Pieces from my week

Nothing feels quite like finishing a snazzy pair of socks! And, nothing feels quite like realizing I Kirchner stitched the second sock shut two rows too early. Sigh. Nothing feels like unraveling a toe, and joining in new yarn to get the toe right.

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My boy introduced me to a new little girl in his class (he's 5.5). He said they were in love, and it was real. Well, I guess I won't have to explain eHarmony to him.

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I tried Twitter. I found myself almost caring if Kelly Ripa made her flight back to the U.S. Apparently, she needs sleep just as much as I do.

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The room freshener makes my office smell like a Smurf bordello.

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My boy would not keep his hands out of the ice bin at the movie theater concession stand. So, I used some of Cesar Millan's Dog Whispering tricks on him. They really work! Now my boy knows I'm the alpha dog. He's thinks his mom should get me a better leash.

Unfaded Memories

I remember the first time I saw The Thin Man. I had just got my job back that morning. To celebrate, I spent the afternoon pitching pennies. I won enough to buy a ticket to the theater near my brother-in-law's house where I rented a room. I sprawled out in the middle of a row, even winked at a girl a row behind me. First, the news reel about John Dillinger still being at large, the drought and dust storms, and Hitler's rise. A Betty Boop cartoon, and FINALLY the film. I laughed all the year's troubles away. Heck, we all did. I left the theater convinced all I needed was a snappy wit and a small dog to meet me a swell dame like Myrna Loy.

Well, okay. That's not exactly how it went. I love old movies: Bogart film noir, Fred Astaire musicals, or screwball Cary Grant comedies. My mind makes up a little fake me-history to go along with what I'm watching. I don't know why my brain does it, either. I'd understand it if they were memories of my OWN life, but "memories" of my grandparents' era? Is it to enjoy the movie even more, as if I could be in the original time at a theater when it was first released. Or, is it just a game to cull as much sickly-sweet nostalgia as I can from the movie?

When I hear old Benny Goodman tunes, I'll get sucked back to the days before going to war, the smokey dance hall with the tables shoved close together, yellow bulbs with tin shades hanging from the ceiling to light us, swirling-drunk dances, wringing one more happy memory to warm me through the winters Over There.

It's other people's schmaltz, but I loll in it all the same.

Mowrrrff?

I speak Cat. Don't believe me? Say this to your cat, "Mrrrah meh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh." Cracks 'em up every time.

As a kid, our family had up to 7 house cats at a time. I knew all their personalities and senses of humor. We always had cats. And, oddly, I always had a cold.

Turns out, I'm allergic to cats. And dogs. And trees, and things that bloom. I took the allergist's prick test. I'm allergic to pricks, too. When my allergies hit, my eyes water, nose runs, and asthma kicks in. Many times I've run from a friend's house as if it were on fire so I can get some "fresh" air.

Anyway, my family is getting a puppy. She is a rat terrier my kid has named Chloe. I don't think he named her for the Paris fashion house. Nor for Chloe Sevigny. He got it from a dog movie I refuse to see. I wanted to name it Guinness, but I was told that wasn't a girl's name.

As I was saying, I'm allergic to dogs. We went out to meet Chloe's daddy in a parking lot, midway between Chloe's home and our house. I pet the dog, then wiped my face to test my allergy to his breed. I thought of wiping the dog all over my face, but that seemed rude. Maybe I should have greeted the dog in dog-language: sniff it's butt.

My allergies didn't kick off. True, a parking lot is well ventilated, but I thought I did pretty well! And, now my boy gets his dog. Chloe will show up sometime in May. My family has promised to bathe it weekly, and deal with any excretion mishaps to lessen the chance of asthma attacks.

But, I'm most afraid of the language barrier. I've tried to speak French, Spanish, Japanese, Chinese, American Sign Language, Tagalog-- shoot, I can barely understand Pig Latin. With foreign languages, I'm tongue-tied. Soon, I'll be living with something that only speaks Dog. Chloe will show up, and I'll just stand there like the cat's got my tongue. I'm sure there are certain growls, yips, snorts, and wags I should know. Does anyone have some colloquial dog expressions you can share? Do I greet Chloe with some hip hand gesture, and say, "Yo, dawg, who let you out?"

Geez. I hope she likes me.

Got My Knit On

Ooooooooh. It has been a long time since I've been excited by yarn. I had just cast off a pair of undulating rib socks that took two, maybe three months to finish. I just wanted them done. I almost bound off the second sock way too early and called it a Soda Can Cozie.

Then a few weeks ago, (been too busy to blog) I saw the yarn pictured here. The one on the far left is Last Call, and the nearest colorway is I Shaved My Legs For This. They are Politically Incorrect yarns from Sugarbee Studios. They are now waiting for me in my bucket o' yarn on my nightstand.

And, I'm FINALLY onto the Deaton sock pattern from PicnicKnits. I've been wanting to start this sock since September of last year.

AND, I had just spent a few hours with other knitters! Some knitters I knew, some I didn't, and some I hadn't seen in what seemed like forever. And, they were all engaging, and delightful and they all glowed with knitting essence-- or, maybe the room was well lit.

