Overkill

On Sunday I fractured the fifth metatarsal in my right foot, which is a fancy way of saying I broke my foot. It was rather lame as I slipped on the last step/carpet and careened into a baby gate. Yes, a baby gate which is suppose to protect people (well little people) from injury, was the thing that injured me. Had the gate not been there the only thing hurt would have been my pride. Instead, after several hour at the ER, I ended up with a splint, a walker, and hurt pride.



The ER referred me to an orthopedist who looked exactly like Elvis Costello. Two days after visiting the ER, I saw Elvis and he decided that considering my lifestyle, swinger and celebrity extraordinaire (or pregnant mother of a toddler), and the type and location of the fracture, I could make do with a fracture shoe and stock in Tylenol. I could go on and on about how great the shoe is compared to the walker, which I still use when my monkey, I mean my daughter isn't around. But in reality, the shoe and situation still kind of suck since I can't drive and the monkey and I are trapped in our house, alone together, for hours and hours. We can't even go out in the yard because if she decided to bolt, well, I couldn't catch her. But I am not going to complain about the foot (for now), because this post is not about the injury, it is about adding insult to the injury.



Yes, not only is my foot broken, SO ARE MY PLANTS! We had a few storms over the last two days which seem to have knocked over or broken my poor little plants. And, since I am gimpy, I can't do squat to fix 'em! Okay, maybe it's not because I am gimpy, maybe it is because I am Plant Plague. For whatever reason, the plants are giving up. I tried to prop them back upright but every single last one fell right back over. Not only that, the tomato plant that I cut way back to save is still going belly up, with two unripe tomatoes on the vine no less. I'm not sure what to do now, and even if there was some solution, I actually am somewhat encumbered by the fact that I am gimpy. So instead of doing anything I am throwing my hands in the air and giving Mother Nature the double fisted, digital salute. It's just not right, my foot AND my plants? Really?

I Should Be Packing

We're off to Joisey to spend a long weekend with my MiL. If visions of crazy, baby-free marital nights danced in your head with that sentence, then you probably are unaware that my MiL needs knee replacement surgery and is unable to lug twenty-five pounds of baby around, and thus, unable to watch said twenty-five pounds so that we could have crazy, baby-free marital nights. It is all good though because I plan to have crazy fun nonetheless. Assuming, of course, that I quit Facebooking and blogging and instead start packing. Gah. Packing. Boo. One thing I need to remember to pack are my Jaywalkers. All that ripping paid off and I have two properly fitting feet. I still had to reconnoiter things a bit which meant that my heel flaps are a tad bit short, but I am not alarmed. I just need to knit up the legs and badda bing, badda bam, done! I plan to accomplish all of this knitting while sitting on the beach. Which, unbeknownst to my husband, means he will also be sitting on the beach, only instead of relaxing he will be entertaining the aforementioned twenty-five pounds and making sure it doesn't run or float off into the sea. This arrangement seems totally fair. We each get a kid. He watches one and I grow the other.

Lycopersicon Esculentum L

Sometimes I look out at my "garden" and I feel quite pleased, other times I look out and think that I am an idiot. Most often, if I ignore the prolific plantings of my friends, I feel like a smug idiot, which is a nice blending of the two. Yesterday, I was leaning more towards smugness than idiot when I spied this here tomato.



It is beautiful! Properly tomato shaped. Pretty red color. How could I not feel smug? Now, this isn't exactly something I've grown from scratch. This was the plant I bought that already had one baby tomato on it (which subsequently died) and I figured this would be a good bar ... it had one tomato so if it grew no more, well then it was because I am cursed, not because the plant was defective. So, my point as convoluted as it is, is that I can't really say I grew this tomato (though it wasn't even a flower when I got the plant) since the plant was kind of doing it on its own but even so, I still felt awesome about my tomato growing skills. Well, until I took a step back and looked at the actual plant.


