Unfinished Projects

Sometimes my crafting gets out of hand.  Around Christmas time I find myself in a pit full of yarn, mason jars, fabric, glue, felt, and copious amounts of glitter.  Suddenly all my craft projects that I have had delusions of grandeur about finishing all come due.  I need to make so many things my vision blurs.  Everywhere I look there is a partially complete project staring at me.  I work until hand cramps stop me, but there is always a little more to do.

This year though all those projects had to wait.  I had a special project.  My sister in law got married and her shiny new husband needs a stocking.  Usually my mother in law would painstakingly sew sequin after sequin perfectly in order to create a pristine stocking masterpiece.  But she died and she left an unfinished stocking among the broken hearts and lost dreams.  I couldn’t do much to fix any of the pain, but I could take that stocking home to finish.

I’m not as precise and not nearly as flawless a seamstress as she was, but I got it done.  I finished that sock mimicking her style the best I could.  So this year my new brother will have his stocking.  It won’t be perfect, but it will be there to hang on the mantle.  She would have wanted it that way.  At least I proved in the end that she was the far superior stocking maker.

So all my unfinished craft projects have a little more meaning this year.  When someday I do the inevitable and die, I hope there is someone there to pick up my projects and finish them, someone to leave their own crafts on hold to finish mine.  Because I know if there is someone left to do that it means I had someone who really loved me.  And isn’t that what life is all about…to love and be loved.

stocking

House Rules

My husband has a problem.  He doesn’t think it is a problem, and to tell you the truth, in the beginning neither did I.  Ryan just loves boobs, which works out great because I happen to have a pair.  When we first got married though, I had to set down some ground rules.

Ryan finds it a delightful activity to honk my boobs.  He reaches out with both hands, gives them a squeeze, and says honk in a squeaky voice.  Some women might find it offensive, but they don’t know my husband.  Ryan is just like a kid in a candy shop.  He is goofy and his honks were something endearing.  Until one day.

I was in the kitchen.  It was hot.  Water was boiling and I was chopping away trying to get dinner on the table.  Ryan had just arrived home from work and was very happy to see me.  As I moved from the counter to the stove, knife in hand, Ryan gave my boobs a big ole honk.  Something deep inside me stirred.  I was not in the mood.  I was hot and tired and grumpy, and my boobs were not interested in being honked.

That is the day I established the house rule: Don’t honk my boobs while I’m cooking.  For years I thought we were the only couple that had to have this ground rule.  Any other time of day boob honking in the home is not only permitted, but enjoyed by both parties.  Unless I’m cooking.  In which case back the fuck off; I’ve got a knife.

Then one Sunday evening we were watching cartoons for grown ups on FOX.  That was when the short lived spin off from Family Guy called The Cleveland Show was still on the air.  As Ryan and I watched, Cleveland’s wife Donna, made him repeat our rule.  Suddenly from the television we hear Cleveland utter, “I can’t honk your boobs while you’re cooking.”  OMG we weren’t the only ones!  Sure they may have been cartoon characters, but somewhere there were writers who understood us!

Sports are Hard

I grew up in a non-sporting household.  We never had sports on television at home.  And we certainly never played sports.  None of us knew how, or had any interest what so ever.

It wasn’t until I met my husband that I actually saw sports game start to finish on a regular basis.  I didn’t like them.  I loved him though, so now on occasion I watch one with him.  In order to cope with the boredom I knit furiously.  I have an amazing collection of knitted socks thanks to baseball season.

The other night Ryan asked me about how the shots are framed in the television cameras during sports games.  You see I was an Electronic Media major in college.  Basically I majored in television.  Anyway, a large part of my studies included producing crappy student films and public access television shows.

I had to take a cinematography class, learning how to operate a bunch of different cameras.  This became a huge problem when after learning about portable television cameras, our class was supposed to film a live broadcast of the college basketball game for public access.  I had never once seen a basketball game.  Each of us was assigned to a camera position, and I was placed high in the bleachers on a camera crow’s nest.  Then they told me I was the hero cam.  I looked at them with confusion, “And a hero cam does what?”

