Stitch ‘n Pitch

Knitters are the most unique people on earth … who else could invent something as nutty-fun as “Stitch ‘n Pitch” combining baseball, knitting and Dodger Dogs? Oh! And do not forget the ten-dollar beer! Do not spill even a drop… a single ounce of that small plastic cup cost you a buck and a half!

I almost backed out of going last night to the Los Angeles Stitch ‘n Pitch event because I wanted to go home and go directly to bed. I’m a weenie, and not just of the Dodger Dog variety (by the way, two days in a row using the word weenie! hee!) but I’d already bought the ticket and I have to admit my curiosity got the best of me. I’m so glad I went! I started fading on about the fourth inning, but it was well worth it. Check out the crowd:

Oh yeah. There is this one other teetiny thing I may have forgot to mention, which is that I am rather deathly afraid of heights. Just a little bit. So when I saw where we were going in the stadium I tried to call in sick again, but Faith was having none of it. It is good to have friends who don’t let you back out of stuff. Except when you are in peril of dying from altitude sickness.

You see, Dodger Stadium is climbed in three steps. First there is base camp at the foot of the mountain, Mt. Dodgerest. And that is where in the past I always lived, at Base Camp, also known as “I will pay extra for seats where gravity is still an active force on my body.”

If you are a more adventurous climber, you make the trek halfway up the mountain, a route first made by Edmund Hillary during the Great Dodger Dog Exploration of 19somethingorother. There is mustard and relish awaiting you. This area allows for proper altitude acclimatization in order to prevent altitude sickness. You can also get ten dollar beer here.

Faith poses for crazy camera crew during exploration of Dodger Dog Camp at Mt. Dodgerest. I am merely acclimating her to vacationing with me wherein I will take 3,000 pictures per day.

Finally, if you are brave and have a sherpa, or are a KNITTER, apparently, you make the final ascent to the summit. Heavy climbing equipment is recommended, but alas they do not sell hard liquor at Mt. Dodgerest. You have to rely on the ten dollar beer to keep you from hurling as you attempt to scale the treacherous stairs and avoid spillage. Once at the top people will take your picture to remind you that you survived the arduous journey.

I really tried hard to say hey and be sociable and I drank many (4) cups of coffee beforehand so I would be alert and not schlumpysniffly, but I have to tell you I was not prepared for the perilous altitude. I do not know if you are afraid of heights. If you are not, then I salute you and your badassery. I myself am a complete land-loving mudfoot. I plan to lobby the Stitch ‘n Pitch folks next year to get us closer to the earth’s crust, where I hear they even have a thing called “oxygen.”

Aside from my constant fear that I would at any moment tumble off into space, I had a remarkable fine time and met new friends.

Laura, left, and Debbie and Jerry say hey!

Face-hugged old friends.

Me and Gwen drank beer(s), plural.

Captured the parents-to-be, Sara and Richard.

This was the first time I’d been to a Dodgers game in YEARS, it was really fun. I love to go to baseball games (I can’t stand to watch it on TV, or any sport for that matter… except soccer, which always makes me think of being in some pub somewhere and seeing folks go ape over a goal) but baseball games just have such a good feeling about them, maybe it’s the beer or maybe it’s the hotdogs, maybe it’s the cute guys in tight pants. Who knows! But it was made all the more entertaining by hundreds of folks knitting in the stands.

I love knitters. Ya’ll are buckwild crazy.

Knitting, car talk, and self-help

Mike and Milinda came over for dinner, Survivor and knitting. And drinking, which I think should go without saying. (Judgers: Diet Coke.) (Everyone else: Red, red wine.)

Mike was appropriately impressed with the Kitty Pi. Thank you, thankyouverymuch. I meant to light the grill and make barbecued hamburgers and have a nice dinner for my guests. Instead, I served them the following:

1) One bag of Ruffles Potato Chips
2) One bag of Reese’s peanut butter cups from Easter that were 1/2 off at Ralph’s
3) Alcohol

The key to having a successful gathering is to always get your guests drunk enough that they don’t care what they eat.

