Recently in Flotsam Category

I smelled burning leaves tonight, and made a second hot chocolate when I got home. Last night it was windy, and there were crinkled leaves swirling in tight curves around my head. A bat flew formation with me for a while. It's the first stirrings of fall, and I find that I'm delighted to see/hear/smell/feel it. I want apples. I want new perfumes. I want more of those tall socks I buy at American Apparel, even though they're so expensive for what they are.

I want to make an excursion, soon, when my ankle's ready for the traffic, to Chinatown, to pump up my stores of tea. I'm thinking Jasmine.

I want to buy this movie, and this one.

I want to find a way to get out of town for a while, to be in a forest, to look up at the leaves and listen.

I want to find a man who makes me feel the way my spring-summer lover does, but who wants more of me, and of whom I can handle wanting more, myself. I think it's time, or nearly.

I want this yarn. Isn't it the loveliest color? I'm knitting a simple little rolled-edge hat, to get in the mood. And it only just occurred to me that my new hairstyle is the perfect thing for hats. I tried one on yesterday and nearly fell into the proverbial pool looking at my reflection.

Hello fall.

Blog angst:

1. Would you forgive me for a pictureless post?
2. Whenever I log into Movable Type and it tells me my last post was x-date instead of x-days ago, I feel like it's been long enough that I "owe" you a post.
3. What about if I have nothing to say?
4. Or nothing over 140 characters to say?
5. Insert tune to "Video killed the Radio Stars," but for video substitute Twitter and for Radio Stars substitute this blog. Or all blogs, everywhere.
6. Will this affect my ability to write books?
6-sub1: Will they be 250 pages of one-liners?
7. If I tell you about how I sprained my ankle, you will have already read it on Twitter. (backwards reference to 5, so maybe this is properly 5-sub1, albeit out of order)
8. I can't tell you about last night, other than to say I'd like to do it all over again, maybe with different music, just for variety.
9. That new show "Rubicon" is not nearly as smart as it thinks it is. It's overwritten. If it were a Twitter feed, it would be the same couple of lines, over and over again. Overexplanation is the death of wit.
10. Who said that? I did.
11. I know, I know - it sounds like Wilde, but it isn't.

My ankle hurts. No number necessary. It's a recurring theme.

Sitting here waiting for the thunder to come. Well, we'd settle for the rain.

The cat has been lying on the floor looking like a wrung-out dishtowel. Or a flat noodle. She seems to be under the impression that striving for two-dimensionality will cool her off.

I gave her ice cubes. Not interested. I tried to introduce her to the wonders of the icepack. She was vaguely frightened.

Myself I'm so dehydrated that my brain isn't working well enough to remember to buy the Gatorade that sent me to the grocery store in the first place. I'd get it at the bodega, but I spent my very last cash pennies on ice cream in town. I meant to go look for a new bikini (Old Navy's having a sale, and the bottoms of my old one are too big for me even before they get wet), but I forgot.

I have no money; it's all credit cards. Sigh. Let's not even go there.

I ran into my sometimes-playmate randomly on the street yesterday, and nearly got run over because I wasn't paying attention to traffic. I was distracted by the proximity of the handsomeness. He smells so good. Cardinal rule #1: Don't look at the boys. It will get you smushed by large objects with four wheels.

Today I found myself staring at a skateboarder who was gliding by in the opposite direction and had to remind myself, verbally. DON'T LOOK AT THE BOYS! You are on a big street with rush-hour traffic and four firetrucks blocking the entire right lane, and there's a little black Accord with out-of-state plates diving out in front of you and nearly ramming itself into the bus that is also in front of you, and now you have to maneuver around four lanes of mess with oncoming traffic coming at you and the bus and the out-of-stater, plus firetrucks. DO NOT LOOK AT THE BOYS.

Yeah, right. I think I need to move apts soon. Maybe I can find one where there's a third tap in the kitchen, marked "Gatorade."

It was a beach day, and I brought my camera and yet took no pics. I never even pulled it out of my pannier. Why?

Because my eyes were closed and I had a hat over my face. Because I was watching my friend play in the water. Because I was there to relax, not to gather blog fodder.

Because I was hoping to find a new seashell to replace the one that broke (twice) in my necklace last night.

