As A Part Of The Blogosphere...

I said I wasn't touchin' the Miss Teen Airhead thing, but I still can't help but think she might be a HoMeSkOoLeR; or, if she likes younger men at all, maybe she could be the best, most perfectly-matched girlfriend for one or the other of these two HoMeSkOoLeRz [tm]. Maybe they'll meet and fall in luv on MySpac3. eHeh.

But when it comes to interesting things in the Blogosphere, I can't help but touch on this interesting piece.

So, with all the odd stuff I know about myself, at least I can say I'm most-likely not depressed; best we can tell by the standards of that study, anyway -- and I can add a new facet to my people-watching notes as well.

I think I'm more likely to go with the commenters who said the study was seriously flawed though -- I agree with the folks who figure it's a result of being right-handed or left-handed and keeping the dominant hand free for other things that may need to be done. I'm sure that's why I've developed this habit of holding the phone to my left ear because I might need to write things down with my right hand -- and my job involves a lot of ten-key while on the phone, and there's no way I'd ever get anything done on the ten-key left-handed. It's got to the point that I don't feel like I'm getting the most of the conversation if I have the phone to my right ear, and it's not because I have any kind of hearing problem -- it's like being left-eared, my right ear just doesn't seem to get the job done as efficiently.

I'll admit I have minimal baby-handling on my resume', but most I can remember, I'm most comfy with 'em on my left arm. Same goes for the cat; I reach down and pick her up with my right hand and lay her onto my left arm 99.99 percent of the time. My purse, be it large or small, is always on my left shoulder; if I'm struggling with other stuff (like I was when I came back from lunch today) and it ends up on my right shoulder, it just doesn't seem to work right and I get all off-balance and awkward.

Knowing what I know about body mechanics (as an F-PTA, heh), I should know better, but if I'm gathering up lots of stuff, I still hang it all on my left shoulder, no matter how much it makes me lean to the right to compensate for the weight and width -- I've been known to head toward the door with my purse, my knitting bag, a backpack, and whatever else hung on my left shoulder, the laptop on my left arm, and nothing but my keys in my right hand.

Maybe it's a throw-back from all those years as a Band Kid -- I could make my way from the car to the Band Building with all my stuff on my left shoulder and the Trombone case in my right hand because the case was tough as hell and I'd figured out how I could usually catch the door with it and make my way in without having to put anything down to grab the door handle. That's probably a right-handed skill too though; which would also explain the keys in my right hand for aiming -- there's only one hole I can find left-handed, and no keys are goin' in that one.

My cell phone is always in my right front pocket, if I have a couple dollars or some coins to drop in a pocket, it's always my right back pocket. The Pretty-Butch-For-A-Straight-Chick-Pocket-Knife [tm] is always in my left front pocket; but there's usually not anything in my left back pocket. Maybe there's a study somewhere to analyze that... Unless it's due to always having my right hand free for intricate tasks, so it's always easiest to get the phone out of my pocket to answer it even if I'm carrying something on my left shoulder.

Now, if somebody could just figure out a way for me to know if the phone is ringing while it's out there on the charger in my car...

Viva Velvetteen Rabbit Theory!!

Apparently, it works.

Remember that sweet little story "The Velvetteen Rabbit?" The details have escaped me over the years, but the general gist of it all has certainly stuck. "A child's love will make you real!" It's about believing; that's where "The Velvetteen Rabbit Theory" comes from. I've come to the conclusion that believing is important; like believing that the ol' three-colored Windstar with the iffy transmission would make the trip to Springfield and back even though it chattered pretty hard when I pulled out of the QuickTrip in Claremore. I'm guessing that some people, okay, most people, would've turned around and headed back home at that point; but I figured that if it had enough left to go as long as it had, it surely had enough left to go a little further.

Don't get me wrong, I have no real idea how to quantify Transmission Failure by feel other than when it's gone, it's gone; it's just that I figure that if it's slipping a little bit now, it'll surely slip a little bit for a while and then most likely get a little worse before it's completely gone like some of the goners we've had turn up around here. Since the slipping usually occurs at low speeds and usually in first or second gear; I also figure that a 600-mile highway trip shouldn't be quite so taxing as 600 miles around town since highway driving involves mostly fourth or occasionally third gear.

