Oh, holy craps.

So, how behind is too behind? I beg of you. Do tell.

I could just pick right up as though it hasn't been weeks since my last post. I could just jump right in. But that wouldn't be right.

I am sorry. The blogging has gotten away from me a bit.

My father is speculating that I've lost interest (not the case). My mother, I think, is still sure I've been up to something (I assure you I haven't). It's just gotten away from me. It happens, and I'm sorry.

While I've been away, two very kind people -- Rani and my beloved Ashley pointed to me as someone who makes their day, and that really means a lot to me. Really. Their kind words and appreciation served to give me a little extra push to get back on the blog horse. So, thank you for that.

As a complete aside (and maybe for some nice comic relief), while walking to my office the other day, I totally fell down. My foot didn't make it all the way onto the curb, and I just went down -- stiff as a board, down like a domino I went. I was wearing such a cute outfit, too -- stockings and heels and everything.

The crazy part about this fall is that I somehow managed to land on my hands in a push-up-style position and barely avoid a face-plant, kind of like that move that gymnasts do in their floor routines where they fall forward on purpose. I'm telling myself it looked really kick-ass and Mission Impossible with my face just missing the concrete sidewalk by an inch. (In reality, however, my shoe went flying into the street and the contents of my purse scattered all across the sidewalk, and I don't think there was anything kick-ass about it.)

The very best part, though? You know I'm a psychologist, right? Well, the very best part was when I was flat on my stomach on the sidewalk, and I heard a very concerned guy say, "Oh my God! Are you alright?", and when I looked up, it was the client I was about to see. Good times. I imagine later with his friends he was all, "Dude, my therapist totally fell flat on her face today right before our session. I went over to make sure she was OK, and then I asked her how her trip was. It was hilarious. She totally looked all Mission Impossible, though, the way she hit the ground. Real athletic, yet graceful. She's a superhero."

What? He prolly said exactly that.

I've missed you. I'll try to be better.

Overheard at lunch today

My wasband and I were out at lunch today, eating delicious food and listening to the conversation behind us. (We both quite enjoy a good eavesdrop. Remind me to tell you the one about motorcycles sometime.) Anyway!

A young white dude was talking really assertively to someone across the table from him. He'd been going on for some time about himself, his career, his future plans, and in the middle of the whole thing, without missing a beat, dude says:

"Look. This is how it is. I am a songwriter-screenwriter-inventor. That's my hyphen."

My wasband and I found this particularly hilarious for about twelve reasons. Most of those reasons were related to his delivery. He said, "That's my hyphen" like everyone's got one. Like it's a given, and that's his.

The rest of the hilarious? He's a songwriter-screenwriter-inventor? Inventor of what?! What could a dude possibly be inventing in Los Angeles? I mean, come on. Really.

He went on to talk about how he needs to have his voice come through in his writing, and how he once had a dream of meeting Alan Menken and now he's having lunch with him next week, and that's how it is, man. He was that guy. (Oh! If you click on that link, the picture of Mr. Menken is SO perfect! So, so precious and so very perfect for this whole scenario! I love the internet so hard.)

Ok. So. Fine. The dude was pretty ridiculous, but he was young-ish, and whatever. It's LA.

Now is the part where I sheepishly admit that the whole "hyphen" idea stuck with us in spite of ourselves. We couldn't help it! We've kind of decided we're gonna require everyone to declare a hyphen from now on. Because everyone's got one!

I went with psychologist-crafter-blogger. We decided my wasband should go with dog lover-curmudgeon-raconteur. (While we both spontaneously said "curmudgeon", the raconteur was my idea, thank you very much.)

Hey! Should I start a "What's your hyphen" meme? No. That would be super lame.

But, you telling me your hyphen? Cool. Very, very cool. What is it?! I must know!

As a complete PS and aside: That dude would be shitting himself if he knew he'd been so promptly blogged. And by "shitting himself" I mean he'd be all, "Yeah. I invented the hyphen. So. ...Yeah."

Stocking up for winter

Oh, it's true. I am currently gathering all the goods I'll need to make it through the long, cold winter here in Los Angeles. The yarn above and the book below are just the beginning of my preparedness kit assembly.

Let me help you out with the funny here: We don't have winter in Los Angeles. Also? I think those yarns together would make a lovely Chevron scarf.

I like living in a fantasy world where seasons change and Chevron scarves get completed. Don't mind me if I just stay here for a bit. I quite like it.

Anything is possible

Wow. I have to say, I am amazed.

This morning at 8:30, my Sidekick was just about to leave for work when the little dogs began their usual business. Yipping. Yapping. Squealing, even. We froze and looked at each other with wide eyes and an anticipation I haven't felt since about Christmas of '76. What was going to happen?

