Sock it to Me

Behold, the Sensational Socks training sock.



It's far from perfect, but I understand how socks work now, and am pretty sure I could knit people-sized socks from actual sock yarn, on those tiny #2 needles. I'm still not quite sure I have the patience, but I think there might be at least one sock in my future.

And it's all about the future for me, as I am thrilled to be seeing the last of the month of May. In addition to the passing of my great Aunt Mary, this month has seen trouble at work, an understaffed pledge drive, a four-day stomach virus for The Boy, which turned into a four-day stomach virus for me. This month saw me trip and fall at work, squashing my lunch and gouging me knee. It saw me accidentally pay a bill twice, screwing up my accounting. And finally, it saw my face morph into something like Sloth from The Goonies, thanks to an enormous sty that grew on the bottom of my left eyelid, effectively flipping it over and making impossible to blink or fully close my eye for days.

Goodbye, May. Kiss my ass.

The Screenplay That I'll Never Write

My grandmother is turning 86 tomorrow, and I know she's feeling a little conflicted about her birthday this year, because her elder sister, my Great Aunt Mary, died two weeks ago. Aunt Mary lived in Sacramento with her son Steve (a notorious family fuck-up--that'll matter later), and my grandmother lives here in western PA, but the two were very close. This was always surprising to me, because my grandmother is a combination of Rose Nylund and Dorothy Zbornak (smart, industrious, and extremely capable but utterly, utterly sweet and more than a little co-dependent) and Aunt Mary enjoyed swilling cocktails, dressing to the nines, and smoking unfiltered Pall Malls while grumbling like Patty and Selma. The two should have clashed at every encounter, and often did, but loved each other fiercely. Aunt Mary moved west in the 50s, but the two always found time for visits, and as they got older and found the time, those visits could last six weeks or more. They talked on the phone often, and I just found out that as Aunt Mary's health started failing, my grandmother would end each phone conversation by singing You Are My Sunshine.

Sweet, I know. It makes me want to hug my own sister, believe me.

Anyway, Gram got the call that Aunt Mary was on life support the day before my cousin--Gram's youngest grandchild--was set to graduate from nursing school. Gram's a nurse (still!), my mom's a nurse, and my cousin is now the third generation, so the ceremony meant a lot to my grandmother. Things were serious, though, and Gram didn't hesitate to get on plane with her baby sister, my great Aunt Frances, to be there with Aunt Mary.

Of course speculation started on our end right away: Would Steve (the fuck-up mentioned above) manage to be able to pick the two old ladies up, or would he leave them stranded at the airport? Would he send some old stoned dude with a long ponytail yet no hair on top to get them? If that were the case, would they go? We worried for nothing, though, because Steve picked them up and delivered them to the hospital, where Aunt Mary was indeed dying. According to Gram, she had time to hold Aunt Mary's hand and talk to her. She felt Aunt Mary could hear her, as her eyelids fluttered in reaction. She told Aunt Mary everything would be okay, and then asked if she wanted her to sing. Eyelids fluttered, my grandmother whispered You Are My Sunshine into her ear, and Aunt Mary died a few minutes later.

I cry every time I even think of it, and I doubt I'll ever be able to hear the song again without bursting into tears. I'm a wimp, though. My grandmother and Aunt Frances left the hospital with Steve, and they all went to a sort of restaurant/lounge place another relative owns. There were drinks, and singing, and Gram was befriended by a large black man named Hershey. Hershey pulled my grandmother to the little stage, and the pair lead the joint in a rousing version of, you guessed it, You Are My Sunshine.

So then they left the restaurant, and Steve took his two very sad old aunts to the house where he'd lived with Aunt Mary and his maid. Or the woman he referred to as a live-in maid, and whom Gram and Aunt Frances immediately decided had to be a prostitute because the house was a filthy mess. The prostitute had the run of the place, as did her large bird, whose cage was left open for his convenience. She kept a fish tank in the kitchen and a boa constrictor in one of the bedrooms.

The old ladies didn't eat much of anything while they were there, because they swear they saw the prostitute stir a bowl of fruit salad and then dip the serving spoon into the fish tank--as if to clean it--and then set it on the counter next to the bowl. They didn't want to hurt Steve's feelings by leaving for a hotel, so they pretended to eat and did a lot of cleaning.

And then the boa constrictor was discovered to have escaped.

Now our old ladies were not only not eating, but they weren't sleeping, either. They decided to kill some time by going through Aunt Mary's things, as they were staying in her former bedroom, ("I've never known a woman to have so many shoes and earrings! My GOD, the earrings! Such junk!") WHEN THEY DISCOVERED A SUITCASE FULL OF CASH UNDER THE BED. Knowing Steve's history of drugs, drinking, and petty crimes, they promptly WIPED OFF THEIR FINGERPRINTS and shoved the suitcase right where they found it. Gram says it was stacks of hundred dollar bills, likely tens of thousands of dollars.

