Ironic

Kay: I'll have two drinks, but just order me a number one anyway. It's just easier to say.

Me: Number one, that's the Big Mac one, yes? You know, I can just say, "Big Mac and fries." I'm good like that. I can say Big Mac and I can say fries. I'm ... verbal? No. Shit, what's that word? How you say? [pauses while thinking really hard]

Me: Ok. I'm blank like that; and the blank, it is a word that means I can speak well.

Kay: Uh, articulate?

Me: Yeeessss. I'm articulate like that.

Busted

What do you do when you're caught in a traffic jam, where all the lanes are closed and you can't move so you turn off your car to wait it out?



Duh, ogle the hot boy in the truck in front of you. The guy in the orange truck to my left and front was h-o-t, hot. He was wearing scruffy jeans and a baseball hat. He had a nice butt. Yah, did I mention he was hot? He was also, really, really, young. Probably around, oh, eighteen. I hope. I was a dirty old (wo)man. He got out of his truck to look around and totally busted me staring at him, or specifically his aforementioned butt. He waved. I kind of smiled, threw up in my mouth a little bit, and then pulled out my knitting. I am sure my knitting added to the Mrs. Robinson stereotype. Honestly though, my only regret was that I couldn't take a "real" picture (i.e., with my camera instead of my cell phone) of him when he was standing in the back of his truck for y'all to enjoy.

It Wasn't Me

You shouldn't ask your husband to check your phone when you hear a beep-beep-beep unless you know who the beep-beep-beep is from. Heh! Fortunately, Boo knows I am more likely to find God and renounce peanut butter M&M's, than to cheat, so we had a good laugh over this wrong number text message.* But it got me to thinking, what a great way to really screw with someone. And by great, I mean truly evil. If you don't like someone, why not text his mobile phone with love messages from unknown numbers so that his spouse can find them and assume the worst?






*I asked Boo to call the number and play the outraged husband wanting to know what skeeze was texting his wife, but he said he was too tired. Granted he had just walked in the door from a thirteen hour work day when the message came through, but still ... how pathetic! I mean, shouldn't he at least give the pretense of being disgruntled? Can I be too trustworthy?

So Very Tall

Since my clients are incarcerated, I have to get a special court order to have them transported to court. They can't just drive on over being, you know, locked up and all. Well recently one judge has been giving us gruff about having inmates brought into court. The clerk usually circumvents this judge by issuing my orders himself. So when I went to the court with my request, not in a suit, but in regular casual work attire, I was expecting to have the clerk come out, sign it and send me on my way. Wrong. Due to a weird turn of events, I ended up arguing my request, in the clerk's office, over the speaker phone with the judge, in front of a life-sized cardboard cutout of Derek Jeter. Let's break this down.

I was standing, talking down into a speaker phone, while the clerk was sitting at his desk, picking his teeth, watching me. Bad.

I was arguing this motion, wearing slacks, a glorified tee shirt, sandals, and my nicest (a cashmere wool blend) winter coat which 1) did not go with the rest of my outfit and 2) I had buttoned all the way up to hide my tee shirt, despite the fact that I was wearing OPEN-TOED SANDALS and sweating! Badder.

Derek-freaking-Jeter was looking down on me while I did this. Baddest.

Now don't get me wrong, until I found my love stud Hideki Matsui, I was all about Derek. And I still love me some Jeter. So long as the Jeter is in the proper environment ... a baseball field, a television commercial, a late-night fantasy. The Jeter should not be in a court house office. Further, there is something really disturbing about a grown man having a life-sized cardboard cutout of another man in his office. I have since learned that these things have names and are called "standees." But just because there is an actual name for them doesn't make them any less disturbing.

It isn't like the court clerk is some fourteen year old prodigy who is using his huge intellect to sign court forms. No, he is a grown man, a very nice, seemingly smart man, but a grown man with this standee in his office! Now my husband, he thinks this is not so odd. My husband, he is wrong. People, the Jeter standee was taller than me! I'm 5'9". I swear, it was all of his six feet and three inches! It was grinning. It had a bat.

In it's defense, it also had some good karma, because I got my order as well as my own special procedure for future cases which will enable me to avoid the grinning Jeter standee in the future. Maybe I need to knit the sideways socks with the Jeter, you know those socks could use some good karma!