In case you can't tell, 99% of the leaves are brown, yellow and dying. Awesome, eh? Now the plant has been in this sad state for some time now and still managed to make that one beauty, so I am cautiously hopeful that the others will ripen and not wither and die. Otherwise I will have paid $11 for one, albeit pretty, tomato, which is kind of lame.

The tomato plant that I actually did buy as a squirt, and didn't cheat on at all is, well, doing squat. Actually, that is not totally true. The topsy turvy tomato that I have babied and given lots of love is giving me squat, but the one that I had in its original pot for months and months and only a week ago planted in a proper pot, well it is showing potential.



It has one lonely, unripe,cherry tomato on it ... I am keeping my fingers crossed!

Ribbit!

So I've been plugging away on my Jaywalkers and I finished both toes and both feet and was on to the gusset and heel of the first sock when I remembered the tragedy that befell my green Jaywalkers (where the the gusset and heel were longer than the foot and I had to cut the toe off and perform some knittery magic) and I got a little nervous. Well one thing led to another and I got out the green Jaywalkers and I compared and then I hemmed and then I hawed and then I hemmed and hawed and then I decided to not do as many gusset increases and then I compared some more and then I hemmed and hawed again and then I put on the socks and said MUTHERFUCKER!



I had done exactly one row of the heel turn and there were like five million left which meant it was going to be WAY TOO BIG and how did I not learn this painful lesson from the last go around? Needless to say there was a whole bunch of ripping. And by whole bunch I mean inches. Yes, inches. Plural. As in I wasted precious nap time on knitting shit that I had to unknit. MUTHERFUKER!



I had to rip back through that dark plummy purple stripe. That is over four inches of knitting. GAHHHH. And? And. And I had to do it twice. Because I had to do it to the other sock. Have I said mutherfuker yet?

And We Shall Call Her Jatrick

Because Joan so sweetly asked ...

The Deuce, having not wanted to give up it's gender at our previous ultrasound, took pity on us this time and splayed her legs so wide that she won't need to see a gynecologist until she is thirty; she can just refer the doctor to her ultrasound picture.


I seriously can never make heads or tails of the ultrasound photos, and I swear this child is messing with us a little extra because she likes to move around constantly; thus, ensuring all pictures look like storm fronts. Nonetheless, when it came time to peak at her lady bits, she went all Showgirls so that even I said, "Hey look! Three lines!" Which is, in case you are curious, ultrasound speak for the vagina.

Not only is the Deuce a girl, she is a thumb-sucking girl. Well, at least that is what I was told that we see in this picture ... a human, on her back, sucking her thumb.


Um, okay, if you say so.

Bubble

I had a dream (stories that start like this ALWAYS suck, I KNOW. Do you care about my dream? No. Oh well.) about Twitter. And in my dream, I set up a Twitter page/account/thingamajig and then added it to my blog and I said to my dream self, "You should do this in real life." So, of course, I did. But here's the thing, what in the hell does one do on Twitter and who do you follow (well other than Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore)? Those are serious questions for which I'd love someone, anyone, you, to answer.

In the meantime, I am thinking that maybe I should delete my Twitter account and set one up for the Bean or for Dogbert. They'd probably be a lot more interesting. But this is something I will have to ponder later as I must now go stop the Bean from chasing the dog while carrying a (full) plug-in air freshener and a bottle of white-out. I can't see it ending well.

Presto! Pesto! Oh Boy!

Four semi-packed cups of home grown basil + one Mark Bittman pesto recipe = A Happy Girl! Actually, I exaggerate, all of the basil didn't go into the pesto, the leftover was for bruschetta, but this t'aint about no bruschetta, it's about the pesto, my very first experience with my homegrown herb. Homegrown herb, heh, wonder how many stray google hits that is gonna bring me.

First I took my freshly plucked basil and hand washed each individual leaf, cleaning all dirt off. Idiotically I am MUCH MORE relaxed when I buy fresh basil at the store; no individual leaf washing, the whole package gets a quick douse under the faucet (I just spelled that Fawcet, as in Farrah, as in I see too much pop culture on tv and the internet and it is rotting my brain). But then again, I know what lurks in my yard (i.e., psycho deer that try to attack my pooch and the turkey mafia) and it ain't pretty. So right, I washed the hell out of the basil and then, and only then did I give it a spin in the salad spinner.




