"I cook with wine. Sometimes I even add it to the food."*

   No man will ever want to marry me.

   There are, perhaps, many reasons for this, but the most important is my general ineptitude at all things house-keeping or craft related.

   Take for instance “The Curious Case of the Holes in All the T-Shirts.” I have a plethora of cotton t-shirts. Nearly every one has a mysterious hole in the same exact spot: lower, middle front.

   They all look something like this:

   What’s this about? How does it happen? Are my jeans attacking my shirts? Is it my seatbelt? Do I have a sharp bellybutton? I don’t understand, but it’s been going on for a good 4 years now, so I can’t blame it on any specific item of clothing. I’m truly stumped. And I’m really fucking annoyed.

   I was feeling crafty the other night and decided to re-hem one of my favorite t-shirts in order to cover up the telltale holes on the front. It’s a sweet t-shirt that my Aunt Kris brought back from Korea after she and her family spent two years on the Army base in Seoul. It’s not exactly replaceable, if you get my drift. And it’s super cool because it has dolphins and Korean letters on it that probably spell out something really neat. (I actually think it was a t-shirt from the school my cousins attended there and it was supposed to be for Penelope, but I stole it before I moved to LA. Sorry, P. But once you’ve seen how I “fixed” it, you won’t want it back.)

   Here are a couple of photos of the finished product.

   Good lord, it looks like the dolphins themselves hemmed this shirt. And they were blind dolphins. On strong doses of PCP.

   I have plans to get this problem resolved. This shirt is too special to look this bad. But I’m ashamed. Ashamed that I mention sewing so much and act like I know how to do it. I don’t. And I should never be allowed to touch a real garment again for the rest of my life. I’ll just keep trying out stitches on pieces of cardstock like I did before. Sigh out loud.

   Segue to today when I attempted to make gluten-free peanut butter cookies. The recipe is very simple: take some peanut butter and add sugar, an egg, some vanilla and baking soda and bake it.

   But I am much too clever to follow a recipe. I decided to make mine with chocolate almond butter and since it was already really sweet, I decided to leave out the sugar. Here is what I ended up with:

I thought it might be good anyway, once I let it cool. 

But here's what happened when I tried to cut it. Cookie scale soup, anyone?

   Never make up baking recipes as you go. Or “eyeball” your measurements. Okay, maybe it’s fine if you’re good at culinary stuff and know what you’re doing, but don’t start getting a big ego just because you once made a yellow cake out of box. This doesn’t mean you’re a baker. It just means you can read. I went back and did it right the second time and they turned out pretty good. (I think. I mean they look like cookies. And what's that famous saying, "Get it right the second time"?) Lesson learned. (Dang, I’m just learning lessons all over the place this year!)

Totally passable. Fingers crossed.

   I am comforted by the fact that men still sometimes marry women who can’t do anything useful in the home. Thank goodness it’s 2013 and not 1953. But what can I possibly bring to the table besides my incredible body and delightful personality? It seems unfair to enter into a marriage with only the abilities to sleep for twelve hours at a time and recite lines from movies. On the other hand, no one is actively trying to marry me right now, so I guess I shouldn’t worry about it. And I suppose I can always keep hoping for a rich dude with lots of servants that know how to cook and sew. And I’m not entirely sure I want to get married anytime soon anyway, so I can probably relax about the whole thing. Phew. Yet another crisis diverted. Like my buddy Rebecca always says, "Life is a game of Whack-a-Mole." True, so true.

   I will, however, say a few prayers for my friends. They’re the ones that are going to have to try to eat these cookies tomorrow.

*A quote from W.C. Fields. I swear to god, I made those cookies sober. Maybe I shouldn't brag about it, though.

"Be careful who you're calling a child, Lois, because if I'm a child that makes you a pedophile. And I'll be damned if I'm gonna sit around and get lectured by a pervert."* Or, alternatively, "An ounce of perversion is worth a pound of cure."**

   The first time I saw a penis was at a fabric store.

   It may not have been the actual first penis I saw, because I’m not sure if babies’ penises count (and lord knows I had already changed a fair amount of diapers at that point), but it was definitely the first adult penis I saw and it was something I hadn’t been planning on seeing maybe ever. Mostly because I was 8 or so at the time and I wasn’t really in Penis Mode. (I’ve since seen thousands of penises! Just kidding, Mom. I’ve only seen that one.)

