Wednesday, July 19, 2006
All This Meat, and No Potatoes
Hi. It's Dolores.
I don't why this always happens, but Laughing Boy is behind in his packing for Knitting Camp and so he's shoving off the post on me today. Fine. I'm ready to go. I was ready a week ago. Don't I look ready? The tank was a lucky score off the sale rack at Nordstrom. I had to wrestle it away from another customer, but once I got the walker out of her hands the rest was easy.
This is definitely a good time to leave town. In case you didn't know, Chicago's been invaded by gay athletes and frankly, it's starting to get me down. For example, I was walking home from the market the other day since we'd run out of the breakfast cereal His Majesty must have every morning or he gets whiny, and here comes this absolute fleet of male muscle down the boulevard. I put a little extra hitch in my getalong, if you know what I mean, and...nothing. Not even a bat of the eyelashes. And then I realized. All seven of them...gay gay gay gay gay gay gay.
And when this happens to you eight or ten times in a day, which it did, a girl starts to feel invisible and that makes her crabby. Especially since the emotional wounds inflicted by Ted's inattention are still so fresh. My therapist said I should stop going after the pansy boys and take a pottery class to sublimate the impulse. But I can't help it. They're so yummy. And washing clay out of wool is a bitch.
A Gathering of the Herd
But enough about me. I just remembered I'm supposed to tell you there's going to be a knitting bloggers shindig at Arcadia Knitting on July 31 at 7 p.m. You don't have to be a blogger to go, I guess they're just going to have some on display in case you want check and see how misleading their photos are.
I'm sure as hell not going to miss it. Every time those girls at Arcadia roll up the rug you are guaranteed an ass-shaking good time. Of course, Whatshisname is going to be there, so they might keep a lid on things out of respect to his Delicate Sensibilities. But we can always lock him in the storeroom or something if he's too much of a wet blanket.
Okay, I have to go. We're having dinner tonight with one of the gay muscleheads, some guy from New York City who is apparently an athlete and a cop and a knitter. I mean, can you imagine? Equal access to yarn and handcuffs. The mind reels, cupcakes. I was thinking of playing up the law enforcement theme by wearing this sweet top I got at Agnès B that has "BAD GIRL" written across the bust in red sequins.
I know. I know. What can I tell you? Emily D. was wrong. Hope is not the thing with feathers, it's the thing with fleece.