The answer was not ideal.  I was told it was simple, my job was just to get a close up shot of any player that does something great in the game like making a shot, block, pass, or rebound.  WHAT-THE-FUCK.  I had no idea what any of those words mean beyond a shot.  The director scurried off before I was able to decide if I should admit my sports related impairment.  I was young and still afraid to concede my shortcomings, so I just stood in stunned silence.  Unfortunately this was also before the time of smartphones so I couldn’t even use google to help me.  I was stuck alone in a crow’s nest trying to decipher what a good play was in a game I had never seen played before.

I didn’t have too much time to panic before my headphones started to buzz, the game began, and the director started barking orders into my ears.  I am sure he must have thought I was mentally challenged.  I was chasing random players around with my view finder just praying that they were the one the crowd was clapping about.  I made wild guesses at what looked hero cam worthy.  Frequently I was completely wrong.

As the game went on and I continued to frame up incorrect heroes the director’s voice in my ear became increasingly frustrated.  Eventually he just started calling out player numbers to me.  I would quickly scan the floor and frame up the hero.  This was a bit more successful, but dear god those guys move fast.  It was like trying to frame up a Ritalin soaked squirrel.

I cannot express the sweet relief that washed over me when the game ended.  I could finally put an end to my shame.  When I got down to the truck with my equipment the director glared at me and shook his head.  I shrugged in humiliation and said, “Sorry, I could work the camera just fine, it was the sports I had trouble with.”

But fifteen years later I was more than capable of answering all my husband’s questions about how his baseball game was being shot.  I suppose my afternoon of sporting related disgrace paid off in some ways.  I still don’t know the rules of any sport, but I can tell you how many inches of a sock you can knit in nine innings.  It’s two.  Two inches of sock and you never have to learn how to play the game.

The Doctor Is In

My husband injured his knee.  We are not actually sure how it happened.  I have my suspicions of its root being in a video game related mishap.  I know that is hard to imagine.  A person can injure themselves from video games???  But yes, I believe it can be done.  Ryan played a game for about 12 hours one day without moving much.  He recalls having his ankles crossed in a weird position.  From all my years in medical school*, I deem his injury caused by strain from inactivity.  Holding his leg in a weird position for 12 hours screwed it up.

Ryan disagrees with me.  Despite his doctor’s inability to diagnose what was causing the pain, Ryan still suspects some factor other than my video game theory is at play.

It’s ok though; I love him anyway.  I especially love that his new knee brace makes it look like his knee has lips.  I desperately want to coat them in red gloss and take a photo.  Unfortunately Ryan will have none of my shenanigans and this is the best I could do.  Behold the knee lips:

knee lips

I’m making lemonade out of lemons people.

* 0 years

True Love

Yesterday I spent entirely too much time chasing an errant fly around the house.  I am not sure who was actually chasing who.  Every room I entered that little jerk followed.  I was super annoyed the airborne pest kept managing to avoid my murder attempts.  I flailed newspapers and flip flops in a desperate quest to end his life, but nothing worked.

Then Ryan came home and I remembered one of the many reasons we fell in love.  Ryan has Mr. Miyagi-like reflexes.  Well, kind of.

While we sat in the living room eating a nutritious meal of pizza and watching television the fly picked the wrong person to annoy.  It buzzed around enough to get Ryan’s attention.  Ryan tracked that fly until it was within range, reached up, slapped his hands together in a mighty clap, and ended the fly’s life.

What Ryan didn’t do was close his mouth.   

The fly’s carcass was driven by gravity straight into Ryan’s open orifice.  Ryan spit and sputtered, and managed not to swallow it.  It wasn’t pretty, but boy was I proud of my husband protecting me from household pests.  He’s quite the catch.

Some Days Are Just Magnificent

Yesterday was a kick ass kind of day, in a good way.  I spent most of the day selling wedding cakes at a big bridal fair event at one of the local venues.  I stood next too dummy cakes (don’t worry they are used to being called that name) from the bakery I work at and fed brides cupcakes all day.

