Pickles & Dimes

So, four months after I started it, and many, many times after I messed it up and swore at it, and even chopped it into itty bitty pieces over the garbage can while Jason backed away slowly, I finished the scarf I was knitting.

I think it turned out really nice. And since I finally overcame my inability to accurately knit row 13 of the 16-row pattern, maybe I’ll make another one, since this one will be a gift.

On second thought, maybe I’ll just keep it for myself.

We wander around a local festival, where I find the most beautiful necklace from this vendor. I get a bag of mini donuts fresh off the conveyor belt and stand listening to music with Jason and our friend Wes.

The crowd is diverse: families next to senior citizens; the guy next to me sporting a beer garden wristband and a Dora the Explorer band-aid on his thumb, the crowd parting intermittently for strollers and sauntering packs of teens.

Wes points to a young woman. “If I give her my number and tell her to call me in 8 years, do you think she will?” We laugh maniacally and people-watch, pointing out the Obviously Drunk and trying to guess women’s ages. Jason explains: “That one’s in her early 40s. Why? Because the sweater around her neck gives her away. Also, the shorts. Young women don’t wear shorts like that.”

He then points out a guy with a t-shirt that says: Stinky’s Fish Tacos and ponders, “How do you go through your closet and think, “˜Hmmm…I’m going to a family-friendly outing, what should I wear?’ and decide on THAT?”

We are near the midway, where the light from the food vendor selling “SLICED CARAMEL APPLES” pulses redgreenpurple in the twilight, and the woman selling the plastic glow-in-the-dark necklaces grows brighter and brighter, a beacon in the sea of baby blankets and children’s Crocs.

Behind us there is bungee trampolining and a rock-climbing wall. I watch young children scamper up the wall, barely stopping. Jason and Wes egg me on: “Do the advanced!” they urge. “I’ll pay for it,” says Jason.

“OK,” I say. “I’ll do it. But not the advanced, the intermediate.”

I awkwardly pull on the safety harness (“Is this RIGHT”? I whisper frantically to a laughing Jason, who shrugs unhelpfully) and listen to the nonexistent instructions. I shake off my flip flops and start to climb. About halfway up, I notice a problem: some of the grips are perfect for a handhold, but aren’t wide or big enough for a foothold. I pause for awhile, trying to plot my next course of action.

“You’re doing good, baby!” Jason shouts from below. “Keep going!”

“I don’t know where to go next!” I say, stepping down a few spots. I debate my options like a giant jigsaw puzzle. If I pull up to there, I can maybe put my foot there. But that means I’ll only be holding on with one hand.

“I can’t find a place to put my foot!” I say to Jason, and notice a family grinning knowingly at me. Jason points out another rock I had discounted as being too far away, and even as I doubt the success of that move, I grit my teeth with steely determination and think, “That family thinks I won’t make it. Screw them.”

I pull myself up and let go with one hand to gain leverage on a new spot. Soon I’m almost at the top, shaky with nerves and exhilaration. And finally, I’m there. I press the button (the bell isn’t working, to my great disappointment) and start to climb back down, until the guy in charge tells me to just let go and fall back. So I do.

“It’s a great upper body workout,” the guy says as he unhooks my harness. My arms are quivering, more from nerves than lack of strength, and my hands are tightly curled into claws, the result of my death grip climbing method.

And even though I hadn’t done it before and watched 7-year-olds scamper up 15 times as fast as I did, and even though I took a few steps backward before finally making it to the top, I made it.

Seems like there’s some kind of life lesson in there somewhere.

Photographic proof that I have at least one calf muscle.

I had before and after pictures, but you really couldn’t see the difference, which is what I hoped for all along. I went to Great Clips for the hair cut, and since the basic shape of my cut was already established, it went fine (although I forgot they don’t bother “styling” your hair after the cut). With the tip, it cost $17 instead of my usual $50.

I colored my hair with Clairol’s Nice & Easy Dark Spice (119C). From start to finish, it took only 63 minutes (including blow drying and styling). Here’s the end result:

(more…)

This weekend we’re going to a nearby festival, and a major difference between Jason and I became pretty clear:

Jason: I checked the website and Martin Zellar’s playing on Saturday night.

Me: Cool. I checked the website and confirmed that mini-donuts will be served.

I’ve decided that I spend too much money on hair cuts and colorings, so I’m going to either save a boatload of money this weekend or rue it forever, because I’m going to have my hair cut at Great Clips (potential savings of $25) and then color my hair myself (potential savings of $73). Man, I hope it works out.

We’re going to clean the house tonight after work, a process that takes up a huge chunk of our evening, thanks in no part to this:

You’re done lint rolling me when I say you’re done.

Stopping loose cat hair at its source since 2008!

Have a great weekend, you guys!