What the fuck is your problem? How on earth do you think you can get away with cat-calling women at the next table as they sit down? Let alone, loudly announcing that one or more isn't as attractive as the others? You are not on a construction site; we are not passing through; we are SITTING AT THE NEXT TABLE. Do you think it's cute? Do you think it's sexy? Do you think at all? As Elizabeth so rightly responded: Fuck Off.

What the fuck is your problem? Why would you and you oafish friends (one of whom belongs on MenWhoLookLikeKennyRogers.com, which is funny but irrelevant) loudly brag about sex acts you seem to have only a passing familiarity with? Do you think you sound worldly? Because I've often heard groups of teenagers who sound more experienced than you which forces me to conclude that you and your tablemates are as full of shit as my students. Also? Your female friend needs to stop bragging about sucking dick before I find one to stuff down her throat and thus SHUT HER UP.

What the fuck is your problem? Why, after several hours of loud, stupid, oafish behavior would you then turn to the only male in the group and ask him if he "likes how that feels"? Does that question make sense to you in your drunken piggish mind? It doesn't to anyone else.

What the fuck is your problem? Do you genuinely think you could follow up with that nonsensical inquiry with a loudly muttered, "ya faggot"? Where the fuck do you think you are? Who the fuck do you think you're talking to? Did you expect Mason to just cringe and take it, while the rest of us ignored you? Did you think that you were proving a point or uncovering some mystery for the rest of us? Did you think that two dozen people with sharp needles were going to let that pass after an evening of listening to your horseshit?

As I said last night (or rather, yelled repeatedly): Go Fuck Yourself. If I ever see you in that pub again I'm not going to stop until I have you kicked out. And the next time you call any of us a nasty name, I'm not going to even try to stop Mason from "fucking you up," like I did last night. You may think you can fuck with knitters, or guys in bars who do things you don't like, but I will end you. Believe it.

Yours in Christ,

Rocktbride

P.S. Just a final heads-up: What the fuck were you thinking? You're fat, stupid and ugly. You really shouldn't be throwing stones at the people you see, who quickly realize that those things on this outside are less important than the fact that on the inside you are nothing but a turd.

Despite leaving the bar shaking with unused adrenaline, I had a good time last night. Mason and I preceded knit night with a date at an excellent Irish pub, where the food was just a smidge better than the atmosphere, which was sublime. Today we got up unconscionably early so that I could do a free dance demo with Valizan, and we had a chance to explore the almost-revoltingly cute downtown area of Bronte. Then! Korean bbq for lunch, new work clothes for us both, and an hour at the gym with my brother. I always feel guilty about this, but I have to be honest: a child-free weekend is awesome when you do it right. This Saturday couldn't be any righter and still take place in public.

Labels: dancing, drunken knitters, humanity on parade, outings

I’ve been wondering when my life will slow down enough to sit down and write. Turns out it’s right now, while I’m wallowing in the end of a sick day. Mason is here with me, off ill as well. This is the first time I’ve ever had a co-ed sick day, which is just like a regular sick day but much less lonely. We slept until 2 pm, and only got out of bed because there was no food in the house and a genuinely evil smell in the refrigerator. He’s making chili right now like the angel he is while I wallow in Zombie Walk pictures.

I was there on Sunday, shuffling by myself, if you can say that when you're marauding along with three thousand other "undead enthusiasts." My concept was "zombie soccer mom" which may have been too subtle, especially since I came too late for the free blood and had to resort to smearing my face in the bloody handprint on a restaurant window as we passed. Freaking out casual diners? Check. I think that was my favourite moment.

I also enjoyed swarming the streetcars ("trains…trains…") and looking at all the other high concept zombies. After seeing the Ronald McDonald, I definitely have to pick up my game for next year. Even bringing Blake won't be unusual, considering all of the kids I saw in full makeup.

A fabulous time. I just wish I had a picture of my own minimalist costume to show off.

