these days of leiderhosen

Somewhere between therapy and the liquor store yesterday, I lost my knitting bag. It wouldn’t be so bad, except that: the beta urchin hat I’d restarted three times was four rows away from finished The handspun I was using I was rather proud of (and I can’t identify it to get a replacement All of this was on my slick Options #8 I have three meetings today and without something to knit it was going to be bloodbath. So I rush back to retrace my steps like a good second grader and there, hanging from a tree and tied in a bow is my unmolested bag set right out for me to find. I get really get fed up with this particular self-involved state and have said many bad things about it. And yesterday some anonymous someone does something so perfectly decent that I have to eat my words slowly and painfully. As Lazy/Stupid/Godless as I proudly am, I am glad someone else is not. If you’ve got some thanks stuck in your craw that needs to be spit out, now’s the opportunity. We’ll get ...

I think it could be time. You can yammer all ya want about how 10% of Americans are out of work and how lucky/funded I should feel, but I am not feeling self-congratulatory and I sure ain't happy. How I stumbled face-first into a career of stuffing little numbers into boxes is still a mystery, but it started with being someone's Admin with a crap manager screaming into my face for no good reason in a locked stairwell. I wanted out of the trapped place and away from someone whose idea of work was to make other people feel small and to the next office I stalked and demanded that whoever it was in charge give me a shot at whatever it was they were doing. If it was bricklaying, I wanted in. The Steven's right: I'm not here for the work, I'm here to use the spoils of work to practice creativity and make stuff. By "here" I mean HERE : occupying this space in this body at this time. I have found a lot of reasons not be HERE (aside from a loving Ma and antidepre...

Really. Thanks. Mme.

Reading: Trying to finish Patti Smith's memoir. Love it, but I've been distracted by the shiny and wooly. Listening to: Marie Irshad on her brilliant podcast Knitcast . Toes: dark red again. Boring! Ma and I went for a cheap super-deluxe pedicure on our bi-weekly date. The aggressively thorough massage chair got at least third base with me as two very nice sisters rubbed our legs for the best part of an hour. It was the best part of an hour. Despite Ma's intention to have any polish other than orange, the polish she picked ("bronze") did turn out rather sparkly disco orange. I ordered up a pair of painted yellow flowers on her big toes. Her toenails could not be further than her modest personality. I am sure she sits in Mass this morning, slightly disturbed by the flashiness of what's in her shoes. Since payday has come and gone: my indulgences this month A new cologne called Contemplation by Tokyomilk . It smell more of cedarwood, thyme and sparkle than anyt...

Honestly, I have no idea how much more of the new Flaming Liberal Campus Financial System I can take. To make a long story short, For the All Holy Day of Fiscal Year End, I happily put my project house in order. All the numbers were wrapped in pink pre-warmed tissue, snug in their little boxes. This was June 30. On July 1 8 AM, the house was not only on fire but swatted by a tsunami and shivered to the ground by a massive seismic event. The some of numbers were found shivering and soggy in the gutters, others have run off, a few decided to become cowboys and the other 50 million are MIA. No amount of tissue can repair this catastrophic fuckup.