Women Are So SO Crazy (because men totally make us that way)

"ohmygod i'm worried," confides ShoeHo, who is getting as much work done as i am today.

and in case you're not keeping track, today = friday. which means if you're single and female, you have a weekend ahead of yourself where you have to figure out ahead of time what fabulous activities you're going to engage in because if you don't, you know that you will likely end up hanging out with your married friends drinking boxed wine from a straw.

unfortunately, figuring it out ahead of time usually requires at least two people, one of whom is male.

and that's how the crazy starts.

"what? did He say something bad?" i ask.

"no, i emailed Him at..." ShoeHo looks up her sent email files. "11:21 a.m."

"ShoeHo! it's not even 12:30 yet!" i say, feigning shock and dismay at such crazy behavior.

(because what woman on the planet would EVER start worrying about why He hasn't called as soon as she hits send? no, to do that would be crazy.)

"i know. but...i was waiting...but then, well" she looked at me sheepishly.
"i called and left him a message, too."

GAH! we are so crazy.

"NO NO NO NO NO," i say, all helpful-like. "you can't DO that."

"i know but kristy, he makes me crazy!"

ShoeHo had her first date with Him last week. crazy starts right away.

::post-lunch, back at the front desk::

"kristy, can i be crazy?" asks PinkJaime.

"go ahead," i say.

"okay. He said he was going to call me this afternoon. but i missed a call from the 415 area code, and now there's no message. what if it's Him? do you think it is?"

PinkJaime met her Him last weekend at a party.

"i don't know. maybe. probably."

"why didn't He leave a message!?"

"maybe he was too nervous? maybe he will call back?"

"whatever. can you do me a favor?" she asks.

and here comes the crazy.

"what?"

"can you call the number and see who it is?"

"um, is that a good idea? don't you think that's weird? and also, if i call the number, how will i know? am i supposed to ask?"

"no, just say you got the wrong number."

"but..." i love that i am not the crazy one today, "if he just says 'hi' and then i say, oh sorry, wrong number, that doesn't help us at all."

"kristy just call it. you know you want to."

at which point i google it and find out that the number belongs to the guy she thinks.

"according to google, it was Him."

"WHY didn't he leave a message!?"

i don't know. i don't know why guys don't leave messages. i don't know why guys take two or three or four or five or six days to call.

i do know that the women i know are all -- whether experienced or inexperienced or playing by The Rules or completely ignoring them -- in one way or another, waiting for that call. and being crazy in the meantime.

ah, fridays.

No. Really. I'm Serious.

it's kinda like walking down the street thinking you're attracting attention because you look hot when really your fly's just down.

so there i am, walking down the street, heading to the pub, listening to my iPod, trying to be cute as i walk past the crazies and crack whores and tranny prostitutes (my neighborhood is so so cute when i am walking in the other direction).

and some guy walks past me carrying a bucket (lord knows if he was actually going to clean something or if he just happened to own a bucket, it's really tough to say) and says to me:

"you have a beautiful body."

"well geez," i think. "that's unexpected. and nice. i like you, Mr. Bucket Man" (not that i want to encourage conversation or extensive eye contact with a man in the tenderloin whose sole possession is a bucket, but still).

and so i smile, because i can't help it. it's nice for a stranger to think you're beautiful. and as i continue to walk and pass him, he sees me smile. and then he adds:

"i'm serious."

*wince*

oof. i mean, i just kept walking but the words echoed.

"i'm serious," is NOT what you want to hear following a compliment. having to add "i'm serious" implies that the compliment is hard to believe. or even worse, something that could be mistaken as a joke. as though i wouldn't believe him.

oh, sure, maybe he was just trying to up his cred ("look lady, i may only have a bucket, but that doesn't mean i'm wrong"), but i'm not exactly the poster child for Having All The Confidence, you know?

The South Beach Diet: Not Just For Drunks Anymore

notice how i haven't really mentioned any progress related to my weight loss or the SBD(FD) recently?

right. well, it turns out i can't magically lose 10 pounds in three weeks. much as i think i should be able to because i've been pretty damn good on this thing and i totally deserve it.

so i am not a size 12 yet, despite my wishing really hard.*

even though my version of the SBD is so like, not the Real version. the Real version involves things like preparing foods. which in turn involves buying foods that need preparing. and this is where i falter.

take for example the sad fact that in my refridgerator at home, i currently have: butter. sugar. one bottle of salad dressing from my first (only) dinner party five weeks ago where i set things on fire. and one bottle of salad dressing from the first (only) time i made dinner for The Boy sometime before christmas. oh, right, and the recent addition of diet tonic to go with the vodka i don't have anymore.

and i'm totally not kidding.

[ex: "wow. you weren't kidding in your blog about the food you don't have in your place," a friend said to me last weekend. so see? i don't lie to you, imaginary internet friends.]

anyway, how i get by having no food in my house is that, in my version of the SBD(FD), i go shopping at the safeway next to where i work, and keep my foodstuffs at work, and then eat them while at work. easy.

and to make it even easier, most of the things i buy come already ready. apples. cheese sticks. yogurt. soup. (whole-grain) bread (which sometimes i go so far as to toast, which is about as fancy as i get).

and mostly i don't care that i'm not fancy, but i kind of don't care in the way you might not care that you're having a bad hair day until someone next to you is having a great hair day and someone else says to you about the person next to you, "isn't she having a great hair day?" and then you just want to put on a hat.

which brings me to the point. i know i mentioned that my boss, KnitterStacy (which rhymes with BitterStacy but is way more pleasant) decided to give SBD a whirl. which is great, yay.

but it wasn't until she started doing SBD that i realized how bad a hair day i've been having with it, because KnitterStacy is actually doing the Real version of the SBD (much in the way she is a Real knitter, who, since learning to knit approximately 6 minutes ago, has already made a fucking sweater, whereas my poor friend is walking around in a lopsided CondomHat.)

consider our lunch today.

we both shop at the same grocery store and "prepare" lunch in the same kitchen. right?

so i:

• go to the fridge and get out soup and non-butter spread.
• toast bread. add non-butter.
• pour soup into paper bowl and heat in the microwave.
• put quarter in machine and get diet soda.
• eat toast and soup with diet soda.
  

KnitterStacy:

• goes to the fridge and gets out tuna, garbanzo beans, olives, celery, chipotle peppers, parsley, and arugula.
• pulls pure olive oil out from hidden "gourmet" stash in her desk.
• gets out cutting board (yeah, um, our office kitchen has a cutting board. who knew?).
• chops celery.
• chops olives.
• finds salad bowl and lines it with arugula.
• adds tuna and garbanzo beans and combines them with the olive oil over the arugula.
• adds chopped celery, olives and peppers.
• sits at table with arranged bowl, paper-towel-as-placemat, and proper silverware (not the plasticware i use).
• adds kosher salt and fresh pepper to taste.

isn't that amazing? are you amazed? she has freshly chopped greens. every day. i eat sticks of cheese from plastic tubes.

she has tiny little tupperware containers filled with exactly the number of pistachio nuts you are supposed to allow yourself. i drink low-carb yogurt from the bottle.

she splurges on having two glasses of wine. i have (roughly) 846 gin and sodas.

she will lose the precise amount of weight you're supposed to. i um, well, i guess the thing is, i probably will too.

just ever-so-slightly less elegantly**.