I Don't Remember Killing A Puppy

But my knitting karma, it is currently in the crapper!


Crapper? Crapper!


What we have here is a stupid, stupid sock. For to fit the heel, it must gape at the foot.


Gape? Gape!



I am so disgusted I could just spit. How in the hell is this suppose to work? There is not a lot of give since you are knitting it sideways (hence the name "sideways sock"), so you have to make it bigger to fit over the heel. But if you make it fit over the heel, you have a foot part so large, you could house a family of hamsters - while you are wearing the damn sock! Mind you, I only grasped the size of the problem AFTER I kitchenered up the fifty-two stitches that comprise the entire foot section. It took an hour. I need some vodka.

Same Old Song and Dance

As with all of the socks in the history of my sock making, I came to the point on the sideways sock where I had to rip, rip, rip. I finished knitting everything and was ready to seam when I reached the part of the instructions that stated, "Leave all 140 sts on the needle. Do not cut the yarn, because you will use it to knit up the sts. of the toe later. Close the backseam with the yarntail of the cast-on row, using mattress stitch."


The hell you say! I had, and still have, absolutely no idea how to mattress stitch when the stitches are still on the needle. This is a great mystery up there with the ship in the bottle thing.

Some input and assistance from my knitterly friends wherein they read the translated English and perused the original German instructions, helped me decide that kitchener was the way to go. But to kitchener properly, I need all live stitches so rip, rip, ripping I went. I had to rip out the cast on row so I could pick up the live stitches. There actually was little ripping action, it was more like pull, pull, pull. I didn't get any of those satisfying tugs that unravel a whole row. It was time consuming, but kind of fun, in that sick, I like it when you spank me, kind of way. Painful, but a good pain.


So, I finally got all 3000 stitches un-casted on and onto a needle when I realize that there is no way in hell this sock would fit me. I mean, I could cut off part of my foot, but then all of my other socks wouldn't fit, so that would kind of suck. Since fitting seemed important, I went back and ripped out the second half of the heel. Which brings me to today. I am now ready to add a few more middle rows and then redo the second half of the heel.


Hopefully I can bang this out tonight because I'd like to start the second one tomorrow morning at SnB since I'm going to need some help. With the second one I'd like to do a provisional cast on. Only, I don't remember how to do it. I think there is a crochet hook involved. I am not crochet hook proficient. In fact, I don't even have a crochet hook since the one I had, a free one from the NYC Knit Out, mysteriously vanished. I think the crochet hook actually is hiking it's way along I10 hoping to get as far away from me, the anti-crocheter, as possible.

P.S. A. #1064

Today, due to my husband's romanticism, Kay got flowers from Kentucky for their two month anniversary. Well, maybe it wasn't solely due to Boo's romanticism, but his plans for our anniversary got other people to thinking about anniversarys and such which then led to Kay getting some purply prettiness. I believe that since Boo got the creative juices flowing, I, as his proxy, should get half of the flowers. I'm sure, if asked, Boo would agree to allow me to accept the flowers in his stead - purple isn't his color. Apparently, accoring to Kay, this idea sucks. She doesn't want to part with them. Go figure!





In other news, you may have noticed that I'm not really all that charitable but ... A little while back, I complained that my phone wouldn't stop talking. It has this feature where the caller id will say the name or telephone number of the person that is calling you, before the phone rings. I couldn't figure out how to turn it off. The manual couldn't figure out how to turn it off. Teenagers couldn't figure out how to turn it off. Google couldn't figure out how to turn it off. Well, after an hour, and five different employees at the phone store messed with it, I now know how to turn off the talking, speaking, annoying as hell caller id. Since I couldn't find this anywhere, I am posting it here in case there is some other poor schmuck like me who wants this to stop, right now. Hopefully Google will lead them here. Just so you know, it's not that I'm nice, it's that this is perhaps most annoying, I-swear-I'm-hearing-voices-good-lord-am-I-channeling-Sybil inducing thing I've ever encountered. So without further ado ...

