Just Call Me Mrs. Crazy Man

I never thought I was the marrying kind, but thanks to SnarkFest, I've finally found a man who's changed my mind. Let me introduce you to my future husband- that is, if he doesn't "iggy" me.

"If I find that you did not carefully read, comprehend and retain the parts of this profile that pertain to you, I will simply state something like: "It is clear that you did not carefully read, comprehend and retain what I stated in my profile, you are now iggied." Iggied means that you are put on my ignore list so that I no longer receive messages from you."

Well, I better read carefully then. Let's look at some of his qualifications:

"You cannot walk seven (7) miles non-stop averaging 1 mile per 20 minutes and without drinking or eating anything during the walk."

He'll never see the Ho-Ho's I've hid in my fanny pack! Great, on to the next one:

"As my wife, you will have no desire for a career of your own, since as my wife your career will be working side by side with me starting and running our own businesses (Yes, I’ve started and ran my own successful businesses in the past). Only my future wife and me will know the details of the businesses until they are started. All you will know now is that they will be financial in nature, they will help others financially."

Well, that doesn't sound shady at all, so I'm on board. In fact, I'm willing to transfer all of my current assets to him RIGHT NOW. I hope he can use a couple of bucks and a coupon for a free Subway cookie for his business venture. But, wait!

"I was married once, 20 plus years. I haven't kissed a girl since being divorced over three years ago."

Wait, someone divorced this peach? But, why? Who could show such a stunning lack of judgment? What could this perfect man possibly have done to warrant a divorce?

"Most women, even those ten years younger than me look older than me. I want a woman who looks younger than me."

You know, I think something's coming to me...

"Sorry, but when it comes to turning me on, light chocolate to white skin color is needed. However, there are exceptions for darker skin, but they have to be very beautiful."

Yep, I'm definitely locking in on an answer...

"I want a woman whose goal is to be praised by God with the same praise God gave Sarah, Abraham’s wife, that is, God praised her for her servant attitude and obedience to her husband even to the point that Sarah called her husband lord and master. Such a woman can scarce be found, even in the Christian community who supposedly believe the Word of God. Scarce can be found a Christian woman that even comes close to receiving the same praise from God as Sarah did."

But it's only a hypothesis... could he be a giant toolbox? Is that it?

"And generally never becomes a problem for the man to fulfill. But, as time goes on, the wife starts using her sexual favors as a tool to manipulate the man into giving her what she wants or doing what she wants. First, this shows that the wife is becoming less submissive and more disobedient. But the bottom line is, when the wife demands payment, whether in the form of things (getting her what she wants) or actions (do this or that for her), she has become a whore."

I better whore around for more evidence before I present my conclusions to the public though.

"Where the slave and wife are most similar is when they are given a command. In this instance, they are both to obey with all their heart, mind, body and soul with an enthusiastically positive attitude. They are to both obey because they love the one giving the command."

Ah, eureka! RESOLVED: CRAZY INTERNET MAN IS A GIANT DICK. QED.


Ah, the Internet. It's always like turning the rock over on humanity, you never know what's going to crawl out. Still, immersing myself in the mind of this loon made me wonder if I had my own list. If I was looking for someone to spend the rest of my life with, what sort of criteria would I put on my list? And then I remembered that I had a list like that. When I was eleven. It was full of ridiculous things. He had to be tall, at least six feet, but that was mostly so I could have a minion to reach things from the high shelves at the grocery store. I wanted him, and I do not lie, "To care about the world and NEVER VOTE PC OR REFORM." It was 1998, in other words, and I underlined never twice. Oh, and he had to have dark hair and blue eyes, be "impossibly handsome," (I think I had hit the Harlequin stash then) wealthy, drive a nice car, and give me a library of my own. Then I realized that, as of Tuesday, I was twenty one. Exactly ten years older than my checklist, although you wouldn't know it, since dep owners still ask if I'm buying beer for my parents. And what has changed? I've learned that I would let all of my requirements go for some people, even when the situation was hopeless and doomed, doomed, doomed to anyone of sound mind or sobriety. And I like it better that way. At least I'm not trying to leave Harlequin cover copy.