We'd both had terrible weeks, and we hadn't seen each other in a while. She's healing from a somewhat serious injury (she's okay; it's just a little scary) and hasn't been riding much. I'm healing from a deep well of stress at work and have been riding a lot, but not with people.

We just needed to ride, and sit in sand, and listen to water and watch it move, and foam, and froth, and fade. The gulls overhead, a tern here and there - black head red beak - waving grasses. A lot of poison ivy. French fries (I didn't eat them, but I ate a heckuva lot of cake later on).

We rode home, we ate dinner, we went out for beer. We sat outside in a crowded bar, but it was friendly, and we were in good moods, finally, after all this time.

I tried to write a post yesterday, but my server was down. Then I tried to tweet tonight, but the World Cup had apparently broken the living daylights out of Twitter (it's still limping a bit).

All I was gonna do was write you a little list of stray thoughts as they occurred to me. I suppose I could still do that.

My mileage has increased, and with it my appetite. I can no longer manage on 5 meals a day. Think I'm kidding? Spend a day with me. And bring your wallet.

I have: a) a tan that ends mid-thigh, and b) little callouses on my palm below my second and third fingers.

The cat has a new trick whereby she climbs into my lap, flops herself onto my torso (about 60% of which real estate she takes up), and lolls her head into my chest, while gazing soulfully into my eyes. What is she, a frickin' Harlequin romance novel?

I have taken to riding to a beach nearly every weekend, just to get away from the human populace. It is soothing. And then I ride to a honky tonk beach, to be amused by the human populace. I'd tell you part of a conversation my friends and I overheard at the latter last weekend, but it is unprintable. So was her outfit.

My baby sister turned 40 this year, and a couple of days ago a young man from the Internet asked me if I'd consider dating a guy in his mid-20s. Given that a man of that exact age had just left my bed, I had to answer in the affirmative. I suppose that sounds like bragging.

It's occurred to me recently that - until now - I'd never actually let myself consider what I want from men. So I gave that some thought. I don't have an exact answer, but I have some ideas about what I don't want, and that is a start.

I've started to think of myself as a bachelor. I've started to think that being single by choice is not the same as being celibate. It's been an interesting week.

PS. The birds are singing and that was my last lightbulb.

I took a lot of photos this weekend, with one thing and another. They'll likely be popping up in bits over the next few days. I haven't been posting much because I just don't have that much that I feel like sharing. I'm busy with work. I'm adjusting to the probable end of an affair with someone I rather liked. I was very angry for a few weeks.

I'm feeling a little better. I'm trying to see being asked out by online people as a good thing, with mixed results.

I don't think any of them are cute enough. I never do, with online people. Maybe I just think the Internet is an ugly place.

I've never been a fan of computer art. I prefer the feel and smell and texture of real-world things.

I like the smell of linseed oil. I like the smell of male sweat (on the right guys). I like getting my legs dirty. I picked up a shell on the beach and it had a hole in it, and I am looking for the right string to wear it.

My cat makes a triangle shape when she sleeps in this pillow, and it's funny because she has so many triangles in her face and head to begin with. I wonder if she likes Euclid. She does seem to enjoy watching astronomy on TV. We were learning about neutrinos and gamma rays. "Gamma rays, Kitwich! Gamma rays." She looked interested.

Some days you don't even have time for a quickie, and this whole week has been like that. But I thought I ought to catch you up on a few items.

a) The hitch is unhitched.
b) I believe I have never had quite so much fun in my life.
c) That goes for work, too.
d) It rained and rained last night. Sounded like a giant was peeing in the street all night long.
e) My new favorite object is my 4gb flashdrive, which cost me all of $14 and is cherry red, to boot.
f) Miz Fury calls flashdrive file transfer the "sneakernet." Isn't that a great term?
g) Have I mentioned that I really, really like having a beautiful boy in my bed as often as possible? Oh lordy lordy lordy.

