Pieces of String too Short to Save

I've been trying to justify any TV watching time lately by multi-tasking and either sorting through some old files that have pile up or working on something crafty. The crafty projects have been winning. This weekend while working my way though my last 6 Lost episodes to prepare for it's long awaited return tonight (WOOHOO!!!!), I pulled out a box labeled "Embroidery" to sort through.

And of course before being able to do anything "productive" I got totally side-tracked by sorting through the random odds and ends in the box. Glad to know that this form of procrastination is not only work specific for me. While on writing assignments I can somehow go from looking up on a word online at Merriam-Webster to reading Zach Braff's IMDB profile to a Wikipedia page on the history of the Ruby Red Slippers in the Wizard of Oz…all the while mentally justifying the time spent in some way or another.

In the box was a HUGE tangled pile of embroidery floss that was easily two feet by two feet, bigger then pet ferret sized and just smaller then 30 pound alley cat size. I started to unwind it and sort it to see if there was anything usable in there and maybe inspire me to stitch something. I've just come across www.subversivecrossstitch.com and I am addicted to finding the perfect project to start. Which in all truth I will spend 4 times the amount of time looking for a project then I will actually completing the project.

Anyways, a few hours and 4 Lost episodes later the string reminded me of a poetry class that I got dragged too years ago. The class had the standard lonely female divorcees writing angry poems and a handful of very odd men trying to create mid-word rhymes. This left just two of us in the class to compete over the grand prize of pithiest lines of verse, bordering on limericks. And I got heinously beat out of the smart-ass, clever-chair one evening when my competitor wrote a poem about realizing that she knew what it meant to be old when she came across a shoe box on her Grandma's craft shelf labeled, "String to Small to Save."

String to Small to Save – for years I've wondered, "What made the pieces too small to toss too?" By this point, I was wrapping episode 5 and on the home stretch. I had several freshly wound spools, labeled and sorted in one box and a Ziploc bag of some random pieces that I begin to label, yes: "String to Small to Save." I can't decide if the bag of small pieces to save made sense. I could use them for all those mending projects I don't ever do, or for little accents on projects I never finish here and there. But in all honesty, am I just actually justifying my pack-rat nature here or is it more a subconscious way of noting, "Whoa, I'm getting REALLY old?"

Two Things Gets Even Better!

Now the news headline on the WB has evolved too "Attacked by Diaper Wearing Astronaut!"
You can't beat that for sheer entertainment :)

Two Things I Didn't Need To Know

But will of course bestow upon you…

In accordance with my unofficial New Year's goal to become "unliterate" I have started sampling the different news programs as I make coffee in the morning and prepare for the day. Big topic of discussion today was the NASA astronaut, Lisa Nowak that is being charged with attempted kidnapping and murder. Apparently she is involved in a love triangle and tried to kidnap The Other Woman using pepper spray, a BB gun and steel mallet. OK, I don't have any Navy training and I'm not an astronaut—but a BB gun, wtf? Military intelligence once again I guess.

But here is what I didn't need to know. She was in such a rush to drive from Texas to Florida to launch her kidnapping scheme that she wore a DIAPER! And apparently it is standard protocol for astronauts to wear diapers during launch and re-entry. Two things I really didn't need to know, especially before my morning coffee was even done brewing. Unliterate is better than ignorant in my book.

Knock, knock. Knock on Wood.

This afternoon I had to meet with an editor for a magazine piece and I had an errand to run up at the University, so I suggested that we meet somewhere on "The Hill" which is the local campus strip complete with coffee shops, Laguna Beach cast wannabes, a handful of intellectuals and some fading hipsters. One of my guilty passions is getting coffee up on The Hill and just walking around campus, daydreaming about the day Tenure and the title of Professor is bestowed on me…oh the things these kids could learn from me…

In daydream mode there is a definitely a tendency to wander aimlessly, incidents of staring without intending too and just the euphoria of being lost in thought. So, the ring/vibrate combo of my cellphone startled me out of my little heaven in my head to find myself with one foot off the curb about to step into traffic and the other foot in a 3 inch deep puddle of snow melt as I was about to put an electronic device in close proximity to my brain.

The call was from a client trying to recruit me for a long-term writing contract that would require me to slum it onsite and actually leave my house on a regular basis. The reason for the call was to ask in case of emergency or accident, what hospital would I like listed in my file to be taken too.

Normally, this would seem like a bizarre question to ask a writer, but I guess the client also has some manufacturing onsite so it sort of makes a little sense, although I am going to re-read the job description now… Anyways, I've lived here off an on for almost 12 years and only been to the hospital once, so I had to stop and concentrate to think of the name of the local hospital. But as I ungracefully leapt from the puddle and away from traffic to knock twice on the wood of the nearest phone pole, the question actually seemed quite logical. But, I do wonder what my references said about me and my klutzy nature... I walked home with extreme caution obeying all crosswalks. I am so jinxed now.

