Monday, April 2, 2012


They had to put Sophie down today. She was seventeen.

I met Haley in seventh grade. She was a middle school cheerleader with a rebellious streak, I was a total nerd. She dyed her hair pink and we have been friends ever since. I used to do her hair, vibrant crimson with very precise patches of bleached white in specific places. I was so brilliant with hair.

Every time I'd go to her house, her dog, Sophie, would bark like all get out. That is, until she smelled me. Then she'd just lick my legs and wag her tail until I petted her. She was so excited to have a friend!

This was probably ten years ago.

She was very old, mostly blind, and had arthritis. She was the runt of litter, and was bought with allowance money. She was supposed to be quite a large dog... But she turned out to be a large dog on very little legs. Full grown, she had a normal big-dog body, complete with German Shepherd markings and huge paws, but with almost Corgi-sized legs.

She was silly, tail always wagging.

I teared up so badly when Haley texted me tonight. Sophie was meant to last forever.

She had a stroke this evening, and lost control of her back legs. Trying to go down the stairs to the basement, she fell. Haley's boyfriend and her dad had to carry Sophie to the vet in a cloth sling. The vet said there was very little they could do.

Rest in peace, Sophie. My legs feel so dry without you.

Sunday, April 1, 2012

On When I Met the Random Big Bill Guy

This blog has turned into a case study of the people in my city. I'm so awkward socially that I feel the need to post any outside-of-work interactions.

I went to a gas station close to my house in the wee hours tonight. Pull into a space, put it in first, pull my brake then, well... roll down my window and open my door from the outside because I'm twenty-three and have a car with random broken things. I've told the Internets, time and time again, how poor I am!

Anyway, there's a guy coming out of the gas station...

Let me just say it is not a well respected gas station. I live on "The West Side" which is mostly housing developments and old people and Parent Teacher Associations and Home Owners' Associations and good schools and day cares.

People move to "The West Side" to raise kids. Three car garages and kids named Skylar and Bryton.

(Both of which Google Chrome decided are not words. lol)

So, this particular corner of the city block has a gas station, a liquor store, a pawn shop and a car wash. There are some shitty apartments nearby... And last year someone was partying at those apartments, drinking booze from that liquor store, and died from a stab wound in the car wash. True story.

So... Not the classiest of joints. Although, in the same city block there are three schools, a public library and like seven churches. Wichita is ridiculous.

Anyway, back to that guy coming out of the gas station.

He asked me, "You got change for a hundred? Some twenties?"

I told him no, then as I was fishing in my wallet inside the gas station, I realized I had two fifties. That's almost the same, right?

So as I walk to my car, I tell him this. Cause I'm nice and shit. Also, I've had two glasses of wine... Which brings me to Normal Midwestern Friendly Level.

He then says things like:

What you doin tonight?
Whachoo do for fun?
You got a boyfriend?

To which I say, respectively:

Catching up on my Google Reader.
I work a lot.

He then asks:

You ain't allowed to have friends?
We couldn't just hang out?
We could party?

NOTE: This whole conversation, he is looking me up and down, and licking his lips. Not in an LL-Cool-J-Romantic-Comedy kind of way. Also, I was not wearing a bra under my tank top, but I figured my cardigan did the trick. He noticed, WTF.

I jingled my keys, as he asked me if I live alone (rapist much?), then got in my car and drove off.

What happened to, "That dress hardly does you justice. Let me hold the door for you, Miss"?

Any time I get shouted at, I merely put my middle finger up, not looking back to whoever it was, and walk away, shoulders high. I am not here to get you off.

Do these people not have mothers?

They must be wired wrong to think that these tactics will get you laid. My self esteem is lower than normal, but JESUS.

Aaaaand, Fin.

Friday, March 30, 2012

On When I Met Julie

Just got back from the laundromat. Let me tell you something: I'm unfriendly outside of work. Well, not unfriendly, just... not too talkative. I still hold doors for people and stuff, but I avoid eye contact and keep to myself.

But there was this lady. This Midwestern Christian Mom lady. Don't know what that is? A lady of an upper-middle class lifestyle, with a house bigger than necessary, which... is probably actually necessary because she had upwards of four kids. That house is probably mostly beige, really clean and smells like Jesus. Everything is totally put together all the time, always.

Sounds like I'm a bitch and judge everyone? Probably so. And listen, I found out Midwestern Christian Moms can be... super nice! This Julie lady was so incredibly nice!

She's having her house remodeled and can't use her washer/dryer, so she came to my laundromat. She asked, "Do you come here a lot? Is it nice? How many quarters do I need to use on the dryers?" Not in a slumming sort of way, but a genuinely enthusiastic way.

