Wednesday, July 27, 2005

these are the years that we've spent, and this is what they represent 

So. The girls are gone. One whole week in sunny Cali. They're off to visit the Rat.

I'm working up these patterns for Kerrie, which means I'm just a little celebrity-gossip-fueled knitting machine all up in here. And I'm so sick of looking at these damn patterns, because for me, designing a pattern involves at least a 4:1 rip-to-knit ratio. And so I knit, and I rip, and I knit, and I rip, and I don't think I'm ever even going to wear the damn ugly thing anyway, because I'm so sick of it, and I hope I don't ever see you wearing it, either, or I just might rip it off you, and why exactly am I sending these patterns out again?

And since there is little chance of meaningful cash attached to these projects, there are undoubtly more productive things I can be doing. I subscribe to this astrology email that gives you multiple horoscopes depending on how the planets are shakin', and I had five different ones today, which is my personal best. Usually one is sufficient, three occasional, but five leads me to think perhaps I should be having a slightly more exciting day. So my day had better start picking up the pace. I love to read my daily horoscope because it makes me feel like I've had at least some warning.

Ahem. The celebrity gossip? It's my new reason to live. I'm surprised to find that for the most part, folks who read celebrity gossip are the ones most prone to being high-handed and prudish. Man, these people can be mean! Personally, I like the wildest celebrities the best. I love the young wild ones the most, because you kind kind of see where life is going to smack them up. You can see the messy divorces and plastic surgery and inappropriate men galloping towards them.

Mistakes are fun.

It's like a Kabuki theater or those Indian movies about deities. Everyone knows the story, we all know where it's going so you don't have to pay too much attention. It's comforting and familiar. This is the way Our People do things. I like it. Also, it seems that fame changes, but not too much. No matter how rich, beautiful or famous, the mean popular girls, the boys who were slimy, the kids who thought they were totally above all of it, slutty boyfriends, secret relationships, catfights--check. Even crazy fame and truckloads of money can't change your basic personality. I'd say about 75% of what you read in the columns is absolutely true, but the other 25% is completely fabricated. It's hard to tell which is which.I love them crazy. Being impossibly young and rich and beautiful and adored leads pretty logically to sex and drugs and booze and shopping. They're having a great time. The guesstistic above is based on what I see from the people I actually know, so doing all the shady things humans do with a megabudget is just icing. That is what all the kids are up to, you know, even if you don't believe it.

I really hate it when people hate on Angelina for adopting foreign babies instead of having her own. Even if her reason is only, "Sorry, honey, I hope you got a Plan B, 'cause there is no way in hell I'm giving up drinking and smoking for nine months," that would be fine-and reasonable-to me. What, she can't be a good mom and sexy as hell at the same time?

Of course, this is from the woman who said, "Isabel, quit being such a bitch." Well, she was. And only mothers of daughters really comprehend the attitude a daughter can throw out. There is a look and a tone that says, shut up, you old bag, you don't know anything because you are ancient and when you are dead, I will laugh. And it gets old. I did it to my mom all the time, but my mom deserved it. I certainly don't.

Clearly there is a lot of straight talk in my household. But you know? There is little to no disrespectful speech allowed in our house. We call them on it every time. Because that shit just activates the little David-Sedaris-mommy voice in my head, and I think, "Oh yeah? You talk awful big for someone with shoes on the wrong feet. Want me to call Santa Claus and tell him what you just said?"

And then I threaten to make them pay me back in cash for my stretch marks.

Well, in my defense, we are a Funny Family, and you are permitted to say things that go over the line a little smidge if you mean to make someone laugh. Also, I miss the days when adults were adults and kids were kids and everyone knew it was a war, kids vs. adults, and we mainly ignored each other when not engaged in battle. There was a point where we decided kids were not able to process any instruction other than a good example, and instead of depicting adulthood as a reward for becoming reasonably civilized, decided we had to demand G-rated behavior from everyone. I swear often, my kids don't, but they're not allowed to drive my car or drink my beer either. Because they are children. And the one with all the stretch marks gets to make the rules, and if you don't like it, go sit in the corner. Quietly.

Teddy had a really hard time yesterday. He didn't want Alice to go, and was following her around the house, saying, "Alice? Please don't go. Alice? Please don't leave without me. Tell them you won't go without me." (His speech is surprisingly sophisticated--he sometimes has the oddest phrasing.) It broke my heart a little bit to see him feeling so left out, but I got to thinking that everyone gets left out sometimes, and sometimes over things we can't control (T is too short to ride the rides.) Why should he be exempted from this? I empathize, but the kid has to get a character somehow. He's already displaying an alarming capacity for charming his way out of trouble. Like any good mother, I hope he messes up a lot, so he can be a decent, productive member of society someday.