It sure looks pretty! Well maybe it doesn't. Maybe it is some sense of farmer pride that makes me find this to be the most beautiful basil in the whole wide world. Maybe I am deluded. Or, maybe it really is the most beautiful basil ever. Once the basil was clean and drying, I gathered the rest of my pesto making goodies.


Note that neither the coffee maker nor the pink little girl socks are crucial to this recipe.

You may also want to grab slave labor, uh, I mean a sous-chef. The sous-chef, if under-aged, may turn out to be a hindrance as all she will want to do is sit on the floor and play with raw pasta noodles. But if she is cute, she can provide comic relief if your pesto goes to shit.



So I followed Bittman's basic pesto recipe, except that I added a dash of Romano cheese because I have crappy reading comprehension skills and randomly added it in my head. Also, I detoured from the recipe when it came to adding the oil. I like my pesto thick and after adding half the oil I was worried it was going to be a watery mess. Granted, you don't add the cheese (well the Parmesan, a/k/a the cheese called for in the recipe) into the food processor, you mix it in by hand after the oil and other ingredients are processed, but still, I was scared.

                   
This one has no cheese.                                                 This one has lots of cheese.

It turns out that the full amount of oil probably would have been fine (hell, it is a Bittman recipe after all), but I can only say probably because I just started mixing cheese in with no thought or care to measuring. I was just going for what looked right. I may have used less cheese to compensate for less oil, or maybe I am just a cheese loving fool, or maybe both.



It really doesn't matter though because in the end, I had some DELICIOUS pesto!

Ostentatious

Summer is here and I was thinking ... limos have pools in the back, why can't our Accord?



If you look closely, you can tell that Honda was thinking the same thing ... there is a hook for your towel off to the right.

Identification

There is this show called Better Off Ted that the world's best invention (electricity schmectricity), the DVR, records for me. I do believe I am the only person that watches this show as I have never seen a commercial for it, nor have I heard anyone talk about it. Which is a shame because I really enjoy it and my history indicates that even if people were talking about it or there were commericals for it, it would probably be on the verge of cancellation anyway. So. The whole reason I mention Ted is that there was a great seen where Veronica (played by I-Have-Gorgeous-Hair-Portia-de-Rossi) blows off stress in her office by pulling out some big ass hand gun, attaching a silencer, and then shooting the shit out of a throw pillow. Dudes. I totally get it. I, many a time, both as a lawyer and as a mom, have totally wanted to shoot the shit out of a pillow.

Farmer

So I mentioned that I harvested some of my basil and first and foremost, I want to share some photographic evidence of the befores and afters so that if my short, but potent, contact with the basil causes instantaneous death, well, there will be photographic evidence of it.

  
Before                                    After

It looks, at least here, like I didn't take much. In fact, it kind of looks like the only difference is in the time of day during which the pictures were taken. But looks, my friends, looks are deceiving. I plucked four semi-packed cups of leaves off of those babies!



A trusted friend, one of two people I know with a decent amount of gardening experience who doesn't laugh at my inept yard questions, well at least to my face, said that I could take about a third of the leaves. The internet said, "it’s important to make your pinch directly above a set of leaves whenever you’re harvesting." It said this a lot. Like every single google article on harvesting basil said this more than once. GEEZ PEOPLE! I GET IT. Ironically, there were a couple of fuck ups where my man-hands snapped all the leaves in their region. Whoops. Guess I shouldn't have gotten feisty with the internets, huh? Karma!

Anyway, I took my harvest (snort, snort) and I made me some pesto and I took pictures of the process because BeFri likes the food shots. Assuming I keep this blogging mojo going, I'll share the pics and tell you all about the yumminess that is giving me the garlic burps, even now, a day later! Maybe I will even photograph and share my bruschetta making experience as I have THAT. MUCH. BASIL. and I plan to make some bruschetta with it.