Purple Rain and Phallacy

I am a complete football neophyte, with an immigrant father I was raised primarily watching soccer and baseball (my New Yorker mom's influence). Also, growing up in Arizona there were no pro teams until I was in at least high school, so I wasn't brought up as a fan with a "my team" loyalty. For me sports were something played and not watched, unless it was grainy Tele-Mundo futbol broadcasts ("GOOOOOAAAAAAL!!!!") or attending spring training baseball games that were usually followed by double-header concerts with The Beach Boys or The Monkees and free foam fingers for those of us under 10. They gave free bats away once…just once though, who thought of that horrible idea?!?

But working in advertising and a die-hard pop-culture student I have come to love the Super Bowl if just for the commercials and half-time shows. So, yesterday armed with enough knitting and White Russians to keep me on the couch for four full hours I settled in to watch THE game. The annoying level of "super-fan" cheering over the coin-toss was enough to tempt me to check the On-Demand guide…as there was a marathon of The Closer on TNT that had some serious pull for me…but no, I was determined to sit, watch and try and understand all the pull of this event.

My housemate finally migrated downstairs to watch the game and explain some of the finer points of play to me, and from what I understand it was a pretty great game. I'll even admit to setting down my knitting and watching about 60% of the game—that is pretty huge progress for me…

Since, I was displaying some interest in the game and actually actively watching my housemate thoughtfully participated in my favorite task of discussing the commercials and then the pop-culture holy grail of the half-time show. The half-time performer is always an interesting choice, something to appeal to middle-America, well known enough to be a household name and hopefully not a has-been. To this day I still don't know how Miss Jackson managed to slip through the cracks.

Our votes for half-time fell more along the lines of the good-old American performers like Springsteen or Bob Seger, maybe CCR and a little harmonizing with Britney or Christina to keep the younger set interested. Prince to my housemate held no merit what-so-over. Which surprised me, for his job as a ski coach he has clocked more highway and Top 40 radio hours then the average bear. You can't have listened to Top 40 radio for that long and not have a soft-spot for Prince.

He: "I can't even name one Prince song."

Me: "Yes, you can. Hello. Pretty Woman singing along in the bath tub to Kiss. How about Little Niki, or Red Corvette, Raspberry Beret, Purple Rain, I Would Die 4 U..."

He: "OK, OK so I guess I kind of know one or two of them.

Me: "One or two!!! And anyway now he's more of a producer, he just got a lifetime achievement award. He probably wrote or mixed most of the songs you know the words too."

He: "Like who?"

Me: "Umm..." Why or why does the mind go blank at these points in debates?

He: "OK, I can name his best contribution ever, he made Carmen Electric"

Me: "Fair enough"

He: "But still, don't you think the half-time performer should be someone all American and corn-fed from like Minnesota."

Me: "He's from Minneapolis…"

Then suddenly on the rain-soaked half-time stage our debate was interrupted by the launching of a huge condom-like white parachute in front of Prince. The camera was showing an illuminated silhouette of Prince wailing away on his guitar that was in the shape of his "The Artist Formally Known as Prince" symbol…but when he turned the guitar side-ways it was clearly a huge penis, illuminated behind a HUGE phallic shroud.

Why is no one talking about this today?

On headline news they commented on Prince's classy performance and the thoughtful nod of wearing aqua and orange in a tribute to the Dolphin Stadium…how did this little man who once wore purple lace assless chaps for an MTV performance slip this HUGE phallic symbol past America? Weren't we all watching and hoping for something naughty?

I even googled Prince and Super Bowl. Nada. Then I googled Prince and phallic—which I don't recommend trying, especially at work.

I feel dirty? Is my household the only one with their thoughts of the half-time show steaming up from the gutter? "I'm sorry Miss Jackson..." but you've ruined us or at least our expectations.

Um…Latex Gloves?

I work at home and everyday my housemate storms through the house like the Tasmanian Devil during his half an hour break between working at the ski store and coaching the ski team. It is truly amazing to what level my serene home-post can be disrupted, destroyed and just plain d-mowed in those short 30 minutes.

Today, hollered from behind the closed bathroom door:
"Do you have any latex gloves?"

I don't even want to respond and if I do—I am not willing to participate in a hand-off that requires reaching around the bathroom door. I have boundaries. But I am curious now and completely distracted, so:
"Um, no…WHY?"

"Well, I dropped your comb in the toilet."

Great... Don't even want to know how my comb got implicated in this debacle.

"We have some Ziploc bags."

"No, uhhhh…"

"Oh, I see. The comb has company in the bowl, well…shit, yeah shit. What about those stupid noodle tongs that have never worked, just grab and toss. Toss the comb and tongs?"

"No, we might want those someday even though they don't work. Oh well."

Apparently, "Oh well" translates in housemate speak to: "He will flush the toilet and leave the comb in there for me to deal with later." Which considering we only have one bathroom will likely be SOON. There is some odd Pavlovian connection between knowing there is no accessible toilet that makes one need to use one immediately.