Isn't It Ironic

On Wednesday I broke down and ordered some UGG snow boots. They are "technically" a men's style, which could mean they look a little butchy. I'm going to pretend, however, that they look cute and fashion forward. In any event, I ordered them using overnight delivery as it was suppose to snow (lots) Thursday afternoon and evening.

12/14/2007 4:19 A.M. OUT FOR DELIVERY
12/13/2007 8:03 P.M. DESTINATION SCAN
12/13/2007 6:36 P.M. ADVERSE WEATHER CONDITIONS CAUSED THIS DELAY / THE MOVEMENT OF THE PACKAGE WILL RESUME AS SOON AS THE WEATHER CONDITIONS ALLOW
12/13/2007 6:14 A.M. OUT FOR DELIVERY
12/13/2007 5:35 A.M. DESTINATION SCAN
12/13/2007 5:32 A.M. ARRIVAL SCAN
12/13/2007 3:51 A.M. DEPARTURE SCAN
12/13/2007 2:08 A.M. ORIGIN SCAN
12/13/2007 9:05 P.M. BILLING INFORMATION RECEIVED

This backfired! Snow delays delivery of snow boots! Heh.

NaBloPoMo, iv

I am back from Miami, with a little more life experience than I had when I left. And, surprisingly, that extra life experience didn't come from my conversation with Janet Reno (with whom I schmoozed like I was some big shot or something) or from suffering through one of the worst quaterbacked games in the history of football. No, it came from a conversation I overheard in the ladies room at the Orange Bowl.

I was behind two women as I walked into the restroom and from the snippets of conversation I caught, I learned that they were mother/daughter and that they were talking about a boy the daughter had brought home for her mom to meet. As we each entered the stalls and started to do what one does when one is in a bathroom, the mom said, "I have to tell you, I have exceptional gaydar and that boy is not not sleeping with you because he cares about you and wants to make it special."

That's Weird

Recently it seems there have been several signs that the apocalypse may in fact be real and knocking on my door. So, lest you think I am crazy, I share with you the top four (I know four is a queer number but the fifth sign has not shown itself yet, so we are going with four) signs that the apocalypse is here.

Four - Yarn. As in, I have all of this beautiful plentiful yarn, and yet I don't have enough of anything suitable for a Clapotis. How is this possible? It's like, so unbelievable, kinda of like ...

Three - A rookie throws a no hitter in his second game start. And he plays for the Red Sucks. This should not be possible. Greatness isn't suppose to rise from shit.

Two - Flies. We've been bombarded with house flies and we don't know where they came from. Last night we (and by we I totally mean my husband, I just kind of directed) killed five muthafukin flies. They appeared out of no where while we were watching a movie. We don't leave the doors open, we don't even open our windows which all have screens. We are a hermetically sealed, air conditioned loving type people content to lounge in and breath our recycled air. Also, we took the dead body out of the basement over a week ago. There is absolutely no reason for the flies.

And finally, the number one sign that the apocalypse may be real and on it's way - My used purse is worth more than our used car. Yes folks, after multiple inquiries into the seedy underbelly of car dealings, it seems that my purse is worth about $200 more than our car. Yes the car has 220,000 miles on it. But still. The car runs, transports my husband 18 miles to work and 18 miles home each day. It can transport four, somewhat comfortably, hundreds of miles. My purse can't do that. It spends the majority of its time loafing on someone or something else. It swings on my arm or chills on a hook in my office, holding things like gum wrappers and receipts. Again I ask, how is this possible. And, in a delicious little twist, the guy that "valued" our car saw my purse and commented on how he use to get them in Germany for $10. Yes, he thought my purse, that is worth more than my car, was fake.

You may want to utilize a five foot buffer zone when interacting with me should I spontaneously combust.

You Can Never Have Too Many Pictures

Last night I made a somewhat embarrassing admission at SnB. You see, years ago, when I was really, REALLY, REALLY, young, I wrote a fan letter. To an actor. There was this television show called Knight Rider. Maybe you've heard of it? Talking car, tragic protagonist? Anyway, there was this actor in the show named David Hasselhoff. Today I believe he is known as "The Hoff." And, well, when I was young, I liked The Hoff more than I'd like to now admit. And, as an adoring VERY YOUNG fan, I wrote him a letter, a fan letter if you will, the only fan letter I ever wrote. And because my brain sucks and likes to torture me by letting me forget important things like, oh, my anniversary or my phone number, but remembering unnecessary things, I can perfectly recall the letter written in my little girl scrawl. I remember the letter verbatim and it maybe contained words like "love" and "marriage" and it might have been written in a red felt tip pen. And remembering this as an adult, it might make me blush. It might be one of the few things in the entire world that can make me blush because hello, David Friggen Hasselhoff? Although props to my eight year old self for crushing on a celeb who seems to have serious staying power and has not yet faded into oblivion, and boo to The Hoff who NEVER wrote me back (What's up with that Hoff? You weren't that famous then! Couldn't write to an eight year old girl? Send her a head shot? Not even a form letter acknowledging her correspondence? What. Ever. I am SO over you.). Anyway, so last night I admitted that I wrote this fan letter and a dear friend forwarded me this awesome, AWESOME picture, which I now share with you, because I love. Yes, I am a lover. Enjoy.



Speaking of pictures ... Seems I went a little nutty with the photographing of my Mini-Monkeys. I was on the stairs. It was late. The husband was at a Yankee game. The animals were hiding from me. I got carried away.



These Monkeys were originally intended for my Sockapalooza Pal Sandy as a back up pair in case the first pair I knit didn't fit. The first pair fit (yeah!) and so these became mine (yeah!²). The only down side was that they were a little loose in width. Instead of ripping back (lazy!), I decided to make them shorter thinking that the width could stretch out and compensate for length. It worked. They look funny off my feet, but they fit fine on 'em.



