Minutes Schminutes, vol. 3

Following precedent of the finest caliber, I share the following SnB moments:

Two new books that are bound to be best sellers: 505 Ways to Improve Your Knitting By Cutting and 505 Ways to Decorate By Fire.

Half of our knitters liked the nasty peach fruity tea, the other half liked the glorious cinnamon tea. All of our knitters liked oreo brownies and raspberry lemon bars. Obviously half of our knitters were overcome with temporary, short term, brain injuries. Or, it may be the Borg.

Capgras delusion - fun for everyone!

If you are going to knit a sweater for a teddy bear that is being donated to charity, you must do it with the worst possible acrylic yarn. The knitting experience must suck a little so that you can feel like you really are doing something charitable.

If you have an extra 20% off sticker to put on any book, and you narrow your choices down to two, just buy both, otherwise you'll regret it and feel like you bought the wrong one.

Should you find yourself impaled on a knitting needle, do not first take a picture - PULL THE DAMN THING OUT!

"His kiss is the kind that gets you wet from ears to toes."

Mini flans are the wave of the future in desert foods. Despite the fact that they are of Spanish decent (I think), they are found in Asian food markets.

Just because you think you aren't going to be giving "it" up, doesn't mean you should get some "yard work" done.

"XY chromosome" or "ex-wife chromosome" ... Are you embarrassed to have 'em?

Should you be a 27ish year old man, with a super secret blog in which you talk about things like midget sex parties and take pictures of your self in superhero costumes (and you want to keep it super secret), you should NEVER EVER mention your place of employment by name. You boss just may find it and then never be able to look you in the eye again.

Second Verse

Well the thermostat is holding at surface-of-the-sun-hot. The Office Manager doesn't want to call a repair person, she thinks that it just takes awhile for a building to cool down. I suspect that "awhile" means months and that we should expect relief in, oh, December. I'm really not sure what to make of this since I am delirious, a side effect of heat stroke I suspect. I've accepted that the outside layer of epidermis on the back of my thighs, the layer which was diligently faux tanned with tubes of oddly smelling lotions, is now no longer golden, but instead clear. It has been melted from my body. It no longer exists. Each time I am required to move my ass from the black pleather of my chair, I feel a sting and hear a rip. If I actually stand up and look, there is a sweaty ass print in my chair. This is extremely sexy. I think I am making my coworkers hot in ways that the heat has not. I'm not the only one suffering. My printer has given up and jams my paper. I take this as a sign that I should kick back and take a break. Although I am not sure how I should break from reclining in my chair, feet on my desk, fan blowing on my face ... recline on the floor maybe ... heat rises?

Indeed

I really do work in hell. The air conditioner has been on overnight and has managed to cool my office to a balmy 77 (Yes balmy. We've acquired some humidity to go with our heat. Whoopdefukindoo!). Since I am not looking at the sea, listening to the waves, smelling the sunscreen, or drinking a piña colada, this is no good. This is why people go postal. Normal person, extreme temperature, surrounded by wackjobs. You do the math.

Damnation

It is currently eighty-one degrees (Fahrenheit) in my office. The air conditioning is on (and set to seventy), my fan is blowing (on high), and my window is open. Yet, I sit here sweltering. My ass is sticking to my pleather chair. I have sweat gathering between the girls and I don't sweat. I realize that my job is a metaphorical hell. I realize that my boss is evil personified. But really, must this place actually FEEL like hell?

Random Bits

1. Lyme disease advocates.* Pardon? I read this phrase in the newspaper and had to giggle. Hi, I'm an advocate for Lyme disease. You don't know it, but you really do want to contract Lyme disease. It is soooo cool. You play with the neatest little bugs and the next thing you know, bam, you have yourself some Lymey goodness. You'll get awesome headaches, loopy fatigue, and a groovy skin rash. Plus, you can let it go untreated and get swell neurological effects! It's wicked fun. To get your own infection, please feel free to call me, your local Lyme Disease Advocate, at 1-800-LYME-FUN.