I also harvested some dill weed, with the approval of my friend. The internet, interestingly, was much less useful on what to actually do here so I kind of winged it. My stuff didn't look like the stuff people were describing so I just plucked the limp bits off. Since most of my dill is limp (think there is any dill Viagra?), I had to restrain myself and not pluck the whole dang thing.

  
Before                                    After

It looks, again, like I didn't take much, and that the only difference is in the time of day during which the pictures were taken. Here, looks are a little less deceiving.



I have a nice pile of dill, but it is not four cups. I am not certain what I want to do with this yet, I can only think of a cucumber sauce (yawn) or salmon (which I love but don't have handy). I'm open to dill suggestions if anyone has some ....

Wakefulness

Remember back in the day when I was a knitter and use to blog about my works in progress? Ahhhh, the days of yore. As of late I haven't even managed to blog my finished projects, let alone current ones. But is a new leaf turning? Is this all about to change?



Probably not. Nonetheless, today instead of spending naptime passed out on the couch (a superior way to spend naptime if you ask me), I knit and photographed, and I harvested basil and photographed. More on the basil tomorrow. For today, you get a couple of picky-pic (WTF? Picky-pic? Am I seven years old?) of my current project, as in the one I am actually working on. Jaywalkers in a luscious Kaffe Fassett colorway.



Yes, the Jaywalkers are a tired old pattern that I have done, over and over. But I do like what it does to striping yarn and it is brainless; hence, the ability to do it during naptime!

Dreamy

Dozing in lala land.

Is there anything cuter than your puppy curled up next to you on the couch, sleeping, dreaming puppy dreams and kicking her paws and letting out little itty bitty barks? I think not.

Jarred awake. And confused.

Good Times

Happy Fourth of July! Well to the Americans. And maybe to the Brits, since you know, they got rid of us which, considering the high level of idiocy amongst my countrymen, is a valid reason for the Brits to celebrate our Independence Day. Everyone who doesn't celebrate, well you can suck it.

And speaking of sucking, yesterday, for the first, and how I totally hope last, time, LB puked. It was a somewhat surreal experience, which I probably shouldn't share, but I will anyway. I had spent the day curled up on the floor with stomach ailments of my own, using my prone position to block LB into the play area and prevent her from escaping while at the same time, allowing myself to doze. When she tried to escape, it woke me up. Also, getting hit with a book because some unsympathetic little wench wanted attention, that woke me up too. I am a considerate sick parent so I had the television on and LB watched Horton Hears a Who. Which was a bit of luck - I had lowered my girth to the floor and then thought the television might be a great distraction. Not wanting to actually get up, I manually (heh) turned on the tube, which meant I had no channel control unless I got up. Apparently Boo had been watching HBO the night before and fortunately Horton, and not say Natural Born Killers, was what was on. After Horton, I did manage to move and get the kid some Sesame Street and Barney. I am not proud of my parenting, but I am somewhat feeling better and figure the rest did me well.

So I felt crappy and LB felt fine. Those were the reports I was sending to Boo when I was asking him if he was sure he couldn't get home from work at you know, now. Later in the afternoon, all seemed well, or at least status quo as I just wanted to lay down and LB wanted to play or eat. LB asked for a snack so I brought her some crackers and Cheerios. I returned to the couch, and LB ate a cracker. Then she coughed. Then she burped. And then she opened the vomit flood gates. Honestly, it was insane. First I saw the crackers come up and thought, huh, isn't she a little old for spit up? Then I saw lunch come up and thought, uh oh. Then I saw her pre-lunch snack come up and thought, hell. Then I saw breakfast come up and though, HOLY FUCK! Seriously, you could watch each course come up. And for the records, shouldn't breakfast have been digested by late afternoon? I mean, really.

The entire time I watched the puke-movieathon of her meals, she just stood there, puking down her front and on the floor without seeming the least bit upset. When she was done she wiped her hand across her face, smearing puke into her hair and eyebrows, and smiled. It was ... the opposite of awesome.

