Hooray! Boo!

Hooray! I'm closing on the house on Monday!

Boo! My landlord just informed me that my lease runs through the end of March; I was positive it ended at the end of February, as I moved in at the beginning of February six years ago. So unless I can find someone to sublet, I am going to be paying rent AND a mortgage for longer than I'd expected! Isn't that effing SUPER?

Someday--SOMEDAY--I will not feel the need to utter the Charlie Brown-like phrase, "I can't win."

The Dude Abides

I had no idea there was a new Jeff Bridges movie coming out until I saw a review of it on Salon this morning. I love him so much! And he looks sort of like Kris Kristofferson in this movie, which means I’m going to love him even more. Dreamy! Because this is my taste in men: Hairy Jeff Bridges, Kris Kristofferson, Sam Elliott. Sigh. Don’t get me wrong—Cary Grant is dashing and debonair and dreamy, as is his modern-day counterpart George Clooney—but the men I’ve been attracted to since I was a little girl are the ones who are scruffy and a little dirty. I like facial hair, long hair, hairy chests, soft jeans, worn boots, beat-up hands, and the smells of tobacco and whisky or beer.

The Grant/Clooney men are gorgeous and charming, but seem like they’d need women who regularly wear heels and make-up; they seem like being with them would be so much work. The scruffy men, though, are the ones who want women that don’t mind having messy hair or broken nails. The scruffy men are the ones you can relax with, and I’m all about being relaxed.





You know what I'd like for Christmas? I'd like one of these guys to pick me up in an enormous old pick-up with faded paint and the Allman Brothers on the stereo, and then drive me off to his cabin in the mountains to spend a weekend in front of the fire.

Lost Weekend

No, I didn’t get tanked and wake up wearing snow shoes in Tahiti with no idea how or why. That’d make for a pretty good blog entry though, wouldn’t it? Instead, I found myself lost without the constant, comforting voice of Davina Porter reading to me on my iPod. I’ve grown so used to listening to her read the Outlander books that I found I honestly couldn’t settle into a task without her. I tried listening to music, and then to Mike Birbiglia’s first comedy album, but nothing worked. I ended up reading while I walked on my treadmill (Margaret Drabble’s The Millstone, which is interesting but not quite as engrossing as I’d like it to be), and then it got so bad that I nearly downloaded the book I’m waiting for—the 4th one in the series, which I’d ordered ahead of time from the library but had to REORDER because I’d accidentally requested the ABRIDGED version, and WHY DO THEY EVEM MAKE THOSE? Anyway, I didn’t buy the audio book because it’s like $70. Granted, it’s 900 CDs, but still.

So! I was lost this weekend. Knitting was all wrong. I couldn’t clean or bake properly. Trips in the car were silent, because I WANTED MY STORY, and nothing else would do. The library is telling me it’s in transit, and I’m so glad! I have WORK to do!

In a positive development, though, the library’s lag time gave me another opportunity to recognize that my son is awesome. He was playing Assassin's Creed 2 last night, and the main character had to take part in a series of contests to win a golden mask (the game takes place in Renaissance Italy, and is essentially just like the early games in the Harry Potter series—tasks, puzzles, quests, and achievements all serving the narrative arc of the game’s story—only this story involves a character who travels back in time to try and kill various bad guys in an attempt to end a war that’s going on in the present). The Boy was playing and I was trying to knit while getting sucked into his story, since I couldn’t have my own, when he realized that women weren't taking part in the competition for the mask. He said, "What? Women aren't allowed to play?" I said, "OF COURSE NOT! THE WIMMINZ CAN'T DO ANYTHING," and without missing a beat he said, "Except look pretty and have babies." I high-fived him. He understands sarcasm and sexism, and . . . I've obviously done my job. Motherhood Mission accomplished.

Remember Me?

I have no excuse for not posting, other than not wanting to bore myself with my own musings. I do have a few updates, though:

You may have noticed that it’s December. December! The Boy will be turning 13 in two weeks, a fact which I find somewhat confusing: How can he be aging when I most certainly am not? I don’t quite get it. However this crazy Space/Time Continuum thing works, The Boy will be celebrating his birthday by joining seven other boys, his uncle, and his godfather for three rousing hours of shooting each other with small balls of paint. C and I will watch and take pictures, but we’re not playing. He doesn’t like to get dirty, and I don’t want to A.) be the only girl and B.) be the only MOM LADY involved.

We don’t usually have a real party for the kid’s birthday, usually opting for some kind of fun outing with a friend or two and then a sleep over, but we thought 13 was a big deal. It’s no bar mitzvah, but it’s a way to let him know that we appreciate that he’s growing up. Or something like that.