2. I hear that Oprah Winfrey has a shoe system where she organizes her shoes by the length of time they are wearable. Though I never formalized my shoe organization this way (or anyway to be honest - my shoes are chucked all willy nilly into a laundry basket, old shopping bag, and pile), I do have a similar mental catalog. So imagine my dismay yesterday when my "wear to court if parking less than five blocks away" shoes turned into "jesus fuk that's the biggest blister I've had since my bachelorette party" shoes. See, at my bachelorette party I was a bit blitzed. So it is understandable that I didn't notice the huge ass blister forming on the ball of my foot. Hell, I wouldn't have noticed aliens invading my ... mind. But yesterday, not blitzed. I was even walking pretty normally (for me). I did stumble a time or two when my meager inch and a half heel caught in a sidewalk crack. I also thought, "Hmm, my foot kinda stings." I did not, however, expect a two inch blister on the ball of my foot. This, in case you are wondering sucks. Not just because my foot is now gimpy, but because I will now need to revert back to wearing my comfy shoes which some (Joan) might call ugly, old-lady, or "Holy Shit! Are you wearing Naturalizers?"

3. Did you know that girly fru fru fruity drinks are considered health food? The next time you are chugging down your fifth cranberry and vodka, or chasing that twenty-third shot of Jägermeister with a strawberry daiquiri, don't fret. You are being healthy. This is good for you. Imagine the health benefits of having a bottle of red wine followed by a few pomegranate martinis. I'm so happy that I am now planning on having some "health food" for lunch. Not only will I get my daily nutrients, I will forget about the burning fire that is my left foot AND I'll also gain a higher tolerance for listening to the window-licker I work for babble on.

4. Not washing your hair for a few days so it is more "flippy" and "chunky" is not flattering. "Flippy and chunky" are really "greasy and gross." In fact, when you leave a shiny spot on the headrest on the back of your chair, you're dirty. Further, if you ask me what I think. I will tell you. You look dirty. Don't fake cry. Wash your damn hair.


*In defense of the article's author (see, I can reel in the bitchmiester), he later inserts the word patient in there - Lyme disease patient's advocate. This obviously makes much more sense. Though it does take away some of the fun.

Ten Cents

Q: What does a Jenna do when she gets to court a half an hour early?
A: Decide that thirty minutes is plenty of time to knock out half a heel and starts knitting.
Q: What happens when a Jenna brainfarts and does not slip each first stitch on her short row heel?
A: Cussing - but not of the quarter variety.





I'm not sure what effect the (STUPID STUPID) slipped stitch is suppose to have on the (ASSHOLE) heel, so I may trudge along and pretend I had slipped (THE DICKWEED) as instructed just to see what happens. Or, I may decide that if I'm going to knit, I should do it properly (DAMMIT) and rip back.

Vacation

I have several trips lined up. I'm going to Miami, Atlanta (hopefully - damn you Delta lower your fares!), Utah, Colorado, California, and Boca Raton. I thought it might be fun to broaden my horizons so I started looking at oversea destinations. I was thinking the husband and I could go visit Oxford, and I could show him some of my old haunts. Well I Google Mapped the directions and it seems like it is a twenty-nine DAY trip. I guess that is because, at step fifteen, you have to "swim across the Atlantic Ocean." Even if you set a good pace, swimming those three thousand, four hundred, sixty-two miles is bound to slow you down.

These Smell

Kay got flowers today.

She says there was no particular reason. She swears there was no sex involved.

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks." - Hamlet (III, ii, 239)

I Don't Smell

So the Anastasia socks have been flying along. Okay, that's not true. Why must I start every post with a lie? What the hell? It's like I am channeling Fletcher Reede. Oh, and no, those pants do not make your ass look fat. And Crazy? Your hair looks fabulous.



The socks are moving along, though there has been much ripping. I had a hard time finding the perfect number of stitches that would satisfy both fit and aesthetics. The stitches for a perfect fit created gawd awful pooling with one half of the front and back being green and white and the other half being gray and purple. Not pretty. I suspect using smaller needles could have addressed this issue but my smaller needles are not mine yet. I did order some though and they are in transit. In the meantime, I ended up reverting back to a higher number of stitches, and trying to knit uber tight. As I am a loosey goosey knitter (which is in no way - hehe - whatsoever - hehe - a reflection on my morality ... man I couldn't even get that sentence out without laughing), this is actually somewhat hard for me to do. I don't think this tightening of the stitches makes any real or noticeable difference in the socks; they don't feel any smaller. But it does make me feel better.