(One quarter on knits, by the way. Two for jeans and towels.)

Her three accompanying kids were super adorable, and I told her so. They were so helpful! Which isn't surprising, because she was seriously one of the nicest strangers I've ever met. Seriously. She has six kids, between the ages of fifteen and Drop The Youngest Off At A Friend's House Cause They'll Be Fussy. She asked if I have any kids.

In the Midwest, it is commonplace for a person only twenty-three to have a kid or two. You should see my Facebook. Absolutely flooded with photos of kids. She said, "I hope the Lord blesses you with a child one day."

Then I felt bad for saying "Oh my God" twice. Thou shall not take the Lord's name in vain.

We folded laundry and chit-chatted, as our folding stations were right across from one another. I caught a glimpse into a life I could have had if I weren't raised agnostic. I don't want kids yet, surely. A house and a husband would come first. But maybe thirty-five or thirty wouldn't be the right age.

Maybe like... Twenty-eight. Or nine.

Hell, I still don't know.

"If you'd have asked me at twenty-three if I wanted six kids, I would have said, 'Heck no!' But we're so greatful for that the Lord has given us." -Julie, Midwestern Christian Mom of Awesomeness.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Arthritis + Skirts = I'm a Sexy Old Lady?

This is probably the first year in my twenty-four year existence in which I actually did my taxes before the Oh-Shit-I-Forgot-About-My-Taxes Day hits. Guess how much money I made last year? Well I won't tell you. I will tell you that, fuuuuuu-I'm poor.

I checked one box wrong and I owed money. Un-check it and Uncle Sam is sending me some. Yay for me.

Knitting lately has been strictly yarn bomb related. I have fifty million pieces to do, and it feels like I'm the only one doing them. In fact, I think I AM the only one doing them. My Right Hand Woman should be living in town this summer, so that'll help.

In the meantime, I'll just work on getting arthritis by making holiday scarves in the middle of March.

Fun fact: I own four times as many skirts as I do pants. And probably three times as many heels as flats. I have mad ridiculous amounts of weird clothes, and I wear the same six outfits over and over again. I'm a notorious sale-hound and cheapskate. So, a lot of these are $1.98 items from the thrift store, but still. Why do I keep buying all this crazy shit if I'm not going to wear it?

I have a bright blue cowgirl skirt. Tag says "Cowboy Corral, Louisville, KY." True story.

I should do one of those month-long fashion experiments I keep seeing on the blogosphere. Title it "I'm Finally Wearing Skirts!" or "How The Fuck Did This End Up In My Closet?!"

I bought boots at the downtown thrift store yesterday. When I got them out, the boyfriend said, "Don't you have boots just like that... only a little shorter?" I looked at the boots, and back at him. "My other boots are waaay too short to wear with something other than jeans." Obviously.

That's not ridiculous, is it?

(It really is. Also, I have a pair of jeans that I keep specifically for boot-wearing-days. What is wrong with me.)

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Adulthood Appears... Again.


No one read this blog, and quite frankly, I'm not sober enough to care. Atleast my typing is awesome.

This is a post about "adult friends." Not the kind of the friends you make sexy-time with, but the kind you meet out of high school. It seems the older you get, the harder it is to meet new people and maintain relationships. Maybe its just me, the perpetually awkward, but I get the feeling this is a common thing.

My boyfriend and I have had conversations about how our parents only have one or two friends that aren't family. I used to think that was totally impossible, having so many party friends in my youth. Now, as the years creep by, and friends fall by the wayside, I can see how that would happen.

And it terrifies the fuck out of me.

I used to be so social, using booze as a remedy for my constant awkwardness. I have a lot of friends on Facebook. I'm like... totes popular. But how many of these people would I want to have over for dinner? How many of them would I go to with intimate problems?

Very few. It seems all the "friends" you accumulated in your youth are quite worthless. You realize how vapid and shallow people really are, and those people are quickly abandoned. Your giant circle of friends turns into a whole bunch of people you just kinda know, with ten or so exceptions.

I spent my evening with an old friend from middle school, who went to a different high school, and then moved out of state. It's just a crazy random happenstance that she is engaged to the tenant downstairs. She was really fun, and I feel comfortable with her because I knew her in my youth. We were able to bond over the countless things we have in common, and I may have found another recruit for my yarn bomb.

But how do you make friends as an adult? Can I organize play-dates?

How did life get so complicated?

Seacrest out?

Gotta find a better way to say goodbye...