   Anyway, my mom had taken Ouisa and me, along with our best buddies, (who are also sisters) Erika and Morgan, to the fabric store during a play date because she just had to “run in and grab something.” If memory serves, as soon as we entered the store we were all over the place: rifling through buttons and hiding behind bolts of fabric and finding amazing build-a-bear kits that no parent ever wants to buy for fear they’ll have to keep that hideous, tacky bear in their home for the next five-to-eight years. You know how it was: we were being kids. The way you do.

I learned how to sew over the summer and took lots of romantic shots of my sewing supplies. This becomes relevant: wait for it.

   While wandering through the aisles, I saw a man squatting on his heels, examining a display. It was weird to see a man in a fabric store, so I think I paused briefly out of surprise more than anything. But then I saw that his athletic shorts were hitched up on one side and his penis was lying on his exposed thigh. Right out there in the open for anyone to see.

   I immediately started giggling and got Morgan. I pointed it out to her and we both thought it was hysterical. Here this poor man had come on his errand to the fabric store, and accidentally let his penis flop out of his pants while perusing miniature doll furniture (it probably wasn’t miniature doll furniture, but the memory wants what it wants). 

Then I made them all 70's and nostalgic (and bad, let's be honest) by editing them...but I didn't know what to do with them.

   We immediately grabbed Ouisa and Erika so they could see the unfortunate man with his penis accidentally COMPLETELY HANGING OUT OF HIS PANTS. One of us told my mom, who was several aisles away looking at fabric or thread or whatever it was she needed. I don’t remember who told her. I just remember her reaction:

   “Where?” She was seething. It had stopped being fun in an instant.

   “Over there,” one of us pointed.

   I think we sensed danger in the air. I had that same gut-wrenching feeling I had every time I thought things were about to get really real. Nowadays, I tend to relish that feeling: back then it made me tense, embarrassed and somehow keenly aware that life was not the wonderful time I thought it was.

   My mother took off after that man and chased him, screaming, out the door. I can’t remember what she said, but I’m sure it was to the point.

   It took me awhile to realize that he’d shown us his penis on purpose. I mean, why would anyone show you his junk in a fabric store on purpose? Life is embarrassing enough as it is. But that was my first and, sadly, last flashing experience. And now that I think about it, that man was a genius to hit up a fabric store for his penis show: it's mostly women and a lot of them too old to chase him.

   I have to hand it to my mom: she was a superhero in that moment (as well as many other moments during my life) and she did exactly what one should do in such a scenario. At the time, I felt sad that I’d thought it was funny and scared that my mom would get hurt or get in trouble. Now I know I’d behave in exactly the same manner if someone tried to show his wiener to a bunch of kids I was watching. Maybe especially at a fabric store. I’d probably add a lot more profanity, though. Mom is much classier than I am. 

Sammy made me a sewing kit for Hanukkah, because I love sewing so much (despite being terrible at it). And I think my adoration of the crafty arts shows that I wasn't permanently scarred by the Penis Incident. There. I've managed to devise a point for these photos I'm forcing you to look at.

   Anyway, so the other night, I was over at Morgan’s house visiting with her and Erika and I said to her at one point, “I found a picture of us at Lake Okoboji from fourth grade. You know what it reminded me of, for some reason?”

   Without a pause Mo said, “The time we saw the penis at the fabric store?”

   I shit you not.

   I couldn’t believe she remembered it, or that she ever thought of it. I don’t think we were traumatized the way we probably should have been. It made me feel better that Morgan's reaction was similar to my own (this is how I measure my sanity). This is also, I think, largely due to my mom grabbing that man by his ear (or his too-short gym shorts?) and throwing him bodily out of the store. And maybe Mo remembering it has something to do with the fact that she’s a mom now, so she probably has to be more alert about perverts than the rest of us.

   But it was fun to reminisce about our "My First Penis" story.

   And, incidentally, I think that place used to be called Northwest Fabrics; but I’m almost positive it’s now called Hancock Fabrics. Perfect. And somehow a much more appropriate name.

*The quote is from Peter Griffin on Family Guy (Seth MacFarlane, 1999). You know how I love circular logic...if that even happens to be an example of circular logic. That's a post for another time.
**This is a Ted Baxter quote from The Mary Tyler Moore Show (James L. Brooks, Allan Burns, 1970).