After 10 seconds of the barking, it stopped.

And that was that.

No yelling. No auditioning for Annie Get Your Gun. Just silence. Long, long, peaceful silence.

"Should I yell 'thank you'?" my Sidekick asked me. We smiled with pride and disbelief and decided against it.

I guess I'm more of a cynic than I thought. I really didn't expect that situation would be resolved quite that quickly and effectively. The dogs just stopped barking, and not a peep from Broadway Steve. Not a peep! Propers all around, dudes. Way to take care of business!

This is very exciting, as it makes me wonder what other problems my Sidekick could solve with his powers.

Also? I will be among the 250 LA knitters seeing the Yarn Harlot tomorrow. If you're there and want to say hi, I'll be knitting that blasted Chevron scarf and carrying that bag that Ashley made me.

Now, about those powers...

Excuse me

In the last few months, a new family moved into the condos directly behind our house. The family -- as far as we can tell -- consists of a man and his two (or three) small dogs. We know this because every morning the two (or three) small dogs begin their day with a high-pitched and unrelenting barkfest.

Complete aside: Barkfest reminds me that I used to work with a woman who pronounced breakfast "barkfarst". Bark. Farst. She herself admitted it was ridiculous, but she said she couldn't help it.

Anyway. Let me be clear. I love dogs. Really, really love dogs. I share custody of a small dog who I love more than life itself. But two or three small, very yappy dogs going at it at 7:00 in the morning? Nope. Don't like it. You can't make me.

To make matters worse, like a rooster letting you know the day has begun, the man yells at the dogs.

Marlo! Tommy! Come! Here! Marlo! Tommy! Marlo! Marlo!!

Cock-a-doodle doo, indeed.

To be clear, my Sidekick believes one of the dogs may be named Carlos. I contend the dogs are named after Marlo Thomas, but I suppose there could be a Carlos in there, too. This, along with the intensity of the noise, makes it impossible to know whether there are two or three of them.

So, yesterday morning it was 7:15, and the whole thing starts up. The barking, the yelling. And it wakes my Sidekick and me up. We've been enduring this for months now. I was kind of hoping it would just stop.

My Sidekick, a very well-mannered and smart fellow -- a man of action, if you will -- got up, went to the window, and let out one of those really loud whistles that some people can just make. It's really loud.

And all the noise stopped. Just like that.

Amazed at the power of it, I wondered aloud about what that whistle means to people and how they interpret it. My Sidekick suggested that it places people's attention on what they are doing. I contend it's really startling, but somehow everyone (every man) knows what it means. Am I right, ladies? Whatever. It worked. And I was glad.

And then there was this morning. It was a little better in that it was 8:45, not 7:00, and we were awake and going about our morning already. But still.

Marlo! Tommy! Come! Come!! Marlo! Tommy! Marlo! Marlo!! Tommy! Tommy!!

For the love of God.

I went to my Sidekick and just stared at him. A blank stare. A hopeless stare. A why-oh-why-Lord-must-this-be-so stare.

My Sidekick shook his head, walked over the window, and sat there for about 15 seconds. Listening.

Maaaarlo! Tommyyyyy! Maaaaaaaarlo! Maaaaaaaarlo!!

Oh, it was getting worse. It was now a sing-songy, ready-to-debut-on-Broadway belting out from the diaphragm.

And then my Sidekick responded. Loud and strong, assertive yet polite, genuinely curious with just a splash of judgment:

Excuse me. Do you have to yell at the top of your lungs every morning?

Silence.

No answer. No barking. Just silence.

I was truly impressed with the whole thing. It was perfect.

Now, here's the thing. And tell me if I'm wrong. If I had said such a thing, even forcefully, it wouldn't have had the same effect. I'd be some lady being bitchy. But that brilliant intervention out of a dude's mouth? Well that, my friend, is just the truth. It is to be listened to and heeded. A person will stop to be accountable if a guy is saying something is wrong. If a woman says something is wrong, she's too sensitive.

The good news is, my Sidekick is fully aware of this, and he uses his powers for good, not evil. The other good news is, maybe that dude will take his pair or trio of dogs and figure out a different way to deal.

The best news, here's a picture of my dog. You know, just as a palate cleanser.

You can tell by the look on his face, he doesn't like those little dogs either.

Totally random tip/observation

I just discovered a way to reduce the chance I'll have a meltdown in the dressing room when shopping for clothes (one of my absolute least favorite activities).