Tuesday, January 17, 2012

Babies Come From Cupcakes, Obviously

K, so. My Better Half is curled up under his old boyscouts sleeping bag, face covered and all. I turned off all the lights to better suit slumbering, and now... Drunk blogging time!

I should probably figure out a way to disable the "Paige posted at fuck-all a.m. in the morning" feature. It's 4 a.m., I'll be honest.

K, so, I had mentioned, in passing, the impending baby shower. It was last week, I took a whole day off work. And, also, I stressed. The. Fuck. Out. This shower was important for two reasons:

1) My oldest friend, Haley, is pregnant with a little princess. She will name this child Temperance Paige. Temperance after a character on one of her favorite tv shows, Bones, and Paige after... MOTHERFUCKING ME. Holy god. I'm a god-mother.

2) I have never been to a baby shower. Never. Shit's supposed to be pink? You play some game with nasty candy bars in diapers? What the fuck am I supposed to do here?!


Neither Mom to Be nor myself have a home fit for a baby shower, so we had it at her old church. They provided tables and chairs and crystal platters and alllllll the things. I kind of wish I was raised in a non-agnostic household... this place had a full kitchen. Four ovens, two stoves, three fridges... How.

I called the Mom to Be's own mother like this:

Me: Glenda! Hey, all the ice trays are empty and I need ice for the punch and water pitchers! Can you pick up some ice on your way?

Glenda: Is the ice machine empty?

Me: Ice machine? What?

Glenda: Left of the fridges.


I'll stop gnawing your ear off and just show you photos. In 3, 2, 1...

I was so stressed until it came time to pipe the tops of the mini cupcakes. Filling that bag, then twisting the end and forcing frosting out the tip... I can't describe how wonderful that was.

I am so blessed to have cake experience. My good friend Alex, who lives in LA now, taught me a lot in fondant and buttercream. I owe him bunches.

My cupcakes vs the Grandma's brownies with little booties on them.

(Mine ran out quicker.)

"Paige's Pinwheels" which the Mommy demanded. They're really simple, but they always go the fastest. Cream cheese, olives, peppers, and shredded cheese, all wrapped in a tortilla. Gosh, I love redneck hors d'oeuvres.

Also, we served crustless ham and cheese tea sandwiches. I thought they'd be dainty. Please excuse the glob of mayo. A pregnant woman sauced them.

She did not want to take this photo, at all. Not shown in the close-ups: chips and french onion dip as well as mini ham and cheese quiches. Oh la la.

When I'm pregnant, I'm throwing my own shower. Seriously, I've stumbled upon too many cute things to let them go to waste.

The tables were pink and purple.

The stuff overflowed the table we set out.

Haley found a helper.

I call that practice.

So, that concludes my bout into fucking baby hysteria. Tune in next month when I actually see the child.

And have no idea what do, at all.

God, I'm bad with kids.

Seacrest out!

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

How I Met Your Mother Ruined My Life

Wet hair sucks. Its cold.

I've been watching a lot of How I Met Your Mother. This has led to a lot of thinking. I'm a few years shy of getting all of the jokes, but I'm just on the cusp of the HIMYM age group. Growing up? I don't wanna.

But then... I look over at my better half, who is asleep, snoring, on the couch. He startles himself because his nose itches--then is almost awake and wiping away fake drool--only to re-position himself and resume snoring. This makes me want to grow up.

I think life and love are like knitting. You jump in, assuming it will work out, only to find you don't know how it works. Stockingette and garter stitch seem easy enough, but eventually there's increases and decreases and cables and DPNS and circulars and all sorts of codes.

You know the drill. COsuchandsuch, K12, P78, C4F and C4B, KFB, K2Tog, K tbl, M1, Pfb, OMGSeriously.

But I think the key is getting your groove down (Like Stella had to get twice), and learning from there. I learned to knit in my teens and most of my work was basic moves. This is starting to sound like a sex manual in knitting terms, but I'm actually talking about relationships and life, here. Holy god, I'm sorry. Please don't k2tog in bed.

I'm talking about kYOURLIFEtog. You kinda go through the motions until you figure out how to weave in the ends. You do what you can in the present, working toward the main goal.

So pick some goals, which are just like FO's you'd like to achieve. I think I'd like to be a teacher and live in Nederland, CO, but I don't have the funds. So for now, I'm going to k-abit and p-somehereandthere. Maybe go back to school and achieve more than I've ever achieved. That's the knitting equivalent of learning to cable.

If you can dream it, you can be it.

BAM, Knitting references.

Just kidding, I'm drunk again.