Episode 27: Success! Actual, definable success!

It’s been a long year, in terms of success. Actually, it’s been a long life. As a young, competitive musician, success was laid out for you in exacting terms: Play well, humiliate that annoying twelve-year-old with Beethoven or Mendelssohn, and when you do fuck up, don’t run off the stage while using your concert attire as a hankie. Snot is really obvious on black clothes.

But ever since I realized that the delicious tears of twelve-year-olds are not enough to sustain a career, it’s been a bit tough to nail down exactly what makes me feel like I’m doing well in life. As practice children, my dogs often make me feel like I’m going to be the kind of mother who gets regularly ridiculed on the local news. (“After the children had been located doing what they described as “playing Firefly” in the Guns & Knives section of the Walmart*, the Channel 5 news team caught up with their mother, who was holding up the line at the liquor store next door while she attempted to convince her credit card company that $500 is not a suspicious amount of money to spend on gin.”)

*Walmart has this, right? I assume that’s what they put in when they decimated the craft section, which was coincidentally right around the time that I stopped going to Walmart.

The point is that knitting is usually the thing that makes me feel successful these days, mostly since I realized that birthdays, Christmas, and other gift-giving occasions are competitions that can be won or lost, and I can be a pretty serious contender given the time and supplies. (Except for MDMA Mario. Sorry, Corey.) One of my greatest motivations for tackling this project — other than money and the fear of having to show a seamstress my boobs — has been the conviction that I can somehow “win” at weddings if I’m just crafty enough. None of my other planning skills are remarkable in the least; for instance, I’m pretty sure I scared off the terribly nice manager at that awesome venue by being a bit over-enthusiastic in an email follow-up. She probably refers to me to her coworkers as “that creepy girl who uses awkward smileys in emails. What is this, 1997? Who does that? Also, her shoes were stupid.*”

*I have been informed that normal people don’t usually internalize other people’s unarticulated judgements to this degree. I’m working on it with my therapist, Dr. Mcgillicuddy**.

**Just kidding, I don’t actually drink that. It’s disgusting. Unfortunately, none of my go-to boozes have advanced degrees.

So, what was I talking about? Right, success. I did it! I succeeded, and not by some made-up hypothetical standard that I set for myself to maintain my top-notch self esteem! I actually did something right:

Yep, the first panel of the skirt is completed and is actually the correct size. I did run out of pins about halfway through blocking it and had to finish with needles, but let’s focus on the positive here: I’m 1/4 of the way done with the skirt! Except that’s actually not even true because this was one of the front panels, which are naturally a lot shorter than the back ones that include the train. So more like 1/6, generously.

Fuck it, I’m proud of myself.


Episode 26: All the Bacon and Eggs You Have.

Knitters are fucking sexy.  –Nick Offerman (Ron Swanson on Parks and Recreation)

I’ve had more than my fair share of great nights lately, but last night was more than a little bit of amazing. We heard Nick Offerman talk about his fantastic, hilarious marriage to Megan Mullally (they’re a boring couple: they sit around watching HGTV, doing jigsaw puzzles, and snorting piles of cocaine) and how impressed he would have been if a woman he was dating had knit the dress she was wearing. Immediately before the show we had gone to look at a reception venue that we both lo-o-ooooved, and I chose to take Offerman’s tenuously relevant comments as a sign.

You guys, this venue. I don’t know if venues are supposed to be like the dress, where you’re not supposed to show people pictures before the wedding. Frankly, I’m so over the moon in love with this place that I don’t give a shit. If you’re so inclined, you can check out some strangers’ wedding photos here. What’s hard to tell from those pictures is that the ceiling is very light blue and the walls are burgundy. The floor, which is unfinished at the moment, is going to be done by the end of the year — and they’re thinking about staining it green. That’s right, the venue is decking itself out in my exact fucking wedding colors. 

Actually, I just found a good picture:

I have a giant lady-boner for this place, if you couldn't tell.


It’s not completely perfect. It’s still under construction; they don’t have air conditioning and likely won’t by next June. There’s a chance we won’t be able to use Black Dog, our favorite restaurant who agreed to cater, because they don’t have a catering license. Our guests might pass out from the sheer awesomeness of the venue. But when the universe starts blasting a message through a megaphone, I fucking listen, and this one is coming through loud and clear.

Earlier this week, wedding planning was giving me ridiculous anxiety and making me feel like breaking a wall with my face. Now I’m refreshed, renewed, and secure in the knowledge that every time I work on my dress, I’ll hear Nick Offerman’s giggle in my head. Let’s fucking  do this.