I ain't gonna lie to ya, I knew it was a little risky, but ya know, my head's like a rock -- I wanted to go, I wanted to drive somethin' big enough to haul back some stuff if I decided to, so I went. I figured if the transmission gave up, I'd still have cold A/C, and I'd have lots of room to stretch out and get comfy, put on a movie, and knit a bit while I waited. I figured that if it gave out in Springfield, I could rent a tow-dolly and we'd just haul it back home; and I even found one for sale, I could've bought one if I'd decided to. If it gave out in Oklahoma, Clay's AAA Card would get it home. Maybe having a "backup plan" or two helped as well, but I really didn't think I'd need either back-up plan, and it turned out I didn't.

I left outta here thinkin' I was going to get comfy in my seat, eat a candy bar, drink a 'dew, and listen to some short stories all while getting to Springfield and back without having any problems I couldn't handle, so I did, and it worked. I can't help but compare the situation with someone leaving here to head to midtown Tulsa, grumbling and bitching, and then ending up grumbling and bitching beside the highway with a broken truck ten minutes into what would've been a twenty minute drive; but I'm not gettin' into a rant about that damn drunk, not today...

I had a nice time in MO, it was a nice short little trip for the most part. I enjoyed the drive, and the iPod -- I know I've said this before, but if you've ever thought about gettin' one, get one, you'll love it; I still wish I hadn't waited so long to buy mine. Other than gettin' siiiiiiiiick Saturday night, I had a great time -- I'm not goin' back to that restaurant next time, but I really would like to go back to the Dirt Track in Springfield; it was a nice show and I was impressed. They said a little prayer before the national anthem and I thought it was real nice to hear 'em ask for a "clean, safe night of racing and a safe trip home for all of us."

A Clean, Safe Night Of Racing. God bless 'em, each and every one. I know, deep down, that seeing it from a seat in the stands really doesn't compare to seeing it from a seat with a wheel in my hands, but I really think there was a difference in the driving there. There wasn't a lot of obvious beatin'-bangin'-leanin'-bankin'-rammin' like I've seen way too much of over the years. Lots of the cars were still straight and shiny even this far into the season, and I was stunned to see 'em side-by-side and sometimes three or four wide without touchin' even in hotlaps; and I saw several occasions where they were actually using the brakes to keep from hitting each other. Yes, seriously, when ya let out to set it in and turn, the car behind you lets out too instead of just bashing into you, and after gettin' rammed a couple times at a couple different tracks, I started to wonder if the guy behind me had trouble figuring out there happened to be a car there. I'm also really diggin' that black & orange Ford that was just off and gone for the heat race and then won the feature too...

The swap-meet was huge, but my T-Tops-from-the-Ex didn't sell; I'm thinkin' about puttin' 'em on Cr@igsL!st. Maybe I'll offer to trade 'em for a Dremel Set, an ArtCarved ring, and a 2002 Ch!li Bowl T-shirt, since that's what I couldn't ever get back from the ex who can't seem to be enough of a grown-up to act respectable on the phone, let alone give my stuff back or get his stuff back.

I guess since I'm "being the grown-up" in that situation, getting a little cash for 'em on Cr@igsL!st is a better, more mature option than smashing them into a Wal-Mart bag and leaving it in his front yard... Since he claimed he "had multiple personalities"* and was also seen cuttin' up somethin' white and powdery on the kitchen table, who knows, maybe he doesn't even remember the Camaro or the T-Tops; it might even be a mystery as to where the ring and the T-shirt and the Dremel came from, and the humor of a million tiny pieces of mirrory glass in a plastic bag would be completely lost on him. Or at least on the other six of his seven "personalities." Heh.