I've also had to rip because the pattern is just a smidge too mindless or not mindless enough. I'm not sure which. I get in a groove with all of that stockinette and then bam, I realize I've overshot my yarn overs. I think if I had more patterny stuff then I wouldn't flake out and miss it so much. On the other hand, if I had more patterny stuff, I might be ripping out messed up patten. Either way, I've had some ripping. I also had issue switching directions and stitches for the other sock. I typically mirror what I am doing with the other sock so it is toe, toe, foot, foot, heel, heel, etc. But I did the entire foot and heel before starting the other so my brain keeps wanting to send the spirals the wrong way. I guess I have a one track mind. Errg. That was awful. Anywho, I am enjoying the knitting of these socks a lot.

And, in other news, can I just tell you how friggen disgusted I am with the media for blaming the horror at VaTech on the university and police? On my way to work this morning, which, as an aside, took an extra thirty minutes due to people gawking at the flooding. Not actually driving through or coming in contact with the flooding or even the edge of the flooding, but just looking at because GOD DAMN! There's WATER! Anyway, as I was stuck in the car surrounded by asses, I channel surfed and every single one of my six preset FM stations and my one preset AM station was stating that the university and the police should have done more to prevent the shooting spree. There was even a poll asking who was at fault, other than the shooter. Um, what the fuck?

Why is anyone other than the shooter at fault? I mean, do we really expect the police and university people to have psychic powers and know that the first two shootings were not the typical domestic incident they seemed like? Were they suppose to divine that this fucker was going to go on a rampage? And furthermore, why was university's sending out of an e-mail "ridiculous"? Because students "sleep in"? Are you kidding me? That is just dumb. Using that logic, if the ones who didn't read the e-mail were sleeping in, then they weren't out and about and in the line of fire and were safe. It is understandable to want to place blame and have a bad guy. But as the person/entity that is delivering the news, you need to stick with the facts and report the news, not get caught up in the anger and outrage and look for a patsy.

Don't misunderstand. If the shooter hadn't killed himself, then I would be the first in line saying he should die. Hell, I personally would flip the switch, plunge the needle, load the camber, or fashion the noose. Why? Because he was the fuckwit that did this. Not the police. Not the university. One twisted sick individual did this and the blame for these deaths and the horror that remains rests solely on his shoulders.

Fascinating

Man, was this weekend interesting. Actually, it really wasn't. But I figured if I said, "Man, was this weekend status quo" you would have moved on. And that would be sad. You'd miss out on a wonderful post. Again, wonderful. It's a lie. Adequate? Sure. But not attention grabbing.

So, let's just move on as if that whole first paragraph wasn't even there. But if it wasn't here, would we really be moving on or would we just be starting? Ok, I'm going to get serious now.

My car has a secret admirer. Seriously. I'm not making that up. No bait to get you hooked. Just straight up truth. On Friday I went to prison to see some clients. I parked in the middle of a parking lot and no other cars were around me. Hours later when I got back to my car, there were still no other cars nearby but someone had tossed her unmentionables towards my baby.



That black lacy thing? Not there when I left the car. I didn't feel comfortable touching it. Hygiene and germs and that kinda thing. But I can tell you it is fishnetish lace and looks like it could have been underwear that were ripped off. Maybe an inmate was released from prison and was so excited to be free that she started a striptease in the parking lot and my car just happen to be next to where the underoos landed. Or, maybe someone saw my black beauty and got all hot and bothered and tossed the underwear at the hood like the rock and roll groupies tossing their underwear on stage at concerts. Or, maybe, and most likely, it rained underwear.

And yes, I know, this type of thing doesn't happen to normal people. I must be charmed! The car, however, seems to be scarred, not charmed. A day later and it wouldn't let me take a decent picture of Dogbert. She was all tuckered out and cute and curled up into the tiniest ball of dog and I wanted to memorialize the cuteness. But noooo. The car wasn't having any of it. I let the car get molested by dirty panties and it was going to make me pay. Exhibit A: Dogbert sans half of face and muzzle. Exhibit B: Dogbert sans legs, tail and butt.



Now it could be that I am a crapass photographer and shouldn't have been trying to take pictures while I was driving. Or, it could be that the car was ticked. I'll let you decide.

Borg, Boobs and Beauties

Last night's SnB was um, interesting? We had spirited conversation, much frogging, and were swarmed by bees. Or were they the Borg? Were we being assimilated?