According to Gram and Aunt Frances, the services for Aunt Mary were nice, the snake was never found but not a problem, and my uncle and his son came in from San Francisco and Las Vegas, so they covered the trip back to the airport and kept things uneventful. My sister wrote to the cousin to thank him for being there for Gram, and his reply included the following:

Two amusing notes from the excursion:

1 – I was sleeping in the room wherein the snake was at large, I did not realize this until the morning of my departure, which was probably for the best.

2 – The last of Aunt Mary's above-ground mortal remains (she was cremated) is being kept in what was described as "a beautiful hand-hammered pewter antique urn" by the donor, one of Steve's old girlfriends who remains a friend, but is really an old-fashioned cocktail shaker, it has a pour spout. I don't think there's anything particularly wrong with this, as long it is generally perceived as valuable. Don't tell grandma.

Aunt Mary loved her gin and tonics, and would probably be thrilled with her final resting place, but my god did that crack me up. If ever I need a lift, all I have to do is think, "It has a pour spout." But I won't tell Gram.

What could possibly improve on a Mother’s Day spent with The Very Best Boy in the Whole Wide World? How about throwing in Robert Downy Jr. on the big screen? Swoon! I honestly think I would be happy to watch that man eat a bowl of cereal and fold laundry, so seeing him reprise his role as Tony Stark/Iron Man was a lovely treat on a lovely day.

I had expected to be a little disappointed in IM2, so I was pleasantly surprised. It’s nowhere near as dark (literally and figuratively) as The Dark Knight, but it takes a similarly sober look at what it must be like for a human with no super powers to decide it’s his job to save the world. I’ve never read an Iron Man comic, so I don’t know anything about the story beyond what’s presented in the movies, but I think this movie goes a long way toward showing how much of an egomaniac you have to be to think protecting all of mankind is up to you—and that arrogance is something you rarely see in someone who’s supposed to be a hero. Combine that contradiction with struggles with depression and alcoholism, and a genuine desire to do good and to love and be loved, and you’ve got yourself one interesting fella.

RDJr’s talent is arguably wasted on playing a comic book hero, because I honestly believe he’s one of those actors whose talent raises entertainment to art: I believe he could play roles that could change peoples’ lives. He brings so much pain, humanity, and fragility to Tony Stark, though, that I almost sort of wonder if maybe someone might look into those big liquid eyes and find inspiration to face a fear and become a better person.

Boy, that’s a little serious for Iron Man and Monday morning, isn’t it? I blame RDJr’s eyes for turning me to mush. I’m already looking forward to IM3, and despite some skepticism, further interactions between RDJr’s Tony Stark and the very definition of badass that is Samuel L. Jackson’s Nick Fury have me looking forward to seeing what happens with The Avengers.

I’m also looking forward to the NEXT Sookie Stackhouse novel, because I gobbled up the newest one, Dead in the Family, within a few hours of its appearance on my front porch (thank you, Amazon Prime). I don’t know how many more books Harris plans to write about Sookie & Pals, but I almost wish I hadn’t started on them until the whole series was completed; I hate having to wait to find out what comes next. Damn Carly Simon and her anticipation!

Aside from the Sookie, I’ve been ripping through all kinds of books lately. I bought Steve Almond’s newest, Rock and Roll Will Save Your Life, which is a great book for anyone who cares about music. Even though I didn’t know much or anything about some of the music and bands he writes about, the writing is good and funny and fun and the occasional exegesis (my favorite is of Toto’s Africa) makes the price of admission (especially if it’s a library book) well worth it.

I read Jen Lancaster’s Pretty in Plaid last week, and chuckled all though it. She’s a little older than me, and so was ahead of the curve on when she was able to buy her own clothes and choose her own music, but I was familiar with pretty much everything she wrote about, fashion-wise. And while I wasn’t a sorority girl—after going through rush and getting an idea of what the whole thing was about I sort of became vehemently anti-sorority—it was amusing to read about her experiences. Frustrating, too, as you could watch her develop the patterns that got her into such big trouble in Bitter is the New Black. It’s weird to have that kind of insight into a total stranger’s life, but there you go.

I’m just about finished with Susan J. Douglas’s new book, Enlightened Sexism. Douglas is my favorite feminist writer—her Where the Girls Are made me want to turn my undergraduate certificate in Women’s Studies into a PhD so I could launch into a career of sucking up pop culture and then writing and teaching about it from a feminist perspective. I never did that, obviously, but sometimes I think I still might. You know how someone said that if you could find work that’s like play, you’ll never work a day in your life? I think being Douglas’s protégé would do that for me.

My good pal BabelBabe stopped over last week for Knitting, and while I don’t think either one of us knitted a single stitch, we had a nice visit. She left me with The Forgotten Garden, which is a nice, rich, chewy family drama set in Australia. So far, so good, but it’s made me realize that aside from Bill Bryson’s In a Sunburned Country, I can’t think of anything else I’ve read that’s set there. What am I not thinking of?

I’m talky today, huh? I should go listen to the president try to convince me that Elena Kagen is a better choice than Diana Wood. Time will tell, I guess.