How to turn off the speaking, voice caller id part of caller id on a Verizon, LG VX 8300 mobile phone:

Settings & Tools
2 - Tools
1 - Voice Commands
Settings (which isn't on the menu but a toggle key on the bottom right; it doesn't matter what you have highlighted when you choose settings)
5 - Call Alert
Ring Only

I Heart Brenda

So our anniversary mini-trip rocked. We went to a local casino/hotel/spa for an overnighter. We arrived in time to have a dip in the pool, and a pedicure before a late dinner and some gambling. But, first there were the presents. This year was year three, leather or crystal.

There were leather shoes (for the husband) and a leather briefcase (for me, which is perfect and addresses all of my complaints with my old briefcase). There were also some sugar crystals, some crystal meth, and some Crystal Light. I know, I know, I'm only kidding. We're not into that junk - there was no Crystal Light.

After the presents we checked out the spa facilities and swam in the pool. I was pedicured while the husband cleaned up and went to play the ponies - or something. He met some Russian mobsters who were betting a thousand bucks a hand and a used-up hooker. I had pretty toes, he had an experience. I think he lost his virginity and learned who poisoned Yushchenko and Litvinenko. We met for dinner at Michael Jordan's, where the steak and the scallops were heavenly.

Then there was Brenda. She was our post-dinner blackjack dealer. I can't do math in my head - I need my fingers - and my memory is not so good. For these reasons, I have never played blackjack, or any card game, when we go to a casino. But the husband wanted me to play and promised to tell me what to do, so I agreed. Apparently there are specific things you are suppose to do when certain cards are showing in your hand or the dealer's. The memory thing prevents me from telling you what those things are since I have absolutely no idea. Sometimes I hit on 15 and other times I stayed on 12. Why this makes sense, yo no sé! So, Boo helped me along ("Hit." "But Boo, I have 15, that's a lot." "Hit.") and Brenda, the best dealer in the whole wide world, did the math for everyone saying what they had when she dealt the cards. She also helped me out when the husband was running his yap to someone other than me (no used up hookers or mobsters this time) and didn't answer my alarmed, "Oh my god! What do I do?" Brenda was slick. She couldn't tell me when to hit or stay but she would say, "I have a X and that is typically a bust card." Bust, heh!

I had a blast. And, between Brenda and the husband, I ended up doing well. In fact. I won over $360 using tiny little $10 bets! I can totally see why this could be an addiction. Boo also did well, so in one night we had enough for a milkshake and a little something left over! The next day, after we were rubbed and scrubbed and spa'd out, I lolled around at the pool and Boo blackjacked some more. When all was said and done, our total winnings were enough to pay for our trip! They were also enough to pay for a whole bunch of really nice yarn, or a Louis Vuitton or two, but I was a good girl and the money never saw the light of day. Straight to the bank, temptation be damned!

Hasta Le Bye Bye

Crazy touched me. Twice. I feel dirty and contaminated. But it's okay. I'm off on a jaunt to the spa. Heh! Today is our three year anniversary so the husband has booked us a room at Mohegan Sun and a day at the spa. I'm liking this anniversary stuff. My future holds a pedicure, some gambling, some massaging, hot tubs, swimming pools, pampering, a dinner out, breakfast in bed, and seven more rows of the sideways sock. Bet you weren't expecting the sock thing! Yah well I wasn't expecting Crazy to touch/pet/rub my arm. I wasn't expecting it once, and I sure as shit wasn't expecting it a second time after giving her the laser-beam-death-stare and jumping about twenty feet away. But I am not going to concentrate on the the fact that my arm is gangrenated. Grangrenated, is that a word? Fortunately it was the left arm and that one is shot to hell already. So, moving on.

I have seven more rows of the sock, and then it is time to seam her up and pick up some stitches for a toe. I am looking forward to the toe-stitch-picking-up because this will be the first time I've ever done this correctly. I am thinking I'll be able to get it done on the ride to the hotel. Maybe I can use the sock as a sign of how my gambling karma will go ... sock done, roll the dice; sock still in progress, get another massage.

Nice Like That

Kay, a co-worker, received a death threat from a client. This isn't as uncommon as you might think. We often have clients threatening to kill us, maim us, or eat our internal organs. Normally nothing is done about the threats. Actually that's not true, sometimes we correct the grammar. Because this client made the threat to "outside people" and not just to someone in our office, the police are involved. So now Kay is going to have to go to meet with the detective (and how Law & Order, a/k/a A Top 5 Best Television Show Ever, is that? Having to meet with a detective! Heh). I offered to go with her, if the cop was cute/hot/sexy-in-a-mean-kind-of-way. I'm nice like that!