I actually took a "movie clip" when we were surrounded by twenty or so of these maroon clad people but am not computer savvy enough to figure out how to get it on this here blog. My bad.

Did B&N decide that it was tired of us taking the comfy chairs, the less comfy chairs, and all of the other chairs for our fibery pursuits and determine that we needed to be brought into the collective? I really don't know. Resistance may have been futile, but it was also minimal. I mean come on, we were knitting. Only time will tell. Should some of my fellow knitters have an undeniable urge to work a B&N register, or make some B&N lattes, then we'll know. Should we start knitting matching maroon sweaters, then we'll know. Should we program our cellphones to ring like the grocery store check out scannerbeepthingamajig, then we'll know. In the meantime, I am going to attribute my eye twitch not to assimilation but to the boob talk.

Earlier today I received a nice note from Linda about our breast feeding conversation last night. Thanks Linda, I really appreciated it. Y'all didn't offend me but I did feel like I was under attack. I am, however, use to being the voice of dissension and I do enjoy debate, so it didn't really bother me.

The vast majority, or um, every single person there but me, felt like breast feeding in public, out in the middle of things, was fine and all the people around the breast feeders should lump it or leave it. Screw them and their discomfort. I disagreed. I was frustrated though because it seemed like people weren't listening to what I was saying and instead were making assumptions about why I feel the way I do. So, in an attempt to explain myself and put the matter to rest, or as much rest as you can when one of your fellow knitters is pregnant, I am hereby declare this my official position on Breast Feeding In Public ...

I am not anti-breast feeding. I am not pro-bottle. I am not anti-boob. I am not Ms. Victorian anti-nude. I like boobs, artistic nudes, non-artistic nudes and even porn. I do not live in a cave. I was not raised in a science lab. My family has breast fed. All of my friends in my age group that have children have breast fed. I think it is your choice on how you nourish your child. If you want to bottle feed your baby milk and honey, knock yourself out. I don't care. It is your choice, though I do think breast feeding is a good idea. I do not, however, want people to breast feed right next to me. I do not like when women breast feed in the middle of a public area. If you want to go into the back of a store/restaurant/etc. where you are tucked away and have a modicum of privacy? Great. Go for it. I have no problem with that. Just don't do it next to me when I am in the middle of eating my meal, buying my shoes, etc. Breast feeding is not the same as bottle feeding. It's just not.

If you disagree with me, that's fine. But don't tell me my opinion is not valid simply because we disagree. Don't tell me that I am uninformed or uneducated because we disagree. Being around more breast feeding women will not change my mind. Having children will not change my mind. Further, I think that it is pure hypocrisy to say that breast feeding is one of the most intimate things between a mother and child, that it creates a unique and special bond, but then say that it is nothing special and people who don't want to sit by you while you do it just need to deal. Either way, I acknowledge the intimacy, I don't, however, want to be a spectator to it. Um'kay? Also, I still love you guys even though you want to whip your boobs out all over the place.

So now moving on to something that won't start or continue a shit storm, do you see my sock?



It is like an embryo now. Okay, what the hell is with all the baby references? (Coincidentally, as I was typing that sentence one of my friends sent me an e-mail that he and his wife are knocked up again - Congrats Dee!). Anyway, let me try this again. It was not like a zygote, it was like a larva. It is not now like an embryo, it is like a chrysalis. Bug imagery. Better. I finally settled on a pattern. Well by settling on, I mean it turned out I had 34 stitches cast on each needle and this is was the pattern that worked with out too much math. So I settled on Anastasia. TWG is working on them too, so it will be nice to have someone to help me when I'm all, "Why the hell are these too big?" Because you all know I am going to have a "Why in the hell are these too big?" moment.



And um, speaking of "Why in the hell is this sock too big," when I stretched it out to take the picture so you could see my two little rows of eyelet, it kinda looked a little large. Dammit!

Crack

Since I am decrepit, dilapidated and defunct, I think it is time for a little self-medicating, no?



That is like the zygote of sock knitting. I have fertilization but that's all. I'm waiting for the rest to develop (and um, maybe I still need to pick a friggen pattern). I had a hard time capturing the gloriousness of these colors with my overhead fluorescent lighting, surprising isn't it, but you get the idea.



If the color seems familiar, it might be because I've used this colorway before. I'm just drawn to it. I can't get enough. I may need an intervention. But don't do nuthin' 'til I finish these socks, okay?

