Let the Birthday Games Begin

Best Quote I Heard All Day

What a drag it is getting old--Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, "Mother' s Little Helper"

So the Glimmer Twins wrote that song when they were 25? And now the two are going to be 66 this year. 

It's early, it's my birthday, Jerry's still sleeping, and I'm out on the porch writing. A bit chilly but the weather is going to heat up to the high 80s today. Yeah, thank ya Jeeeeezus. 

The celebration started yesterday when I walked into work and found that my coworkers had decorated my desk.

Yes, that's a Nerf gun on my laptop. We do occasionally have shootouts at the Okey-Dokey corral. They sprinkled my desk with little birthday cutouts. Our team has five birthdays this week alone, so we're having a group party next week.

And then Jerry came up last night, with these in hand:

Plus a card that I can't display. Suffice it to say that I laughed my ass off when I read it after midnight. He was jonesin' for me to read it but I wouldn't, until it was officially my birthday. I know he has a present for me, but he's still cuttin' ZZZZZZZZZs.

My beloved gay brother, Joe, sent me this:

I love the colors! Damn him! Now I want to wind the skeins and start designing a pair of men's socks. One of my colleagues, Bobby, who's a sweetheart and young enough to be my son, loves what he calls "Funky Man Socks" so I think that's a perfect name.

And finally, here's what I'm doing right now, out on the porch, with coffee and Cleo at my side.

I had to laugh yesterday. My cell phone goes off and it's Liz. "Happy Birthday, Gram!" Um, Liz, it's tomorrow. She got so upset that she got it wrong, I had to calm her down over the phone. And then we laughed. Liz just got her first job, so she's up to her earballs.  But getting an "I love ya, Gram" was a fine pre-birthday present, for sure.

Tomorrow is grandson Ian's 12th birthday. Ian, aka Birthday Present, because he came damned close to being born on his Gram's birthday. So it's a big fambly get-together down at Corinne's house, with ganze Familia attending. Cake, coffee, and schmoozing. I'm so lucky to have such a fabulous family. We all love each other. And everyone is rare and handy.

It's All Relative. Mommy, Daddy, Baby, President

Best Quote I Heard All Day

Imagination is everything. It is the preview of life's coming attractions.-- Albert Einstein

When my youngest daughter Corinne was tiny, she would identify her family as "Mommy. Daddy. Baby. President." I was never quite sure whether she was the Baby or the President. Perhaps her sister can clarify. But I doubt it. There's nothing better than a child's imagination. God knows both my children had imaginations that ran rampant, particularly Jenn.

Which is why I've decided that I will become even more childish than I am now. It's the only way to survive.

Happy belated birthday to my Sissyboo, Ms. Scrappy. She was my 12th birthday present. The gift that keeps on giving, as they say. 

Here's why Kar and Mar are glad that Mammy had them in April.

This picture was taken at Branch Brook Park this past Sunday, a county park in Newark/Belleville, NJ, that rivals DC with its cherry blossoms. Jerry and I were out and about, wanting to enjoy the sunshine, so he drove over and we cruised through the park. 

And then the weekend before, we drove along the Delaware River.

It's fucking 41 degrees and raining out, as I write this. Feh.

Obligatory Knitting (and Spinning) Shit

Well, almost one sleeve done on Jerry's sweater. As you can see, Cleo does not understand the concept of being nonplussed. She decided to step into the photo, something she never does. Little attention whore. 

If that isn't a look of disdain, I don't know what it is. Cleo is such a non-feline, I'm ashamed to call her a cat. I sat with my spindle last night, twirling it in front of her. She turned her back and walked away. No interest in yarn, no interest in cat toys, eats catnip and immediately falls asleep. Jesus. 

I've been fucking around with my Comet spindle again, this time using some Romney that I found in the fiber storage bin.

 It's actually spinning up nicely and I'm now satisfied that I can spindle. I still prefer a wheel, howsome ever. 

Panera Posse

I managed to make it to the Mt. Olive Panera last Wednesday for the knitting get-together. Only five of us showed up: Me, BJ, Linda, Jeanne, and later, Crystal. But I did take a picture of their gruesomenesses.

From left, it's Linda, Beej, and Jeanne. Crystal showed up after the photo shoot. I did admire Jeanne's bag that she made herself, of fabric called "Knitmare on Main Street." My favorite motif is the skeleton slumped in the armchair with the knitting. That's how I feel, most nights.

It's funny. I've never been much for groups, never joined much of anything other than orchestra in high school, dropped out of Girl Scouts because I was bored and the girls in the troop, other than Dottie, were annoying. But I enjoy going to this group when I can muster up the energy on Wednesday nights to make the 70-mile roundtrip after work. 

MD Not Cheap and Wool

Well, I'm ready. Got my pennies together, although I still haven't decided if I want to get the Ladybug. I am not usually so pussified when making a decision but the little schizo voice in my head keeps saying, "Do you REALLY need another wheel?" The schizo voice obviously mimicks my mother quite well. 