I guess I could come up with a new list. Right now, it would read something like "Must be nice, enjoy arguments, and tip well." Smelling inoffensive is also desired but not crucial. As for the online crazy man, I don't know. I'm trying to be kind and positive, but I can't help hoping the perfect checklist girl gives him a raging case of stealth junk rot. Because they don't publish Consumer Reports for people, jackass.

A Love Letter, A Little Too Late

My roommate's cat in Stitch Niche yarn.

For the past week or so, I've been trying to ignore the fact that my favourite knitting store is about to close down. Which is easy enough to do when I'm a few hours away, and can keep myself busy with school and work. Or when I can convince myself that Frankie will somehow find a way to keep it going. But I have to accept that it's going soon, and before it does, I want everyone to read me get all mushy, so they can know how much the Stitch Niche meant to me. You see, it saved my life. When I dropped out of school second year and needed to pull my life from the brink- and maybe kill some stash at the same time, if that wasn't asking too much- Frankie's kept me going. Every week I would show up, pretend I was happy and normal with the other women, and knit a little more. Another block would be added to Leo's baby blanket. Another pattern repeat to Katie's socks. And in between all of the stitches, I didn't have to pretend as much anymore. I might not have become happy or normal, but I was a little more so. Enough to get by on, to get to the next week, until I had made it through a four months and could pass for a functional human being. Sure, it wasn't just the Stitch Niche- stores as places of mystical transformation work better in books than in real life. Real life is messy, and has to deal with counselling sessions, selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, repeats of Canadian Idol and other petty grievances. But it, and all of the women there, meant a lot to me. They meant safety.

Before this, I never really understood why people got upset when stores or businesses closed. To me, they were just places, and the public shiva over Sam the Record Man or CBGB struck me as excessive. I thought those people were just substituting something that could be bought for communities that had to be earned, the kind that grow up around beloved parks and dignified churches. I was wrong. If we buy things to fill a need, than why can't the places where we buy mean the same to us as that church? Especially if they maybe, finally, begin to fill that need? Even if they don't, maybe it's just the residual nostalgia that makes us sad, for when happiness was something that could be purchased with legal tender. I don't know. Trying to quantify it just makes me sigh irritably.

And, anyway, my sadness is only a part of this. There's everyone who used to show up, and then there's Frankie. This place was her time, and her love, and her effort. And it was nothing but bad luck that she had to close it. I hope, if any one's reading this in Guelph, that you'll find time to visit it in the next few weeks, and to buy some pretty yarn as well. Alpaca doesn't quite take out the sting, but it's a good place to start. It was a great place. But Frankie will always be a great person.

Praise Jesus and Pass the Undies

I'm beginning to think my life is a romantic comedy without the romance. In other words, a whole lotta awkwardness and pratfalls. I mean, really, a few weeks back my cat took a mighty shit on my bed while Q the Ass got his stuff. At work, I have to contend with both my unfortunate, doomed crush and the cash tyrant who has conceived an intense dislike for yours truly. Oh, and today, when I went into the Gap to try on a skirt, the saleswoman told me to make sure I had underwear on. I was, frankly, taken back. I always thought I radiated that essential Protestant prudishness, the kind that means sensible white cotton at all times, when instead I've been musky with wanton harlot. Wanton, lady business-airing harlot. Who just wants a plaid skirt. TO DO HER WHORISH UNDERWEAR-FREE BUSINESS IN. God. Perhaps I should consider wearing my underwear on the outside, like Superman, every time I shop at the Gap. It would be marginally less embarrassing.

Anyway, all that awkwardness was for nothing. On me, the skirt looked suspiciously like it came from an R. Crumb drawing. It was less "cute but warm" and more "plump teen who's sexually available to creepy, skinny dudes who will then draw them performing fellatio on an ostrich." Well. At least I have a Halloween costume for this year, but I might need to drag around an essay- with illustrations- explaining it.

Next Up, Whenever I Carve Out Some Time: I get all mushy about some sad knitting news I heard of out of Guelph.