So, here’s the problem with NaBloPoMo, as I see it: You have to write something every day. And neither I nor my life are interesting enough to have something interesting and scintillating and witty to say every day.
I’m really pretty boring, actually.
So maybe to mix things up a little, I will recap the day’s events:
- This morning, BDH and I came up with a plan to stalk Martin Sheen. NO NO WAIT THIS IS A GOOD PLAN! REALLY! Apparently, he was in town for something or other today. So we thought, hey! Why not go and stalk him for awhile? So we thought it would be good for BDH to go to this event, stalk him for awhile, and then convince him to take BDH out to lunch. At which point, I asked Stinkerbelle and she said “ME! ME TOO! I WANT TO GO TO LUNCH TOO!” So the plan was revised to take us all out to lunch. And then, through sheer charm and good conversation, we’d convince him to come and work some of his West Wing mojo here in Canada by, say, running the country for a good 5 or 10 years. We figured it was a good plan. Also? We’d have to live our lives on a grant from the Martin Sheen Foundation since BDH would get canned for skipping work to stalk Martin Sheen. But that’s okay, the guy’s probably got tons of cash.
- I realized how much I don’t miss commuting this morning when I ended up behind a driver who developed a bad case of road rage RAGEFLAIL. I was driving along a regional road which is fairly hilly and narrow, so there is no passing, and I found myself behind a small car. And clearly the driver of said small car was faffing about, tuning his radio or looking at a map or whatever, because he was weaving back and forth in his lane and dawdling along doing about 65 in an 80 zone. I couldn’t pass, so there I stayed, me and a line of traffic, behind this dope. So then we came to a stop sign at the end of the road which he did not acknowledge, by either signalling or stopping, and instead he just whipped around the corner. I stopped and then I turned too, and then because the highway is flat and passing is allowed, I sped up to go past him. At which point, he slammed on his brakes. So, I slammed mine on because I was right behind him and, HELLO ASSHOLE. At this point, Crazy Old Small Car Man started glaring at me in the rearview and giving me the crazy emphatic fuck off finger, but I realized that this was a Toyota full of nuts, so I just pulled out to pass. As I was passing him, he started RACING with me, to keep his driver’s window equal with my passenger window so I could see him shouting and giving me frantic waving two handed fuck off finger in all his nutso glory. But, you see, mine is a car with 8 cylinders, so I stepped on it, and was all OH LOOKIT ME I HAVE AN ACCELERATOR. And I passed him. And, as I looked in the rearview, he was STILL all shouting and flailing and OMG EFF YOU ELEVENTEEEEN! in his car, which was getting increasingly further behind me in the distance. And as far as I know, he’s still slowly wandering the rural roads of Wellington county, shouting and RAGEFLAILing about somebody having the nerve to pass him in his little putt-putt-mobile.
- A few months ago, I took Stinkerbelle out shopping at our local Michael’s store, where she convinced me to buy some clown barf comedy yarn. It’s a multi-coloured bulky acrylic yarn of angst and misery, let me tell you. At first, I tried knitting a hat. But this yarn has absolutely no give whatsoever, so any sort of ribbing was impossible. And it’s splitty and nubbly and doesn’t lend itself to patterns, either. I started knitting and then frogged what I was knitting three separate times before I gave up. Until the other day, when That Girl asked me randomly if I would knit her a scarf. And, thankfully, a plain old basic knit scarf is the one thing you CAN do with this horrid stuff. So I find myself knitting a little scarf, and hopefully getting this yarn out of my stash once and for all. It’s going to be as ugly as sin, pooling bright crayola primary and secondary colours and looking like, well, clown barf. And Stinkerbelle? She LOVES it. So all’s well that ends well, I guess.