It turns out if you are yielding cupcakes everyone is super nice to you.  People come out of the woodwork and strike up a conversation.  I like to think it is because of my enchanting personality, but I am afraid they were more attracted to the cupcakes than my charming conversation.

I also learned bridal fairs have their own set of perks.  Turns out if you make friends with the other vendors they feed you their delicacies and give you flowers.

flowers

I didn’t even have flowers as nice as these at my own wedding.  The florist just gives them to you in exchange for a few cupcakes.  Holy shit ya’ll cupcake currency is the new bit coin, stronger than the dollar and yummier too!

I already felt like a freaking queen, and the night was not even over yet.  When I got home my sweet husband decided that we should celebrate that I am not cranky because I have to go to the first day of school tomorrow.  So we hit the town to stay up late and do grown up things.

First we went to a restaurant serving margaritas that will knock you on your ass.  Ask me how I know.  We ate ourselves stupid and laughed at each other’s stories.  Still buzzed, Ryan took me to a Sausage Party.

movie

I’d say not to worry that it wasn’t an X rated sausage party, but it was still pretty raunchy.  I’ve never laughed so much at anthropomorphic sausages in my life.  I really think Seth Rogan and friends sat around a table baked as shit and said, “Hey what if we make Toy Story but with food, drugs, and a fuck-ton of violence.”  Then someone else must have chimed in and been like, “Yeah, as long as we can have a five minute food orgy scene in it too.”  Then I am pretty sure them must have all passed out from the drugs.

Ryan and I got home nice and late and neither of us cared.  Dear god I love not being a teacher!

Danger Zone

I shouldn’t be allowed in a kitchen.  I just shouldn’t, which totally sucks because I also work part time in a bakery.  You can see the conflict here.  Lately it seems I am a glutton for accidents in addition to food.

Yesterday I decided I wasn’t lazy and I was going to cook up one hell of a delicious dinner of grilled beef kababs for my man.  (Really it was mostly just for me, but it sounds way better if I say it was for my husband.)

Anyway I hauled myself to the store in the rain and bought a bunch of fancy groceries.  When I got home once I got everything put away I made a lovely marinade, or mari-nod depending on how stuck up you are.

Everything was going swimmingly until it was time to get the little cubes of meaty goodness onto the skewers.  Dear god I was impaled!  Multiple times!  Evidently, those slippery little suckers did not want to have a bamboo stick plowed through their jiggly bits.

You would think after the first time I shoved that skewer straight into my fleshy fingers I would have learned my lesson.  I however was much to stubborn and hungry to give up.  I AM NOT A QUITTER!

By the time we sat down to eat my fingers were a splintered mess of puncture wounds.  But damn those were some delectable kababs.  I wish I could show you a picture, but I kind of have a one track mind when it comes to food, and I never slow down enough to photograph it before I start shoving it in my pie hole.

Don’t Be Jealous

This was truly just a fun filled weekend.  What can I say.  I watched Ryan play more Halo, until we looked at his gamer stats and he pointed out the he has been playing the game for 23 days.  Not hours, DAYS!!!  That is when I got up and threw the controller at him while screaming, “I want a divorce!”  Not really, but I may have been thinking that I am clearly the best wife in the whole wide world and I deserve a giant “Kobe Bryant cheating on his wife” sized diamond.  I will settle for some foot rubs though.  Like I say, I am clearly the best wife ever.  Also there may be an ulterior motive as I don’t want him to divorce me when he someday finds all the yarn I have stashed away all over this house.  That is another story though.

Anyway, after that incident I was doing a little housekeeping.  Little being the operative word.  When I discovered one of my plants is randy.  At first glance it looks like just a happy little plant trying to survive with the lack of care it receives from me:

plant

Until you enhance:

plant penises

Ah, yes, there you see it.  A tiny little garden of mushroom penises.  I have grown my own personal penis garden!!!  That’s right bitches, I clearly have an erect thumb!  I can’t wait to see how big they are going to get…for science of course.