(1) When going through the store, select every item I'm considering trying on in two sizes -- a bigger and a usual size, remembering that the size -- like weight -- has nothing to do with anything (not my discipline or my worthiness, etc.).
(2) Once in the dressing room, start with the bigger size of the item I like the best and has the best chance of looking good on me. This was my major discovery. Turns out, it really gets things off on the right foot and has me in a good spot for the rest of it.
(3) Remember that none of it is critical. It's just not.

I got lucky today and started with a kick-ass top that made every other top seem stupid. This allowed me to ask of the other tops, "Why would they make a shirt this shape?" and "What were they thinking?" as opposed to, "Why are my boobs so big?" or "Why am I so short?" The latter two questions? Nothing we can do about those things. The first two? Well, those are things that will change next week.

That's all. Just thought I'd share my random -- but major -- discovery.

Do you have other tips that work for you, or do you like clothes shopping and need not worry with tips?

LA is so weird

I went to one of our outdoor malls today to pick up some necessary items. (I don't like malls, but on weekdays they're a little less oppressive to me.)

And here is my rant about shopping.

I hate it. Really. You'd never know it from how I go on and on about this purchase from Purl and that purchase from my local yarn store. But grown-up shopping? You know, shopping for clothes and housewares and, well, clothes. Not for me.

I get overwhelmed by who I'm giving my money to, what their labor practices are, what the company is doing to/for our culture. I get creeped out by synergy, promotions, and sales. There's always a sense that I've been demographed (not even a word, I'm sure) and profiled so that they know they've got me right where they want me. It's anxiety-provoking at a minimum. Nervous breakdown-inducing at a maximum.

But sometimes a girl's gotta buy new drawers.

In negotiating the tension between trying to be ethical and trying to save my sanity, sometimes I just go with what's easy (See? They've got me right where they want me.). One of those easy things is shopping at a fancy outdoor mall that has a huge fountain, and valet parking, and a mess of corporations in the form of stores. I don't park in valet parking (it's like $20 or some shit). And I try to get in and out as quickly as possible.

I won't bore you with the details of my shopping trip, but I will tell you that one place tried to "give" me a stuffed dog with my underwear purchase. And by "give" I mean spontaneously put it in my bag, tell me it's free, then try to charge me $10 for it. After I told the cashier that I didn't want the dog, she tossed it over her shoulder into a giant bin. A giant bin full of these dogs. I was obviously not the first person who was unable to figure out why someone would need or want a stuffed dog with her underwear purchase.

Anyway, the whole point of my story is that at this mall, if you spend over a certain amount of money, you get a voucher for free parking. This includes valet parking. A $20 value! In order to get the voucher, you must take your receipts to the Concierge (Yup. We've got a concierge at our mall. Suck it, Orange Julius.) who will then tally and stamp them and give you the parking voucher. Today I spent the requisite amount, so I patiently stood in line awaiting my turn.

After the man who needed to cash some traveler's checks was finished, I stepped up to the counter.

Concierge: Good afternoon. Could I have your phone number, please?
Me: [phone number]
Concierge [types into computer]: Are you still at [work address]?
My inside voice: They're demographing me right now.
My outside voice: Yes.
Concierge: OK. [stamps my receipts with fancy mall logo] Here you are, Dr. B.. Your receipts, your parking, and your free Hairspray soundtrack. Have a great day.

Ha HA! You know what goes perfectly with a parking voucher? A Hairspray soundtrack. Unexpected. Unsolicited. Unrelated to anything having to do with anything.

The marketing dude who came up with doggies for undies was obviously on a roll. Valets and musicals! What will he think of next?

Our trip to the so-called craft store

My PIC and I went to the big, corporate craft store in her part of town yesterday. Oh, the adventures!

We were standing in line to buy our items, and I picked up a package of big star-shaped sequins that was in the clearance bin, just to see what the hell they were supposed to be for.

LADY: Those are really pointed.

All of a sudden the lady behind me was talking to me.

ME: Oh?
LADY: Yeah, I bought them once, and I thought I could wear them, like as a bracelet or something, but then I put it on and "ow!" So I tried it in my hair, and it just was terrible. Don't buy those.
LADY: Oh, ok. (I put them back in the bin.)

LADY: I'm making a costume for Cinco de Mayo.

About in her early sixties and quite tall, she stood there smiling and wrapping some ribbon back around its spool. She was very cheerful.

LADY: It's going to be white and red and green. The colors of the Mexican flag. I'm Mexican. At my church, they're having a thing, and my friend said, "I'm going to be working in the kitchen." And I said, "Why?" And she said, "Because they're having Mexican food, and I'm Mexican." So I said, "I'll work in the kitchen, too! I'm Mexican!" I love to tell people I'm Mexican. One time, I was in Miami, and I was on a tour, and the guy on the bus was telling us all about Miami, how they have all kinds of Latinos there. He said "We have Nicaraguans, Puerto Ricans, Cubans. Not like in Texas. In Texas, they have Mexicans."