* : I'm not passing judgement on people with mental-health issues; I'm just takin' a poke at that guy who walked out of a movie about a schizophrenic criminal and then turned to me and said, "Did I ever tell you I have multiple personalities?" Seriously... And if he's reading this, uhm, hey, I don't care about your nasty attitude, I don't care about the damn Dremel, but I would really like to have my ring and my clothes back. I really don't give a damn about keepin' these T-Tops either, so if you want 'em, get over here and get 'em out of my way, it won't bother me a bit just as long as you leave your childish personalitles at home, send the guy in his thirties, okay? I don't do well with kids.

More later... _\,,/

Three Years...

(Alternate Title: Maybe I Should've Taken A Picture.)

This Windstar that I've been drivin' these last few weeks sat in the tall grass beside Dad's house for about three years best I can guess. I've been trying to remember exactly when I last parked it there, but I keep gettin' confused. I do have a clue of real proof because there was a page out of the newspaper in the driver's door pocket that's from sometime in November of 2004. It kinda makes sense, 'cause I'm pretty sure that was the 2004 awards banquet when Bigfoot got mad and left at three-something in the morning; I remember walkin' all the way through the hotel in my PJ's to go move it closer to my room 'cause I wasn't sure if he'd locked the doors or not...

I'm still not entirely sure, but I think it came sometime after the silver VW and/or the big brown Chevy van, 'cause I remember lettin' The Mail Man drive both of those while we were near-dating, but I think he was outta-the-picture by the time this one turned up. I guess being "Car-Sentimental" makes me put history into categories by what I was drivin' at the time -- I know I had the VW duing racing season, 'cause I remember drivin' it to Booster Club Meetings; but I had the big van for that last banquet that was downtown; drove it for Christmas and most of the winter into the summertime, and then I got the Windstar sometime before the next banquet out on South Yale... Shit, which summer was that? It was freakin' hot outside and... Oh yeah, we took that VW to that stupid "rally" at the football field, so I know for sure that this Windstar came after that...

Gawd, that "rally" sucked. I love My Country, but I can't help but think there must be a better way to show it than to go sing the National Anthem, say the Pledge of Allegiance, and then sit in the hundred-and-some-degree sun on metal bleachers while some asshole from the uber-conservative AM radio station blathers on and on. Couldn't we show our patriotism by doing something besides just getting sunburned?

Something besides getting sunburned -- that's where I was going with all that. In the ashtray of this Windstar that's been parked for a little over three years, I found that tube/stick of sunscreen that I bought before that damn "rally." I remember it vividly because I was hoping to find "good" sunscreen that wasn't insanely expensive and came in a container small enough I could toss it in my purse. It was perfect; probably about an inch in diameter and a little less than three inches tall, it was setup like a really fat lipstick or really small deodorant stick -- it had a little twisty-thing at the bottom and a nice tight lid at the top. I (or we, oh dear) used it for the "rally" and then I tossed it in my purse just as planned.

Somewhere along the way, most likely in the blistering Oklahoma heat, I discovered that the lid wasn't completely keeping the "stick" contained quite like I thought it should. In an effort to keep greazy-sticky sunscreen goo out of the inside of my purse (I think it was the black Coach bag around that time), I must've tossed it into the ashtray of the Windstar instead of tossing it into the purse. I also remember when we thought the transmission was for-sure goin' South and I decided to get the SHO back out -- I had a hard time shuffling my usual accumulation of stuff from the van into my car, and I probably wasn't thinkin' about needin' sunscreen and wasn't thinkin' that there might've been anything inside that ashtray, so I just left it there when I moved everything else.

Closed, black ashtray, inside a closed, dark green van, parked outdoors through a little over three years of Oklahoma freeze-thaw-bake-freeze-again cycles. I'll let your imagination run with that one... Yeah, I'll bet your imagination really wants to wash those hands now, doesn't it?