What else? Christmas is coming, and I am neither baking nor decorating because I don’t know where I’ll be living come December 25. Because I STILL don’t have a closing date for the stupid house. I am dealing with a large bank, one that has existed in this community for a very long time, and I cannot figure out for the LIFE of me why they are so inept. I mean, they seem to keep forgetting about things they need me to sign or fill out, and are sending things to me in dribs and drabs. The woman I’m working with JUST TODAY sent me the form asking me to list the addresses I’ve lived at for the past three years. Um, shouldn’t they have taken care of that one right off the bat? And don’t they already KNOW that, since they know every other freaking thing about me, including my shoe size, my mother’s maiden name, the name of my high school mascot, my favorite smells, and the name of the first album I purchased on CD?

I am so tired of this whole stupid process. I wish I could go to sleep and have the house elves wake me when they’ve finished packing and moving.

I’ve been having all of the Christmas gifts I’ve bought online mailed to my office, because who knows when I’ll move and when they’ll actually show up? At least I have that part of the situation under control. The shopping, that is. I think I pretty much have everyone taken care of, from The Boy down to the family grab bag—I’ve been shopping since August or so, and I’m very, very glad about it. Obnoxiously so, even. I just have to make sure I stay away from stores now, so I don’t end up buying anything else, thus spending more money than I had planned to and wrecking my whole carefully constructed Christmas budget. Thanks to C’s OCD, I keep a spreadsheet of Christmas expenditures, complete with pie charts—I’d be ashamed of myself if I wantonly spent too much and screwed up my precious charts!

Besides, I have to save the money I have left for things like movers. Not that I can arrange for movers without a closing date.

See why I haven’t written? I’m stuck in this loop . . .

Spinning My Wheels

The people I’m trying to buy the house from are jerks, and I’m really starting to hate them. I still don’t have a closing date, and it’s their fault. Stupid out-out-state trustees, going on their stupid vacations, stalling around while I hang out in stupid suspended animation! I can’t pack, because what happens if the deal falls through and I’ve got a houseful of packed boxes? Ugh. So I’m collecting a store of empty boxes, and cleaning out closets and drawers and getting ready to be able to pack. Pre-packing. And, you know, waiting. I keep getting to the point where I want to tell the sellers to cram the house up their indolent asses, but then I remember that I’ve already paid for the appraisal, the home inspection, and the “hand money,” and I decide I’m in too deep to do anything but wait it out. Bah.

In the meantime, I’m knitting and listening to the third audio book in the Outlander series, Voyager. I think it has to speak well for Gabaldon’s characters that I still care about them after more than sixty CDs, right? Thank God for the library, though, because who could afford to put the money into the CDs for the entire series? Yikes.

What am I knitting? Gifts, mostly. I think that since I last posted I’ve done my nephew’s Pitt scarf (Potter-fashion, but blue and gold), a pair of Mary Jane-style slippers for my cousin’s 24th birthday, and a pair of bootie-like (bootie, heh) slippers for The Boy. I’m using the leftover yarn from his big school scarf for those, and he requested that one slipper be purple and one gold. Whatever, weirdo. I’ve knit a tube scarf that’s like a Mobius Strip, which looked nice in the picture, but which I think I hate. I got the pattern and yarn from the Lion Brand site, and I like the yarn, but the scarf makes me look like I’m trying to squeeze my head off. Sigh. At least it was a fast knit, right?

I’m waiting for a slew of books to come in from the library, and I’m also waiting for The Children’s Book to come in from Amazon. Thanks to one of BableBabe’s posts, I ended my budget-induced (see: Buying a House) moratorium on book buying and ordered that and Margaret Drabble’s The Millstone. Drabble is AS Byatt’s sister, so I want to see what she’s like. I hope they show up soon. I ordered a copy of my friend S’s favorite Sesame Street LP, Grover Sings the Blues, at the same time, and it’s already here. (She doesn’t have a turntable and the albums’s not available on CD, so I’m going to have it put on a CD and give it to her for Christmas. It’s the little things, right?) Here’s what she said about the album in an e-mail last week, “Grover Sings the Blues featured such classics as ".... around, around, around, around. Over! Under! Through!" and "... near ...FAR! (sung from across the room)". Truly, Grover shines on this album. I have no idea why he hasn't been inducted into the Rock Hall yet. Based on that album alone, he deserves it.” How could that NOT become a Christmas gift?

Speaking of Christmas, The Boy hardly wants anything. He admits to having just about everything he could ever want, so Christmas is going to be fairly small this year. He’s getting some video game upgrades, and we’re going to do our Heifer International family thing, and he’ll get some books, Legos, and this little Fiber Optics kit—and soldering iron!—he thought was cool while browsing a catalog, and that’s about it. Although one of the games he’s getting is Beatles Rock Band, so I suppose Christmas morning won’t be without its usual pajama-ed, messy haired, cookie munching fun.

