In the Other Library

What can you learn about someone by looking at their DVD collection? Many things. In this entire collection, there are probably a handful of straight-up dramas -- 'Das Boot', Lars von Trier's 'Medea', 'Shadow of the Vampire', and, um, oh let's call the 'I,Claudius' set a drama. Everything else is either action, sci fi, comedy, or so bad that it should have its own category. Allysa Milano "art" film, I'm looking at you. Asia Argento film about vampires running a dog-fighting ring? Don't think you can hide behind the 'Star Wars' trilogy, sweetheart. I see you back there.
So what do you learn about us by looking? We don't bring a lot of drama home. We're goofy. We don't have children. We have questionable taste. Here is your proof from 'Jesus Christ: Vampire Hunter". "We're running short on skin. We'll need to harvest more lesbians." Need more? How about the unrated DVD of "Shark Attack 3: Megalodon"? "What, are you afraid a shark might swim up and bite your culo?" I don't know how 'Flash Gordon' ended up with these two.
Here are a couple of good ones. 'Cemetery Man (Dellamorte, Dellamore)' is a great little film staring a young Rupert Everett as a groundskeeper in a northern Italian cemetary that is anything but quiet. It's got love, it's got death. It's got love after death, maybe some necrophilial love depending on your perspective. It's got zombies. It's got a problematic relationship between a reanimated, decapitated head and the simpleton who loves her. And then the ending gets weird. The art direction is gorgeous. This is the region 2 DVD, so it only plays on one machine in our house, but it's now available for region 1 players. I highly recommend it, if you're not offended by zombie lovin'.

Dr. No's in there to give some balance. I love Dr. No, and I'll watch it every time it's on AMC. I bought the DVD so I wouldn't have to wait for their bi-monthly "All Bond, All Day" month to roll back around in order to see it.

These are some of the all-time favorites. I can watch 'Riddick', 'The Rundown' and 'Club Dread' on continuous loop and never get tired of them. There was a point this spring when they were all on the movie channels at the same time, and I never had to get off the couch. I called in sick one day because I saw that I could flip between the east and west coast feeds and see all three of them from morning until bedtime. They're my knitting movies. The first hour of 'The Transporter' gets to be a part of that club, too. I like watching him drive, fight and banter with the French detective, but the movie loses me after his house blows up.

My favorite? I'd have a hard time picking just one. When I took the pictures, 'High Plains Drifter' lept out at me.

My friend has strict criteria for movies. "Does it have a shark? Do things blow up? Does anyone get eaten alive by some fantastical creature? No? Then I'm not interested." I'm happy to say that about half of our DVD collection meets her standards.

Friday Fridge Festival

Sometimes I do things that make me laugh to myself, at myself. Every Friday at noon, we get an e-mail from the office services group. "Please clean your items out of the refrigerator by 5:00 on Saturday or it will be thrown away." Every Friday at 3:00, I think to myself, "Dammit! I brought in all of those healthy snacks on Monday, and I forgot about all of them! I'd better get to the eatin' before it's too late!" I run for the kitchen and pull out everything I've stowed in the fridge for the past week. I find it silly to bring food in at the beginning of the week, only to turn around and haul it home at the end. If it's here, it's going to be eaten here, no matter what sickening Friday afternoon food combinations have to happen as a result.

The upshot of this is that I just drank an exceptionally cold can of V8 juice in under a minute. Half a can into it, mid-gulp, I caught sight of my reflection in the side of the metal paper towel dispenser. My distorted image shook its head at me and gave me a tight little smile, like the one in the picture above. I think it would have laughed, had its soft palatte not been frozen by the ice-cold river of pureed tomato and kale.

I'm currently staring at a peach yogurt, a banana and a 12oz bottle of Powerade, and I've got about 20 minutes to figure out how to choke all of that down before I leave. At least none of it is staring back at me. Which is more than I can say for the trout.

Dummy

I was helping my friend rearrange her garage this weekend. By 'helping' I mean 'sitting on a bistro chair, watching her work'. She did a bang-up job, and I'd like to think that my moral support played a role. Anyway, while she was working in the dark recesses of the storage space, I knit the cowl of my Adrienne Vittadini sweater.

"Hey, cool dress form."

[From the back of the garage] "Do you guys remember giving us a shitload of grass seed?"

"What? No, not grass. Dress! I said 'cool DRESS form'."

"Yeah, and I'm holding a bucket of GRASS seed full of mouse droppings."

"Not something we'd do, giving you an open bucket of grain to put in your unused garage. We're not stupid, you know..."

The look I got? Oh, the look I got for that one. Because of course what was hanging at the end of that sentence, unsaid but certainly understood, was "...and if it wasn't us and it wasn't you, and we both know it wasn't here when you moved in, my money's on your husband doing it, which makes the months of him blaming you for the rodent problem because you left a single package of Cup-O-Noodle and a bag of Tootsie Pops out here really, REALLY funny."

"...but hey, when I'm done with my sweater can i borrow your dummy so that i can take pictures, because i think it's my size?"

She retreated back into the garage with her bucket of whole-grain mouse crap.