I'm gonna keep this brief and random because a) my ass hurts, b) my knee hurts, and c) there is compelling scifi television looming.

random item #1 - everyone here is talking about how beautiful it is out, and I have to say, I hardly notice the difference. It seems to make more difference to me that there are more people whom I have to dodge and avoid and ding the bell at, and this makes my rides a lot less pleasurable, despite (or just next to) the fact that it's warm enough to ride around with uncovered knees.

ri#2: I am poised on the cusp of being ready for a boyfriend, and I hate that. The cusp feeling. Not-quite-yet, but so almost that I'm getting frustrated by it.

ri#3: you know it's spring when all the cute boys are out, and they've broken up with their girlfriends, and we race around telling dirty jokes. Hey, it's my idiom.

ri#4: both my kitten and my eyeballs get very high maintenance in spring. Yowling, clingyness, and dry eyes.

ri#5: a big shout out to my darling girl Special J. It was lovely to see you.

ri#6: In the classic freelance nightmare scenario, I went from having not nearly enough to do to having 423 projects competing for my attention. Most of which are work to try and get more work, but at least things are moving.

ri#7: sadly, ri#6 means that I am really lacking in sleep.

ri#8: I am thirsty and I wish I had a dishes fairy.

8 minutes until Star Trek 8 minutes until Star Trek 8 minutes until Star Trek 7 minutes until Star Trek.

I was out riding with Da Boys tonight, and mentioned my recent 3rd-worst-date-ever, and they wanted to know why. What made it the 3rd-worst? (for one, there was his disdain for TNG. I mean, c'mon, it's Jean-Luc frickin' Picard.) And what was the all-time worst? And why on earth had I gone on a date that night instead of riding laps with them?

One of them (the very cutest one) said when he'd gotten my text about it being just a first date, he'd really wanted to text back, saying If it's just a first date, blow it off. Ride with us instead.

Dudes, I so should have.

So tonight when I got the LAPS TONIGHT text, there was no question. And the fact that I got to spend most of the night riding formation right next to the very cutest one didn't hurt matters. I mean, it's just riding, but oh the lovely scenery. And I don't mean the woods and starry sky, though there were those, too.

Shit, 3 minutes until Star Trek.

Okay, okay, okay. I'm doing that thing again where I start writing a post, get distracted before I finish, and it never goes up. So I swear that tonight, whatever happens, I will post whatever comes of this. Kitwich may set the house on fire (she's been playing with matches), and I will still post photos of burning cinders for you.

I might as well; there's shit on TV.

Just to be on the safe side, I think I'd better resort to list format. Because, you know, that is the best way to present a random series of thoughts that aren't likely to lead anywhere except yawnsville.

Okay, so.

1. I watched the Oscars last night, and as always it was about the dresses. And as usual, I spent my time mentally redressing them in what they ought to have worn instead of what their apparently hallucinating stylists put them in. I can just hear those stylists, between snorts of cocaine laced with peyote, in Edna Mode's voice: "But you look FABulous dahling. No, you must believe me. It is chic."

2. My hair is growing at an astonishingly slow rate, now that I've been trying to grow it into a different shape, and I'm on the point of racing into the salon and begging my darling gay stylist (dahling) to shear it all off into its usual form. Somebody pass the peyote-laced barrette.

3. Hmmn, I'm hungry.

4. I'd planned to take advantage of the not-snowing, not-frigid weather to ride to my favorite bike-accessible beach this weekend but blew my wad on Saturday, sprinting about town, and hadn't the legs for a 40-miler on Sunday. Alas.

5. I've been knitting as if it's going out of style - which, given that spring is almost upon us, it basically is. For those who haven't been reading very long (or don't bother remembering such trivia), I lose the knitting muse completely every summer. Some years I make a flimsy gesture in the neighborhood of a bamboo bikini top or something, but it never comes to anything.

6. I am dying for a new nose stud, but to say that I am too broke to afford the one I want doesn't even begin to cover it.

7. Still hungry, and damn I wish my hair would just grow itself into the desired length and shape, pronto!

8. Kissed a boy on the way home, and no, I'm not going to give you further details. It was just a kiss. Some days that's exactly right.

9. Found myself out in a very photogenic neighborhood yesterday just at the right hour when the sun is slanting low and golden, pulled over, dug in my bag, and realized...I'd left the camera at home. Damn. There was good graffiti, too.

10. I had a funny dream about looking through an exotic wardrobe for an outfit to dance in, and all I could find that I wanted to try on were hats. They were marvelous hats.

Wow, that was a mess.