Now I am not down with the puke, or rather the clean up of puke, as every time I puke, it is in the toilet or garbage or sink, you know, someplace where I don't have to scrub it up. I don't really like kids, and I was never the babysitting type, and even if I had been, you bet your butt that if some kid I was babysitting started puking, I would have been on the phone with the parents STAT. Ten bucks an hour soooo does not cover that type of hazardous duty. In any event, I am unfamiliar with the clean up of the puke and I had no idea that puke it somewhat slimy and a general fuking menace. Holy crap, cleaning up puke stinks (bad pun totally intended, though apologized for). I have scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed and my nostrils have been singed by the smell of stomach bile and toxic chemicals. It has been delightful. I see a date with Stanley Steamer in my future.

And did I mention BiL5 was showing up about two hours after LB's pukefest? Yah. I had forgotten he was coming and the house was trashed and Boo called to remind me about three hours before BiL5 was arriving. Had I been feeling good, I could have cleaned but I wasn't and so I didn't. LB just solidified the frat house atmosphere by adding the scents to go along with the dirty laundry and pet fur.

Inane

Recent song lyrics that made me say, WHAT?

• I wanna take a ride on your disco stick.
  
• Birthday sex ... Birthday sex ... It feels like, feels like... lemme hit that...g-spot g-spot.

Things I've said that made the me think, WHAT?

• Please don't pet the cat on his butthole.
  
• Spit out the dog food. Now!
  
• Don't put the plug in your mouth.
  
• Oh, I thought it was because you smelled like a stripper.

Facebook status updates I've thought but not published.
sub-category: scatological

• I smell poop.
  
• I need to poop.
  
• My kid is trying to kill me with the smell of her poop.
  
• A diet of 100% blueberries will give you navy/violet poop.

sub-category: I'm a bitch

• People who post scripture as their status are unoriginal sheep.
  
• I don't give a fuck about your weather.
  
• You are not half as funny as you think you are.
  
• I still don't give a fuck about your weather.

Bling I

I know you've been waiting with baited breath for a photo essay on my sparkly socksand annoyed with each delay. Or not. First, aliens got the camera, then I was lazy, then I was sad, and then, then I sat down for a photo shoot and realized that it is really hard to photograph your own feet. Or I should say, the socks on your feet. Well really, the socks on your feet in a way in which you look like you have legs and not logs attached to your ankles.



I love my sparkly peds, so I took about twenty-five pictures of them on my feet. Sometimes I was standing, sometimes I was sitting, sometimes I was in action, all times? All times I was either missing a foot, picking up pet hair, or photographing my ass, which though large, should not be so big as to block out my feet. I mean, really. I seem to have lost my knack for self-foot photography. Also, my floors are extremely furry, despite being cleaned two days ago.



When the pictures turned out to be dudly, I asked Dogbert to get in on the action. I mean, if there is fur on the sock, then you could at least presume it was from her and not poor housekeeping on my part, right? She was, how you say, not thrilled. I even formed the socks into a heart as a I♥U gesture, but she was still underwhelmed.

Not only was it hard to photograph the socks in a way that showed them off in their pretty form, it was also hard to photograph them in a way that showed off their bling.



The actual knitting of the socks was a lot more fun than the photographing. The yarn was pleasant to knit with and the sparkle factor tickled me the entire time I was working on them. I am simple, I s'pose, but still, knitting blingish yarn = fun!



Yarn: Berroco Sox Metallic in Curacao, #1350.
Needles: Addi Circs, size 2.5 mm (US 1)
Pattern: Standard toe-up ped, using this cast on and toe and this heel.
Time: Three(ish) weeks.
Care: Machine wash warm water. No bleach. Lay flat to dry.

Arboris

So I am posting a plant update. Lame. I know. But. But, dudes, they are STILL ALIVE! The little herbs and tomatoes were all on their deathbeds, but then I went away for Girls Weekend and they made a comeback!