When I started driving it again a few weeks ago, the first time I pulled that ashtray/cupholder thing out, I was almost surprised to see it; as in "heyyyy, so that's where I left that..." Even though I knew it was my tube of sunscreen and I had left it there and nobody else had been in the van or used the ashtray or the sunscreen, I was not about to touch it. All that heat and all that melting? Ewwww. Sunday when Clay and I were at Sonic, he tossed one of those stripedy peppermints in there and all I could think of was "Ewwww! Not There! Ewwww!!" and I was certainly not about to touch that peppermint either. I like those swirly peppermints, but I wouldn't fish one out of a mud puddle or a purse from a thrift store -- and I definitely was not about to eat one out of a puddle of three-year-old melted sunscreen stick.

So, today, I figured that since I'm going to claim "The Velvetteen Rabbit Theory"* and drive the Windstar to Springfield this weekend, today was as good a time as any to see if that ashtray came out without having to un-bolt the whole cupholder or tear the dash up or turn the van upside-down so I could see about gettin' that mess outta there. Sure enough, it does come out real easy; so I used the two-finger damn-sure-don't-wanna-touch-this-thing method to carry the ashtray to the bathroom where I could dump the near-empty tube out of the melty puddle and into the trash can. I had to beat the ashtray on the side of the trashcan to get the tube to come out, and just as I was about to toss the ashtray into the sink full of burning-hot-soapy water, I saw it.

Lodged floating in the gooey puddle of melted-out sunscreen, there it was...

Not too long ago, Robin mentioned "the fries that never rot." Now, I, as a fat kid, used to be a big fan of Mc D's. The most important words in that sentence are used to be. I didn't see that film "Supersize Me," I only heard about it second-hand through my buddy Pete and through NPR; but what I heard was enough to knock the Mc D's cravings right outta me. Here lately, even since we got one right here close to us in Skiatook, I still don't go there more than once every few months; and usually only if the HoMeSkOoLeRz are here and buggin' us for it. The handy thing about Skiatook Mc D's is that it's very close to a major grocery store, where I can grab a frozen dinner and microwave it.

Robin's mention of "the fries that never rot" made me grin, but I didn't really put much thought into it one way or another until today. Floating in the melted sunscreen nastiness, there it was. Easily recognized, none the worse for wear, was a single, two-inch, Mc D's french fry. I know without a doubt that it had been there a long, long time because I have not eaten anything from Mc D's in these last few weeks that I've been back in this van. I'm not kidding, it looked just like they look when you pull one out of the red box with the yellow and white stripes on the inside and there was absolutely no indication that it had been through three years of Oklahoma weather in a closed car; and if three years of Oklahoma weather won't rot ya, nothin' will. Robin was totally right, McFries never rot.

What about those Sonic Tots that I'm so crazy about? Should I stash one under the seat and see how long it stays?

I wish I'd thought to take a picture of the fry stuck in the sunscreen in the ashtray; or at least take a picture of the fry floating in the toilet after I banged the ashtray on the lid 'til it came un-stuck from the sunscreen and fell out into the water; but I didn't.

I've seen actual proof they never rot -- that page of the newspaper had turned yellow and got crumbly, the Renuzit air freshener that was in the back cupholder had dried and shrunk and dried and shrunk until there was nothing left but the plastic cover. Everything rots, except McFries.

The sunscreen itself is pretty relentless too; that ashtray has been soakin' in that hot water for quite a while and it's not turnin' loose as easy as most ordinary car-crud usually does. I'd think about tossin' it in the dishwasher, but we eat our food off of those dishes...

I'm really not itchin' to put my hands into that water and try to scrub that stuff out. Since I don't smoke, maybe I don't really need to put the ashtray back into the van.

More later. _\,,/

*: I'll write about "The Velvetteen Rabbit Theory" and how it relates to Vehicular Reliability when I get back from Springfield -- as in after I see if the Windstar makes it to Springfield and back without me having to rent a U-Haul and a Tow Dolly to get it home. I'm sure it'll be fine. I'm sure it'll be fine -- that's the main point of TVRT. Heh.

The Yellow One...

I already have a couple more in the works, but here's the "official" picture of my first finished baby sweater:



Yes, that's a Doll, ya didn't think I'd give the first one to an actual Baby did ya? It might be itchy, it might be too tight around the neck, it might be allergy-inducing, it might be itchy!