For those of you who didn't notice, the blog was down for about 10 days due to a minor catastrophe at the hardware level. It's all fixed now, and there doesn't seem to be anything missing, and anyway, it's just a blog, not somebody's lifeblood or my novel or anything.

But still, I missed it.

Which kind of surprised me since I've been finding it hard to blog, and I've been posting more intermittently than I did for the first - oh - 6 years of this thing. (Yes, I know the archives don't go back that far; Boywich has the early years saved somewhere safe-ish, and one day he'll get around to revamping this place and adding in all those files, but that has to be done manually and it's a big job, and he's a busy boy)

All of which is to say, hey, sorry girlwich was a blank white page for 10 days. I had things I wanted to say, too - things which would not have fit into 140 characters and so did not appear in the twitter stream. And while I don't remember those would-be essays, I have a minor amount of faith that if there were important ideas in there, they will percolate through my consciousness and reappear.

For now, what I will give you is a random series of thoughts (as opposed to the elegant triumph of organization that's the rule in blogland?).

It snowed again. Fuck. 20 inches. The roads are shite, as they say in Ireland, where it rarely snows at all.

I rode my rollers in the hallway tonight, for a scant fifteen minutes. It's hard riding rollers, and it's only about the third or fourth time I've ever done it.

I also walked, clad in waterproof garments and a certain amount goose down (bad vegan!) and several knitted items, to a pal's house to watch Carl Sagan tell me about Mars. I love Carl Sagan. We're on a first-name basis. I call him Carl and try to remind myself that: a) he was married, and b) he's no longer with us (so sad!). Such a dreamboat, that Carl. Shut up, I'm in earnest.

I am knitting the most brilliant sweater ever devised by mankind (forgive me; I've been thinking in hyperbole all day - watching Carl will do that to you), but I have reached a point of confusion. It's a hazard of seat-of-the-pants design. Yes, I'm calling myself a designer. No, I'm not proposing to make a career of it. But almost every successful piece of knitting I've ever done had its origins in a little drawing on an envelope. That's how my brain works. I'm creative and I don't follow directions very well.

During the last big snow (what, like a week ago?) I happened to walk by a mosque during evening prayer, and the chanting was being piped into the street through a loudspeaker. I stood under the streetlight for several minutes looking up at the falling snow and listening to that haunting melody.

This time, I walked past the mosque again but there was no music, and I was sad.

I have recently come to the conclusion that I am funny and rather brilliant and a mostly delightful companion, and I feel that I deserve an equally delightful boyfriend, and I am somewhat perplexed as to why one hasn't materialized yet. Maybe it's the funny hats.

When you ride the rollers and it is going well, you reach this state where you are floating in mid-air, scarcely aware that you're pedaling at all. It's quite remarkable, but I wish my glasses wouldn't fog up just at that moment. It kind of kills the mood.

Oh my dears, you know what happens when you have a brilliant blog post rambling around in your head while you're folding the laundry, and you think about stopping to write it down, but then you think, oh I'll remember, and anyway, if I leave this pile of laundry unguarded, on top of the bed, the cat will nest in it, and it'll not be so much clean as downy-fresh but full of cat hair.

And then you get it all put away, and all the can't-be-dried stuff hung out (of which there is a considerable amount, me being a cyclist, and American Apparel being given to not edge-finishing their short little skirts so that they shrink to the size of post-it notes if you dry them), you can't for the life of you remember the Big Blog Idea (much less where this sentence was going before that tremendous parenthetical interruption).

All I know is it had something to do with longing, which, you know, is rather a theme of mine.

When I die, my gravestone might just as well say, "Here lies Lizbon. She longed." Though I'd be happier if it said "Here flies Lizbon."

Anyway. The time has come for a new male playmate to enter my life. The only trouble is, no one seems to have alerted the men to this. And then I make the mistake of reading things like this, with all its depressing stats, and its even more depressing (and often barely literate) comments.

But at least Target is offering the Waiting for Your Bangs to Grow Out Collection. So there's that. Plenty of useful implements to tame my growing-out mop.

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood. - Mr. Rogers

Everybody's friendly when it snows. The people shoveling, the lone guy on a mountain bike (I take my hat off to you, brother), the parents out playing with their kids, whose tiny legs barely crest the top of the snowfall.