(He just walked in and said, "Mom, something serious happened." My kid does tend to sound like an episode of Red Dwarf, but then he is my kid.)

I heard Britney Spears is going to show her childbirth on a Very Special Chaotic. See, that's just plain funny. You know there's no way she's not gonna look back on that someday and cringe. There is no possible way for this to be a good idea and I am riveted.

Suddenly, I hear that bad kind of quiet...

Monday, July 25, 2005

you took the blue out of the sky 

Okay, damn. I've got writer's block and knitter's block and housewife's block and I basically just want to sit around and not do a damn thing. I'm dragging my sorry ass through it one task at a time, but I still feel like my transmission's stuck in neutral. (More on that later.)

I have a question, though: I am trying to convert a stitch pattern from flat to in-the-round, and not having much success. I think I could find an answer if I could just put my head together with another knit-smart person. Can anyone help? Email me.

I'll post properly, later, when I've done (or not done) everything on my list.

Saturday, July 23, 2005

wouldn't give me none but all i wanted was some 

Take the MIT Weblog Survey

Clearly motivation isn't my long suit today.

You scored as Remus Lupin. You are a wise and caring wizard and a good, loyal friend to boot. However sometimes in an effort to be liked by others you can let things slide by, which ordinarily you would protest about.

Remus Lupin


Harry Potter


Sirius Black


Albus Dumbledore


Ginny Weasley


Ron Weasley


Hermione Granger


Draco Malfoy


Severus Snape


Lord Voldemort


Your Harry Potter Alter Ego Is...?
created with QuizFarm.com

Now you know I'm bored and lazy.

Monday, July 18, 2005

do you wish the lights were brighter in the city where you live 

I've only got a minute, but a few opinions to share...

I am a polite person. Not, like, protocol officer polite, but polite enough that I never know how to tell that most-drunk guy at parties to fuck off. I never used to hang up or abuse telemarketers, on the grounds that they are people too, and I did, like, nine hours of telemarketing once.

But now I am older and wiser, and I realize the reason I ran for the hills after my First Full Day of Telemarketing, and that is because I have a soul. And if you can telemarket for an actual living, then clearly you do not. Have a soul. And so now I hang up blithely, nay, gleefully, and sometimes I am cold and threatening when I tell them not to call back. Ever.

And it feels so good. And maybe one day I will learn to surreptitiously pour my drink in the most-drunk guy's lap, and then point when he stands up and say really loudly, "Look! Everyone! That really drunk bastard peed himself!" and then go to the VIP balcony and make out with someone hot.

And maybe I will get a chance to tell a telemarketer to hang on "just a sec," and then carefully place the phone next to my son doing his impression of Dana Carvey doing his impression of his son (think reeallly high-pitched voice, nekkid time, etc.) and then skip away and touch up my pedicure.

I went to the most badass party ever on Saturday night. We stayed up to watch the sun rise, debated philosophy, drank banana rum in full 8am sunshine, and then made fun of Hemingway.

It was fucking brilliant.

Anything else you may have heard, anything negative, is totally not true. You can ask my publicist--Oh, wait, she's right here, hang on a sec--

Right. She says anything naughty you may have heard must have been someone else entirely.

She also says to tell Billy "hi."

Edit: I totally get why people drink the blood of human babies. And if it makes you look a little younger, so much the better.

Saturday, July 16, 2005

i am so sick of consequence 

I think I'll call her Harlow. Pin-up, indeed. Boobs ahoy!

This has been done for a long time, but I was meaning to stitch up the neck to make that picture-perfect "v" forever. But it looks a lot better on me this way, trust me. (Go ahead, ask me how I know...)

This pattern was in IK, designed by the incomparable Joan McGowan-Michael, knit in a cotton/linen/nylon blend called Miglio Four Seasons. It has a spongy, almost railroad-chained effect, but it's spun. It was a very interesting pattern to knit, and I did a lot of it on Tuesday nights manning the door for Techno night. Thank dog I've dropped a few pounds, or I'd likely get arrested.

I know my gallery page is, well, dead, but I might fix it up a little. If you're good.

Tuesday, July 12, 2005

i spy with my third eye 

Well, the Storm Troopers at Pman's job made us remove Firefox from our computer because, well, they own it. I don't know what the fuss is about, but I'm here to tell you, people, 60 percent of the money you spend on your phone bill is subsidizing fuss. Ah, big business. The upside is, I'm motivated to clean up around here a little. What, you didn't actually think I meant my house, did you? How droll.