*but i swear i will be by the time i travel in june. mark my words. and i have lost at least 15 lbs since january, so it's not like i'm completely misguided in my goal.


**totally a bridget jones quote.

Why Marketing People Suck

i just got an email from an ecommerce company. that's fine.

they are trying to drive me to their site. that's fine.

they are trying to lure me in with Mother's Day specials. that would be fine.

if the store weren't called KEG WORKS.

seriously kids, wtf? "get mom that beer she's always wanted!"

if it had been tongue-in-cheek, i could've let it go. i mean, i get that -- from a marketing perspective -- any opportunity to drive web traffic should be exploited. but if you sell BEER and BEER ACCESSORIES, maybe you might want to let mother's day go?

apparently not. apparently i do not know anything.

apparently mother's day is a perfect opportunity to sell a CORONA GIFT SET, proudly featuring:

• Corona Tin Sign (12" diameter)
  anything bigger would be tacky, obviously
• Corona Cast Iron Wall Mount Bottle Opener
  wouldn't want mom to break a nail popping open her brewskis
• Corona Lime Slicer
  that's for beer with a twist, kids
• (2) Corona Zip up Beer Coolers
  so mom can enjoy her beer with a friend

and the best part? it's 20% off! so go! get buyin'! act now, before all the coronas sell out and you have to resort to getting mom something like, i dunno, flowers.

Some People Have Worse Mornings Than I Do

bad stuff happens to me. a lot.

now, i realize i bring a lot of it on myself, in that i'm exceedingly clumsy. but the way my life works is that if there is only one faulty paper coffee cup in the whole lot, it will be the one starbucks gives me, and not only will i drip coffee down my shirt on my way to something important, but i will slip and fall on the coffee that dripped to the marble floor in the important building's entryway.

and it's not always totally my fault. like, there was the infamous boston trip wherein a 3 hour drive turned into 7.5, included a thunderstorm, going the wrong way on a one-way street, peeing in an alcove on the harvard campus, my sister losing her wallet in a port-o-potty, finding ourselves in the center of the end of a car chase that resulted in six cops with their guns drawn pulling some guy out of his car window and throwing him into a paddy wagon all of 20 feet away from us, and our would-be whale-watching ship going up in flames (i swear).

so it comes as great surprise to me when unfortunate things happen to people who are not me. like Crazy Aunt Purl's unbelievable flaming-bus story.

and also like the unfortunate CoffeeGirl, who i "met" ("met" = "witnessed") this morning.

CoffeeGirl and her friend were waiting at the bus stop with me. they both had coffee from starbucks. i do not get coffee before getting on muni because you're a.) not supposed to (and i tend to follow rules like that because i'm afraid of getting yelled at) and b.) i know myself and know i will spill. so i envy people who do get their coffee before the bus and enjoy it on the bus while i have to watch them and wait for my caffeine fix.

anyway.

the bus arrived and it was packed. which i hate. usually it's not too bad, since i usually get on an earlier bus (but these days i'm trying to figure out which bus CutieCute gets on so that i can captivate him by, possibly, if i get the nerve, making eye contact, i'm so lame).

but because the bus was packed (and, btw, totally devoid of CutieCute) i have to stand and hold on, packed in with about a million other people, and i'm not very good at this. and CoffeeGirl ends up on the opposite side of the aisle, a few feet in front of me, holding on with one hand while holding her coffee in another. and i have to wonder how good at this she is, too.

at this point, i would like to remind you that i live in san francisco. you know, sf? the place with the hills? yeah.

so while we're stopping and going, stopping and going (as buses do, especially on this line) something happens. i can't see the street ahead of us, but whatever it is that happens, it causes the bus to make an incredible and unexpected downhill lurch.

the entire busload of us lost our balance and collectively lurched along with the bus. there was a group "whoa!" and some people even let out near-screams, because it is really not fun to smoosh into bus people (especially not really hard). i think people would have fallen if there hadn't been so many people to fall into. we all just lurched really hard. as did CoffeeGirl. and CoffeeGirl's coffee.

i swear to you, i am not making this up: CoffeeGirl's coffee flew up, out of her cup, in a geyser-like fashion. it absolutely covered the roof of the bus above where she and a handful of others were standing. it covered her coat. it covered her face. it covered the woman behind her's coat, face, and hair.

people didn't know what to do.

CoffeeGirl didn't know what to do.

so for a few seconds she just stood there, dumbfounded. she was tall, and quite large, and was standing in the middle of a crowded bus drenched in (i'm guessing here, by color and smell) a latte. droplets were streaming down her face. and the face of the woman next to her. and raining from the bus roof.

(and for some unbelievable reason, not dripping on me. how i avoided this is surely some cosmic accident.)

and so the bus started up again. and we all stood there, hushed. and at the next stop, CoffeeGirl got off to go clean herself. the rest of the bus just stayed silent.

and smelled of coffee.

Article Writer Man Replies

you were on the edge of your seat, weren't you?

well, in the most recent installment of Article Writer Man's article writing, he casually mentions the existence of Ms. Article Writer Man. i have to wonder if the timing of this mention has anything to do with his newest stalker (me) and all that.

he did at least send me an email with some kind words. but still, harrumph.

i must revise my assessment:

• youngish way too old for me


• single married to a woman who either totally doesn't appreciate him or is really the only reason he's successful


• gorgeous totally, completely average-looking


• waiting his whole life to meet me (this one is still totally true because really, who isn't?)

ah, well. guess i'm taking applications for my next internet writer fixation.

Just When You Thought It Was Safe To Practice Your Backhand

"One buffalo was seen leaping over one of the tennis nets in an effort to evade capture..."

just thought this was hysterical.

You Said It, Not Me

*begin rant*

one of my greatest pet peeves is inappropriate gum-chewing, by which i mean people who chew gum with their mouths open where i can see and hear them.

so last night i'm on muni, in a single seat, contentedly knitting away and keeping my eyes on my work as more and more people get on. and some woman ends up standing next to me, reading.

and chewing.

i don't even have to look at her to know she is chewing gum because every few seconds she makes some gross wet smacking sound to remind me.

and i try to ignore it. try to ignore it. try to ignore it.

but finally, as the chewing reaches new auditory heights, i decide i have to at least give her a disgusted look*.

so i look up, and find myself staring directly at the title of her book.

it's called "choke."

*end rant*



*hey, this is as confrontational as i get, folks.

Internet Dating, Revisited

just so we're straight about this, i'm a bit of an e-slut.

but now before you have visions of me in some dark, virtual dungeon or engaging in inappropriate, one-handed IM conversations, that is totally not what i mean (and who would ever do something like that anyway?) (don't give me that look.).

what i mean is, i am aware that my two greatest seductive assets are:

a. my ability to sound somewhat charming (kinda) in the e-world, namely through writing. (because i do not sound charming in the real world. in the real world i stammer and say "um" a LOT and am really, really bad at filters a la having things like, "hey you're cute, are you smart?" and "do you think you're going to call me?" fall out of my mouth.); and

b. having big boobs. (look, i don't make the rules and i didn't choose this body type, god knows. but i have it, so come on.)

and so working point a. brings me great joy (and makes me feel a little less cheap than working point b., but again, come on).

i thusly love IM flirtations. and well-written emails. and yes, even well-written personal ads.