I go out with my camera (pocketcam, because it fits in the pocket of my coat) and walk, a big red hat on my head and a big smile on my face. I think I must have been smiling, because everyone I passed said hi to me as if I'd been smiling at them.

"Lemme know if you need help getting out." - one shoveling guy to another shoveling guy.

"Hey, take my picture!" - friendly man with a very large snowblower, to me.

I've always walked in snowstorms. It's a habit and an instinct, and by now, a kind of ritual. It snows and I walk in it. I was sick the last time it snowed, and I walked anyway.

I once walked in a bonafide blizzard, where the snow was coming down so fast, and the wind swirling so hard that I had to turn back at the end of my street because I was uncertain as to whether I'd make it home if I went farther.

Today was milder. Only about 10 inches. I waited till the wind had calmed down and then out I went.

I bounced around in the drifts and snapped pictures and thought about how it would be to ride tomorrow in the half-plowed streets. I watched the plows go by, chains on their giant tires. I watched SUV drivers, timid, uncertain how to get started. Then the car service drivers, flashing by too fast. The buses, stolid and unconcerned, neither too fast nor too slow.

Two boys walked by carrying snowboards. I wanted to snap their picture but they were gone. Lots of small children in brightly colored snowsuits, their moms looking surprised by the snow, a little worried that the kids were getting tired from walking thigh-deep.

One little boy flung himself face first into it, laughing. I knew just how he felt.
I leapt and jogged through it, backed into big drifts to take pictures.

I wore Gore Tex pants and hiking boots, nice big ski gloves. I was comfortable. Snow is something I understand.

It was just weird to see it in the city, where everything is ash-grey and blocky-looking. Suddenly my country life invaded, and everything wore icing.

Yep, it's one of those weeks where I keep making drafts and more drafts, sitting next to my (you guessed it) drafty window, where the cat bravely offers to keep me company on the adjacent big fluffy pillow.

I guess when you have fur, drafts don't scare you.

And then I get distracted by the fact that my lunch is ready, or my second dinner, or I need another cup of coffee, or this chair hurts my butt, or the outdoors exists, and so on, and I don't post the thing, because really I am not so sure about that draft, and there it languishes next to the three other drafts I wrote this week, and the hundred-and-something other ones I wrote that will never see the light of -er- cathrode ray tubing.

Yes, I know, hardly anyone has CRT monitors anymore. Shut up and let me have my literary devices, willya?

Anyway. At the risk of injecting yet another unpublished draft into my Folder of Oblivion, I am going to set forth a list, in hopes that my beloved list format will put me at ease about publishing the damn thing.

1. They have promised us 8 inches of snow, and so far all we've got are flurries.
2. I rode around with snow tires and a fender all ready like a badass boy scout, and I hardly even got flaked on.
3. I had a little talk with my hairdresser, and we agreed that growing my hair out is an awesome idea. Then he cut it so that the right bits will grow out in (it is hoped) a non-driving-me-crazy sort of way. It was a big step. I've had the same haircut for years.

4. See? I need a whole extra space between paragraphs after that.
5. Lemon ice cream. Lemon ice cream, I tell you!
6. I am 1.5 hats through my 3 hats of gift knitting that must be accomplished before I get to cast on for the Incredibly Cool Sweater Design I drew on an envelope.
7. I deleted my online profile and then when I went to resurrect it, thinking, what if Mr. Fabulous is looking for me there? the site first wouldn't let me log in, telling me I must've typed in the wrong username (I know my own name, you bastards), and then when I finally got in through a backdoor, it chided me for having disabled the account. "You will now not be able to disable your account again for a period of...one week." Whoop-de-fracking-doo.
8. I haven't written about boys in a while, I know. It might be because I haven't met anyone of interest, or anyone who seems interested in me. And there's been less strife in the former-boys department. I seem to be able to be around the ex-lovers without feeling sad or needing to drag them home by the hair.
9. In point of fact, I had dinner with summerboy this evening and had a pretty darn good time, laughing and joking around. I was only slightly annoyed at him for still looking cute. Don't boys know they should immediately go to pot after you cease to be involved with them? Really, it would be just great if he'd get horribly ugly. How about some gooseturd-colored contact lenses? Try, really try, to gain a hundred pounds (he's skinny, so it would take a hundred). Take up smoking! That's an instant turn-off. No? Oh well, it was fun hanging with you anyway, cutie.
10. Squirrel!