My first-ever baby sweater went to Misty's baby Hunter, the one & only little boy who'll never spill anything on it, never snag it on anything, never outgrow it, and most importantly, it won't make him itch and scratch and itch and scratch.

No word yet on whether or not anybody's makin' fun of him for wearing it in July & August.

As an admitted "Crazy Yarn Lady," I'm seriously considering knitting something for that (crazy) expensive baby doll that I bought when I was in PTA School...

More later. _\,,/

It Must've Been The Underpants Gnomes.

As if I, completely sober, might not remember what had happened an inch from my eyes.

A while back, I got a crack in the frame of my sunglasses; since I liked 'em, I went back and got another pair of the same brand only just a little different shape of frame. For under five bucks, they were a sweet deal and quite nice for cheap sunglasses. I'm still habitually careful with 'em -- I'm careful 'cause they're glasses and the careful is a longtime habit (since fourth grade or so), but I usually try to buy cheap ones 'cause there's always a chance they could get dropped or squished or crunched under a car seat. I like this newest pair too; I think I'm going to stay with the "Strike King" brand when I replace 'em.



Sunday afternoon, I sprayed myself with sunscreen and played in the pool. It was nice, we had a great time. I vividly remember the water dripping out of my hair and into my sunglasses as I bent over to put my sandals back on. I've no doubt there was a mix of hair products and sunscreen and generalized pool-water-crud dripping into 'em. When I went inside to change back into my regular clothes, I rinsed 'em off in the bathroom sink and stuck 'em on top of my already-wet hair without drying or wiping the glasses with anything.

Driving home Sunday evening, my sunglasses were grubby but tolerable, so I took 'em in the house with me and when I got ready to go to work Monday morning, I washed 'em with Dial Soap and soapy wet hands; because I've found that to be the easiest way to get 'em clean and smudge-free. After rinsing 'em under running water and shaking 'em almost-dry, I got a clean towel out of the cabinet; a clean towel straight from the laundry that hadn't had hands dried with it or anything and dried 'em off with it.

When I drove to work that morning, those sunglasses were so clean and so nice I made a point not to touch 'em or take a chance of gettin' 'em smudgy. I drove to lunch, I drove home, I drove into Tulsa and back home again, and I enjoyed the magic of clean, streak-free, like-new sunglasses. Same thing comin' in to work Tuesday morning, they were nice and clean when I came in, I laid 'em on my desk a bit, and when I had to go outside and check a VIN, I put 'em on and they were fine. It was a simple trip out the back door, just open a car door, read the numbers and write 'em on a piece of paper. There was no trauma involved, no strange contact with foreign objects; not to my head, or hands, or legs, or anything. Just out the door and back inside, easy as ya please.

I came back inside and went to the back office to hand over the number I'd just written down, and since it's relatively dark in the back office (compared to outdoors, anyway), I left 'em on the table on top of the daily newspaper. When I came back out of the office, I figured I'd better pick 'em up and take 'em back to my desk so I wouldn't forget where I left 'em before I needed 'em again.

An hour or so later when I was about to leave to go to the Post Office, I picked 'em up and put 'em on and my right eye went dim. Seriously, I wondered if I had something wrong with me because I had such a sudden hard time seeing out of my right eye.

I took 'em off immediately, and along with a healthy amount of dirt and crud and possibly someone else's sebaceous secretions, this is what I found:



Now, call me crazy, call me overly suspicious, but I think it looks deliberate. I really think it looks like someone picked 'em up and rubbed 'em with something scratch-inducing -- like maybe one of those shop towels that's got a little gob of machine-shop-metal-twistie stuck in it.

In my years as a full-time glasses-wearer (from fourth grade 'til I got my contacts in ninth grade) and a naturally sebaceous person (I'm genetically oily, just in case that might save y'all a trip to the dictionary), I've come to the conclusion that rubbing glasses dryly around-and-around with something like a t-shirt hem is only goonna spread the smudges around and make things worse -- hence my earlier mention of Dial Soap and running water. If I really have to use the t-shirt hem, I only swipe across once; so I do know without a doubt that I did not rub that pattern into that lens. I know this for certain because I know my habits and I know that those glasses were not dirty when I laid 'em down on top of that newspaper because I'd just been out in the sunshine enjoying the view through nice, clean, non-smudgy sunglasses.