She leaned forward and squinted her eyes when she said that last part. You know, for emphasis.

LADY: So I said really excited, "Oh! I'm Mexican!" And I raised my hand up like this! And then he shut up. Because he'd said Mexican like that. Mexicans. He knew what he did.
ME and PIC: Wow!
LADY: Yeah, another time, I was on a tour bus and I didn't even tip the guy because...

She went on and regaled us with about three more stories about her run-ins with racism, never losing her very cheery tone. She made sure to tell us that she always spoke up about it.

LADY: Yeah, that's me. I'm outspoken. Not like my cousin. She's real passive. You know, a pacifist. But not me! I always have to say something.
ME and PIC: That's great!

By this point, my PIC and I were up to the register and had to turn away from her to pay for our things, and the lady seamlessly, I mean with the grace of a ballerina, turned to the guy behind her and continued on.

LADY: You know, one time I was at a church function, and I saw these ribbons, and I thought I could make those, but I didn't know if I had the time, because I was going on a trip.

Spreading the gospel, this lady. The gospel of speaking up, in a cheery tone, when people are being tools.

How great is that?

Next up

I wanna make these Dashing mitts from the new issue of Knitty. They're the longer, better, no-frills version of Fetching:


Oh! When I went to get yarn for the new mitts, Yeardley Smith was at the knitting store. You'd never know by looking at her that she could buy and sell all of us in the blink of an eye. She seemed perfectly nice. I was so busy being calm and unflapped at seeing her that I forgot to buy the needles I needed for said mitts. So calm, me.

Also, sorry it's been so long since I last posted. I'm not quite sure what happened there. I was probably loving too much, or foolishly thinking he was into me, or messing up the rules. Oh, wait. No. That's not right. Those are the things self-help books want me to think I'm doing. Instead, I think I was actually out in the world, working.

So sorry to have neglected you.

Getting into and out of the groove: Part III

Los Angeles is a city. Right? You'd call it a city. However, the parts that make up Los Angeles are also called cities, rendering the word "city" kind of meaningless.

Where do you live?
Los Angeles.
Oh, really? Where?
Palms.

I've never fully understood how that works exactly. It's kind of like ordering a carbonated beverage in Texas.

What would you like to drink?
I'll have a coke.
What kind? We have Sprite, Dr. Pepper, root beer, Coke.
(If you're a local) I'll have a Dr. Pepper.
(If you're not) Um. I'll have a Coke.

Or like "sizes" on women's clothing. Why even bother with a number when a size 8 at one store is a 12 at another? "Size"? A meaningless word.

Anway, when I say NWAI and I zipped across town for B-SNAK's birthday, we were going from one city in Los Angeles to another city in Los Angeles. Not a big deal. We do it all the time.

According to Yahoo maps, the distance from my house to B-SNAK's is a mere 8.3 miles, and the approximate travel time by car is 17 minutes. Makes sense. We're just zipping across town. Sure. Ok.

The trip to her place in the morning was lovely. NWAI and I stopped for cupcakes on the way, had a lovely discussion about the complexities of admiring Justin Timberlake (Dick in a Box is an undeniable work of genius), and we got across town plenty quick. It was, I don't know, maybe 20 or 25 minutes.

So you can imagine we were quite stunned when the return trip -- same exact route -- took one hour and forty-five minutes to complete. Wait. Let me put that another way. In the time we could've watched a feature-length Hollywood film, we travelled 8 miles by car. Eight. Miles.

We left B-SNAK's at at 5:30 pm, and pulled up to my place at 7:15 pm. In the time it took us to travel about 4 blocks, we watched the sun set.

5:34 - around the corner from B-SNAK's

NWAI: Wow! This is kind of bad.
Me: Huh. Yeah. Well, it is rush hour.
NWAI: Good thing we have the 2007 Grammy nominees CD!
Me: Awesome!

We laugh. We dance. We talk about how great stamping together is.

5:45 - we've travelled 2 blocks

Me: Hmm. This is pretty bad.
NWAI: Yeah. It is.
Me: My sidekick made reservations for us for 8:00 for a late Valentine's Day dinner. I'm sure we'll be fine.
NWAI: Oh, you'll be totally fine.

We sing along to Sexy Back. We laugh some more. We talk about Valentine's Day.