* In cycling, drafting means following another cyclist very closely to take advantage of the reduction in wind drag.

I went shopping. Yes, it's pouring cold rain out. Yes, the bridge was full of broken beer bottles (I have some choice words for whoever put them there). Yes, it's Sunday and I was up late last night.

But I had a quest.

And the weird thing was, the shopping kinda cheered me up. Which wouldn't be weird to someone else, but given my general hatred of all things shopping-related and my lack of patriotic consumerist joy in overspending, it was a bit surprising.

Maybe it was the colors of what I bought. There comes a point in winter when I long to be bathed in a molten pool of Crayola. Well, minus the burns from all that hot wax, but you know what I mean.

The city has its charms - checking out what color they've lit the Empire State as you go over the bridge (it's currently green-and-white). The mind-blowing profusion of fresh flowers lined up outside practically any deli in Manhattan. The charm of sitting down at your favorite haunts, where they automatically bring your ice cream in the long dish because they know you don't like the scoops melting into each other.

The particular delight of rolling up to a bar with a bicycle posse, and seeing other friends roll up, and ye shall know them by their bicycles and the particular brands of helmets they wear and how they look in winter gear or summer gear. "Oh, you haven't met him before? Well, let me introduce you." (then a few minutes later...) "Yes, he does look like George Clooney. He likes younger women; I'm too old for him. You should totally go for it!"

Where was I? Oh yes, the need for color in midwinter. Well, I guess there are various forms of color - literal and metaphorical, maybe even metaphysical.

I needed all of those, and I think I got some. Along with a pretty good dose of silliness. ("Oh crap, there is that guy who always hits on me. I will hang out with my ex-lover who will run interference. Shit, this guy just will not take a hint. Maybe he will think I'm going home with my ex-lover if we walk out together. Oh but wait, then the guy I have a crush on will think that, too. Damn.")

Oh well, it's all good.

Some days the contents of my head are extra-jumbled, and this has been a week of those sorts of days. I've tried to blog a few times and end up realizing that I am Just So Not in the Mood that the results languish in the ever-growing drafts pile. Good thing it's an electronic pile, because I'm not sure my apt has room for any more piles.

I took out my toaster to be recycled on the curb. Either the trash collectors will pick it up (it's mostly metal) or some random person will walk by, like the look of it, and take it, a phenomenon we call urban recycling. Sadly, if it's the latter, when they get it home and plug it in and try to make toast with it, they will find out it gives off a disturbing burnt-wire smell, which is why I suddenly had the urge to reclaim the counter space it was taking up.

Anyway. One less Thing I don't need. If I really, really, really want toast, there is always the oven.

I haven't had a microwave in years, and darlings, I don't want one.

What I do want is a more structurally sound bedframe. If a bed makes horrible rickety noises every time the 11-pound cat jumps onto it, it's time to start thinking about a visit to IKEA. I just would like to earn some money first.

What else don't I want? Let's see. I don't want a fancy coffeemaker. I am happy - make that very happy - with my little silver espresso pot. It sits on the stove, it makes an appealing noise when it's finished. I get to screw parts together (which is vaguely satisfying). I wash it and put it away for next time. Perfect little ritual.

What else do I want? A really pretty handpainted vegan yarn that has some wool-like memory and warmth, but is not produced from animal products. I am not sure it exists, but I have several non-animal-fiber-wearing friends for whom I need to or would like to knit. One of whom is allergic to acrylic. Any suggestions? Also, it would be great if it wasn't too costly.

What else don't I want? flat tires, insomnia, pain, road dangers, financial stress, any other kind of stress, fungi, tummy aches, influenzas or other illnesses, kittens to get left in plastic bags on the street, anything bad to happen to me or anyone I love.

What else do I want? Daily chocolate, love from friends and family and beautiful boys who are nice and funny, bicycles that are in good shape and fit me well, income from an enjoyable source, to get into school, to make art, to open a restaurant that just sells homemade soup and bread (need to talk to that friend of mine who has similar ambitions), for my darling little cat to live very healthily to a very ripe old age with me, my mommy.

Happy 2010, gang. Let's see what we can put together for ourselves, eh?