Now, why might I be suspicious enough to think that someone had done it deliberately? Well, that's because someone's been a little irritated with me for turning the "Parental Controls" back on on the PC. Apparently he'd discovered that I forgot to turn 'em back on on one of the computers, so he'd been using that one to p0rn-hunt through Y0uTube and wherever else. I showed the history to the boss, and was told to turn the Parental Controls back on; shortly after I did, I ended up with fucked-up sunglasses.

In the shock of finding the huge round-patterned scratch-o-rama, and in the presence of the suspect, I showed 'em to My Mom with a hearty "What-the hell?" Would you believe the asshole had the nerve to ask me if I "had anything stuck in my shirt tail" and then tell me that I "must've walked into something while I was outside." Fucker. Yeah, I walked into something and kept rubbing my face into it around and around until it completely fucked up my favorite sunglasses. If it had been some kind of "accident" that scratched 'em up that bad, I probably would have lost some forehead flesh as well. Sure, I "walked into something" alright -- I walked right into trusting my own family enough to think I didn't have to worry about shit like that.

So, just because I still think he did it, and just because I'm all about sharing the humor with y'all, Dear Readers, I proudly present a first installment of SCREENSHOTS! Yes, friends and neighbors, these are the Print-Screen files of the stuff that My Brother (the HoMeSkOoL dAd), along with his HoMeSkOoL kIdS, are searching for and looking at on the PC at work, which is sittin' on this counter via a lease from a service provider who can see everything that goes on with it...

For your entertainment, here's a few bits of search history:



(Yes, Go0gle it is, even to find Eb@y or anything else that ends with ".com")

And here's a shot of what Mr. Fundamentalist HoMeSkOoL dAd searches for on Y0uTube:



And when it comes to still pictures, ya can't beat this hottie, not even with a stick!



Check back soon, there's a lot more where that came from!

More later... _\,,/

I Could Do That Job...

As much as I adore the "ol' gravy train" of workin' for my folks, I know that there's always the chance that I might have to find a "real job" someday. I'm almost always on the look out for potential "real jobs."

A few weeks ago, our You Pea Ess (Go0gle-proof) guy lost his job. Pat was a good guy, always real warm & friendly, and I hope he's doin' okay. The story I heard was that he'd turned in paperwork to report that the park brake wasn't holding and the truck needed to be fixed; they sent him back out with it anyway, and it rolled into a fence after he'd climbed out to deliver a package.

Apparently, if you crash a "big brown truck," you're instantly fired on-the-spot; as in "you better call somebody and see if you can get a ride home."

Now, this other freight company, there's some people I wouldn't mind workin' for. I get the impression they'd hire anybody and never fire 'em for anything. This guy smashed the unholy shit out of our ten-by-twenty overhead door a few years back, but he's still workin' for 'em. It's not like he's their "Miss America" and puttin' on a real nice visual representation either -- I'd guess he ain't seen a razor or a toothbrush since sometime around the Nixon administration; some say you can tell by the smell, but I try not to inhale when he's around. Go to work unwashed and get away with anything? Suh-weet!

Well, today while I was waiting to get the Windstar back out of the building, he showed up with a Ranger Passenger Side Airbag. Now, granted, it's a little bigger than a driver's side airbag, but still, the box was only just a bit bigger than a shoebox. The invoice from the freight company says it's seven pounds. So, roughly estimating, it's a box just a bit bigger but just a bit lighter than my purse. I know, I know, my purse is insane, but hey, it works for a point of reference.