5:50 - not moving at all in traffic

Me: Oh, shit. I think I was supposed to get him a present.
NWAI: Uh oh.
Me: Shit.
NWAI: We can stop somewhere.
Me: No. That's silly. It'll be fine.
NWAI: We can totally stop.
We both find this hilarious, as we are already completely stopped.

For the next 5 blocks or so -- let's say the next 30 minutes -- we joke about my hopping out of the car and running into one of the shops on the street to buy him a gift.

NWAI: He'd love some bubble wrap and boxes for shipping.
Me: Nothing says love like hardware and wiring.
NWAI: If you bought him an insurance policy, he'd really know you care.
Me: Check it out. It's a sex store!
NWAI: We can totally stop.
We find this hilarious again, because we are still, for all intents and purposes, stopped.

It went on like this for a while, until finally I mustered the courage to call my sidekick and sheepishly ask if I was supposed to have gotten a present. My sidekick is awesome. He not only said there were no presents required, but he also offered to move the reservation if it would help.

I think it was around this time that the punchiness set in. That's the only thing I can figure happened. Because next thing I know, NWAI has turned up the music, is looking at me with the most hilarious look I ever saw, and is singing along with (Grammy-nominated) My Humps. This. Is. A. New. Low. This is hands-down the worst song I've ever heard in my life, and she's singing along, knowing it's horrible, and smiling from ear to ear. This song is to music what our car ride is to commuting. The worst of the worst.

The good news? We've now got a new standard.

How was your drive?
It was pretty bad.
Was it My Humps bad?
Well, no. Now that you mention it, I guess it could've been worse.

Thank God for carpooling. And the bus lane. (Oh! Is this the bus lane? No wonder we raced past all those other cars. Sorry.)

Los Angeles: A city of cities, where you can drive 8 miles in 2 hours and decide that there's an upside to My Humps. God bless it.

The Dust Gatherer

Sidekick: You're never gonna finish Quiltie.
Me: What are you talking about?
Sidekick: You haven't even touched Quiltie in months.
Me: I've been finishing Christmas presents.
Sidekick: Yeah. Ok.
Me: What! It's February! I have to finish my Christmas presents.
Sidekick: Poor Quiltie.
Me: Dude. Christmas. Do you know it? It's in December.
Sidekick: Poor, poor Quiltie.
Me: (resigned) Yes, honey. Poor Quiltie.

I begrudgingly admit I may've mismanaged the Los Angeles cold snap, not grabbing big ole Quiltie, the queen-sized quilt, and working on it while the weather was right for it. My Sidekick is absolutely right.

There are some perfectly good reasons for this, and I'd like to start with the main one. But to be most effective, this will require some participation on your part. Is that OK? Ok. Do me a favor. Snap your fingers. Just one snap is fine. How long was that noise you made? Really? Well, that was how long it was cold in LA. Cold. SNAP. I don't care what anyone else tells you. That's why they call it a "snap".

Second, and also within reason, I've been finishing all those delicious Christmas gifts, including the belle of the ball -- the heating pad cover.

All six velcro pieces and the little label have been sewn on, and it's off to my beloved SIL tomorrow. I decided to leave the applique adventure for another time. With all your tips and encouragement, this will likely be sooner rather than later. Thank you to everyone who chimed in to help with the decision-making and support!

Also, at my mom's work, "climate control" apparently means "make it bone-chillingly cold." So, once the second Fetching mitt has a thumb, the pair will be off to her straight away. (If only my mom were making a queen-sized quilt! Curses!)

Still to complete: a dark grey pair of socks, a pair of grey socks with bullying tendencies, one lone sock to complete a pair, and that god-forsaken Star Wars hat. It'll be 80 degrees this weekend, and there'll be a football game on. Perfect for knitting all those things.

Hang in there, Quiltie. Someone needs to gather all that dust. It might as well be you, little fella.

Hours of LA-style, nonsense-based entertainment

Yesterday, my wasband and I went to lunch, like we do every Friday.

Who cares?!

Well. We went to lunch at a place where we've sometimes seen random famous people. It's not a fancy place or anything. It's just food, for crying out loud. But we've seen "news anchor" Anderson Cooper (who is short), Curb Your Enthusiasm's Cheryl Hines (tiny), Macaulay Culkin (shorter and tinier than anyone ever), and others. It's never really that big of a deal. Really.

Yesterday, however, Matthew Perry - star of the very popular situation comedy Friends and the not-so-popular hour-long television program Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip - was having lunch there too. Huh! Looky there! It's Matthew Perry. A good actor. A rich man. A guy just having some lunch like all the rest of us.