Also nice, if by nice you mean nice, but not so much, are my new Addis. Though they are nice, they are not really all that different than their non-lace counterparts. I have polled many a knitter, or um, three others, and after all gave close examination to both the lace and the non-lace needles, it was unanimously determined there was barely one millimeter difference in shaft length and the difference in pointyness was minimal. Oh and the red cord, pretty.

On the downside, however, there is some coating on the needles that is suppose to help with slippage but the only thing I could see that the coating did was turn my fingers black. After knitting with them for an hour or so, my thumbs and pointer fingers were blackened. The rest stayed clean but they don't touch the needles so much. It looked like I had been reading a newspaper.

Good Times

Today was s snow day. Not in a work sense, as I was forced to spend my day in jail, but in a weather sense. Dogbert spent the day home with her dad having fun frolicking in the snow ...



I would have loved to join in. It's okay though. Once I got home, I put on my new comfy socks and got to knitting ...



What you see there are my Manatee socks, which I totally love (thanks again Linda!), and my new needles being put into action. Even though the sideways socks aren't lace, they are on a size one Addi, so I though this would be a good way to test them out.

New Toy

Look! Look! Look! I finally got a pair of the new Addi's in my hot little hands. Now I have to figure out what to knit with 'em!

Minutes Schminutes, vol. 2

Our SnB last night was filled with much gravitas. As such, and in the finest tradition, I share the following minutes:

"Why is everyone talking and not knitting?" "We're talking with our hands."

The new "is the glass half empty or half-full" test ... Do you hear a vacuum or a blender? This was inspired from a conversation that went something like "Is that a vacuum?" "No, I think it's a blender - it reminds me of margaritas. I love margaritas, and daiquiris too."

Aphasia leading to "how you say?" said with a poor British accent, is an Axis III disorder. Not an Axis I or II which are reserved for the real nut jobs.

Pure Conjecture and Speculation: The Violent Femmes are broke, busted, and out of money.
Fact: Wendy's is using Blister in the Sun as the music for a commercial and this is BAD BAD BAD!
Fact: The lyrics are "blister" in the sun, not "twisted" in the sun. Though if you are messed up on H you may very well be twisted while in the sun.
Speculation: This is probably an Axis I or II disorder.

If you are living in a foreign country temporarily, and you find a very pregnant cat that you take in and then later has six kittens, do not name the kittens. If you do not name the kittens then you (supposedly) will not become attached and can give them away.

Pure Conjecture and Speculation, and Maybe Even a Rumor: Keith Richards use to have is blood cleaned because he used a lot of drugs.
Fact: Rich people should go to foreign countries and adopt many children. They should also have their own private dialysis machines to clean their blood. It's fun.

People in the forests wear "forest clothes."

Lunch meat is not a good breakfast food.

Manatee Socks

A week ago, at our weekly SnB, I was the lucky recipient of a pair of hand-knit socks from Germany! A friend received them in a swap and they just weren't for her so she asked if anyone in our SnB group would like them. Having 1) big feet and 2) a loud mouth, paid off. My big feet ensured they fit and my loud mouth screaming "I want em! I do! I do! Me! Me! Me!" drowned out anyone else who may have also expressed interest and had the proper sized foot. Although, to be honest, I am not exactly sure that anyone else was clamoring for the socks. See, the funny thing about these socks is that they are, well, um, kind of ugly. Actually, there is no kind of about it. They are ugly. But I think that is one reason I like them. I like things that are ugly, that are so ugly that they cross the ugly line and are back into cute. Like the manatee.

I love manatees. I think that they are perhaps one of the ugliest looking creatures out there. In fact, they are so damn ugly they are cute. I just want to chew on 'em. As a kid I remember a pod of manatees swimming into the marina where we kept our boat and playing with hoses while we were trying to hose down the boat. It was so cute to see these big ugly things all playful and silly. And these socks tap into that same kind of emotion. Hence, they shall now be known to one and to all as, "The Manatee Socks" (and also because the so-ugly-they're-cute-German-hand-knitted-socks is way too long to say). Did you get a good look at those babies? They have some stripes and some mitered squares and some white stringy fur stuff. Perfect!