Dear Television, I miss you!

Lately I have been a little starved of my television watching time.  It hasn’t been all bad, but I am starting to get a little ornery about having to miss out on my daily doses of mind numbing entertainment.

It seems that there has been some sort of Halo tournament going on.  My husband used to be a competitive gamer in his younger days and he has fallen head over heels for this new esport tournament.  This was fine with me for about the first 30 hours that he spent watching it.  I was able to get some extra knitting and reading done.  However once we entered hour 31 I got a little pissed.

That is when I let loose of my little mouth filter and asked, “Why do all those Halo players have anal beads attached to their computer monitors?”

halo tourney

halo tourney 2

He was not amused.  I win!!!!

Questionable Grandparenting

My parents are two of the most normal people you will ever meet.  They are not controversial in any way, shape, or form.  The same cannot be said for my grandparents.  To be honest all four of them were all a little odd, but one of them in particular stole the crazy flag and ran with it.

I called her Memere, which is French for Granny.  She was first generation American as her parents had immigrated from Quebec.  Good ole Memere had a lot of quirks about her beside just speaking in a sort of Fren-glish.  She drank Ancient Age whiskey by the fifth, smoked like a dirty chimney, and said what she thought with no filter.  She was a hell of a lot of fun as a babysitter too!

Occasionally she would entertain my sister and I while my parents went out to dinner.  That is when we really got a show.  Memere would feed us plates of spaghetti bigger then our heads and then for dessert show us how to flip crepes with our bare hands.  Playing with hot pans was something mom never let us do.  It was great fun to see who could get the crepe flipped over best without obtaining third degree burns.

After dinner Memere was known to give lessons in anything from poker to blackjack.  We did a lot of gambling before we reached double digit ages.  Pennies were passed out and the games began.  There was no handicap, it was every man for themselves.   We learned when to go all it, and when you needed to fold.  And oh the joy, when you got to rake in all of your sister’s money as she sat across the table pouting.  What fun!

As the evening went on and the Ancient Age bottle got lighter and lighter the entertainment became a bit of a floor show.  Memere had a dummy, a real genuine ventriloquist’s dummy, and she knew how to use it.  She would sit in her nylon nightgown and house shoes with her cigarette hanging out the side of her mouth and that dummy on her knee.  She would tell jokes and bob his head up and down as my sister and I rolled with laughter.  My sister and I stared in wonder at how Memere was able to keep that cigarette in her mouth the whole time the dummy was talking.  It was really something special.

Being babysat at Memere’s was the five year old’s equivalent to a night on the Vegas Strip.  As we got older though Memere never dulled in her unique ability to care for us.

When I was about nine I asked Memere if she would take me to get a Mother’s Day present for my mom.  She immediately accepted and off we went to Sears.  I had saved up about $35, which was big money in the 1980’s, and I wanted to get something really special for my mom.

Memere and I wandered all around Sears looking for just the right gift.  We passed the kitchen department, the linens, and the women’s wear, and ended up in the lingerie department.  And that is where with Memere’s guidance I found the world’s most inappropriate gift for my mother, and it was perfect!

I was so excited and so proud.  I passed over the counter the black, lacy teddy neglige I had picked out special just for my mom as the sales woman stared back in horror.  Then I slapped my money down on the counter as Memere looked on with an approving smile.  The look of confusion on the sales woman’s face was epic.  I guess you don’t see a kid buying trashy lingerie with her grandma everyday.

When Mother’s Day arrived I was giddy with excitement as mom tore open the package I had carefully wrapped for her.  Boy did she try to look thrilled as she held up that black scrap of sexy lingerie!  I mean what mom wouldn’t be proud to have her nine year old pick out risqué unmentionables for her.  Memere and I looked at one another with knowing grins.  We had done it, we had picked out the best Mother’s Day gift ever.

Childhood with Memere was never dull.  While she never quite had a grasp of the age appropriate, she did know how to show a kid a good time.  That is for damn sure!