[aside: the date i had on saturday was with a guy who had an exceptionally well-written personal ad. and the date was quite lovely. and you are SO not getting more details.]

but the reason i bring any of this up is because i am crazy (tra la la) and have this huge enormous crush on some guy i've never met or seen or talked to or IMed with or anything. because when you are in a pseudo-relationship with a TheBoy (which i was when this started) you need diversions. and so there is this guy who writes an industry column a couple times a week. and i get these articles emailed to me (see? i do do work things sometimes, like stay abreast of industry happenings), and i read them and love them and then one day it occurred to me -- duh -- that the guy writing them must be:

• youngish
• single
• gorgeous
• waiting his whole life to meet me

(what? oh whatever. reality, schmeality.)

so what do i do? how does one play this? how do you casually, coolly explain to the nice Article Writer Man that you should totally be dating?

well, i'll tell you what i did. i turned on the e-sluttitude and sent him some feedback. and he replied. and i'm sure that his two sentence emails will evolve over time since of course he has to play it nonchalantly to start. but i'll bet he's already completely smitten. i mean, who could resist a hot phrase like, "i liked your article today."

oh yeah. he's so totally going to fall for me. uh huh.

i'll keep you posted.

Puritanical Work Ethic In Full Effect

we totally need to form a club.

i mean, for imaginary internet friends, you guys are awfully thoughtful. and smart. and nice. and like, cool too. we should totally get together for ONE (bwahahahahaha) drink.

(um, also you guys are SO gonna be in trouble when The Man finds out how little work you're doing. because i gotta tell you -- our club isn't really winning any productivity awards.)

so anyway, just wanted to let you know that i love Love LOVE your feedback and if i haven't replied to you yet i swear i will just as soon as i get some work-related stuff done.

no, really.

"That's Sexy, About The Soup..."

every time i am back on the singles' scene i swear off meeting boys from the internet. because internet dating is fraught with all sorts of terror, and i don't mean the "what if he's a serial killer" kind, either, which is also valid but not nearly as concerning as "what will i wear to meet someone i've never met?"

because you all know that internet dating turns normal dating on its head. you meet someone in a bar, you like them/they like you, you go on a date to find out if you have anything in common (you don't). whereas you meet someone online, you like them/they like you, you go on a date to find out if you have any chemistry at all (you don't).

the important difference between these two scenarios is, of course, the former might at least result in some hot hot action (by which i mean watching movies, Dad) and the latter results in believing that you will never attract another man ever again so long as you live. ever.

so i am officially swearing off internet dating again* for two reasons. the first being the deathly no-chemistry thing; the second being that google is awesome, but also links to my blog. and yes, people who date from the internet tend to use google and type in things like my name and find things like this blog.

[it's one thing to tell imaginary internet friends about tucking my paper towel into my bra as a special pre-date soup-eating maneuver. it is another thing entirely for the guy ON THAT DATE to be reading about it. breezy elegance indeed.]

so anyway, i'd love to detail my current dating life here (because god knows my dating experiences are utterly unbelievable), but it's probably best to not.

just wish me luck.

and consider sharing your stories instead. i know you have tons of them...







*after tonight.

And Now...Karaoke For The Uterus!

(you knew this was coming.)

for years we've all heard the jokes (and groans) from men detailing the horrors of "certain kinds" of medical exams they must subject themselves to ("okay, now cough"). and i don't want to suggest it isn't rough for guys, what with all your fears of swabbing and stuff.

but come now. for even the most routine of exams for women, we have to get all hoisted up on some table and situate ourselves in cold, metal torture-chamber like positions while all-too-cheery doctors prod us with cold, metal torture-device like things. and then carry on conversations with us.

it's not pleasant. we don't look forward to it. hell, we can't even say it -- we have to spell it like it's a bad word ("i have to go to the *hushed tone* o...b...g...y...").

let's face it. ObGyns are the voldemorts of doctors.

and thus, i have every empathy in the world for My Poor Friend who is having some Complicated Woman Problems. Problems so Complicated that the first TWO trips to the voldemort couldn't quite resolve them.

My Poor Friend: kristy, they are going to have to do an ultrasound.

me: oh, i'm sorry. you're not talking about the kind that goes over the tummy, are you.

MPF: nope. and this is going to suck. they have to...you know...go in.

me: i know. but at least you get to see what your uterus looks like from the inside!

i say this with mock enthusiasm. no one needs to see their uterus from the inside. on a tv screen. in front of the voldemort.

MPF: yeah. you know, that thing they use...it does kind of look like a microphone.

me: does it?

MPF: it does. do you think my uterus would sing if it could?

you see, this is what Complicated Woman Problems do to women.

me: i'm sure.

MPF: we could play some Uterus Karaoke. hmm. i wonder what my uterus would like to sing to me.

me: hard to say.

MPF: i think "you light up my life."

me: that would be nice. sweet. almost romantic.

MPF: kristy, that's gross.

apparently i do not know the rules of Uterus Karaoke.

me: sorry.

MPF: no, that's okay. maybe my uterus does have feelings for me. or did, and now it doesnt' anymore. maybe it would like to sing "you've lost that lovin' feeling." we've both seen top gun a million times. it's gotta know the words.

me: how about "one" from a chorus line? "one singular sensation, every little step she takes --"

MPF: kristy, that's gross too. and i don't think we should sing songs with the word "sensation" in them. my uterus might be a little sensitive about that.

again with the rules.

me: well, good luck with the exam. and let me know if the uterus bursts into song.

MPF: i will. but it might be a little muffled. no pun.


who says laughter isn't the best medicine? (probably the voldemort.)

Once A Cynic...

it's friday night at 8 and i'm home in my cozy apartment with nothing but my cats, sex and the city, and vodka & diet coke (it's ketel one, though, so it's a classy vodka & diet coke) keeping me company.

well, and also you, imaginary internet friends.

so speaking of imaginary internet friends, here's a little tale my darling sister reminded me of just this evening.

[i do realize most of you will be reading this on monday morning, when you're busy avoiding work, as opposed to sometime this weekend when you're out living your real lives. but for now, let me pretend that you are all sitting at home with your respective pets and drinks, anxiously awaiting another entry. thanks.]

one day when i was but 3 years old and my mother was walking me into nursery school, she happened to notice that i was engaged in a rather heated conversation. with no one.

slightly alarmed but playing it cool, my mom asked with whom i was speaking.

"oh," i said, "i'm talking to my imaginary friend, julie."

[i think it bears noting here that a. children who have imaginary friends don't tend to acknowledge them as such; and b. her name was julie because everyone of my dolls was named julie because the only thing i could ever imagine being when i grew up was julie mccoy from the love boat. we're not all destined for greatness.]

(obviously.)

"well that's nice, dear." my mom said, not entirely knowing how to respond. "julie is a nice name. is julie nice?"