Falling into a similar category, were the jellybeans we had that night. A fellow SnBer had just returned from Texas with some Texas jellybeans. And, because everything is bigger in Texas (insert your own penis joke here - I'm sure it is less crude and more funny than mine, which after having recently watched The Aristocrats is filled with rusty trombones, strawberry shortcakes, feltching (oh the google hits I am going to get now ... Hi Mom!) and other assorted acts some of which though often performed by Catholic priests are illegal and likely to cause offense, or at least vomiting which would be par for the course should I be a comedian performing the aristocrat joke, but not, because I would rather buy jewelry instead of a new keyboard for you, and isn't it unfortunate that the picture next to this is of the pink, somewhat flesh colored jellybean, and how in the hell did this parenthetical turn into a run-on sentence with it's own parenthetical of unnecessary length and cause me to loose my train of thought?), so are the jellybeans. (You might want to go ahead and re-read that last sentence sans parenthetical to regroup.)

So, jellybeans. Larger than large. So large that if you popped one in your mouth whole, you might chip a tooth. In fact, the jellybeans are so large ... how large are they ... they are so large that a lone black one, when left sitting alone and by itself next to some yarn, looked like, and this is a quote, not just my potty mouth "a turd!" I am sure it saddens you that I did not get a picture of the black jellybean sitting alone in its turdishness, but once it was spotted it was quickly scooped up and returned to its bag for future eating. See, the black jellybean, it was so ugly it was cute, cute enough to be consumed at a later date (but by someone other than me because, yuck! I so do not like the black jellybean, nor do I like licorice, jagermeister, anise, or fennel, no matter how ugly it/they is/are. Eee-eww!)

Save the Cheerleader, Let Me Knit

This is what happens when you spend three days watching Heroes online. I'd heard good things about Heroes, but honestly thought the show sounded a little lame. Wrong! It is the opposite of a little lame. And, NBC in its crack pushing genius, put all of the episodes online for people to watch for free. Damn pushers! Needless to say, after getting through six episodes and two thirds of my sweater back on Friday, I was totally, completely, helplessly hooked. Hi, my name is Jenna and I'm a Heroesaholic. Now I've seen all eighteen episodes and knitted a twenty-six inch wide, twenty-eight inch long rectangle sweater back, and over half of one sideways sock. I am also now anxiously waiting the next freakin installment. Which, I think is in six muthafukin weeks?!? I am so hoping I am wrong on this because me, I've got an addiction, and I'm not sure I can go cold turkey!

I Need Another Hobby

Have you ever noticed that the amount of salt and pepper in the individually pre-packaged packets is not the same? There is way more salt in the packet than there is pepper. And I hate this! It totally irks me. What, you think I'm kidding?


Here we have two identical packets. They are totally the same. Well, identical but for the letters, the color of the lettering, and the contents. Which would make them not identical at all. But you know what I mean! The size. They are the identical, exact same, size.





Now if you empty said packets side by side you can see that they have totally different amounts inside. There is way more salt in the packet than pepper. The pepper is like an ant hill to the salt's Mt. Rainier. Ridiculous! What, you still don't believe me?



Okay, I am now going to expose my dorkdom in all its glory. But this will totally be worth it if I can expose to the world the wrongness of the pepper packaging system. My dorkishness is but a small price to pay for proper pepper packaging.

So here we have my salt and pepper cut into two equally wide lines. And, yes, that really is salt. There are no hijinks here. No need to call the DEA. I mean heck, if I was a real druggie, I would have had my mirror and razor handy? What druggie worth his weight in salt (hardy har har) would use a needle sizer/stitch gauge thingamajig for a razor and a sheet of legal paper for a mirror? A dumb one. Or a desperate one. Because the needle sizer/stitch gauge thingamajig for a razor? Totally sucks. I was going to describe my use of knitting tools as a bit MacGyveresque. A bit inventive. But then I realized that it was neither MacGyver nor inventive, but instead lame and desperate. But you know what, if you are a desperate coke-whore, who happens to knit, looking for a fix and you have nothing but a needle sizer/stitch gauge thingamajigger, it will get the job done. I'm just saying. What, I'm saying I have no idea. Anywho, my condiment lines. Do you see how the pepper is one third the length of the salt? I'll have you know I used my sheep tape measure to further the scientificness of this and what I have found, beyond any reasonable doubt, is that the pepper packet contains one third less pepper than the salt packet contains salt. This is terrible.

