Today is my fathers birthday. He would have been 68 but instead he’s been gone 11 years.

Headed out to Austin for a long weekend with my seester, I’ll see you Tuesday.

In a box somewhere there’s a picture of me in a dark blue overall dress with white piping and a white tee under it. I’m wearing white tights and no shoes and I haven’t any hair because I’m only a baby.

In this picture I’m sitting on a blanket my Auntie Ellie (aka Sister Eleanor) made for me before our relocation to Alaska when I was six months old. That blanket, my hospital bracelet and a pacifier with a lamb head on it that’s corroded (no doubt from being dipped in Jim Beam) are the few items I have that lend any clues to my early years. For the rest I rely on my older sister and my mothers’ sister Moie.

When your folks pass away before you’re old enough to care about your heritage or ask about your history, homework becomes a part of your lifestyle.

My friend Joanne had a baby a few weeks ago and I’m making wee Nico a blanket all the while admiring my own baby blanket that’s still on hand though well worn with yarn nearly fused together after 34 years. I love that I can see where Ellie changed skeins because the ends have come untucked. I love that I can now appreciate the effort she put into that cotton square of my youth by looking at the various stitches and the yarn color changes.

And I have to wonder about nature versus nurture and why I picked up knitting and love it so much. Is it in my DNA? Is cabling for a fisherman’s sweater right there next to the tag that tells my eyes to be green/grey/blue depending on my mood/clothes/the weather? Does the same nature v nature explain why I have an inexplicable contentedness when lifting heavy objects and doing manual labor despite the fact that I’m an office jockey? Or is it possible that just doing something that varies from the norm tricks me in to thinking it feels right and that my old boss Jack was right in saying I’m a restless soul?

I might not have answers, but I have my blanket.

He’s evacuated a closet as big as my condo and moved his bits to the “man closet”. He emptied a vanity drawer as if that’s enough space for perfumes and prescription skin care items and brushes and depilatory cream and make up I never wear. He woke up at 4am yesterday with the cat (who we now lovingly refer to as “firecrotch” on account of she’s a redhead) because she was playing with a mouse I gave her and he didn’t want me to wake up prematurely. He did the same at 5am this morning when her automatic crap catcher/cleaner-upper choked on poo and gave itself an anniurism. I’m officially not allowed to eat dessert on the couch because chocolate in my hands always winds up on the floor.

So we’re settling in while some near and dear are settling out. Existential and romantic crises are the crap de jour and I just want to hand them a stack of carefully selected titles, give them a hug and send them off to a cabin in the rolling hills of South Carolina with the advice: “don’t take it all too seriously, sweets…it’s only life…” knowing full well that never helped heal me even if it did comfort me some. That’s the trouble with love - it doesn’t always translate.

Don’t be alarmed. Do be patient.

Having a supremely craptastic day at the office can do all kinds of funny things to your real life. In my case it pointed me towards a ginormo glass of Chianti and a scalding plate of lasagna at Peros, which is definitely not the APWBWGTTD event I’d previously committed to attending. While I’m sure I wasn’t missed, I felt guilty just the same (if only b/c I miss Team Rum & Coke) so I did a few nerdly things to the site as penance.

Now up:
~ Comment count by author (might have to start issuing rewards of some sort…hmmm)
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Soon up:
~ Fluffy little category cloud
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Now down:
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Cheers.

Hey coffee shop snob…lean in close. I have a secret for ya. Ready? You’re not as fancy or as brilliant and in-tune and politically correct as you think you are when you prance in and don’t even say good morning to the barista when you ask if the coffee off the day is fair trade.

It’s a hoax, fair trade. It’s like a co-op but there’s a majority owner and the fat man is still getting fat and the little man is still getting squished so just get over yourself already.

And TIPS? Well it might not be an acronym that stands for Stand for To insure Prompt Service, but that little nugget won’t get you off the hook. You tip in a restaurant when you’re served bits a lot less complicated to make than you’re asinine half caf extra shot no foam sugar free vanilla latte, so what’s with not dropping your $.50 in the jar? Hell when I’d stop for java in the morning I considered that part of the price of the joe and budgeted for it.

So you - in your fancy overpriced over pressed pants that are jammed up your butt causing the pretentious gate you have when wander in to the shop, don’t say good morning, bark your ignorant order and don’t tip: you’re embarassing me. I actually tip extra on your behalf because those are humans behind the counter and the cup isn’t out because they make six figures and need something to wipe with. The least you can do is then go get a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows and some trendy glasses with no Rx lenses so I can tell from a distance that you’re a pretentious prick and avoid you altogether.

Get educated, get some manners, get your damn coffee, and get out of my way.

Please.

Oh, and good morning.

Supplement: Read up on what it means to be Organic, Fair Trade, Rainforest Alliance Certified and Shade Grown.