Doddering

I cringe as I type this ... but somehow I have managed to hurt my hip. I know! My hip! When did I become a senior citizen? Something happened last night when I was ... wait for it ... sitting on the couch. Yes folks, the rigors of sitting on my ass and watching NCIS (I love you Mark Harmon) some how injured my left hip. I can't even claim a cool injury like hang gliding, no I get sitting. Now I know the left side of my body is all gefilte and broke, despite my gall bladder's weak ass attempt to even the score. But still, my hip? How old am I? Yes, yes I know, I don't really wear high heels any more and I lost my napping mojo. I figured that those were a sign of aging, not a sign that I was one foot in the grave. Or is it that I have one foot in the grave? Distance or body part? Whatever, apparently the mental synapses are shot too. The next thing you know, I'm going to be shunning 50 Cent (who has a new song Straight To The Bank. I dare you to listen to it and not get the Ha HaHaHaHa Ha part stuck in your head) in favor of Lawrence Welk. I suspect that I am going to be getting my honorary membership in AARP an minute now.

The Absurd & Devine

Work story for the day: Absurd.

And, a tease for tomorrow (or whenever I get the gumption to do some blocking):

Easter Funday

Yesterday was Easter, in case you somehow missed it. I've always had a bit of a love-hate relationship with the day. I mean I love me some chocolate and candy and sugary yumminess, but I hate that everything is closed. For like four years in a row, I found myself at the mall, staring at it in sadness, wondering why in the heck it was closed. There was an extra sense of absurdity as I would sit in the empty parking lot in that I never really went to the mall and the one day I did decide to go was one of the rare days that the place was closed.

Anywho this year, knowing in advance that the mall would not be an option, I made other plans. There was the whole sleeping in thing. Then there was a trip to the park with the husband and the dog. A trip to get some coffee. A plan to watch the brand new Sopranos and Entourage. Oh there was also dinner out. Somehow though, in my planning, I forgot to pencil in "being staked out by the police."* Odd how I missed that. You see, it turns out if two heathens have nothing better to do, and decide to go swing on swings or play on the jungle-gym, and the heathens are "adults" then the police get suspicious. They may first do a couple of drive-bys where the two cops in the car stare at the heathens, hoping to intimidate them off of the playground equipment. If that doesn't work, they may park their car, and stake out the heathens' locale. If the heathens move to a different part of the playground, the cops may move their car so that they can see better.

But don't worry, I, a heathen extraordinaire, did not let the police ruin my fun. No sirree. I swung on the swing (higher than Boo, go me!), I slid down the slide (having my hips wedge me into a sudden stop at the bend of the slide, not so fun, and slightly embarrassing having it happen in front of two cops and your husband), I teetered on the totter, and I even climbed a kid sized rock wall (which, in the future when I retell this story, will turn into a full adult sized rock wall which I scaled with skill and stamina that impressed even the cops who were observing my nefarious actions). I also went on this crazy ass thing that has no name that I know. It is a tall moving pole, that is bent, with a disk-platform thing that is about three feet off the ground. You stand on the disk-platform and your weight makes the pole swing mad crazy fast in circles and back and forth. Should you ever see one of these, you have to get on it. It is awesome. Be prepared for much (slightly hysterical) laughter, and maybe a head injury as you slam your noggin into the pole.

While at the park, but before we were on the police radar, we decided to take Dogbert for a walk. While we were walking we found a random tennis ball. Not one to let a great opportunity pass (despite the chance of the contracting the dreaded "biogerm" something Boo could not define but swore was bad and cause our dog to turn all mad cow), I decide to grab the ball and see if Dogarella would play fetch. Since she never plays with balls, and kind of sucks at the fetch thing, I didn't have high hopes. Turns out, however, that the biogerm makes fetching and chasing the tennis ball great fun. We even managed to wear her ass out:



* You'll also note that I did not plan on any knitting. I thought about it. But I'm at one of those times where I don't know what to do next. I gave up on the sideways socks (I'm convinced that that pattern will never work well for a normal human sized foot) and gave the yarn to my friend. Hopefully, for her sake, the hex is solely with the pattern and not with the yarn. I have the shawl that I dug out from last year that I finished. It just needs some tassels which I am putting off because tassel making? Ick. I have the kangaroo sweater, which I have done a few rows on every now and then. But that is it. I could get out the top down sweater, but it seems too hot for sweaters. That leaves socks. Which is great. But what sock? I can't seem to decide. I've looked at the Anastasia sock and the Mata Hari sock because I think either might do well with very variegated yarn, and women in my SnB are making or have made each, I like them both. But I can't decided. They kinda look a lot alike to my eye so maybe I just need to draw a name from a hat.