So, the details of the pullover. This is the Camille cowl shell from Adrienne Vittadini 27. I knit the small, and I didn't make any adjustments. I used eight whole balls and about three feet of the ninth to bind off the cowl. If I'd unraveled the swatch, I wouldn't have needed to use the ninth ball. The body was knit on birch needles, and the cowl was knit in the round on Addi Turbos. It took a little over a week to do, and I knit most of it while watching the first season of 'The Wire'.

The Camille yarn was easy to work with once I got the hang of pulling the slubbies through the stitches, but hard to seam. I should have seamed with a matching, smooth yarn. I knew once it was put together that I'd never be able to get it apart again, so I plunged forward and hoped for the best. Weaving in ends? I knew it wouldn't matter if I did it invisibly, because the yarn's so knobby that you wouldn't be able to tell. I put the tails through the eye of the needle, pulled through a few random stitches, tied knots, you name it. I'm sure it's not pretty, but then again, I'm not sure that even I can see where I did it, so it doesn't matter.

Oh, and the dress form isn't exactly my size. Its waist is about five inches smaller than mine, so the shell looks better on it than it does on me. Why? Because every night I make the split-second decision to drive home and knit instead of going to the gym. Dummy.

In The Library

I've got a confession to make. Batty, and all other librarians and bibliophiles, turn away. I'm not a good keeper of books. I have a lot of them, and almost all of them are boxed up in my attic. Those that are still out around the house aren't treated all that well. They're dusty, they've slipped into odd angles so that they're no longer stable on the shelves, they're stacked up on the floor. I love them all like a kid loves a teddy bear, but not like a librarian would love them. They take some damage.

Realizing that we're going to live in this house for many years, probably decades, and that there aren't places for bookshelves, I boxed up most of the books a while back. Only my favorites, the art books and the few forgotten volumes are still out.

The books above are the forgotten ones. There's a book about Rembrandt's studio practice, and a tiny copy of The Book of Kells. There's a book about Tulare that I found, improbably enough, at a yard sale a couple of streets over from my house in Concord. 'A View From The Witch's Cave' is a collection of Basque folklore. Art books that are either too big or too heavy to pack, a book about pirates, and a coffeetable book about Quantas Airlines. There's also a book on the history of Tulare, written by my high school math teacher, Mr. Dummermuth. The 'Mexico' book was used as a textbook in one of my first classes in Santa Barbara. It weighs about twelve pounds. I had to carry it to class. And these are my favorites. I don't read the books in the first two pictures. I've read these eight books over and over. These are, from left to right, the 'His Dark Materials' series, 'Go Down, Moses' by Faulkner, 'The Crying of Lot 49' by Pynchon, 'Bloodsucking Fiends', 'The Maltese Falcon', and 'Metamorphoses'. Favorite book number nine, 'Stormy Weather' by Carl Hiassen, is on loan to my mom. If I only had those nine books to read, I'd be happy.

That's it, except for cookbooks and the knitting library. I'd like to say that I have an extensive and beautiful library on display in my house, but that's not how it turned out. I'm more than a little jealous of those of you with built-ins. Ah, well. At least I don't have to dust all of those shelves.

Buddy Loves Rocky

Wait a moment, the Woman! That is not at all what I wanted you to say in the title. I want it to read "Gilded Cage of Fury: The Buddy the Cat Story". There should be a picture of me killing something, or eating something I've killed, or perhaps taking down the dog as though she were an undersized Cape buffalo. The tone is all wrong. Correct it immediately.

Yeah, but guy? You love The Rock. Just admit it. Look at the smile on your face.

I fell asleep reading, the Woman. I don't publicly embarrass you when you're caught off guard...

...caught off guard loving Rocky Maivia, son of Rocky Johnson, grandson of High Chief Peter Maivia...

You seem to know a lot about this, the Woman. Methinks you doth protest too much.

So I'm a fan. I had WWF figurines on my wedding cake. I know things about wrestling. This isn't about me. It's about you and your forbidden love for The People's Champion.

It's about your lack of appreciation for my innate elegance and suaveness. Your jealousy has made you mad.

Oh. Right. Nice lip mole, Scratchy.

The Woman! Stop this instant! I demand that you put up a picture of me that shows my charm and grace.

How about this one?

Please, for the love of God, stop.

Why? Are you afraid your secret boyfriend The Rock is going to see it? You luuuuuuuvv him. You know who else you love? You love Accountant Boy.

Yes, that's a given. He feeds me and he plays koosh-ball-on-a-wire with me. Good man, Accountant Boy...

...and you love Lucy...

I don't love her. I certainly don't miss her when she's not in the house. I don't meow at the door until you let her in because I miss her. I miss HUNTING her. Completely different. And this is an old picture. And I don't love her.

Rumor has it that you might, on occasion, even love me.

I do love you, the Woman. Let's not argue on this further. Why don't we forget the whole incident, yes? You won't post this entry, will you? It would be terribly embarrassing if other writers saw it. I'm trying to shop 'Gilded Cage' to publishing houses, and well...you know...my reputation...

Oh, Buddy. Your secrets are safe with me.