Okay, okay, yes. I'm having difficulty posting. I've taken pictures for posting, I've written drafts and then been unaccountably dissatisfied with them. I've tried for holiday spirit, charming curmudgeonry, and several other tones. None of them work. It's all just a big jumble of flat-colored jellybeans here, and I don't know how to make an amusing anecdote out of it for you. A friend asked me today what I've been up to, and I had absolutely nothing to tell him, other than that I've been sick.

Sometimes I just don't feel like talking, or writing, or sometimes my head is just not a place I am able to discuss. And when one has little money one tends not to go out and do fancy things, so there isn't much to describe.

I've watched a bunch of movies on TV, including some enjoyable old ones that I hadn't seen before. I acquired a new crush on a TV actor, one which will make no sense to anyone but me, I expect. Which is fine. That way I can have him (imaginarily) to myself.

I received some cycling gear as gifts, and I'm glad to have it. I knitted some gifts from stash (plus one trip to the LYS because I had a dearth of "manly yarn"). Dad liked his Fair-Isle hat, which was nice, because I wasn't sure he would (not manly enough).

It's getting cold out, serious cold, the cold that separates the men from the boys and all that jazz, except that if last year is anything to go by, a lot of those selfsame men will be riding the subway to work, leaving me the little lone solitary cyclist slugging it out in the wind and snow.

That's fine with me. I like the quiet. I had company for the ride home tonight, and we went slow and easy, my preferred winter speed. I tend to ride at sunset this time of year, so I look west and see a lot of pink striped sky draped around the Statue of Liberty. Then I look east and there's the low sun blazing on the metalclad tops of the famous buildings: Empire, Chrysler.

Things are rough and beautiful these days, which seems fitting for winter.

Post, unpost, post, unpost. Or rather, start writing something, lose steam, start writing something else, decide I'd rather be knitting, cycling, collecting vegetables from chilly farmers, etc.

Maybe I can get through a simple list.

a) Have realized I like winter cycling better than summer cycling. Reasons: fewer people out, bracing weather, object is to stay warm rather than avoid melting under sweltering sun, whole experience is both mellow and challenging.

b) Winter knitting proceeds apace. Have vowed to make all holiday gifts from stash yarn. Not sure I have enough "manly" colors in stock.

c) Cat asleep on couch.

d) Jeremiah Johnson on TV. Hard to decide which is more glorious - open, beautiful western landscape or young Redford. I also like the fact that there's barely a single page of dialogue in the whole movie.

e) Bulgarian disco music is fun. Just in case you were wondering. Oh c'mon, you know you were.

f) I really need to get over my fear of shrink wrapping my windows with a blow dryer. It's cold in here, and I can't find one of my fingerless mittens.

g) Have been scratching my head wondering what people who don't knit do for clothing all winter. I find myself wearing at least two or three handmade objects every day. I suppose that is some kind of knitter's fashion don't, but the fashion police can bite me. My knits are beautiful, and they keep me warm. And by beautiful, I do not mean perfect. My favorite things are often full of mistakes. Yes, there's a metaphor in there.

Wow, what a week. Lots of late-night shenanigans (no, not that kind) and random weirdness. Highlights:

Found two kittens abandoned in a plastic bag. Found someone to take them home. Wondered about the mess that is human nature. Who the hell would do such a thing? My diagnosis: Lack of ability to put oneself into another creature's shoes (or in this case paws).

Finished the first small item of holiday knitting. Started next while at laundromat. Annoying little girl came over and bumped up against me and got right in my space while I was knitting. If I were a child-liking person, I would no doubt have chatted with her and showed her what I was making. Instead, I glared until her mother came and got her. Hey, she's no niece o' mine.

I was, in fact, knitting mittens for my niece at the time. Yes, I know, that's horribly inconsistent, but what can I say? I'm a complicated woman. Also, I'm fairly certain I'm not the only one who dislikes children writ large but has special relationships with specific children who are related by blood or friendship.

Danced with handsome boy on Friday. That was fun. He lives far away.

Kissed different handsome boy yesterday. Nice, but you know, nothing doing there.

Had conversation with male friend that went like this:

He: "Hey, will you tell Summerboy XYZ?"