In this next pic, Jen looks like she’s wearing the Crystal Palace “Splash” scarf I made her because she loves it soooooo much. Actually, I phoned her ahead of time, “Bring that scarf I made you that you never wear so I can take a picture of it (you ungrateful wench).” And she was like, “Uh, I would wear it if it were, oh, you know, ever colder than 71 degrees (you neurotic wacko).” It’s so good to have friends who understand you.

Jennifer saved me yesterday when I had car issues. Here in California, sometimes you have to get your vehicle smog checked and get a certificate that says you passed the inspection before you can receive new tags. The lottery for who the hell has to get a smog certificate is the world’s greatest mystery. This year, of course it happened to me. OF COURSE. With the way my luck has been this year, I knew as soon as I got the letter from the DMV that I would fail the smog test and have to spend one million dollars and some change to get my Jeep fixed. If it could be fixed. ‘Cause that’s the kind of year I’m having.

This should come as no surprise then:

Also, I discovered something new about myself on this journey of fucking self-exploration I seem to be on because try as I might I cannot avoid this journey, anyway, I discovered that now the way I handle bad news is to cry. Uncontrollably. So when the nice man at the smog check station came out to tell me I had failed the smog test, I cried. Like a baby. Because I am three.

As it turns out, however, being blonde and sad and crying while throwing in a “My husband is divorcing me and I don’t know how to fix car things…” makes people feel sorry for you in a Blanche Dubois kind of way. It’s magic the way they will do ANYTHING to get you to STOP CRYING right now, because really, please, I WILL DO ANYTHING if you just please STOP CRYING LADY PLEASE. The poor fellow at the smog station called a friend at a filling station down the road who can fix my car, and I took it there and he said he can indeed fix it right then and there and it will cost one million dollars but at least I have finally, Thank God, STOPPED CRYING.

However, while I have finally stopped crying (for now) I am stranded in Studio City with no car. For hours. And since I have to spend one million dollars to fix my car I can’t really go shopping. So I called Jen and she came to meet me.

Jen: Where are you?
Me: I’m in the bookstore in Studio City in the self-help aisle.
Jen: Um, ok, anything good?
Me: I’m reading “To Love, honor and betray.”
Jen: Nice.
Me: Also, there’s “Why Men Cheat” and “What Men Are Really Thinking” and my favorite, “Why Men Love Bitches.”
Jen: Self-help is a load of shit.
Me: Don’t you want to know why men love bitches?

And so on.

So she came to Studio City and rescued me from self-help, and we went to Starbucks and drank coffee and smoked until my car was ready. And then I had an epiphany. About men and relationships and car trouble and what I really, really need. (Not that I ever want another relationship, because I don’t, because I am a bitter old hag, but anyway, see fucking self-discovery exploration above, nothing I can do about it.)

You see, I have major car issues about three times a year. Without fail, I will get into a crash/get my car stolen/have a wheel fall off my Jeep and there is nothing you can do to avoid it. I have Bad Carma. This is just the way it is.

In the past when my Bad Carma flared up I would call Mr. X, crying, and he would be completely, utterly UNHELPFUL. Anti-helpful, really. Me: “(sniffle sniff sniff) My Jeep has flames coming from the hood.” Him: “Uh, why are you calling me? Did you call Triple-A?”

Shithead.

Anyway, the point of all this is that Jennifer, who is a tee-tiny little thing and knows just as much about cars as I do (zero) came to my rescue in the exact perfect way that Mr. X, in eight years of marriage, never did. She said the magic words.

“Where are you? I’ll be right there.”

You see, Jen can’t fix my car. But really, how many men can fix your car, anyway? You just end up taking it to a mechanic. None of us has a clue. That’s fine. I don’t need you to fix my car (I have Triple-A, THANK YOU SHITHEAD.) But you need someone to say, “I’ll be right there.” I need someone to say that. It’s so easy. All a man has to do is hear me, on the phone, crying like a little girl with a broke-down Barbie Jeep, and say, “I will be right there. Then we’ll go get drunk.” This is easy, folks. It is not brain surgery.

And yet this was not mentioned in one single self-help book. Self-help my ass.

Ten notes to read. You’ll find some blogs there.