Eavesdropping

Overheard in a parking lot yesterday afternoon ...

Man 1: It looks nice.
Man 2: (Putting a bag in the trunk of BMW 3.28i) It is. It is a good car, nothing fancy. Good mileage.
Man 1: Yah, it seems like a really nice car.
Man 2: Well I don't need anything fancy. I don't have a big ego. I just need a regular car that gets me to places. Something simple. I have a very modest ego.

What Man 1 should have said: Small ego? Pushaw. Whatever dude. Don't front. You ain't fooling nobody. You know you really wanted a five series but just couldn't afford it.

Good Vacuum Karma

Through the magic schoolbus of the internet, I stumbled upon a contest to win a free Dyson. It seems legit, so I figured I'd enter. You can too - click here.

Junk In My Trunk

Whenever I’ve been delinquent in my blogging and I come back to my little blog, I hear the song Enjoy the Silence by Depeche Mode in my head. This is not really apropos to anything, just thought I’d share. It is a good song.

So recently I have been having some troubles with my work computer. It is, in a word, shit. But I was okay with this shittiness, I didn’t pay for it and, for the most part, it got the job done. But lately, the whole “hmm, I think I will shut down now even though you are on page twenty-three of the best brief ever written by man but has not been saved” thing, it kinda sucks. So our “computer guy” was called in. The term “computer guy” is quite misleading. He is a pervy friend of our administrative director. He is skeezy and any time he touches my stuff I have to Clorox Wipe it down before I can touch it again. His hair is perpetually greasy and he wears the infamous Chester-the-child-molester-glasses. He brags about how he likes young girls despite having a wife his own age. In case you couldn’t tell, I no likey. Also, no one else likey either, but them the breaks. And again, this is really apropos to nothing. Sorta. See, I now have a loner computer which is slow and not programmed for my very detailed specifications, like, oh, printing when you hit the “print” icon. Picky Jenna! Since the loaner is not so much fun, I’ve had to find other ways to occupy my time.

First, I played with the sideways sock. No picture necessary, it looks like it did before. I knit some more. I threw in a few short rows in the heel area. I didn’t do this on the other side. This could be bad. I hope to finish it by tomorrow. One way or another. For the record, should this incarnation of this sock suck, the yarn is being donated to the first person who wants it and is willing to rip out all of my hard work. Should no one want the shitty shitty shit shit, I am burning it. I have a fireplace, I have matches, I have no more patience.

Second, I cleaned out my purse. This, it turned out, was like diving into a treasure trove. I can deduce the unopened toothbrush was tucked in there at my last dental appointment, so though it is odd, it isn’t that odd. Plus, good oral hygiene is important. You'll never know when you need to brush. The rabies tag, I must have dropped it in le purse at our last vet appointment - in January - and forgotten about it. The earrings are a bit of a mystery because if asked, I would have sworn I could have told you where they were and that place was most definitely not my purse. At least they are my earrings. But the rest of the crap, what the fuk? It’s like I was subconsciously going all survivalist. But not doing it well.



Why do I have a plastic fork in my purse? And butter? Was I planning an afternoon snack? If I was stranded and forced to live on the contents of my purse, the butter, not at all helpful. And the fork, not much better. Hell, the fork is even too big to fit in the butter packet. Ridiculous.

Also, one battery. One double “A” battery. Lame. Can anyone name a single product that uses only one double “A” battery? No. And you know why? Because these bitches are used in pairs. They are never used alone. It’s like the buddy system of batteries. So why do I have this lone one? Did his buddy battery give him a “bad touch”? Was he seeking asylum in my purse? Or, and I think this is more likely, did he get together with the one screw, decide to buck tradition, and live in connubial bliss in the depths of the Louis? What about his friend the twist tie? How does he fit in? Was his job to keep the battery and screw together, united against all of the lip gloss, random change, and dental products that wish to tear them asunder?

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.