Several people who are probably a lot smarter than me tried to convert the pattern to a toe-up version, but, according to the down-low via Google, it didn't really work. I ended up just doing the pattern as written so they are upside down. S'all good to me. Plus, the yarn kind of mutes the pattern so I don't think people will notice. Gosh I hope not! Is there anything worse than being assaulted on a street corner by someone yelling, "You knit your Monkeys upside down. LOOOOOZZZZEERRRRR!"


Um, hmm. What happened to the colors here? Beats me. Camera = Possessed

Now that I've finished these guys, I am at weird point. I only have one work in progress. A sweater. A very big, lots of knitting left to do, and I have to pick up stitches sweater. But I made a promise to myself that I would finish this sweater before I start something else. So last night I brought (I originally was going with 'I dragged' but then I thought maybe 'I drug' and then I decided for a different word choice because my brain farted, in care you were curious) the green beast to SnB and made some progress. I worked on it a little bit last month and finished the front pocket, so last night I edged the pocket, having picked up stitches, which I did my wrong way and not the right way because I couldn't remember the right way. And then I started working on the body part, having picked up even more stitches, again the wrong way. Despite all of this stitch picking up, for all intents and purposes, I still only have one piece done. There is a rumor runnin' round that Fall is right around the corner, but being that it is suppose to be eighty-nine degrees out today, I'm skeptical. If, however, Fall did arrive, it would be nice to have this sweater ready. Also, it would be nice to have this sweater done so I can delve into fun stuff like cashmere.





Yarn: Artyarns, color (in my bag at home), 2 skeins with lots left over
Needles: Addi Circs, size 2.5 mm (US 1)
Pattern: Monkey
Modifications: Added four more stitches to the pattern bit to make 'em bigger. Knit them toe up. Made peds.
Time: 29 days.
Care: Hand wash, dry flat.

Things I Shouldn't Admit

It's not often that something totally tickles me to the point of idiocy. But I confess, John from Cincinnati has done this. Last night I was knitting while HBO rebroadcast Sunday's episode, an episode so awesome that: 1) it caused Boo and I to pause it several times and ask, "WTF?"; 2) it caused us to rewind bits because we were laughing and couldn't hear the show over our own guffaws; 3) it gave me a craving to listen to the some Morrissey; and, 4) it caused Boo and I to ask each other, "Do you get it? I don't think I get it. We better save it in case we need to watch it again. Did you say you got it?"

So anywho, good stuff on the ole boob tube last night. So good that I whipped out a post it note and wrote down some of the funny lines. That would be the idiocy part of the "tickling me to the point of idiocy." Because really, what am I trying to remember and why? If I ask, "What's your policy on guests smoking herb?" You are not going to say, "Not permitted!" You are not going to laugh knowingly (though I just totally cracked myself up here). No, you are going to either have me committed to Promises (Hi Britney! Hey Lindsay!) or tell me I have to share. If I tell you to, "Baptize that fucking pistol!" in my best infomercial voice, you're not going to spew soda from your nose because you are laughing so hard. You're going to step back a few feet. Slowly. Cautiously. So there you have it, me writing down funnies from a show that only one other person watches. Me, reaching an all new level of, um, me-ness.

Also, not related to anything other than me doing dumb things, yesterday Boo and I traded cars. But I seemed to have forgotten because last night I walked up to a black car and couldn't figure out why the remote was not unlocking the door. It took a few seconds for me to realize, "Hey! This is not my black car!" And then a few more seconds to realize, "Hey! We traded cars! I'm not even driving the black car, I'm driving the green one!" Then after I found my green car, and the remote still wasn't unlocking the door, I finally realized, "Hey! This remote is not for the green car!" Yah, yesterday was quite a day.

Notwithstanding my utter blond-oddballness, I did manage to get a few more rows done on my Wild Kat socks. The gusset is done and it is time to turn some heel. Hoo-YAH!

Ghettofabulous

So my office isn't very big and I am constantly tripping over my purse or my brief case or the myriad of crap that I drag to work day after day. It is annoying, and considering my coordination, or lack thereof, dangerous. Also, my bags tend to be pricey (much more so than the stuff inside which I am sure doesn't say good things about my personality but oh well) and it irks me to drop them on the floor. So, I had me a dilemma. I could continue to trip and contaminate the bottom of my bags with inmate cooties, or I could hang my stuff on the hook behind my door give up the easy access. But then inspiration struck. I went in search of a hook on a door that no one used, and when I found it, I took it and ta da. Now many would say it is ghetto-as-hell to hang your purse on the wall behind your desk. But I say, no hater, it ain't ghetto-as-hell, it is ghettofabulous!

Weirdness

I have a certain amount of weirdness in my life. Sometimes it ebbs, sometimes if flows. But always, there is some. This morning I arrived at work and almost hit the wall as I was backing into my parking spot. My craparoni parking skills are not the weirdness, this is:



Doesn't seem too odd? Take a closer look (you can click on the pictures to make them bigger).



This man was mindlessly swinging his machete into the bushes across the street. At 7:45 a.m. Had there been any sort of vehicle out front with a lawn care decal or a even a leaf blower, I would think that this was a somewhat unorthodox way to trim the bushes. But there was nothing around that would indicate that this guy was a yard and tree specialist. I think he just liked his knife.

So I quietly left Senor Machete (after taking pictures on the sly), and found this:



What the hell? I didn't think we had birds downtown. Let alone birds that would coo on my windowsill. I suspect Mr. Machete may have ran them off and they came here for safe harbor. It was a bad decision. I chased them off. We don't handle immigration cases. Also, cooing = annoying.

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.