesies on a purchase?)

And then I go for a walk.

And then it’s dinner.

And dishes.

And bathing a toddler.

And finally it’s quiet.

So I sit, with crayon in hand, and look at my list so far, complete with subcategories:

1. Cheese.
a. Cheddar.
b. Shredded.

And then, nothing.
Nada.
Jack.

Jack?

Revised list:

1.Cheese
a. Cheddar
b. Monterey Jack
c. Shredded.

List is done.

You think I’m kidding? I’m not. Well, I am exaggerating, but not kidding.

I think my brain has gone into survival mode and is allowing only consideration of the necessities, at this point. Upon further consideration, I think my brain is pretty smart. You see, I’m having a taco bar catered in. Tacos, with all the fixins'. And the woman who took order, warned me that people tend to put too much cheese on their tacos (as opposed to the restaurant being cheesy with the cheese?) and advised me to buy extra.

And ya know what? When it comes right down to it, the cheese does stand alone. It’s my last authentic party necessity.

While these items would be nice, I really don't need:

1) fresh cut flowers
2) light bulbs
3) new picture frames
4) streamers
5) decaf coffee
6) plastic wine glasses
7) Bacardi Vanilla
8) Diet Vernors

No siree, Bob. All I really need is…is...now what did I do with that list?

Gang, Gang, the Hail’s All Here!
Here in Michigan, we’ve been blessed with beautiful weather over the past few weeks. Memorial Day weekend, we were supposed to have rain, three days running. It was beautiful.

How great that the weatherman could be so perfectly wrong, at the so perfectly right time. What are the chances of it happening again, this weekend? Well, I'm praying for at least an 80% chance of meteorlogical error. (Feel free to bow your heads and join me).

Weather forecast for Sunday, June 5: Temperatures in the low to mid 80’s, scattered thundershowers throughout the day, some severe, with a possibility of hail. (And if I hear one more unfunny joke about mother nature providing ice for the party, I’m gonna hail chunks.)

I’m trying very hard to not think of my big brother’s graduation party, on a Sunday, in June, in 1967. A beautiful, sunny day, until the tornado sirens went off, as the sky suddenly churned an eerie green. And how we had to run, party en masse, to our neighbor's tiny, tiny basement, because ours was filled with the clutter we cleared from the main living area, for the party. And how my basement, at this time, is filled with half of my living room and all of The Cakers toys. And yarn. Of course.

Although, if we had to squeeze 300 people down my basement, they probably won't even notice.

But really, I’m okay.

In fact, if you're thinking that I'm thinking that I'd rather stuff red pepper flakes under my eyelids than prepare to entertain 300 strangers in my cluttered basement, while cows and oil tankers whirl overhead, you are soooo wrong.

Anyway, I’m sure all y’all’s gonna be real happy to get this party started, and done with, so you won’t have to hear about it. Anymore. But rest assured, if the sirens blow, the second thing I’m grabbing is the laptop. The third? Vernors.

*I think Rolf the Cakemeister has a little crush on me. Or maybe he thinks I have a crush on him. Or that I am a caker baker stalker. I must have returned to the caker baker counter three times, to triple check what I put on my order. “Hello Marcia…” he said, in an alluring, caker baker voice.

Labels: Passages