I really didn't think that something that close to the size of my purse (the Dooney Cabrio-Leather Satchel that's been with me for a little over a year now is sort of a medium-to-large-ish sized bag) would merit backing a twenty-foot box truck into that same overhead door that he'd missed/damaged a few years back. I really-really didn't think something that size would merit using the lift-gate on the back of that truck either, but apparently, it did. I'm completely serious, he unloaded that seven-pound box (and his own happy ass, from what I could tell) with the lift-gate just like they use to unload major appliances like washers and dryers and refrigerators.

My Mom (who's 67 and freshly back-to-work after having major abdominal surgery) was standin' there beside me and I figured it would be a good bet to grab the box myself just in case it was too much weight. I stood there holding the box while "Ol Filthy" and My Mom each signed their respective areas of the invoice, atop the box which was in my very hands.

Did I mention that I held the box for 'em both to sign the paperwork on top of it? Okay, just making sure I was clear there.

After signing, Mom offered to take the box, and I said "Are ya sure it's not too heavy for ya?"

As Mom took the box and headed back toward the office with it, "Ol Filthy" looked me straight in the eyes as if he wondered what kind of idiot I was, laughed at me, and then said "It's only seven pounds!"

No shit? I didn't just have it in my hands or anything, now did I?

Ever have one of those moments where you can feel your own power to make somebody see what an asshole they are? That's how I felt right then, I had the power. Calling "Ol' Filthy" by his own first name straight off his dirty shirt, I couldn't help but throw back a "Well, I just had it in my hands, didn't I ______, I know it's only seven pounds, but Mom's not well."

My Mom would probably kick my ass if she knew I'd pulled somethin' like that... But oh well, I still believe it's part of our job to stand up for our own, and on top of that, I still don't do well with bein' called "the stupid one."

More later... _\,,/

What Kind Of Noise?

What sort of sound does a Kiwi make? Do they honk or sing or tweet or squawk or what??

Here's mine, sittin' on the dash of The Short Bus right before I left for work this morning.



The pattern for this birdy is from BitterSweet, where there's also lots of other cute & fun stuff you might want to take a look at. I've finished my first one; I've started on a second one and maybe I'll be able to avoid my goof-up's this time. There's this odd little hole in the back of Kiwi #1's neck, it's only visible if ya really know right where to look, but I always look and wonder if that's some mistake I made. I also want to do a little something different when it comes to putting the eyes on the next one; my buttons & thread (totally against the designer's instructions, I apologize) just aren't quite like I wanted 'em to be.

As noted by the wire hanging out of the stock cassette deck, we're checkin' out Smodcast on the iPod; I'm a little behind and trying to catch up, I think I was just finishing up the one about Helen Keller -- which, by-the-way, I found quite interesting.

I'd write Kevin Smith an e-mail if I thought it would get read, but I've no doubt he gets a gob of messages every day and some chick from Oklahoma saying "Hey, take a Sign Language Class at that Community College ya mentioned, mine was fascinating," probably wouldn't get read. Even if I also told him how freakin' hot he is, my e-mail probably just wouldn't stand out enough to get noticed. I remember reading a kid-targeted book about Helen Keller when I was real young, but just like they said in the podcast, I didn't really think about it when I was a kid. It's probably quite a task to teach language to someone who niether hears nor sees; but the ASL class that I took really changed my way of thinking language and about communication in general.

Even in the midst of the world's biggest stinker, I don't think there was ever an occasion where a teacher took Helen Keller's hand and spelled out t-h-a-t--w-a-s--a--f-a-r-t; but I'm sure there was some sort of acknowledgement of rippin' one off, even though I'm not entirely sure what that sign would be. As native English speakers, we "think in English," which is where the "t-h-a-t" comes from. One of the profoudly fascinating things we learned in that ASL class was the huge difference between Sign Language and written or spoken English as we know it -- but even as the "wordy person" that I am, I appreciate the beauty of both. I remember an instructor who said "English is wide, ASL is deep." English uses lots of words to convey a concept, while Sign uses lots of expression and doesn't really need to rely on the extras like t-h-a-t.

I have no idea why I waded off into that, but I did, so I'm leavin' it there...

Is it time to go home and knit yet??

More later, _\,,/