***Sorry for all the sewing pictures. I just really like to take pictures of things I care about and share them here. Whatever. It's my blog. I do what I want.

"Grown men who wear skinny jeans may as well put on a t-shirt that says, 'I MAY NOT BE AN ORGAN DONOR, BUT Y'ALL CAN HAVE MY TESTICLES.'"*

    I think it’s important to realize when things have become inappropriate for you to pull off any longer. Case in point: I no longer stay up on the phone all night or wear skirts that are the size of headbands. I don’t have the body for a headband/skirt, I don’t have the energy for an all-night conversation, and I would much prefer to clean my floors and hit the sack at 10 pm (after a few episodes of Battlestar Gallactica) than get crazy at one of these popular “discothèques” or “sock hops” all the kids are raging about. Battlestar seems pretty nutso, so I feel totally up to speed on what the young folk are doing, even if the young folk aren't really watching that particular show. Don’t worry about me. I know what's up. Furthermore, I don’t dye my hair wacky colors or date dudes that don’t have a place to live. I don’t read Cosmopolitan or get tattoos over my butt-crack…not anymore, anyway.

Battestar Gallactica: Super Mature.

    But sometimes I think maybe I need to leave my cave a little more often—breathe some fresh air, talk to fellow humans (Cylons?), etc.

    To that end, my dear friend, Jess, and I had a “Just Us Girlfriends!” date on Saturday and it was so delightful. We hit an antique shop, stopped into a home-improvement store, and took a sewing class.

    Yes, friends, it’s true: I’m a fully-fledged, trained and certified housewife.

Here I am in glorious black and white. I love not having a dishwasher!

    I can sew, plant, clean and cook. And make babies (I think, though I’ve never tried. I’m guessing it’s not that hard.)

    Does this make me old/washed up/boring?

    I actually think it doesn’t. Jess is a homeowner and can do all kinds of crafty/amazing things: paint walls and ceilings, sod the yard, plant things that aren’t exclusively succulents (the only things that can survive in my home), replace ovens, build furniture and built-ins for closets and recessed walls, make light fixtures work, fix roofs, install sconces and chandeliers, and so on. She’s ridiculously gifted.

    I want to be like Jess. Here’s what I can do: buy bottles of spray paint and then spray paint things. But it makes me feel productive somehow. I’m not suggesting this is some sort of primordial house-wifery instinct. I just like to be creative and crafty. I actually find, more and more, that there are numerous things I DON’T want to do. But most of the things I want to do are "old people" things.

    Like this: make tea, vacuum, watch episodes of "spy shows," sew (so far I just make stitches on a piece of paper, but you never know), read, watch hummingbirds, spy on my neighbors, and clean my counter-tops. Yikes.

    And here are some other things I don’t want to do anymore:

-Go to a blockbuster movie on opening night. (Why would I want to stand in a line for a movie that will clearly be showing next weekend and the 20 weekends after that? Plus, nine times out of ten, I’ll be standing there with t'weens whose parents dropped them off and who insist on talking/making out throughout the entire movie? I pass.)

Lining up for Harry Potter and the Order of Those Who Have No Life.

-Have a sleepover. Unless I’m too drunk to drive, why would I want to be in a bed that isn’t my own? (I would be willing to amend this rule for a girlfriend who was willing to help me dye my gray** hairs (yeah, I'm elderly) and watch Wayne’s World or Rocky Horror Picture Show or the entire first season of Lost with me (missing you, Em and Gabe), or a man--one that doesn’t turn my stomach— who has professed his undying love or at least his short-term respect).

-Listen to current music. I’m sorry. Justin Beiber might be the greatest artist of our time, but I’ll never know because I don't plan on listening to him.

-Send a forward. As far as I’m concerned, these are the modern day equivalent of chain letters. Chain letters always let me down.

Of course, there are more. There always will be, but I’m too mature to keep writing. More later.

*Blake Shelton. Don't know him, don't know country music, don't care. Best. Quote. Ever.
**Had to look this up, but the official verdict is in America, we spell it "grAy" and in England, they spell it "grEy." Easy to remember, but super odd, nonetheless. Names are different: anything goes. Shenanigans.