One more thing about The Boy before I go: He went to another Bar Mitzvah last weekend, and the ubiquitous t-shirt maker was there. The Boy had a shirt made the first time he went to one, so didn’t feel that he needed another air-brushed representation of his name. He ended up coming home with two shirts last Saturday. One was for my friend P, for whom The Boy has a burning love I’ve not seen him have for another female since, well . . . me. He got hers printed with the Joker’s, “Why So Serious,” question, and I think her heart grew two sizes when he gave it to her. The shirt he got for himself, though, is truly remarkable. He said he couldn’t think of what he wanted printed on it, when he noticed that another kid had got one that said “Super Jew.” So my kid, the boy who went to pre-school at the JCC with many of the kids who were at the Bar Mitzvah, who taught those same kids the words to Up on the Housetop when they were three, decided once again to let his non-Jewish flag fly. He proudly requested that the fellow print "Secular Humanist" on his shirt.

WHAT A DORK. And OH, how much I love him!

Hi, Ho! Kermit the Frog, Here!

Today is Sesame Street's 40th birthday! Sesame Street is older than I am: I have never existed in a world without Sesame Street. I think many people who were little kids in the 70s, before anyone had cable, have the same fierce loyalty to the Street and the Muppets that I do. We were the kids who were too young to "appreciate" the trippy offerings of Sid and Marty Krofft (I can't possibly be the only person who was terrified by Lidsville and Pufnstuf, right? And just the thought of poor maligned Sigmund, persecuted by those other wretched sea monsters, makes me want to cry even now), and there was only so much Scooby Doo and other Hanna Barbera crap one kid could take. So we became the Sesame Street Generation . . . long before Douglas Copeland foisted his stupid Generation X label on us.

We learned to count to ten in Spanish, and we learned that Tolerance and Diversity were cool long before they received their capital T and D. We learned that learning was fun and could be super-cool.

My mom sewed my sister and me matching white denim suits (jeans and jacket) that featured the Sesame Street characters scattered all over them, and I loved wearing that outfit more than just about any other outfit I can think of. My grandparents took us to Sesame Street on Ice and bought me a felt Bert and her a felt Ernie that hung on the walls of our shared bedroom for years.

And we had the music.


This one was my very own, and my sister wasn't allowed to touch it. I, however, was allowed to use the turntable all by myself to listen whenever I wanted. I think it drove my parents a little crazy, but I will never forget the time that my dad silently set up the speakers in the bedroom where my mom was sound asleep, and then blasted her out of bed with the Count's signature thunder and, "Mwah, ha, ha!"


This one came along a little later, and belonged to both of us. We had the proper Saturday Night Fever album too, and both were in heavy rotation.

I love Kermit with all my heart, and still, at the age of almost-39, can't hear him sing "It's Not Easy Being Green" without getting choked up. In fact, if I were an actor and needed to cry on cue, that could do it for me.



And I love Bert. Fussy, impatient, wonderful Bert.



Happy 40th Birthday, Sesame Street! I wish you many, many more!

Rube-y, Rube-y, Rube-y, Rube-y!

Sing it like the Kaiser Chiefs, but know I mean it like I'm spelling it: I think I got taken yesterday (no--not over the pending house purchase--don't even think that!). The building I work in is on the edge of a university campus, right across the street from a hospital. Depending on where I need to go upon leaving work, sometimes I cut though the hospital's facilities to make my way home. I did that yesterday, and happened to catch the eye of a man who was rounding the corner as I was waiting at a red light.

He approached me, confessed to being terribly embarrassed, and said he'd run out of gas for the first time in his life. He'd walked to the nearest gas station to find that they didn't have gas cans for sale, and wouldn't loan him one without a $20 deposit, which he didn't have. It was probably a load of crap, but I gave him the $7 I had on me without much hesitation. Why? Because he was nice, polite, and really did appear to need help. I thought about it as I drove home, and decided I was okay about having been taken advantage of, if that were the case. Someone asked me for help and I gave it, because that's what people are supposed to do, right? I wouldn't have given him a ride if he'd asked for one (because I am kind but not willing to jeopardize my safety), but I would have given him the money anyway, and called him a cab.

So maybe I'm a fool, but I'm okay with it if I am.

I'm still in House Limbo, by the way. The inspection was Wednesday, and went as I'd expected. The house desperately needs a new roof, which I knew when I made an offer that was significantly lower than the asking price. There are some other things the sellers have to take care of if the sale is going to move forward, and I'm hoping that won't be too much of a problem. Please cross your fingers for me.

I'll leave you with this, which was a wonderfully pleasant surprise for me. The Boy wanted me to knit a hat for him, which I did despite the fact that he probably hasn't kept a hat on his head for more than a single hour--TOTAL--in his nearly thirteen years. But it turns out that he LOVES his new hat (I credit the super-softness of the Malabrigo wool), and only takes it off while he's at school. How gratifying is that, I ask you? The simple little hat is now my favorite knitting accomplishment!