"no," i replied, plaintively. "she's a real bitch."

my point here is, of course, that after 26 years of growing and maturing and reflecting and fine-tuning my mental processes, i am still ranting and raving to imaginary friends.

but i swear, you're all nicer than julie.

The Picture of Breezy Elegance

my friend snarky (the proud owner of the CondomHat), coined a phrase for me. whenever i do something of particular grace, like spill an entire glass of red wine down my white shirt while trying to pick up a guy in a bar, she just looks at me and tells me that i am the picture of breezy elegance.

and because i tell her anything, she happens to catch me in my best moments more than anyone.

::last night, before my first date* since TheBoy::

snarky: what time is your date?

me: 7:30

snarky: that's in less than an hour! what are you wearing?

me: i don't know.

snarky: how can you not know!

me: i'm still not sure.

snarky: you're just meeting for drinks?

me: yes.

snarky: have you eaten?

me: no.

snarky: eat something!

me: i don't have anything here and i don't have any time.

snarky: what do you mean you don't have anything? you have to have something. you live across the street from a grocery store!

we have this conversation at least once a week. i am not the world's best food shopper.

me: i have peanut butter, unmade sugar-free jello, some atkins bake mix, an apple, and some instant thai noodles that come in a box. i guess i'll make the box of noodles.

snarky: noodles in a box? i'm picking cilantro for the fish dinner i'm making.

right.

::fast forward 15 minutes::

snarky: how are the noodles? and what are you wearing?

me: they're okay. the boiling water is still a little hot. and i changed my pants but think i'm going to wear the shirt i was in.

snarky: you're not in it now?

me: god no! i'm eating noodles from a box!

as i've pointed out before (re: mashed potato boobs) i really do spill on myself a lot. and so if i'm going to be eating soupy noodles, i am going to be splattery. and since i'm in the privacy of my own home, i know that it's much easier to just take my shirt off than to try and not spill on it. snarky is familiar with my drill.

snarky: oh right. nice. bra?

me: yes.

snarky: but aren't the noodles hot? are you eating fast? you have to leave in like, 10 minutes. what if you splatter on your bare skin?

my friends, looking out for me.

me: i have a paper towel tucked into my bra to cover me.

snarky: nice visual. you're sitting at your computer, slurping thai noodle soup with no shirt on and a paper towel tucked into your bra?

me: yeah but my makeup's done.

snarky: breezy elegance.




*i am going to have to hold off on posting details about dates here until i figure out a way to avoid situations like the unfortunate blog-reading of DudeA.

My "Working" Lunch

i'll bet some of you imaginary internet people thought i would take the opportunity to blog during lunch instead of work.

you are all wrong! ha! don't you feel silly now?

i did NOT blog during lunch.

what? what are you pointing at?

that bag? there's nothing in that bag.

especially not new yarn from the yarn store i didn't go to at lunch. nope.

But Before I Go

just wondering (while working, i swear) is there any way i can get a guy i see on muni to ask me out?

oh come on. he is cute and clearly shy (and by "shy" i really think "shy" not "ignorning me"). he actually turned around to look at me yesterday and then TOTALLY blushed. SO CUTE!

is there hope for a meeting of the pre-people?

The Nerve!

this might come as a shock to you (because it has certainly come as a shock to me), but it turns out that when you spend an inordinate amount of time working on your blog when you are at the office, the work you are supposed to be doing at the office doesn't tend to get done. some sort of physics rule or something.

anyway, sometimes those work-y things actually have deadlines and stuff. deadlines like, say, "yesterday."

and even when you pray very hard that little office gnomes will come and get your work done for you when you aren't looking, they don't. (bastards!)

so the in-utero karaoke (and an update on how redbull & vodka goes with knitting)(answer: very well!) will have to wait till at least this afternoon.

My Friends Are Way Cooler Than I Am. Still.

so when my amazing friends aren't out defending justice and reporting about it on NPR, they are doing things like being beautiful in commercials.

so in case you are interested in seeing my friend laura be beautiful in commercials (you probably are, seriously), you can click here for a link. play the film. she's the adorable one in the pink sweater, narrating a whole bunch.

see how cool and meaningful and famous people i know are?

yeah. i'll just be going back to drafting my next post on karaoke for the uterous. (yes, you read that correctly. don't ask.)

I Have Hot Fantasies

oh yes, yes i do.

and by "hot" i mean absolutely not hot in any way because even my dreams don't want me to have sex ever again.

last night, i dreamed that i was at a wild party. and while there, got to make out with the celeb on everybody's hot list.

chevy chase.

Do Not Win A Date With Tad Hamilton If You Can In Any Way Avoid It

as my brilliant friend Missy points out, the teen(?) movie Win A Date With Tad Hamilton is quite possibly the worst movie ever made.

so what if you've consumed an entire box of Bandit, and you have no idea which row of the secret knitting project you're supposed to be on, or that it's like, 2 a.m.? the movie still sucks.

consider the quote:

"everybody is too handsome for somebody, pete."

now doesn't boxed wine sound tempting?

The Second To Last Straw

so for all my legions of fans (hi, Dad) wondering what fun, hip, culturally enriching activities i engaged in this weekend, i will tell you.

i drank boxed wine from a straw.

because i know you thought that really i couldn't do much worse than forearm poetry, and then i go and buy boxed wine, and drink it right from the box, with a straw. see how i'm always exceeding your expectations?

but not only did i drink boxed wine with a straw, i took pictures of it because i knew i'd be telling you about it because that is what my life has become. i do stupid things knowing full well i'll be reporting them online to imaginary internet friends. and look forward to doing so.

[aside: you know, i used to tell my boyfriend all my silly goings-on throughout the day. now i tell my blog. you do the math. (KS + AM Blog = my blog is my boyfriend = SPINSTER)]

anyway, the whole boxed-wine episode happened on saturday, when i was rescued from my self-indulgent coffee-shop woe-is-me journal writing by my brilliant friend Missy. she got me and drove me to Ross ("dress for less") to find a proper bag for my yarn. but we were unsuccessful because ross is scary on saturdays and we had to leave because the people in line were too stupid to have to stand behind.

so we then ventured to old navy where i DID find a yarn bag

(complete with sequins because that is the kind of girl i am) and also pants that fit (and a pair of pants i'll have to fit into later) and some cute tops. but i digress.

after expending so much energy in badly lit stores, we eventually needed sustenance (indian food) and refreshments (wine). and so we went to the all-organic co-op grocery store on the idea that if i had to get wine, it should at least be healthy wine. right.

and we were wandering around the store in the direction of the Wine Aisle when the aforementioned brilliant Missy proclaimed, "ohmygod, you HAVE to get boxed wine!" spying the all-new organic boxed wine section of the food store. "you can write about it on your blog!"