I'm bringing Jerry with me and my gut thoughts run to "do you really want him to know what you spend on this shit?" Of course, given fiber shoved into my eyeballs, Jerry will vanish for a brief time. You know he won't be any kind of shopping deterrent.

Twitz

I finally started using Twitter more often and stuck it into the sidebar the other night. As I was reading in e-Week, Twitter and FaceBook are now known as "mini-blogs." With Twitter limited to 140 characters, I'd say that was past "mini" but probably just enough for anyone's blather, including mine. 

I remember learning about stream-of-consciousness writing when I was a freshman in high school and thinking that it was a very cool way to write. I seem to recall that I tried my hand at it, possibly for a homework assignment. In fact, this blog is plenty stream of consciousness, when you come right down to it. I rarely think much of it through until I'm typing. I may take pictures, may use 'em, may not. 

So consider this true WYSIWYG kind of crap.

Hippo Bird-day

Friday will be my last day of being in my 50s because, as my mother so kindly reminded me yesterday, Saturday will be the first day of my 60s. I think she's enjoying the fact. Considering that she will be 86 in August but looks and acts like she's in her 60s, I figure I'm about 35 or so, really. What my mother knits would put a lot of knitters half her age to shame. She just finished the Mari Dembrow cardigan that I've been working on. And started another lace shawl. 

While I spent some time last week feeling a bit sorry for myself because damn it, I'm getting to be an old lady, I rallied and decided, fuck it. I'll never lose my attitude. Mammy hasn't, my grandmother didn't, I won't either. And I've passed this along to Jenn and Corinne, with Liz being the rarest and handiest budding curmudgeon of them all. It's all relative.

Is 90 the New 80?

Best Quote I Heard All Day
It takes a long time to grow young--Pablo Picasso

Let's see. Yes, it's true. I'm 35 today. Mentally.

There's been much rumination and ensuing angst about turning 58. Now the day is here and I'm in a relatively sanguine mood. Even though I'm looking down the gun at 60. Shit, so what.

So Happy fucking Birthday to me. (There may be some of that later, too. One never knows.)

I try not to dwell on my age but it's almost impossible to avoid it. However, the past week, with a whirlwind trip to Indy this past Monday and Tuesday, I had a great deal of time in airports to knit and ponder.

Over the past few years, I've made some incredible friends. My beloved Neal, for one. Johnny Hargreaves, aka Iron Sausage, who just called me to wish me a happy birthday. What a sweetheart. There's Loopy, who's been with me through the tough times. She's always there, always funny, always someone I can lean on. Joe, Carol, Lisa, Ted, the whole knitting crew. Need I say more? Susan, my boss. I'm sure I'm forgetting someone here but these post-Jimmy people have helped me in turning my life around. You can't do it alone.

My 40th high school reunion is looming. June 21st, to be exact. And I am actually looking forward to it because I'll be reunited with my dear childhood friends, Marcia and Dottie.

I almost never write about my non-knitting friends. I do have quite a few who are dear to my heart. Marcia Ancier , Dottie Melcher and I have been friends for almost 50 years. Marcia and I went to the same elementary school, Watchung, so I guess we kinda knew each other in kindergarten, although I really more remember her from 3rd grade. She invited me to her birthday party (which she doesn't remember now, but I do).

Dottie has always been a constant in my life. In 4th grade, I moved from one end of town to the other, to Uppah Montclair, the chi-chi part of town. Right before my 10th birthday, I'm riding my bike around the corner to explore the new neighborhood, going up the hill on Macopin Avenue. And there's this kid, with blonde frizzy hair, sort of hanging out vaguely on the street. I stopped and we talked, as young kids do to strange kids. Dottie struck me as almost as weird as I was. I was a very odd child. And so was she. She drew, I wrote. We made an instant connection, one that has never ceased throughout the years.

In high school, the three of us melded. Marcia had and still has this wry sense of humor. Dottie was always delightfully drifty, although probably one of the smartest people I've ever known. And then there was me, off the wall writer, musician, general freak who didn't give a fuck if she was "unpopular." Peggy aka Pegret was added to our girl group, a beautiful Janis Joplin lookalike who wrote poetry, had big tits, and was the ethereal one. (Yes, there were freak guys too--my high school crush, Bert Eisenstadt, Jimmy Henry, Jimmy Garland, Jimmy and Kevin Brown, Aaron Myett, Chris and Tim Andres, Tracy Jones, and many more.)

Our high school crowd, the freaks, were far more interesting a group than the blonde cheerleader types. So Cindy Binzen, what the fuck did you do with your life? I guess I'll find out if you show up on June 21.

So you Montclair skanks, if you're reading this, we can turn back the clock and dance on. That is, if Melcher can ever learn how to do the Mashed Potatoes, which I doubt. I love you

My birthday means I can look back on those halcyon days with great fondness. When we were young. As we still are. Rock on, gang. And be rare and handy no matter what. And Happy Birthday tomorrow to my sweet Ian, known as Birthday Present, my rapidly growing grandson. Who I love more than life itself.