A conversation in the morning. I am in the bathroom, Blake is in my bedroom. In the mirror I see suspicious activity.

me: You better not be getting into your clothes basket. It could fall off the bed.
blake: I'm not.
me: Then why do I see a little brown head in the basket?
blake: That's some other boy.
me: What's this other boy's name?
blake: (long pause that's not at all suspicious) Cranberry Juice.

Labels: blake, festivals, humanity on parade, outfits, outings

Why is it that people of good will and general geniality feel obliged to comment on how many days of summer vacation remain? It's downright evil as well as unnecessary; if I couldn't count, they wouldn't let me be a teacher. My dental secretary, who is one of the nicest women of my acquaintance, very nearly sprouted horns before my eyes. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.

I have no explanation for this. These are not people who would feel it necessary to comment were I to become hugely bloated in pregnancy, or if my lipstick was smeared on my teeth (hypotheticals, both). I suppose that I see the end of summer as a misfortune that must be endured, and they see it as a topic of polite conversation. Or maybe, as Andrea postulated, they're just jealous. Which is funny, because I couldn't give my job away ten months of the year, but for two months I'm blessed with the same "must be nice" type comments.

For the record, it is nice. It's so nice that even when you've had a mediocre summer you dread return. When you've had a big sunny drift of do-as-you-please in a gorgeous castle, as I have, it's much more painful than that.

I was getting unpleasant to live with, so I went in on Wednesday to lance the boil of my anxiety. It worked, too – I have only a few more things to do before the gates open on Tuesday, and they depend on other people. I'm set, I think. I don't want to engender the typical punishment for hubristic types, so I'll say no more. At least I'm not chewing up the furniture in the middle of the night (anymore).

The Boy has a position for September till June (we hope). He has been writing lessons for three weeks, and visiting his classroom all this week. Let's not speak of the Boy. He makes me feel nervous and inadequate.

Blake is also ready for school, inasmuch as such a nebulous thing can be said of a 3 1/2 year old who thinks that eventually he's going to be a baby again. (Abstracts like the one-way nature of time are a little difficult for him.) I ironed his name labels to his uniform last night, aided by a healthy dose of Steamwhistle lager & an old Sugarcubes album. I found that both of these things helped to blunt the trauma of sending my tiny defenceless chick out into the harsh maelstrom of all-day Montessori JK.

2 weeks ago: sandy, naked, Blake

Labels: bat masterson, blake, humanity on parade, the boy

I had a lot of fun this morning. As soon as Blake & I finished breakfast, we sat on the couch for some reading/chilling time. During this pause, I noticed something exciting across the street: a yard sale! Blake, despite his bad associations with the concept (think: Toy Story 2) and the fact he was still in pjs was easily convinced to go across the street. I found a haul of excellently tacky knit & crochet patterns, and managed to wander into a psychodrama.

"Blake, don't go anywhere," I cautioned, "we have to pay for these patterns."

"Nope," said the middle-aged man in charge. "Just take them. They're women things. She left me, and I don't care what happens to her stuff." He went over to another customer and continued, "all purses for a dollar. Women stuff. She paid twenty dollars – of my money! – for that purse. You can have it for a dollar."

It took all the social grace I had not to back away slowly, but instead to turn and walk like I heard this sort of thing all the time. As we moved around that morning, I continued to catch glimpses into the marital trainwreck across the way, courtesy of the curiosity of other customers and a loud cellphone conversation.

i keep typing "yarn sale" by accident

Gee, I hope she won't need that crocheted vest pattern now that she's living with her boyfriend.

In other crafty news, I managed to get myself a free afternoon while the boys were out buffing the hog, so I set up the sewing machine and started to make curtains. It took 2 hours, and I need a curtain rod for the final step, so I'm not done yet. Still, despite the extremely salty language that spewed out of me during the set up, and despite the fun of only having one plug (so I could use the sewing machine and the iron, just not at the same time)… I think I'm going to do this again.

Labels: crafty, humanity on parade