"yeah!" i exclaimed, thrilled, wishing i had a digicam on me right then and there...before realizing how sad my enthusiasm really was.

and while in the throes of pre-blogging enthusiasm, Dr.Dan (who is Missy's husband because Missy is of course married because she is brilliant and adorable and loveable unlike me who is buying boxed wine to have something to tell my imaginary internet friends) said, "hey look! they have 'individual' boxes of white! that would be better! you could have a box all to yourself!" implying that i am a lush. which i am but whatever.

and since Dr.Dan when not working on his Ph.D. has been known to clerk at BevMo, one would have to take his wine advice. in this case, he advised that white wine from a box is "probably better" than red wine from a box.

very helpful, Dr.Dan.

so but then i start to worry. "well, but what kind of white wine is it?" i ask. because even in my excitement i realize that picking out wine for its color, size and packaging isn't maybe the best idea. and clearly i have standards.

Dr.Dan inspects it and informs me that it is "Bandit" wine. and then he laughs at me.

"um, but does it say if it's chardonnay? because i won't drink chardonnay," i point out. (aren't you proud of me, Dad? see? no chardonnay!)

"uh...no, it doesn't say. it says it's italian white wine."

a-ha! i think. italian. good thing we had an expert with us. because really, how could i pass up italian ?

then on our way to the checkout, Bandit wine in hand, Missy (in her infinite brilliance), says "look -- the plastic cap just screws off! you could just drink it with a straw like a juice box!!"

yes, yes i could. this is why these are two of my best friends in the world. and how it came to pass that we left the all-organic co-op grocery store with boxed wine and three straws.

(here you see we have just opened the box of wine and posed it for this picture. originally, we wanted to avoid having my hand and a shadow of my hand in the picture, so brilliant missy had the idea of taping a straw to the inside of the cap. but that one slipped and fell in.

which meant that not only was i drinking wine from a box, i was drinking wine from a box that had a stray straw and piece of tape floating in it.)

to summarize, yes. for my First Saturday Night as a fun, hot, hip single chick living in one of the greatest cities in the world with great friends and even new clothes, i stayed inside and knitted while drinking boxed wine from a straw.

the second-to-last straw, to be exact.

is that prophetic or what?

Windows of Opportunity

my office is located on the second floor of a building overlooking the bay. it's got an open floorplan and huge windows.

today, there are window washers. it's a little disconcerting to glance out the window and see men standing there, a storey above the ground.

but it's even more disconcerting (and what does it say about my professional career?) when my CEO suggests, in earnest, that i go buy sodas and offer them to the washers through the window.

(i think it says that, clearly, i'm perceived as the career-minded go-getter we all know i am.)

and then when the CEO realized i didn't take his suggestion, he told me i missed my chance to make some friends.

i just told him i'm waiting for a greater window of opportunity.

(thankyouverymuch.)

Yarn Poo

i will keep this entry brief.

suffice it to say, it has now become necessary to make sure all my yarn is tucked away and not strewn all over my apartment because sherlock --

has taken to eating it.

and yarn is not digestible.

(oof!)

Muni & The Pre-People

it should come as no surprise to any of you that i am not really a savvy muni (that's sf code for "bus" for those of you who don't know) patron. i never had to take muni regularly before last year, and so on the rare occassions i would, i'd tend to get on going in the wrong direction, or get off a stop too late because i wouldn't know where i was.

i wasn't exactly born a "street person" you know?

anyway, i thought i understood muni etiquette pretty well, but realized this morning i still had it all wrong.

because here i've been, thinking that you get up and get dressed and get ready for work and then get on the bus. and by being on the bus, you are actually out in the world, interacting with people in some way.

apparently not.

apparently, being on the bus with others does not count as 'being out in the world.' apparently, you don't actually need to worry about what you're doing or how you look until you arrive at your destination.

before then -- before you get where you are going -- the people riding muni with you are just some sort of pre-people.

and this is why it's perfectly okay to do things like put your makeup on while riding. because where anything more than a touch-up might seem inappropriate in public, on muni with the pre-people full-scale, this-is-what-i-could-have-done-in-my-bathroom makeup applications are perfectly okay. sure, go ahead, PLUCK YOUR EYEBROWS.

and i'll just try and ignore you while listening to my iPod and knitting, like a good pre-person should.

Hi! I'm Sorry I'm Not Funnier!

just wanted to make a quick post for those of you coming from my post on craigslist.

thanks for visiting, and i'm sorry i'm not funnier today (or, uh, in general). my snarky penis comment isn't really my best work.

i hope you'll come back for some actual content (related to weekend adventures with boxed wine and locksmiths) soon.

-k

A Word About Mean Comments

the following was an anonymous comment in response to my rock band post:

Everyone knows you ask the fat girls where the best place to eat is.

isn't that nice? doesn't that just warm your heart? doesn't it make you feel good to know that someone completely unknown to me would take the time to read my blog and offer words of wisdom... in such a way as to ensure to hurt my feelings and annoy other readers?

i suppose i could ignore it, but it's monday and i'm not in the mood. so i have this to say to you, mr. anonymous (and there is no way you're not male): write what you will. i can lose weight, but your dick won't get any bigger.

My Friends Are Way Cooler Than I Am

this should come as no surprise, though.

anyway, one of the coolest chicks i know is the crime reporter for the times picayune in new orleans. despite the fact that i think she really needs to live in san francisco (hint, hint gwen), she seems to be doing okay for herself in NOLA.

here's a link to her live interview on NPR, where she discusses important things like a civil rights judgment against the city's DA.

not, you know, yarn.

Um, And Then A Rock Band Asked Me To Dinner

a girl can use a little ego boosting now and again. obviously.

so on my way home from the gym the other night, i am stopped by three young, attractive men who ask me "do you live around here?"

this in itself is not ego-boosting. i live on the cusp of a frou-frou neighborhood and a near-ghetto...and this was on the ghetto-i-er side of things.

which meant i was tempted to ask, "do i LOOK like i live around here?" all huffy-like, but realized that -- in my cat-hair-covered too-big yoga pants and my fleece jacket with my post-workout droopy makeup and scraggly ponytail PLUS work bag full of work clothes* -- i had no good reason to take offense.

"yes," i said.

turns out they were from out of town and looking for a restaurant someone had recommended that, as far as my neighborhood knowledge was concerned, didn't exist. i listed several other options, and we eventually all agreed that the greek place next to where they were standing was the safest bet.

at which point G (i'd asked his name, it was gustavo) said, "well, what are you doing for dinner, since you've been so helpful?"

"uh, i just came from the gym. i'm sorta thinking about a shower," i said, horrified. i mean, it was super nice of them to (almost) ask me to dinner, but i was totally thrown for a loop. men on the sidewalk don't usually just ask me to dinner. especially not three men. and especially not when i'm in my gym clothes.

"oh, we hear you. well, we're in a band playing at the Red Devil Lounge tonight..."

he went on to explain who they were and what they were about and what time they went on and encouraged me to stop by.

had it not been a tuesday night two days after the break-up (and had i not been completely freaked out by cute boys talking to me while i'm all scary looking), i might have. the band seems cool, and the drummer was really cute:



sigh. i'm a dork.


*and yarn.

You Really Are An Artist

when you know you are not ready to go out and socialize, don't.