Anyway, I've been energized. I feel like a heathen with renewed faith in the Needles and Fiber.

Oh. If you're planning an engagement party, and need to hire a quartet, I know just the folks for you. They're spinners. Watching these folks spin wool can make even a room full of bellicose warmongers stop their foulmouthed diatribes and drift into a meditative swoon of elevated homespun consciousness. ... ... ...

Whoa. I slipped off myself just thinking of them. I wonder if they need a groupie.

Wisenheimer, Offend Thyself

So, I snapped out a crappy pun which played upon the obvious religious heresy of the stranger in the story being told. However, the pun was received as a hint toward sexual deviancy.

My head emptied. My mouth hung open, flapping gently on one hinge. There was a dry, gurgle in my throat. I could hear blood rushing past my ears to flush my face. My blinking was slow, and deliberate. Fog swirled around empty skull. Lightning was sure to strike me any second. As the topic was expounded a little, my gut twisted, and I began to sweat under my too-too jaunty cap. The pun's connection to sex was SO obvious! How come I didn't catch it before I said anything!?!

People will always say they have a sense of humor, and listen to a variety of music, and are not easily offended. People think a lot of themselves. Me, too. It has been awhile since I've been offended. I mean, I listen to Lily Allen: See! Sense of humor, musical variety, and not offended all in one!

It has been a long time since I remember being offended. But, in this case, had I REALLY been offended? What is being offended? What happens? I mean, I got over it. I don't think anybody in the room was out to get me, or any such nonsense. Everyone was very nice. I just felt very uncomfortable.

So, I got to thinking (I really ought to stick to knitting, though). Maybe feeling comfortable all the time is a bad thing. And, that's a wild thing for a meat sack of neuroses like me to be thinking. What is soooooo bad about being uncomfortable? Maybe I could pay very close attention to the uncomfort, and try to pin down just what it IS. Kind of an inner adventure. Or, just plain get over it and move on. Why dwell? If I get too uncomfortable, I can always grab a Guinness, my knitting, and an old movie.

And, to anyone who was in that room for my REALLY bad pun: Yeah, I thought it was a stupid pun, too.

Laugh and Let Laugh

So, I said, "Sure, I've seen The Holy Land theme park. I've gotta warn you. You WILL get wet on the Jonah in the Whale Ride."

Then, someone said, "Are you joking? I can't tell when you're joking."

Yeah. I get that a lot. Especially when I'm not very funny.

So, in case you're wondering, at left is my face after I just told the computer what I had for lunch. Note the half-closed eyes staring off into space, a little nervous, with a self-deprecating air. I could use a trim about the goatee.

Now, at right is my face just after telling the computer a joke. Notice the snarky smirk, the twinkle in the eye, the cocky tilt to the head. Oh, yeah. I'm joking all right. You should be falling off your laptop, because the joke I told the computer was so funny.

Here's the deal. I've been thinking. (In case you're wondering, when I think, I look very angry, but I'm NOT angry!) Why would someone bother asking me if THEY think my joke is funny? Do I have to carry a laugh track around with me? (Everyone, say it with me: "Is that a laugh track in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?") Why not let yourself decide whether to laugh or not? Don't laugh if the joke is stupid. Laugh if the joke is funny. OH! And, laugh in the middle of a sentence-- for no reason. That is loads of fun. Gets people real nervous real quick.

Anyway, if you're still not sure when to laugh or not, let me revise my little joke. It's like a pop quiz:

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Hey, great crowd here tonight. Great to be here.

Anyone been to the Holy Land theme park? I freaked out on the Tower of Babel. They make you walk 16 flights of stairs, and when you're pushed off, you scream in 12 different languages. And all the concession stands have all-you-can-eat loaves and fishes. They're practically giving the stuff away. Oh, and my little boy likes the petting zoo, He rides those Four Ponies of the Apocalypse like there was no tomorrow.

Hey, thanks for being here. Remember to tip your bartender and waitstaff. Good night.

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Soooo, how'd you do? Did you manage to roll your eyes in mock disgust a couple times? That's all I'm asking for. A genuine response from the core of your being. Is that so hard?

Please blink and drive.

On my way to work, I was sitting in the left turn lane (in a car) waiting for the light to change (again). I was listening to some song, grooving to it a little, and I noticed some off-beat percussion. It sounded like sticks clacking together, but they were way off beat. I tried tapping out the rhythm on my steering wheel. I couldn't imagine an audio engineer letting that beat through.

It, er, turns out, the odd beat was my turn signal. So, when I turned my music up louder so I didn't have to hear the turn signal, a small beacon of light blinked on in my head. The reason people don't use their turn signals is because they don't want the clicking sound to ruin their music!

PEOPLE! Turn up your car radios! Turn 'em up LOUD! Then feel free to use your turn signals!

It's probably why all the cool, hip young'uns drive with music that make ears bleed two blocks away! Because they want to use their signals, and be the safe, conscientious drivers we know they are!

In fact, I now understand why the guy I'm following drives with his blinker on ALL the time! He's listening to a great groove, and can't hear that his turn signal is still on! Now, I don't mind at all!

SO, rock on, America! Blast those tunes! As long as you use your blinkin' turn signals!