But seeing him there in person got me wondering in a new way about just how wealthy that guy is. I also wondered what it would be like to be in a relationship with someone that rich. My wasband speculated that you'd never know where you stood with that guy. "You'd always be asking him, 'So, what's going on with us?'" he said. I thought this was a strong point. My wasband is a genius.

Anyway, I got stuck on this idea of wealth and not understanding just how rich people in the entertainment business are. And I started wondering about relative wealth, as in:

"Who do you think is richer - Matthew Perry or Ted Danson?"

"Matthew Perry."

"But Ted Danson was the highest paid actor on television for a long time, and that show Cheers was in syndication forever."

"Yeah, but Ted Danson is old school. That was back in the day. It was different then. All the Friends were making a million dollars an episode there at the end."

"Good point. So, Matthew Perry or Jennifer Aniston? Aniston's got the movie career plus Friends."

"Mmm. Yes. Jennifer Aniston. She also kept herself in the papers for quite a while, what with the Brad Pitt thing."

"Right. So, Matthew Perry or Lisa Kudrow?"

It went on like this for a little bit, but then it just became who's richer - this TV star or this other TV star. (TV is where the big money is, people.)

We factored in whether someone was a producer of their show, if it ran in syndication, if they also had a movie career. (If you're a producer/writer or an actor, chances are you're still getting paid if your show is still alive somewhere.) It included speculation about Mark Harmon vs. the guy from Walker, Texas Ranger (also, strangely, the highest paid actor on TV at some point), Jerry Seinfeld vs. Larry David, George Clooney vs. Jerry Seinfeld.

I think we ultimately decided Jerry Seinfeld had to be the richest guy there is. I'm sure we're dead wrong, but we didn't do a real thorough-going analysis. And I'm sure there's an actual list somewhere like in some Entertainment Weekly-style publication that ranks these people. And I'm sure some of you could reach out with your left hand and grab that information.

But I just thought I'd share my celebrity sighting and our subsequent musings. Feel free to play my fancy "who's richer" game at home. Do it with your friends! It's a blast. It will provide you with plenty of entertainment while you're, I don't know, waiting in line to buy a Nintendo Wii or some such ridiculous thing.

Ladies and gentleman, I am a geek of massive proportions. That is all.

Edited to add: I've now added links to information about said "stars" or "shows". Enjoy!

Vote.

As I walk to my polling place each election, I always have this kind of amazing experience. A kind of profound, almost indescribable gratitude always comes over me on that walk. With each step, I feel a tremendous sense of gratitude for the people who came before me who who fought long and hard for me to be able to vote.
As a woman and as a member of a marginalized ethnic group, I am someone who has directly benefitted from thousands of people's unrelenting courage and work to make it possible for me to vote. I've been "allowed" access only because there were people who fought back against bigger forces to make it happen. They didn't have to do that. But they did. And I am forever indebted to them.

Flawed as our system may be (and it is flawed, let's not kid ourselves here), we're still on the side where the amount of time we (women, people of color) have been able to vote pales in comparison to the time that we were denied that right. And, frankly, since some people are still being denied in some form or another, I guess we really can't even start the clock. We're just not really out of the woods here with the parity, folks.

For those of you who are in places where voting is happening today, please go do it. People really stuck their necks out there. Let's do them proud.

I thank you.

Edited to add: Take your photo ID with you to vote, regardless of whether or not it's a requirement in your state. I just saw that there is evidence that people are being denied without it, even where it is not required. Sheesh.

Quiltie, Quiltie, Quiltie

I just don't know what to tell you. It's been so very warm here, Quiltie. This makes it virtually impossible to attend to you. Do I have to continue wadding you so? No. No, I don't. For that, I sincerely apologize. Yes, yes, my apologies mean nothing to you. Of course they don't. Time and time again I've wadded you up and ignored you.

You do get the best seat in the house, though. So, you've got that going for you. What?! You do!

All I can say, Quiltie, is that someday the streets of Los Angeles will not be so clogged with cars, and the sky will not be so thick with smog, and it will be cold again. And then, sweet Quiltie, I assure you that I shall place my loving hands on you and continue the lovely hand-quilting we both enjoy.

(I can't tell you how rageful this quilt is right now. I mean, really. Seething, scary quilt rage. I've placed the photographic evidence above so that if I turn up missing, you'll have a photo of angry Quiltie to pass on to the authorities. I thank you.)

These are the people in my neighborhood

It's times like this, I wish I could draw.

I just went out to redeem my coupon for a free coffee at my local corporate coffeeshop (coupon!), and my neighborhood was teeming with all kinds of amazing (read: shocking) people. At 3:00 on a Wednesday afternoon! I'll stick to the highlights and refer you to a prior post about my love of the overheard/seen.