PinkJaime and i have a funny little joke that goes, "yes, let's go out for a drink after work...but JUST ONE." and then we laugh uproariously.

but yesterday, after my sad blogging and not wanting to go to our regular spot, i honestly believed that PinkJaime and i could get a single drink across the street before heading home from work.

really.

just one.

um, and then by 9 o'clock, i was in a completely different part of town with a different outfit on.

and by 11 o'clock, i was home in bed realizing i should never drink again.

because martinis know when you are not in a good headspace, and they take advantage of your mind's susceptibility. martinis make you believe things you should not believe. in particular, martinis make you believe:

• changing into 3+ inch heels is a good idea. who cares if we have to walk "a few" (five) blocks? and then hang out (stand) in a bar for a while (indefinitely)? they look GREAT.
  
  
• carousing at an uber-hip and trendy sushi bar is likewise a good idea. it doesn't matter that you're older than everyone there and weigh the same as any two of the half-shirt-clad waitresses put together. the 21-year-old birthday boy standing next to you meant to imply they were unattractive when he proclaimed, "damn they're skinny!"
  
  
• sake bombs are both delicious and entertaining. you should have three.
  
  
• the witty, dancing drunk man is into you. you know this because he said, "god, kristy, you're fun" with great enthusiasm five minutes before leaving with his friend and two anorexic blonds with fake hair/nails/boobs/tans and purses more expensive than your monthly rent. you ARE fun.
  
  
• CALLING YOUR EX IS A GOOD IDEA. after all, it's been four whole days.
  
  
• EMAILING YOUR EX WHEN YOU GET HOME IS ALSO OKAY. because you already called him. so really, what's another email?
  
  
• the best thing to believe, however, when you are drunk and home alone and sad is that you are really, truly an artist. and as such, you should write poetry. to your ex. and since you do not have any paper handy (because it is secretly hiding in a desk drawer where you keep the paper), you should write poetry on yourself. look at your arm; your arm is a blank palette. use it.
  

below: a picture of the incoherent, indelible-ink "poetry" i couldn't completely wash off my forearm this morning.

More &#%@!^) Desk Crying

just when you thought it was safe to joke about firemen, all of a sudden it becomes thursday afternoon. and you realize that usually on thursday afternoons at this time you are happily anticipating the day being over so you can go to your favorite wacky dive bar and hang out with your friends and...meet...up...with...*sniffle*...TheBoy.

because that is your thing.

and that has been your thing every week for months.

on thursdays you go to the bar and you drink and play trivia and chat up the regulars and then he arrives and you eventually have dinner and discuss your plans for the weekend.

but now? now you're in some strange, alternate reality, where even though a mere week ago things were normal, this week you are just desperately sad and wonder if you'll ever even hear from him again.

and you know you cannot go do your thing because the whole time you will be subconsciously aware that you are waiting for him to show up. and when he doesn't, you will then have to go home -- alone -- to your cats and your knitting.

and that suddenly isn't funny anymore.

Why Yes, Cute Fireman, That *IS* My Ass

curves for women is a great place to work out if you are like me. and by that i mean overweight and out of shape and really not okay with the idea of getting on the treadmill next to some 19 year old who weighs 14 pounds and is wearing a sports bra and running shorts and talking on a cell phone that is way cooler than yours.

right. so the way curves works is that they have a circuit, and you go around alternating between cardio stations and hydraulic machines in a set pattern.

sort of like this:

(picture "courtesy" of their website, completely without permission)

except the excessive smiling seen here is total bullshit.

anyway. not featured in the pirated picture is this machine thing that you are going to have to try and envision. you stand on it, and lean forward while some thing supports your chest, and then you lift one foot, and push your foot backwards against a different thing. sort of like... um...this:



okay. now imagine that while you're happily (but not as happily as those bullshit women in the picture) working out, you are suddenly surrounded by three very loud firetrucks.

[if you do not live in a city, you might find this cause to stop what you're doing and find out what the firetruck activity is about. but when you do live in a city, you assume that loud noises -- even those being emitted from firetrucks 15 feet from you -- are not cause for concern unless you are directly instructed that yes, your building is actually on fire and yes, you should probably leave.]

however, despite the fact that not one of the women working out stopped what they were doing to find out if our building was on fire, every one of us was straining to look through the big windows and glass doors to see the firemen. because this is how city-dwelling women are.

and anyway, the woman running the place did eventually saunter outside (muttering, i should add, "he's a cute one") to ask a fireman what was going on, only to discover that some suspicious "cooking fumes" caused the alarm and there was nothing to be concerned about (see?).

but here is the point. the cooking fumes were extinguished and all the firemen left, just in time for me to reach the kick machine illustrated above. and so i did my reps. and then when i was finished, i looked up, and i realized that a SECRET and SILENT truck had pulled up DIRECTLY outside the window that was DIRECTLY behind the machine and so about a half-dozen firemen were parked in such a way as to be DIRECTLY FACING MY ASS.

sort of like this:


i am so proud.

i mean, i sure showed those cute firemen that i, in the face of grave danger and cooking fumes, can still slowly kick backwards 21 times. go me.

But Quirks Are Endearing

this just in from the "Things No One But Me Cares About" newsdesk:

turns out i cannot write marketing copy unless my hair is in a ponytail.

The New Hipster: The Knitster

you know what i do NOT need right now? reality.

because i was thinking this morning about the self-deprecating way i and Purl and a few others have been bandying about the "spinster" term. and then it occurred to me that OHHOLYCRAPWAITASECOND -- "spinster" is probably derived from something to do with yarn, isn't it?

so i look it up (good move, me) and this is what i discover:

spinster
n 1: an elderly unmarried woman [syn: old maid]
2: someone who spins (who twists fibers into threads)
[syn: spinner, thread maker]

which i pretty much had figured out, but never really put together with the fact that "twisting fibers into threads" means making threads FOR TO KNIT. and while we might not be "elderly" i gotta think that back in the days of middle english and spinning tales (rumplestiltskin, anyone?) that "elderly" probably meant "anyone over the age of 26".

and this means that, by very nature of the definition, i actually AM IN EVERY WAY AN ACTUAL SPINSTER and this is really totally NOT OKAY.

*panics*

but then a dear friend, Mr.QA (of the cubit) reminded me that knitting is certainly gaining in popularity among the hip and trendy.

i mean, consider that target is selling knitting kits. celebs are busting out yarn and needles and writing about it. elementary school kids are learning to knit as part of their curriculum.

and when you have amazingly stylish and beautiful LYSes (that's Local Yarn Stores for those of you who aren't hip enough to use knitting-related acronymns) like these to solicit, you (i) have to start thinking that maybe -- just maybe -- yarnbags and catfood aside, i am actually riding a wave of uber-trendiness.

and maybe that not only makes me way better than being a 'spinster,' it makes me even better than being a hipster. i believe it makes me a knitster.

Wine And Scarf Debris

image a:

titled, "further evidence of PinkJaime's impressive-yet-ultimately-fruitless attempts at scarving."

note the end of the yarn that has been snipped (by BitterStacy) because it had been through too much. also note the yarn bag...that has seen better days. finally, note the re-rolled skein of lovely-but-tired green yarn that is not, in any way, a scarf.





image b:

a good time to stop knitting while drinking is when you do not notice that your row has ended and that you are now connecting one end to another.

just trust me on this.