Me: "Um. I don't see him very...we're not...I don't..."

He: "Oh. Hey, you should just get a guy you can (less polite term for have sex with) on the DL."

Me: "No, I'm not built for that."

He: "You mean you want a BOYFRIEND?" (surprised)

Me: "I know you haven't heard that word come out of my mouth in a while (or ever), but yeah. I think it's time."

He: "Hey, if I wasn't doing so well with my girlfriend, you're totally my type."

Me: "Ack."

Later that night, I pondered. Lots of men say I'm their "type." And yet.

It gave me to think. And what I thought was this: I'm intimidating. I may look like someone they'd want, but get me in a conversation and within five minutes most guys are feeling kind of stupid. Or at least they're thinking, what the hell would she need me for?

And they're not wrong. I probably project self-sufficiency at a radius of 90 yards. I certainly don't like being approached by guys in clubs or bars, and I'm very adept at warding off all attempts. I tend to have a kneejerk reaction of, "I'm with my friends. Buzz off."

So how did I end up dancing with a handsome 20-something doctor? He was a friend of my friends, of course. And because of that, he had a chance where none of the other boys in the bar did.

I never used to get depressed at holidays, but if this last year is anything to go by, that's changed. There was nothing really wrong about today - I went to a friend's dinner party. The food was good; someone I know and usually like made a not-terribly-nice joke at my expense, but other than that, there wasn't anything especially wrong.

And yet, I left feeling vaguely grumpy and wishing for...

Well, I think I was wishing for Boywich. And maybe this is why holidays make me sad. I don't know if it's specifically him I am missing, or if it's just that feeling of belonging to somebody. Our house was a magnet for something, even though moving in with him wasn't the best idea I ever had.

Years later, gone from there a long time and living a completely different lifestyle, I feel like I'm on a magic carpet in mid-air, only not fun like that sounds. I feel like I'm dangling when I ought to be grounded.

It's not very comfortable.

Maybe it was because most of the people there today were married. My one single female friend left early - perhaps because she wasn't necessarily having the greatest time, either, though she made a good show of it if that was the case.

I kept falling asleep sitting up. I think I just wanted to be elsewhere, and my body was prepared to take me there, even before I left.

When I got home it was immediately apparent that wherever elsewhere was, it wasn't my apartment. So I got on my bike and took off. I rode through cool air and deserted streets, and thought, this might be my one true love. It might not be a person at all. It might be this simple, two-wheeled, me-powered machine.

While I was riding I was relatively happy, except for that one moment when the stupid men standing in the middle of the bike lane responded to my friendly "heads up" with a nasty retort, and I wanted to turn around and shove them, bodily, with my fist, out of the bike lane and then give them a lecture about being courteous to people who are simply trying to make sure they don't back into oncoming traffic and get hurt.

Instead of doing that, I took a different route home so I wouldn't have to see them again.

I came home and swatched some sportweight, and discovered that there really isn't enough of it to make a whole sweater (and it's not anything I can get more of), so I read Barbara Walker's thoughts on sleeveless sweaters that can have set-in sleeves added later and came up against the usual invisible/provisional cast-on barrier, and closed the book and put down the yarn and wondered how I could possibly rejigger the properties of matter so I can turn 750 yards into 1150.

Kitwich has no ideas on the subject. But you know, she's here.

When someone started to make noises about going around the table having everyone recite what they're thankful for, instead of falling back on my prepared speech about my cat, I flat-out refused. I said, Oh no, I'm not going to play that game.

I don't know if that killed the idea, or if it was only ever a joking suggestion, but in the end I didn't have to lie. I don't like being prodded to emote, especially to emote some kind of greeting-card tripe. It's all well and good to be able to appreciate the little things in your life, but it should be spontaneous, and if you're having a bad day, or a bad year for that matter, people at dinner parties should just let you be the way you are, and not try and force you to be something else because it makes them more comfortable.

I had just had an interesting conversation with my mom about this very thing - interesting because she agreed with me, and I wouldn't have expected her to. I liked being able to talk with her like that, honestly, and to have her respond in kind. It felt real. And we laughed, because for both of us, Thanksgiving is just a harvest feast, and trying to slap an emoticon on it takes the fun out of it.

It's just about the food. And by the way, I don't like pumpkin pie.