Look at that! They are all perky. Even the dead ass dill weed is somewhat perked up! The topsy turvy tomato doesn't look so hot, but if you look in the background, which you can't since my computer just mysteriously are the picture of the topsy turvy, WTF?, you'd see a turkey feather. A. TURKEY. FEATHER. Enough said. Anyway, I am amazed and awed! I am staying the hell away from them! And yes, I am using a lot of exclamation points, I am trying to convey excitement, and also to make myself feel excitement. You see, one of the other ladies that I bought these with, bought the EXACT SAME plants as me. Identical. In fact, we shared a cart and so it was random on who got what. Nonetheless, her plants? They are like a thousand feet taller. Unbelievable! Yes, I am ignoring the fact that my plants are even alive and instead being a big ole jealous baby.

Capo dei capi

You know, I have complained repeatedly about Mother Nature coming to get me. Of course, part of that is because I like to complain BUT part of it is because she really is out to get me. And, for what it is worth, I really think she is stepped up her game. To wit:



I suppose in the picture it looks some what harmless, that big ole turkey feather strategically placed in front of LB's car door. But it is not. Oh no. This is like a mob warning. From the head of the turkey mafia. Cross us again, and the kid gets it! Seriously. They are letting me know they can get us at anytime ... being that the feather somehow appeared in our locked, with no turkey-sized cracks or holes, garage.

And these aren't any regular turkeys coming after us. No, these are the 'roided up enforcers. That feather is huge. It is a good eight inches. Here it is with my foot, my ten inch foot, for perspective.



I use to semi-joke that Crazy was going to kill me and take my baby. Now, the turkeys are my main threat. If they find my body somewhere, you can bet it was my feathered "friends."

Sad

On Thursday we had to euthanize our poor sweet kitty and it is fucking killing me.



I don't really like cats. Nonetheless, when we took my mom's dog to the vet fifteen years ago and the vet asked if we wanted a cat and we said no and then he brought out a pot-bellied, jumbo pawed, mini-tail and mini-head, kitten named Ugh. A. Lee, we fell in love. Turns out Ugh became Ernest, and we became smitten. For the last fifteen years Ern would greet my husband at the door and jump into his arms when he came home. He would sit on my lap while I knit or watched t.v. and he would fall asleep in my hair and migrate to my feet as the night progressed. He fell in love with LB and would let her pet him, smack him, kiss him, hug him, sit on him, and ride him like a horse. I thought that with the dog and the baby, he didn't get as much of our time, that he was a bit marginalized. But now that he's not around, I realize how much he was part of our day to day lives.

It turns out, mourning a pet is similar to mourning a human family member in that the little things creep up on you. You're lying in bed and you hear a thump thump, you think, oh, it is Ernest coming up the stairs. Cue tears. You're at the store and checking out, all of a sudden you realize, you don't need plastic bags anymore since you don't have a litter box to change anymore. Cue tears. You go into the basement and leave the door open. You think SHIT as you turn around to shut the door because you don't want the cat to come down and get caught up in a mouse trap. Cue tears. When you've had your furbaby for fifteen years, they become people. They become your children. They become integral parts of your lives that you miss them like hell when they are gone.

I've been exalting his virtues, and though they were many and he was a sweet, sweet boy, he also would bite. Me. He would bite me an only me. Preferably when I was sound asleep. I like to think he was having kitty dreams and my ankle or foot or whatever, was some great menace he was chasing. This is somewhat more pleasant than thinking he was a sadistic bastard to me, and only me. Either way, I loved him lots and miss him lots.

Girls Weekend

Another year, another awesome Girls Weekend in Cape Cod.


Best quote: "I'm Sweden and you're out of here!" The weekend started with an apparently sober twenty-something man, saying this to his lover, while making a rock and roll hand gesture. I don't know what this means. None of us know what this means. And yet, it was appropriate at all times.

Best Text Message: justleaveheralonewerebusy

Dirtiest activity: Being a "Dirty Monkey"?? Nope! Strawberry picking. There was strawberry picking in which I picked one strawberry and was very pleased.