PinkJaime Brings Wine, Can't Knit

ah. so you think that knitting is catching on and soon ALL the cool girls will be doing it.

and you also think surely a girl so cool she is willing to model a CondomHat would likely be the first to crack under the other-cool-girl pressure.

and you would be right. almost.

see, PinkJaime is one cool girl. and she got roped (ha, ha) into coming to the yarn store. and she picked out yarn and needles and got very excited about learning to knit and starting her Very Own Scarf.

unfortunately, the yarn store field trip was on a friday, and since our lunch hour (rounded down) was spent buying yarn not knitting it, we couldn't really give PinkJaime the instruction she needed. we just cast on for her, showed her the knit stitch, and wished her luck.

around 8:30 p.m. on that same friday i received a frantic call.

PJ: ohmygodthankgodyouanswered.

me, at a party: how's it going?

PJ: it's all wrong.

me: what's happening?

PJ: i don't know what i'm doing wrong but i had to take it out. kristy, it was REALLY messed up.

me: that's okay, that happens.

me thinking: because this is how knitting is. it is so great. it teases you with cute scarves and draws you in and then makes your life wretched. you will do everything you can think of and it you will still have 21 stitches instead of 20.

me speaking again: so you are starting from the first row we cast on?

PJ: oh...ah...no...

me: no? you took off the whole thing?

PJ: kristy, i HAD to.

me: erm, okay. but that means you need to get it cast on again.

PJ: yeah, that's why i'm calling. do you think you could explain it to me over the phone...?

and so i spent the next half-hour carefully, creatively, patiently "explaining" how to cast on. without visual aids. and by the end of the conversation, it seemed that it had worked. (for this i get many, many Knitting Points.)

but saturday morning we spoke again, and apparently PinkJaime was not as successful as we'd hoped. she had spent the better part of THREE HOURS and a bottle of wine trying everything she could think of -- even going so far as to try and find internet instructions -- to the effect of producing absolutely zero complete rows.

i told her that maybe we should wait until monday to see what she was doing wrong. she agreed.

that was two weeks ago. since then, PinkJaime has been given instruction by three people of varying degrees of knit-know-how (me = almost none; BitterStacy = budding guru; ShoeHo = expert). she has painstakingly had to start and re-start her precious scarf roughly 47 times.

then last night, the knitting took an exciting turn!

to keep me from falling into a depressive abyss, PinkJaime insisted on coming to my place and watching sex and the city with me and eating take-out with me and because she is awesome bringing wine to drink with me.

and naturally she also brought her yarn. so there we were, two hot single gals, kicking back, drinking wine, knitting. i knitted, she knitted. i drank, she drank. i watched her, she was careful. we made progress.

so it is now, without further delay, that i proudly present to you....

*drum roll*


PinkJaime's Scarf:



(what is currently left of it)

Guess What I Found

now, normally when someone finds something in the bathroom, it's either of a personal nature ("what's that thing?"), a gross nature ("oh look! new mold!"), or both (um, ew).

but it's not like that.

today, as i was getting ready to shower and thus standing naked in front of a mirror, i discovered a waistline.

MINE.

i mean, i knew i had one, but i also know i have a liver (note to liver: sorry about last night) and it's not like i can see that either. but now, thankfully unlike my liver, my waistline has decided to make an actual appearance.

so i would like to take this opportunity to welcome my Waistline back into my life, and encourage it to stick around.

in fact, i hope that with some careful coaxing, my Waistline might gain some confidence and become more outspoken. and maybe if i'm lucky, my Waistline will bring its friends, ThinFace, NoticeableCollarbone and TightAss to the party this summer.

here's hoping.

Rub My Belly!

no, not mine.

his:

this is monster.

he is half of the pair of sweet, loving gray things i get to come home to, and i should be grateful for that. i should also remind myself that i am lucky to be a cat owner, because cats are adorable and sweet and a joy to have in the home.

[uh, nice rug, isn't it? and very expensive. too bad i had to throw it out because of all the secret cat peeing that took place atop it. fucking cats. i swear.]

Bizarre Break-Up Advice

having never quite gone through a break-up like this, i feel a bit out of my league.

and so i have been wondering how normal people handle normal break-ups, and decided to google it.

i was very surprised to discover that many sources found it necessary to remind people to bathe. is bathing really something that becomes optional? at what point? do people really become too depressed to shower?

do these people work?

coworkerA: *sniff, sniff* what's that smell?

coworkerB: oh, that's kristy.

coworkerA: kristy? geez, that's an awfully foul smell for a person. are you sure?

coworkerB: yes, i hear she is going through a breakup.

coworkerA: ohhhh...but didn't she read the internet?

coworkerB: apparently not.

coworkerA: someone should tell HR.

Splitsville, or "How To Not Cry At Your Desk"

i know i haven't really focused my blogging on my relationship other than to reference The Boy as necessary. but since we officially broke up yesterday and i am a complete basketcase, i figured this is as good a place as any to detail my devastation. so i say to you, mystery internet friends who are here for the humor, knitting, and/or weight-loss updates: feel free to ignore these driveling posts.

to the rest of you, i would like to point out that it is not quite 10 a.m. and i have so far burst into tears at my desk three times. i am so professional.

the problem is that nothing i can think of makes me feel better. i do not want to work out. i do not want to think about dating ever again. i do not want to go outside. i do not want to be at work, but i do not want to be alone in my apartment. i also do not want company.

i cannot think of a single thing i want to do other than blog and knit. hopefully, if i can blog enough, i will stay ahead of the crying bouts.

Nevermind About the Cape

Thanks, Purl.

Walk Of Shame?

question:

is it a walk of shame if it's from your pseudo-boyfriend's place?

and does having watched "breakfast at tiffany's" in lieu of sex the night before affect this equation?

moral relativists want to know.

Domestic Goddess-Ness

you know, i'm not so bad in the kitchen. sure, i've cooked dinner for someone other than me* only twice since i've lived in my current apartment (7 months), and sure the second time i set the dish towel on fire, but dinner was good and the fire was small and seriously, i handled it very nonchalantly (thank you, wine).

*dinner for me: indian take-out. but this is not the point.

oh right, my cleaning skills could use a little work. but whose couldn't? my cats don't care if i don't make my bed, and clean dishes are only really necessary if you USE dishes regularly (see above re: indian).

but back to why i'm a domestic goddess.

my apartment, though the size of a shoebox, is adorable. my furniture is cute. i throw good parties (= all my guests get drunk and as far as they can remember had a GREAT time).

most importantly, i can unclog a drain.

i know you think i'm lying, but i'm not. for the first time in my life when faced with a bathroom clog, i didn't have a boy to call. [insert you feeling bad for me here.]

[also note: i do not call my landlords/supers ever ever because i am afraid of them and my dishes are never clean anyway and this embarrasses me when someone i don't know is going to see my sink. also it would mean i'd have to be dressed in non-holey-sweats and have makeup on and it is just too much work.]

so i did the most amazing thing of all. i went to walgreens, and bought some drano-y stuff, and got home and read the directions and followed the directions, and IT WORKED!

this means that i actually fixed a bathroom thing all. by. my. self.

so between the bathroom savvy and my kitchen-fire nonchalant-itude and my knitting, i believe i am on the path to true marthahood.

