luring knitted dollies to a life of vice
I left myself on an answering machine, I said I’m back in town tonight
I feel I stepped out of the wilderness all squint-eyed and confused
But even babies raised by wolves they know exACTly when they’ve been duped.
Last night the convergence of my two passions – knitting and dancing in goth bars – converged and left me reeling, thrilled and up way past my bedtime. It all started with my last day of classes, a crap proposition to begin with, but one that was made worse by several factors:
- Thursday night dinner at the Mandarin, with lots of sugar and chemicals to kill the pain of eating in public with both Blake and my Grandmother. This made everyone in the house cranky as all hell the next morning. Everyone took a swing at me on my way out the door.
- I was still tired from Wednesday’s mid-week knitting blowout
- I stopped caring about teaching classes 2 or 3 weeks ago and have been coasting on fumes ever since.
- I skipped lunch to finish marking so that all of my classes could have mark updates before they studied for their exam, and as a result was reeling like a drunk by fifth period. The weakness, dizziness & peripheral hallucinations were only heightened by the two chickens and dozens of crickets released into the school. (Stupid grad prank.)
Thank God that time flies when you’re so hungry you’re out of your fucking mind. As soon as the chickens were rounded up, I embarked on a long hot drive home, topped off with an hour of cathartic weeping and then more yelling from my parents, making me desperate to pack up the car and escape. That, plus the ever-present MommyGuilt, made me unsure of the benefits of getting out. I prolly would have stayed home if I hadn’t promised to mail Dulaan projects, and if my angry parents weren’t infesting my sanctuary. Ultimately, this was a good call.
I got to the knitting at seven, collected hats and thankyou’s and greetings and comments on my World’s Worst Teacher t-shirt, and spent a good twenty minutes settling myself into a small space despite all of my cargo. And then I spent an hour and a half weaving in ends, which would have sucked a lot more if everyone hadn’t been so damned inneresting. I even made a pom pom, despite my ignorance of basic pom pom mechanics (I trusted that someone would know how at the table, and sure enough, Yvette not only knew how but also let me use her pom pom maker.) Then I knit and talked and knit and stole fries and knit and watched admiringly as Jean embroidered a pocket on Blu and knit and touched other people’s yarn. It was pretty primevally satisfying.
I got dressed for the Garden in the bathroom of the Dick. This was not at all a hardship. Most of my clubbing has been done when I didn’t live in Toronto, so I’m more used to packing my wardrobe and makeup than I am used to dressing in my home. The corset was a big hit, despite not being knitted or crocheted. Who doesn’t love boning?
The next part of my night was kind of weird. I found an excellent parking spot, then discovered that my luck was due to the fact that no one at all was in the Garden. I drank a beer, listened to Pale spin, danced to Marilyn Manson (Cake and Sodomy! How much fun is that?!), and made awkward conversation with two boys who were young enough to be students of mine. They were politely disbelieving that I was so damn old. Retch. After an hour and a half of this, I packed up my stuff to leave. Fun’s fun, but that was neither.
And as I leaned against a tree, catching my breath, Stacy materialized. It was truly miraculous, but then, her appearances have always been a little magical.
We only get one night of one-on-one every year or so, and we made the most of it: funny anecdotes, heartfelt confidences, yarn fondling (I kind of led her into this one), and wild orgiastic dancing. There’s nothing like hearing the national anthem of Aletaland to make me glad for every one of my nearly-thirty years.
I would like you on a long black lead
You can bring me all the things I need
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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*