My weekend. Or, how when everything is perpendicular and parallel I experience spontaneous orgasm.

You know how sometimes you're really excited for the weekend because of the prospect of sleeping in? and no work? and whatever wild and crazy thing you do on your days off? sex in a tree? I'm just riffing here. But then you're all wheee!, you get home, pour yourself a cold one, relax on the couch for a while and then find that suddenly it's Sunday night and you're watching Friends reruns on TBS and you think, "WAIT A MINUTE! Where did my weekend go?" and then you're all depressed and disgruntled because Monday is staring you in the face like a zombie who is trying to figure out how to best suck out your joy and verve?

Yea. I didn't have one of those weekends.

This weekend, I ORGANIZED. Which is to me what a speedball and a large bottle of vodka is to an addict. Or: HEAVEN. There were clothes to be thrown out, the front closet to be reckoned with and you should see my desk! The pure genius and creativity that shall now FLOW given the sheer beauty of my desk!

I also started to attack the guest bedroom closet, but that is going to take some planning. I'll have to draw up schematics and buy some shit to tackle that area which is also known as the third ring of hell OR The Closet of Which We Do Not Speak. I did step one toe in there to assess how bad the situation had become. We're at least on Orange Alert. I didn't stay in there long enough to really make an exact statement on it's condition as I was afraid of being swallowed whole by some pillows and Marc's down jacket(s). I did make it out with a bag that I hadn't seen in a while and SWEET HOLY MOSES. My knitting supplies!

I'm not bragging when I say that my mother taught me to knit when I was six years old. I'm not bragging because I suck at it righteously. In fact, after she went over the basics and was sure I wasn't going to inadvertently stab an eye out with the needles she left me to my own devices. I came to her some days later with the mangled scarf that I had managed to produce after dropping stitches for roughly a week straight - she patted me on my head and said, "Don't worry Liebchen, you're good at other things." She then turned around an laughed and laughed and laughed in a way that, as a child, I wasn't entirely sure how to take.

I attempted to knit on and off for several years, giving friends things that I'm sure have died dusty deaths in the back of closets. And so when I rescued this bag from the depths of The Place Where Things Go to Die, I was curious as to what I had most recently given up on. I pulled out a wad of dark blue, gorgeous yarn that had been stabbed through with needles, most likely out of frustration on my part. I unrolled the mass and realized it was a scarf I had been knitting for Marc in the early years of our relationship, when things that you made had sentimental value.

I sat on the floor laughing. I had started this project after being laid off during the wreckage of the dot-com years, my hands idle with the yawning gap of time I had between jobs. Mom had suggested that I re-attempt knitting and I had gone down to the store with her to pick out yarn and start a pattern that she deemed me capable of. I labored over it, driving down from San Francisco whenever I had dropped a stitch, which at first was often. About a month later, I had something that a person could feasibly wrap around their neck and, with the pride of someone who has no perspective on their work, I took it down to show my mother.

She took it out of the bag and unrolled it on the counter top, chewing her top lip furiously as she examined my work. A rather pregnant pause ensued with more lip chewing and some hand rubbing across her mouth. Finally, she could hold it in no longer and burst into laughter, the kind where she had to support herself on the counter top. I was flummoxed, surprised. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, "Oh darling. You could not possibly be this hard up that you have to give THIS to Marc for his birthday. Aren't you on unemployment? Do you need some money?" and then she went into another gale of laughter which lasted for a very, very long time. I think she actually had to sit down and there was a bottle of wine opened to calm her down.

I called her yesterday to relay this memory after I had given the scarf a proper burial. Her response was, "Ahahahahahahaha! Ahem. I DO recall that thing. You know love, we can't all be good at everything. Ahahaha! Perhaps you should just give knitting a rest."

Indeed. Know thyself - maturity for the win!