A woman in line was wearing the most eye make-up I've ever seen on someone who wasn't about to take a curtain call. She was also wearing a necklace that had a big, puffy heart/locket thing that was covered in diamonds. But when I say covered, I mean CUH-UHVERED. I think when it caught my eye, I actually said "wow" out loud, only I stopped myself at "Wuh" because I didn't want to be rude.

A sheriff in uniform asked me if I was in line, and then muttered something about not being able to figure out which way the line was going. And that made me nervous. Because he's an enforcement official on duty, and he couldn't figure out how to get in line. (Trust me when I wrinkle my nose and say to you, it wasn't a vague situation.)

There was a man sitting at a table, and it looked like he'd finished his hot beverage some time ago. He was slowly reviewing the contents of his wallet, but I think he really wanted to be checking people out. I don't know if it was the eye job or the hair plugs that he'd recently gotten (or neither), but he was moving quite slowly.

MAN UNDERGOING WALLET REVIEW (inside voice): Let's see here... valet parking stub. Yes. (Slowly moves it to the back of the stack.) Another parking stub. Right. (Back of the stack.) Hm. What's this? (Slowly unfolds piece of paper. Looks closely.) Prescription. Hmm. (Reads.) Yes. Yes. Well. (Folds. Moves to back of stack. Looks up without moving his head.) Who is that? (Moves eyeballs left.) And what is he doing here? (Absent-mindedly and without looking moves the next item to the back of the stack.) Parking stub. Yes. Hm, another prescription?

I looked away at this point. How many stubs and prescriptions can one fellow have, for crying out loud? Seriously. He freaked me out.

Across from him was a skinny blonde dude who had his laptop open, and he was reading something on it while cutting an apple with a knife. Like a kitchen knife. Like a knife he'd brought with him from home to cut his apple into little wedges one at a time. I had to look away from this almost immediately for about twelve thousand reasons. I must've not gotten full-on scared because there was a sheriff right there, but I think I forgot it was a man who didn't know how getting in line works.

There was a guy with face tattoos, and the bank manager Steve and his frosted tips, and the little dog wearing a sweater who was tied up outside and craning his little neck to see his owner (Awwwww!). But, the capper was, as I was walking home, I saw a woman walking into the gym whose workout pants were so low on her hips, not only did I feel like a prude and all embarrassed just looking at her, but I also felt like I had to add her to my list of people I've had intimate relations with. I saw that much. Dear Diary, today I saw a lady's special parts. And I didn't even mean to. Love, Dr. B.

Sing along, everyone: Sooooo, those are the people in my neighborhood. The people that I meet. Each. Day!

Not sure I thought this through

As I've mentioned, sometimes I'm a little slow on the uptake. Not dim or thoughtless. Just a little slow.

When my sidekick and I went to San Francisco recently, people were wearing all these incredibly cool knitted items -- great wraps and shawls and sweaters and scarves. There may've even been some super-cool fingerless gloves in there. So cute and cozy! So functional! I was all, "I love knitting!" And they were all, "Yeah! We come up with some great patterns and yarns here, and we look so cute wearing them all the time!" And I was all, "Woo hoo! Knitting!"

It was on that trip that it became painfully obvious to me that I live in a warm place. More specifically, I live in a place where knitting delicious items just may well be ill-advised, since It. Is. Not. Cold. Here.

Not. Cold. As in, it was 83^oF today (28^oC). It's the end of October, people! Aren't we supposed to be cozying up with a warm beverage, watching football, and wearing DELICIOUS KNITTED ITEMS? This afternoon, I turned the air conditioner on, poured myself a cold coke, and watched the football game. NUH Uh. Not. Cold.

In San Francisco, it's cold and blustery, so they need something like big, chunky scarves because it's cold, and they need to stay warm. Here? I don't know what we're doing here. In LA, big scarves are just preposterous. Like Hummers. Or Ugg boots. Or trucker hats. They might be necessary somewhere. But not here. Seriously. Just tell me: what it is about going out to dinner that requires that you drive a military vehicle there? Why are you wearing big snow boots with your miniskirt? The trucker hat trend is technically finished here in LA, thank god, because even truckers don't need those things.

I had a similar revelation about cosmetic products some years ago now. I grew up in Texas where make-up is mandatory. Not optional. MAN-datory. It wasn't until I left there and took a hard look at the whole thing that I realized that not everyone needs every product that's made. Just because they make really dark lip-liner doesn't mean you need it. (You don't all need it, people!)

So, I didn't really think the knitting through, and it just may be that my knitting for others is not an indication that I'm particularly generous. It may simply be that I picked a hobby that's incompatible with my climate. That's all. Sad.