I want your body, Jeremy Piven. I can love you better than she does. I know you're probably busy, what with the TV and the movies and the showing up in my dreams and the unremitting comedy and all, but I'm busy too, and you know, that just makes it hotter.

Did I ever tell you about the year I dated him? Well, not "dated," exactly--more like he was stalking me. For most of 1998 (remember, I spent half the year pregnant--hormones!) every time I went to the movies, turned on the TV, or bought a magazine, he was grinning puckishly at me. I didn't really like him at first, found him a little annoying, but his character in Grosse Pointe Blank totally won me over. I've been saying "Ten years? TEN YEARS?" for, um, about ten years now. (And does anyone remember Cupid?)Believe me, I know chemistry when I see it, much less am slapped repeatedly in the sub-cockles with it. You and I belong together, Jeremy. It's not like I want to have your baby. A torrid affair will do nicely, thanks. I even forgive you for Very Bad Things, a movie that lost control on the coastal highway of black comedy and veered over the cliff of nauseating misogyny. (This is no small feat, as that is my absolutely-hands-down LEAST favorite movie ever. Watching it--in the theater, no less--made me want to stab myself in the abdomen with scissors so my unborn child would never encounter men disturbed enough to think that film was funny.) I don't think I could forgive one of my own children Very Bad Things. Of course, the feelings I have for you are a little, ahem, adult in nature.

I kind of wish I was joking, here. I'm a little disturbed to be admitting in front of ah, dog (knew I'd find a way to steal it, Rabbitch!) and everybody, but I am so not kidding. Or exaggerating, even. I would totally do him, repeatedly, Viagra and all, and Pman knows it and is willing to play the odds, I think, that I'll never run into Jeremy Piven in Denver, because, well, who would come to Denver? (We have had this conversation about Jack Black as well, and I suspect Pman has come to accept that I am at least a talentfucker and not a starfucker.) Although it's funny to think of Pman secretly sweating bullets while we were on vacation in LA, lest we run into one of my Celebrity Sex Targets on Sunset Blvd.)

Sigh. Call me, Jeremy...

I bought my house from a rock star. We're dead serious, people. He even took pictures of Pman proposing on the front porch the first day. If Pman had known, we would have asked for a romantic serenade instead.

I make booty calls, I don't take them. (Snatched from Juno.)

Everything I have knit for myself in the last two years hangs on me like I've been shopping in Star Jones' closet. (I only hate on her for being big because she's such a bitch and it's easy. If she wasn't such a wannabe I'd think she was very pretty.)
The irony is, most of those garments have already been reknit once, due to my endearing quirk of knitting things to fit my seventeen-year-old body. So, no, in response to your question, I don't mind having wasted two years of my knitting life. At least all my socks still fit, and really, who can complain about being thinner? I only rip all that shit out and reknit it to scare my husband, who is not about to piss off a woman with that kind of vengeful determination. (His momma may have raised some fools; fortunately he is not one of them.)

But when I finish reknitting all of those, I'm totally making a Tivoli. (Nabbed from Nake-id.)

Love the vibe, not so much the patterns at Spun. On the plus side, bigbig ups for teaching me the proper pronunciation of Kaffe Fassett, on the downside, those pom-pom socks look reaaaally familiar.

Hand me my lightsaber... it's the one that says, "Bad Motherfucker" on it.

On a related note, rock your Jedi power low-tech style.

And last, but definitely not least, Isabel, bad-ass rubber-ducker, has achieved the age of reason. Happy birthday, my baby.

i know i'm a mess he don't wanna clean up 

Salutations from the slough of despond. I know I'm hardly the first person to make this observation, but looking for a job sucks ass. There's nothin' like a good job hunt to make my normally-healthy self-esteem shrivel up like month-old carrots in the crisper. If anyone in the Denver area has a job lead, well, hire me. Anything but childcare or fast food. I'm a darn good cocktail waitress, but I have secret aspirations to the writing/editing/journalism field. And I'll try anything once.

I had a crazy weekend. I ran into the father of the fabulous local painter (from whom I bought that great painting for Brea two Christmases ago) and I think he's my soul mate. How odd and random and completely like me to get picked up by a 70 year old retired political science professor, realize we were only one degree of separation away from each other anyway, and spend six hours at the bar solving the world's problems. He told me I should run for office so he could vote for me. There was also an ill-fated, not-surprisingly-creepy trip to a sex club (don't ask; it was a favor and no, I'm not into that kind of thing) and a few hours in a VIP lounge, which, also unsurprisingly, I don't like as much as shaking my ass downstairs with the rest of the hoi polloi.