I then picked a second one which was dirty AND had a bug on it and I pretty much freaked the hell out. I also slightly freaked because I was getting dirt in between my toes because I wore flip flops. Note to self: Don't wear flip flops when walking in dirt. Nonetheless, because my cohorts were diligently picking away, and because a little girl of about two was diligently picking away next to us, and because I didn't want to be a pansy, I was shamed into picking some more. Eleven more total. Well, I guess twelve more total as I picked one, started to eat it ...

Second Best Quote: "You're stealing!" Someone IN OUR GROUP yelled at me while I was tasting the merchandise because to eat a strawberry prior to paying for said strawberry was stealing. Note, there was no sign, no warning, no nothing telling you to keep your greedy lips to yourself and DO NOT EAT THE STRAWBERRIES. No, there wasn't. Also, the little girl next to me was eating each one she picked and not a one went into her basket but did she get yelled at for stealing? No! Anyway, even though the strawberry wasn't very good, I finished eating it because if I am gonna be a thief, them dammit, I am gonna rip off as much as I can. Which, I guess, turned out to be one mediocre strawberry. I am no mastermind criminal. In any event, once I was away from the dirt and bugs and you know, NATURE, the picking was quite amusing to me as I had the largest box and the smallest haul.


Worst Question Asked to a Stranger: "Do you know what a head shop is?" Our waitress thought head shops dealt with a different type of head, as in giving ... well, never mind, you get the point, we didn't get kicked out and the food was delish, so the tea shoppe was a success despite the fact that no one, other than me, knew what a head shop was. For the record, a head shop is real and not something I made up. It is a place where you go to buy drug paraphernalia.

Moment of Redemption: After last year's resounding pottery disaster, which I pawned off as a hostess gift, I was determined to redeem myself at the paint your own pottery place. And, actually, I think I may have. I gooped on three layers of the paint so unbelievably thick that the mug was about a pound heavier than when it started. I hoped to avoid streakage, but with paint that thick and goopy you never know what will happen, so, fingers crossed.


There was a slight mishap when someone (KAY!!!!) got purple paint on my dry, perfect, piece of art, not when we were at the table and painting but when we were putting them up for glazing. I did an emergency repair, but you never know. So, in conclusion, if the mug sucks, it is all Kay's fault.

EXCEPT, HOLY FUK I SPELLED SWEDEN WRONG ON MY MUG AND NO ONE TOLD ME! I just saw that RIGHT NOW, as I was proof reading this post. Maybe I should have proof read my mug. DAMMIT. Now I am gonna have to give this away too.

Worst Spelling Error: Sweden. On my commemorative mug. Suck.

Common Photographic Theme: My boobs can't be contained.

    
Seriously. In every group shot, and some alone ones, at least one of my boobs is making a run for it. Ridiculous.

Weirdest "Best Piece of Advice You've Ever Received" per the game Loaded Questions: Just pick something to go with it.

Most unique "Place you'd like to be born" per the game Loaded Questions: Mars.

Number of random animals we saw up close and personal: Two!

  

Most Overprice Food: Gourmet cupcakes. Don't get me wrong. They taste good. But no matter how good they taste, $17+ for 6 cupcakes is robbery.


Shopkeeper: That will be $17.85. Me: What? Oh no, I only got the half dozen on the left, the ones on the right are hers. Shopkeeper: Yes, I know. Yours are $17.85. For reals? Even better is that when I sent a picture of the oreo one to my husband telling him I had gotten him a very special treat, he replied, "It looks like dog poop." Great. $3 dog poop. Awesome. Since I had paid a small fortune for the cupcakes, and because I had heard that everyone who bought the fru fru cupcakes had mushed them on their way home, I treated mine like royalty and packed them in my bag in a way guaranteed to prevent smushage. And it worked. The dog poop cupcake and his five pals made it home safely.

Number of times I forgot to knit in public on KIP day: All but two. Twenty gazillion places and I forgot to knit at all of them but two.

Proclamation: No matter what (like say moving to Kentucky), we are doing a girls weekend at the Cape every year.