This is bullshit! I'm gonna write a letter to my congressman. Why isn't the government all over this? If the government is going to tell restaurants not to cook with trans-fats, if it is going to dictate what light bulbs I can use, or require vaccinations for non-communicable diseases, then dammit, it should step up to the plate on the pepper packet issue. I mean, hello, salt is bad for you. This is a national health issue. Many people are probably over salting and have no idea! We need to be saved from this evil that is salt.

Okay, relax! I'm being facetious. After all, I don't want the government to interfere with my trans-fats, my light bulbs, or my ovaries, the last thing I want them to do is get involved in something really important like my salt and pepper consumption.




And, for the record, neither salt nor pepper was wasted for the purposes of this highly scientific demonstration. Said salt and pepper were poured into my salad to be enjoyed with fifteen other pepper packets worth of pepper! Well except for the renegades that escaped when I was using my line making device.

Not myTunes

I have a lot of CD's. They use to be stored nicely, in alphabetical order, in some hanging wall things. When we bought the house, the hanging wall things were put into service elsewhere and my CD's, they got tossed, unalphabetically much to my dismay, in random piles on a bookshelf in our sketchy basement. Due to the severe lack of organization, and my aversion to all things basement, I never go through them. I just listen to my mixes or repurchase stuff on iTunes. But a friend wanted to borrow a CD so I was forced to wade into my CD abyss. While searching, I realized my house has CD gnomes. Much of my good stuff? Missing! Weird stuff that I have no recollection of buying? Prolific.

For example, I have De-Phazz' Godsdog. What is this and where in the hell did it come from? Did I steal this from you? Now this CD has a snake on the cover. I am no lover of the snake. I would never buy an anything with a snake on it unless there was some serious love going on. I popped it in for a quick listen and recognized exactly zero songs. That's right. Not a one. Not much love there. Further, it is all smooth jazz stuff. Not my regular cup of tea. I have a few "cocktail party" CD's of smooth, jazzy stuff like twenty-seven versions of Take Five (as well as some Bebel and Astrud Gilberto and Gipsy Kings, thanks Joan!) but for the most part I like a little more angst in my music. Usually there is at least one ho' per song. This De Phazz, it has lyrics like "across the sea /across the deep blue sea/anchorless across the sea." In my regular music it would be "across the muthafukin deep blue sea/bitch/across the muthafukin deep blue sea." I can only determine that I must have stole this from someone. Maybe in a fit of "screw you!" Had I not been with my husband for the last fourteen years, I would think I took it from a boy who did me wrong as a final screw you by stealing his favorite album, but I don't have any of those situations in my past.

Another jewel? Seven Nations. Um, what is this? Where did it come from? I have no recollection of buying this or receiving it as a gift. Like De Phazz, not a single song sounds familiar. I think the gnomes must have dropped it off.

And how about two of the exact same Melissa Etheridge CD? Add that to my husband's copy, we have three. Seems a bit excessive, yes? Don't get me wrong, I love me some Melissa Etheridge, but why did I buy two of the same exact CD. Did I um, maybe steal one of these from you too?

I also have me some Madonna Erotica. Yah, I know you're jealous. There are like ten gazillion Madonna albums, most of which are awesome, but me, I've got the one that sucked. I'm so pleased. When the hell did I buy this and what drug was I on at the time? Note the one that I was looking for, The Immaculate Collection, gone! Did you steal that from me? Was that because I clept your De-Phazz?

I must have also been high when I purchased Billy Ray Cyrus' Achy Breaky Heart. Not only am I not a big country music fan, this man, HE HAS A MULLET. Maybe that is why I blocked this purchase out and do not remember it at all. Or, maybe, maybe the gnomes took my great 80's hit Tiffany and left Mr. Mullet behind. I hate you gnomes! The gnomes, I bet you they also took my The Eminem Show and left me Ricky Martin! Ricky-friggen-Martin. Are you kidding me? At least Ricky was hot and sans mullet.

