tickle fight!

I received my sewing machine today!  Now I need to get some thread, some fabric, a book (oh yes, I have one in mind), and I also should read the manual.  My nerd plate is so full.  I’m as hyper as a little child hooked up to a Mountain Dew IV.  Sometimes I drool when I get too hyper.  Just kidding!  Sort of.  

As much as I love San Francisco, it just isn’t the most pedestrian or pet friendly of places.  You’d think it would be, but it just isn’t!  Get it together, City.  I saw a child walking with his mom in the crosswalk (on a walk sign) and watched a car almost take him out.  Then saw another car almost run over three people on a red light.  This was just on my walk home from the bus stop today.  Yikes.  I have too many examples of non-pet friendliness to list here.   I just don’t get it, I guess.  What makes this city so friendly and unfriendly at the same time? 

My sewing machine is on it’s way, hooray!  I am going to read the manual front to back.  I think I’m the only one I know who reads the manuals that come with equipment or the entire employee handbook or insurance guide.  I just like to be in the know.  I wonder if that is why I can’t handle it when I find out people are discussing me behind my back.  It happens to everyone.  Not everyone cares.  I seem to care.  I think it’s because I’m not “in the know.”  I might even be a know-it-all, oh no!  Isn’t the secret to knowing it all admitting that you don’t know it all?

Do I have to end every paragraph with a question like Carrie Bradshaw? 

I have more wine in this apartment than should be allowed.  This doesn’t bode well for the “dimples” in my teeth that my dentist wants to fill next week.  Dimples are supposed to be cute!

Is it gross to let your dog kiss you on the lips?  Like a lot?  Just wondering.     

Is it okay to buy a latte on buy nothing day?  Because I’m in desperate need of caffeine.  I mean, sometimes people need caffeine it doesn’t necessarily mean that they are succumbing to consumer culture does it because I mean I could really use some caffeine right now and I don’t have any in my apartment have I mentioned that I need caffeine I mean what if I stole it maybe I could steal it yeah that is what I’ll do. xoxo  

Although I probably won’t eat a tofurkey today (meat substitutes are often too much like the real thing for me), I am delighted to have the day off to be a major geek.  I woke up early, added some Built By Wendy sewing patterns to my wishlist, lit a cider and donuts candle (straight from my favorite apple orchard in Michigan), made another granny square, and now I am about to scoop up my dog, Little Partner, for a walk in search of some holiday caffeine.  I’m playing the tambourine at my brother’s show tomorrow.  Shy.  But after a few vodka/red bulls and/or glasses of the champ, I imagine things are going to get WILD.  Should I dress up like a turkey for the show?  I’m such a dipshit.   

Things change so quickly.  One minute I feel awake and healthy and inspired and ready to move to Austin, then the next minute – BOOM!  I feel sick and sad and pathetic and trapped, with ungroomed brows to match (Come back soon, Ilona!).  Maybe the strong brow is in this season.  I hope that self pity is an appropriate accessory.  

I’m going to write about something else now.   I realized that the jeans that fit me the best are those made for short preteens.  I left my sweater at my dad’s house in Michigan and apparently left some dog hair there with it.  Sometimes I find a clinging little white hair on my shirt when I’m at work and rather than flick it off, I’ll look at it and feel comforted.  Then I’ll flick it off.  Then I’ll chop it up and snort it.  Just kidding.  My point is that sometimes we take what we need from something, then dispose of it.  Sad, but true.   

I will make an analogy or a metaphor or a major example of the facts of life out of the dumbest thing.  But this is how I think.  This is how I amuse myself, other than writing on the internet to No One or Everyone or to a Single Some One that I happen to be thinking of at any given moment.  Maybe I’m writing to myself.  Well, hello little buddy!  My buddy.  Or maybe I should say kid sister.  I swear that I don’t have Multiple Personality Disorder.  There is something about writing that makes me feel schizophrenic.  I would explain the something, but I know you get what I mean.  You are smart!  

I currently have about six complete granny squares; all are different sizes.  They aren’t even big enough to be useful (except for the one properly sized square that I’ve decided to save for my afghan).  I was thinking of donating them, but to whom and what for?  Butt wiping is all I can think of right now because I’m a sick puppy.  They are close to the size of one Charmin sheet, but the thickness would really take care of business if you know what I mean.  Reusable pooper swoopers.  I think I’m onto nothing.  But possibly on something.

I missed my chance to meet Anthony Bourdain at the ferry building on Saturday because I was chasing a size I crochet needle.  I love Anthony Bourdain and his show, No Reservations.  Anthony Bourdain  is like an older version of my middle brother.  I really mean it.  He is.  It weirds me out sometimes.   

And now back to me.  Me ME ME!  A lot of people tell me that I look like a lot of people.  Here is an abbreviated list:

Jennifer Love Hewitt (who also apparently looks like a rat, my friend tells me)

Annabella Sciora (I’m pretty sure that is misspelled, but I don’t care enough to look it up.  I think she might be old, so I’m pretty sure whoever told me that one got a big fake smile)

Parker Posey

Liv Tyler

[Insert celebrity brunette here]

Sandra Bullock 

Your cousin

What happened to the Imagination of the People?  I swear that your average human isn’t very fond of giving the old eyes a good challenge every once in a while.  Comparisons are for the lazy. And I must note that people seem much better at finding differences than similarities.  Let’s try thinking about how men and women are similar rather than printing a headline every time we find a difference more subtle than that whole penis-vagina thing.  That is all my dog cares about, you know?  And she prefers vaginas, in case you were wondering.  She really has panache, that one.

Here are some wishes to say goodbye, kind of like a retarded lullaby:

I wish I knew how to sew, like now

I wish someone would give me a hug (awwww)

I wish I lived in a bigger apartment

I wish we could sit in a dimly lit restaurant and chew awkwardly and giggle

I wish everyone could see the way my dog is tucking her cold, wet nose under her paw right now

I wish to finally end this post       

Lately, I get to work very early.  Why is it that I still feel guilty when I leave early, even if it is justified?  I have Catholic guilt minus the Catholicism.  It’s weird, man.  On my way home today, I saw an aging hipster with a long curly mustache that looked like it was plastered and lifted with Dep hair gel.  I wanted to pull on it really hard or comb it out the way the teachers did with my stiff 80’s bangs right before school pictures in elementary school.  Those mustaches aren’t even ironic anymore.  I’m all for the humor of a good mustache, but I prefer the soft kind . . .  NOT to be confused with a brushed beard.  There is nothing more comical than a man with a brushed out beard.  I saw one once and pointed at it and yelled, “Wow, beardo!” and the guy pointed back and sneered, “Okay, hat-o!” (yup, I was wearing a hat, smart ass).  Sometimes I have too many drinks and use my filter as a beer bong, I think.  I made a scarf this weekend.  A scarf so big and chunky that it dwarves my head.  This might be a good thing (I have a big head).  Next project: a crocheted, patchwork blanket.  I know it’s ambitious, but that is what makes life fun and frustrating at the same time.  I already ordered all of the yarn.  Ten colors!  I hope it doesn’t look like rainbow puke when all is knotted and done.    Can you tell that I’m trying to write more than one paragraph?  I noticed that my entries lately resemble “deep thoughts” and it is getting embarrassing.  Okay, let’s face it.  Everything about tickle fight is embarrassing.  The word “blog” is embarrassing.  But so are my tattoos and the way my voice shakes when I have to speak in public and the frequency in which I fall when my legs decide to stop working.  So I might as well just accept things and pickle myself with humiliation.