Oh, and get this. Last weekend, I actually brushed my hair, put on clothes with no discernible stains, and went to a party. Granted, it was a birthday party for a three-year-old, and it was just at my neighbor's house, and I was only there in the capacity of Child Wrangler, BUT - there were other adults, there was beer and horse doovers, and no one mentioned the rash I get on my neck when I get nervous! Social success! This was Devon's first birthday party (as an attendee), and though I questioned the wisdom of any parent scheduling a gathering of small children in the late afternoon, I figured Dev, who was feeling much more herself at this point, would be okay. And she was Charm Itself when we walked in the door, talking with everyone and dancing and checking herself out in the big mirror they had in their living room (she takes after me). Then, something snapped, and she was suddenly in tears over everything. I have no idea what set her off, though I suspect it was a well-meaning older child who wanted to help her do the craft that was set up for all the kids to do. God help you if you try to assist that child without her asking you first. IT RUINS EVERYTHING. For hours. After that, she couldn't handle anything that was going on, and after the Happy Birthday song made her cover her ears and cry, I suggested that perhaps it was time for us to depart, a suggestion she was grateful to follow. So we left David to be the sole representation of Geeky Nerditude among the other grown-ups, a role he is usually quite happy to play.
The same neighbors had a party back in late November, one they have every year, where every guest is supposed to bring a homemade soup in a crockpot and everyone votes for the best one. We are the only neighbors who get invited, it seems, or at least the only ones who show. The rest of the guest list appears to be people Mrs. Schedules Her Kid Parties After 3 P.M. (I've changed her name to protect her privacy) knows from her job, which is as a stylist at one of the fancy schmancy salons in town. (Mr. SHKPA3PM cannot invite his work buddies because he Can't Tell Us Where He Works Though He Will Say It's In Virginia which is not-so-secret code in these parts for CIA.) Do you know what people who work at fancy schmancy salons are like? They are all skinny and have fabulous hair. I have nothing to talk about with people who are skinny and have fabulous hair. I am fat and have scalp psoriasis.
So I made David go by himself. He doesn't have anything to talk about with skinny, well-coiffed people either (he doesn't have a scalp condition that I am aware of, but he is "cuddly," which is how he likes me to think of his girth (and I do)), but he is much more willing to endure it for the sake of good neighbor relations. He stayed for a socially acceptable 2 hours, and then returned, having spent the bulk of his evening nursing a beer and playing with his new Android phone. I'd really like to throw a party with all of the geekiest people I know (philosophy professors - I know several of those - and programmers and policy wonks) and add one skinny person with fabulous hair just to see if she ends up sitting by herself playing with her phone. Because I would truly like to believe that the universe would balance that way, but I suspect that any skinny person with fabulous hair would get oodles of attention, even if she were practically brain dead and surrounded by cuddly, follicularly challenged PhDs.
It doesn't help matters that I was once quite skinny, and though I have never had hair one could call fabulous, it was spiky and kinda punk and totally awesome. This is how I still see myself, though I look nothing like it anymore:
Guess which one's me!
In quilting news:
I have long been coveting a particular cross-stitch piece that has been for sale at this Etsy shop, but she wanted like $300 for it (granted, it came mounted in an organic "eco-frame," but still). A few weeks ago, I noticed that it had been reduced to $99 and though that is still WAY more than I am usually prepared to pay for anything that doesn't organize my entire life/cook all my meals/provide multiple orgasms, I happened to have just a little extra cash and a guilty husband who didn't get me anything for Christmas. Or I would have extra cash, just as soon as payday arrived, but then some ho-bag got to it before I did. I begged the artist to make a pattern for it, as I noticed she was starting to do that with some of her designs (a smart business move) and she did! Eight bucks and ninety-nine cents later, I have my dream cross-stitch project:
Now I just have to remember how to actually, you know, cross-stitch. I remember it involves floss. And hoops.
I have started on it, but I am incapable of following charts or directions, and have already fucked up. Naturally, I fucked up the word "motherfucka" and instead stitched "motherfucker," apparently because I am so anal about spelling I even have to correct a foul word from rap lyrics on my cross-stitch project:
And I only noticed this as I was writing this blog post and while I am waiting for a phone call about a possible, though not probable, freelance editing job. I think this illustrates my editing skills nicely, and I plan to include a link to it in my resume. If the cross-stitch doesn't seal the deal, my college-era hair will, no doubt.
Oh, and, um...everybody? Thanks. For, you know, being awesome. You're the best blog readers a fat, flaky-headed hermit could ask for.