Grim Reaper

I think I may have mentioned at some point that my husband has certain television requirements. I almost said proclivities instead of requirements but it sounded like he liked to get it on with the t.v. and that is just weird. Oh, and it's not true either. So we'll just say he has requirements, desires. His desires have led us to have two DVR systems. I, being cheap, can't stand the thought of not getting our monies worth, so I developed this system whereby I record any new show that I think has the slightest chance of not sucking. This way our DVR is working all the time and there is tons of stuff to watch. I watch these new shows to see what will rock and what will suck. I have this idea that I will find a great show and watch it from inception on, knowing every little detail and every great one liner. I figured the next Seinfeld is merely a push of the record button away. I've figured wrong thus far. Apparently I have the finger of death when it comes to new shows. Currently rotting in my DVR queue are:

Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip
Standoff
3 Lbs
Justice
Smith

What do these shows have in common? Can you say canceled? Some have gone on "indefinite hiatus" but let's be frank, this is a euphemism for donezo, caput, no more, canceled. I feel like I have some sort of death power to new shows. It is both exhilarating and scary. I mean, I love me some Ugly Betty and I don't want it to get the axe, so should I stop recording it? On the other hand, In Case of Emergency or Knights of Prosperity? So not worthy of life. I mean, if they are going to yank Justice, a show brilliant for telling you what really happened at the end, then these things should be gone too right?!?

Goin' to the Chapel

Big BEST WISHES to BeFri on her recent engagement. Best wishes? Best wishes! Etiquette dictates that you never congratulate the bride as it implies a certain desperation and that the woman went out and snagged herself a man. Traditionally you assume that she had a boatful of suitors and chose this one man. You do, however, congratulate the groom for acquiring a beautiful bride. At least that is what I was told as a kid. I'm not sure if this was a real rule of etiquette or just something my mom and aunt cooked up.* They also told me nice girls don't put out before their married, not to put my elbows on the table, to chew with my mouth closed, and that ladies don't cuss. Three out of five ain't bad, huh? In any event, I'm very happy for BeFri and I'm sending tons of good juju her way.

*Several google searches have revealed that this is in fact a traditional custom and that my family did not make it up.

I Wish

I spent today in jail. Visiting clients. Not like, in an inmate sort of way. My clients all seemed to be "actin' a fool" so I'm sure my disposition was a little less patient than normal by the time I left. And that may be why, while I was driving home, I kept getting annoyed with the people driving around me. Dumbasses, every last one. And I said to myself, Self, if I ruled the world, I would totally smite these piss poor drivers out of existence, or at least out of my way. Kind of like Q in Star Trek: The Next Generation. Not only was Q sexy as hell, but he could totally zap people out of existence. Wouldn't that be a fun power? That got me to think about what else I would do, if I ruled the world. So, if I ruled the world, for like five minutes ...

When my Crazy boss sheds a fake tear, I'd kick her in the shin. Hard. Without repercussion.




My favorite Alabama Shrimp Bake would make itself for dinner.






Peter Pan would send me a life time of free peanut butter since I took a ride on its salmonella train.

Knitting pattern directions would always make sense and have no errata.

My cell phone would quit shouting out the name and number of the person calling me, before the damn thing rings. I've googled this issue, repeatedly. I've read the manual. Heck, I've even asked kids for help. No luck.





When I paint pottery, I would be able to see the colors as they will actually appear, not how I'd like them to appear. My ode to Mondrian is more of an ode to Southwestern kitsch.




My dog would quit creating a pet toy cemetery under the couch and then crying because she can't get the toys out. Dog needs to learn toys can checkout, but they can never leave ... without my help. Which I am not giving now, so QUIT STARING AT ME!

My hair would NEVER EVER get frizzy. Not in rain, sleet, snow, or nuthin. All smooth all the time, that would be my hair.

If I dreamed that I was speaking Spanish, French, or um, Martian fluently, then when I woke up, I would really speak Spanish, French, or Martian fluently.




My sweater would knit itself AND the hand dyed yarn would be more similar, uniform or something so that I didn't have to alternate between balls every other row. Can you say, "pain in the ass!"





Men would be banned from wearing velvet sports coats.

Beautiful shoes would be comfortable. The better looking the shoe, the more comfortable it would be.