Here's a close-up of one of those scarves I was talking about:


You're gonna have to trust me on this one, but both its big-ness and chunkiness make it a preposterous item for So Cal wear.

I will say that I have this small, fuzzy scarf that I do wear a lot when it gets a little cooler. It's small and kind of like a little Cookie Monster (if Cookie Monster were shaped like a scarf).




That reminds me...I went to college with the son of one of the guys who used to write for Sesame Street. We called the guy Bozo Raposo, because his last name was Raposo. And Bozo rhymed with Raposo. 'Cuz we were clever like that.

Mmmm. College. It was cold back there. So very knitted-items-required cold.

These flowers think they're so great.

Look at them!

My Sidekick and his parents and I were all at The Getty today, and while I was taking these pictures, the flowers were all, "Yeah. We're stunning. So what? Jealous? Of course you are. Sorry that when you stand next to us you become hideously ugly. And unpopular. Face it," they said, "You're just not ever going to measure up to our standard of beauty. We were just born this way, and you weren't. End of story. Deal with it."

And then they all got together and made plans to go to Koi. Because I think they're snobs. (But, I could be wrong about that. They might just like really expensive sushi.)

Because ninety-three hobbies is exactly one hobby too few

My partner-in-crime and I took a Freeform Embroidery class at the Stitch Cafe's new Artisan Studio yesterday.

We learned a lot, and we remembered some things. Mostly, we remembered that we really shouldn't be in "formal" situations together. I think you might agree.

(Disclaimer: The following will be annoying to anyone who knows the history of embroidery, or different styles of embroidery. It might, however, appeal to those with pervy minds. To the former I apologize, and to the latter, I humbly submit the following.)

The instructor started the class by reviewing materials, resources, and the many different kinds of embroidery techniques. When she said "a Brazilian" the first time, we had a little chuckle. Ha ha, a Brazilian. She went on to say "Brazilian" about a brazillion times, and we continued to be pleased and amused.

Imagine our delight, then, when the instructor said, "With the Brazilian, you really need a needle with a (some size) head." Ha HA! Don't ask us what size head is appropriate for the Brazilian, because we were so pleased that she'd used Brazilian and head in the same sentence that we stopped listening altogether and almost peed our pants!

(For those not familiar, a Brazilian is a kind of bikini wax where all the hair - ALL the hair - is removed. Brazilian! And "head"? Well, I'll leave that one up to you.)

So, it's like we're twelve. Only we're doctors. And in reality, we weren't peeing our pants, we were just kicking each other under the table.

Anyway, here's where I am so far on my cute little sampler. The pattern in the fabric is a little more subtle in person.


We learned the backstitch, fishbone stitch, French knot, and the Brazilian bullion and cast-on stitches. We also learned to make silk ribbon flowers.


Purty.

I'd like to make a commitment here, though, not to get all caught up in crazy quilting, where you make a quilt and then embellish it with embroidery and what not. Because while 93 hobbies is one too few, 95 is downright pathological.

None of my beeswax

Having read my fair share of blogs over the last few years, I've been ever-so pleased with the "Overheard" genre of blog entries.

Content of "Overheard"- style entry: Bits of dialogue or something you shouldn't have been privy to.
Why it's good: Usually a very brief bit, the content is often out of context.
Result: Leaves the listener/reader/eavesdropper in the delightful position of filling in the rest of the story.
Personal impact: It's fun to make things up about other people's lives! And sometimes, if you're lucky, you learn a little something along the way.

So this wasn't overheard really. It was just something I had no business seeing.

This morning. At the car wash. Sitting, waiting for my car, minding my own biznizz.

Young, trendy-looking woman in long, flowing skirt and high heels sits down across the way. She looks over at her fancy convertible. I look over at my car. I look back in her direction.

In the brief moment that I'd looked away, right there in front of god and everyone, the woman had pulled her long, flowing skirt up to about mid-thigh, and she was putting some kind of medicated cream on about six giant gashes on her knees and legs. Gashes! Giant. Gashes. When her skirt was down, it was all good. Skirt up? Quite unpleasant!

Were those dog bites? Did she take a spill on some rocks on her hike yesterday? Had she invented some kind of knee-hugging machine only to discover the prototype had a fatal flaw? What the...?

Puts skirt down. Crosses legs. Puts cream away. Looks around. Pulls skirt up. Inspects gashes closely. Taps them a little. Leaves skirt up to let gashes breathe. Puts skirt down. Stands up. Makes a cell phone call. Thinks about gashes.

Conclusion: I should start a list of all the things I can do while waiting at the car wash. And! I should invent the world's greatest knee-hugging machine.