[all i need now is a logo, a multi-billion-dollar company, and um, sound legal advice.]

The Poncho Project

i am going to make a poncho now.

i am going to use this:


to make something resembling this.

wish me luck.

PinkJaime, The Scarf, & Snarky's Hat

i seem to be having more success knitting than with weight loss or boys, so maybe i'll focus on that for a bit.

here is PinkJaime (so named because she wears a lot of pink and even when she isn't, she is cheery in a pink way), who agreed to model my second scarf and first hat.



the scarf turned out pretty well. it's long and thin and fun and frilly. (obviously.)

the hat is a different story.



yes, it's cute. it's also a gift for my friend, Snarky. above, we see PinkJaime wearing the seam in the front. but the seam is uneven because "seaming" involves "sewing" and no one told me there'd be sewing, either.

additionally, you might notice the Reservoir Tip conveniently poking out from the top of the hat.

i'm sorry, Snarky, but i seem (seam?) to have made you a Condom Hat. happy 30th.

(yes, definitely a condom...)


at least the yarn was way cool. Rowan Plaid:

Dear DudeA

oh. my. god.

in my knitting-blogging-self-promotion frenzy, i did not realize that i'd inadvertently encouraged you to visit my site (or even sent you the link).

and after last night, i certainly didn't think you'd actually read it.

but thank you for doing so, and being complimentary, and taking the high road in emailing me and not, say, calling me any of the wicked names i currently deserve.

please note that i think you are a very cute, funny, sweet guy. i don't know what happened. clearly i exaggerated for effect, where i could have just used your far more eloquent phrase, "more miss than hit."

i'm glad you like the knitting.

-k

What Date? (Read: I Want A Dog)

who was on a date tonight? certainly not me. know why? because dates are fun and cute and flirty and fun. and what i was on (for a grand total of an hour-that-felt-like-three) was something excrutiating and pointless and completely ill-conceived.

i have no idea why, either.

in contrast, here is a picture of a great dog (my sister's):


so while trying to figure out how something so simple (a date) could be so challenging (why?), it hit me: if i had a dog, i could avoid excruitiating, pointless, ill-conceived non-dates because i would have a dog at home...meaning i wouldn't leave the dog -- the most loyal, most charming, most sweetest thing ever -- at home for just some guy. a dog would force me to raise my standards, a la "is DudeA really worth leaving Spot alone for?"

and i am resigned to believing that 9 out of 10 times the answer would be no.

Me, Thin

so here it is. what i look like in my smallest version of myself.

for reference, that skirt is a size 5. i remember it like it were yesterday. (except if it WERE yesterday i wouldn't be waxing reminiscent about it on a blog, i'd be outside prancing around in a size 5 skirt.)

10 years ago:


and before any of you even THINK about lying to me ("you look pretty much the same"), i will have you know i've shown that picture to at least 4 different people who've asked, "who's that?"

Oh No She Di-in't

oh yes, yes she did.

what exactly did she do, you ask?

on sunday night she had the following for dinner:

1. one chocolate-chip cookie (large)
2. one glazed donut
3. 7/8 bottle of white wine

i have not referenced the South Beach Diet book to see if this "meal" is considered "appropriate," but i'm pretty sure i don't need to.

No One Told Me There'd Be Math, Part Two

this morning MyBoss walks in and i immediately throw the directions at her and demand to know what "Next row K1, (k2tog, k6) 6 times, k2tog, k7 -51 sts" means.

and of course, it means what i suspected. except she can't figure out how 1 + (2 + 6)6 + 2 + 7 = 66, either. it is supposed to equal 58, the number of stitches i was supposed to cast on.

that is when we -- two grown, professional, smart, SMART women -- actually have to use calculators to discover, to our surprise, that:

SIX TIMES EIGHT EQUALS 48.

it does not, as we'd concluded several times, equal 56.

one knitting mystery solved. only to be replaced by another. if i cast on 56 instead of 58, how do i make the equation = 2 less?

let me end this post here (for those of you who've made it this far) by saying that i had to consult AN ENGINEER to learn that if you reduce the number you start with by 2, and then you want to reduce the number of stitches in every row, it's quite logical. in fact, according to Mr. QA Engineer, decreasing stitches is just like building pyramids with cubits.

Knit Hat:



Just Like The Pyramids!



obviously.

No One Told Me There'd Be Math, Part One

i am not a little obsessed with knitting these days.

i read knitting blogs now. and buy yarn without projects in mind. and shop for yarn bags. i see stitches in my sleep.

but but but. i am not a good knitter. a genuinely good knitter dives in to several projects and isn't afraid of frogging ("frogging" = "undoing," see what i'm learning?) a single project several times just to get it right. a genuinely good knitter experiments with patterns and tries things out and learns new stitches and has several projects going at once. and a genuinely good knitter sees this:

Next row K1, (k2tog, k6) 6 times, k2tog, k7 -51 sts

and thinks, ah yes.

i see that and have a more natural response. namely, "um."

so there i was, knitting at the laundromat, absolutely paralyzed. i put my knitting down and stared at the directions. up to now, knitting directions looked like this:

knit all rows

hum. so i look and think okay, K1 must mean knit one stitch. probably. and i can do that. but then what the fuck is the next part? um...math...equations...is it like this?

K1, (k2tog, k6) 6 times, k2tog, k7 -51 sts actually means 1 + (2 + 6)6 + 2 + 7 = x

and x = the number of stitches i was supposed to start out with. is that right?

but if i started with 58 then how could 1 + (2 + 6)6 + 2 + 7 = 66? plus, what if i started with 56 instead of 58 (which i did because clearly, i am at a stage where i can alter patterns...)

i had no idea if i was reading the directions properly anyway. maybe "(k2tog, k6) 6 times" means something entirely different since 66 makes no sense at all. 66??

it was at this point in the laundromat that a genuinely good knitter would just plow through and try it and see how it develops.

instead i'm me, so i put the needles away and waited until i could see MyBoss in person and have her explain how to read the directions. and count.

Mashed Potato Boobs

in case any of you were thinking you would like to have a more ample bosom, i was just reminded of a very good reason why you're wrong.

i was on a date with The Boy when we'd not been together long and he took me to a rather nice restaurant.

sidebar: now, it's true that i'm prone to spilling. and big breasts make for a sort of "shelf" that will serve to catch things (like crumbs) that fall into people without abnormally large breasts' laps. but because i know this, and if i am really really careful, i can avoid collecting crumbs or droplets like a pro.

so there i was, trying to be all charming and sophisticated while dutifully minding my fork-from-plate-to-mouth movements.

but. the restaurant was intimate and we were speaking in low tones, which i thought was romantic until The Boy politely pointed to my shirt and i knew before i even looked down that i'd caught something, despite my best efforts.

except i hadn't "caught" so much as "smooshed".

in leaning forward to engage in intimate and meaningful conversation, my boobs had -- totally unbeknownst to me -- jutted into my mashed potatoes.

naturally i was wearing black.

the point is, there are some advantages to having a great rack, but it's almost impossible to manage sophistication when you have a creamy side dish smeared on it.