Expect a disjointed post--I just can't seem to concentrate with my life up in the air.

A few thoughts--I caught the most recent episode of Who Wants To Be A Hilton, and, um, people? The minds in charge of reality TV are seriously disturbed. I mean, whoever is in charge of this shit makes Whitney and Bobby seem normal, and we know what those two are up to, so you know these idiots are ingesting some seriously heavy hallucinogens. 'Cause I do want to be a Hilton, very badly in fact, because to me being a Hilton means catting around, recreational drug use, shopping all day and mean-spirited gossip as an Olympic event. (Now there is a lifestyle I can get behind.) We all know why Paris Hilton (and to a lesser extent Nicky) are famous, and it sure as shit ain't for choosing the perfect hostess gift or playing the goddamn piano. Where's my reality show promoting excellence in the art of tag-and-release, marrying up, maintaining when you're fucked up, and forcing your feet into freebie designer slingbacks a size too small? (Wasted Socialite isn't ever one of the options on those "Which Career Is Right For You?" quizzes.)

New Rule: if I am out on the town and I see you abusing your waitress, I am going to come over there and beat the ever-lovin' shit out of you. This applies even if you happen to be out with me. You've had enough warnings, people.

I am getting a camera phone. Yippee! (Kiss-kiss, baby, kiss-kiss.) Expect blurry club photos and random animal heads mounted on walls.

I know I had more I wanted to tell you, but I'm getting the Unemployment Jitters and I have to go berate myself for being unproductive.

Friday, July 01, 2005

okay, that's my opinion...and everybody else agrees 

I am such a drunken asshole. I actually got kicked out of the club last night. I wasn't rowdy or anything...I think...but I do have this unexplained cut on the bridge of my nose. Maybe I got in a fight with a sailor. Considering that I have gaps in my memory you could drive a truck through, I'm lucky I didn't go home with a sailor. It hit me muchmuchmuch too late that perhaps eating once in a while would help that.

So I don't know if my problem is alcoholism or anorexia.

Well, today is Teddy's birthday, so we'll write it off to my long-standing habit of getting really fucked up to commemmorate the painkillers I had on each of my kids' birthdays. Did I ever tell you I had a keg at Isabel's first birthday? (Hey, at least I remember it.)

So, even though this is shameless, I feel we know each other well enough now that I can be a little needy. What's up with no comment-love? I don't post for days and days, and you guys actually look for me, (I heart you!) but I deliver an embarrassment of posts (in more ways than one) and nothing?

I feel like calling Blogger and asking them to test my line...

Two of my new favorite songs...
Hey Self-Defeater, Mark Mulcahy
The Night You Saved My Life, Tanya Donelly

I should let you know now that I am not content to make these available and let it end there. You need to hear these songs and then get back to me.

I realize Your Correspondent has been going through a...um...shallow phase lately, where all she cares about are clothes and pop music and pretty pretty things. In her defense, I remind you that she has No Job. (No, housekeeping does not count. Bitch.)She is more than happy to discuss Life's weightier issues with you, unfortunately, she needs a cocktail first. And a smoke. Just a reminder, Your Correspondent is available for parties, bat mitvahs, and any other occasion where you are tempted to make an ass of yourself--she will diligently make such a spectacle of herself that no one will be paying attention to you.

(In all seriousness, I. am. SO. embarrassed. I have overindulged plenty in the past [shut UP, B, I can hear you laughing all the way from NJ] but I thought I had the, um, dosage worked out, and I haven't lost my, um, poise in a longlong time, but I have never been asked to leave an establishment before. Could have been worse, I guess. I heard a bouncer had to ask Paris Hilton to stop, um, touching herself once at a club. As far as I know I just drank too much, and I have lost weight (doesn't pay to pound the RB&vodka when you're five feet teeny) but SHIT. I did manage to keep all hands out of my underpants, so I guess that's something. Well, my therapist did tell me to have more fun...)

I think I'm probably still drunk (in all fairness, that is the optimal way to spend a child's birthday) but that cut! On my nose! I heard I walked into a wall, but presumeably not one with a lot of, I don't know, shelves, or anything. How do you cut yourself on a wall? And, to really cherry my mortification, Pman put it best: "Well, you can pretty much forget about getting a job there." (I had applied.)

Okay, in honor of T-man's birthday and the valley of my humilation, send me your best I'm-a-drunken-beast story. I don't mind being an asshole so much...anymore, but I don't want to be a lonely drunken asshole. Funniest story gets to buy me a drink...okay, funniest story gets to hear MY worst drunken-beast story (it involves breastfeeding, and any story that combines that and drinking is really good...or sad, but this one is funny.)