Thursday, April 12, 2012

Because Sometimes Things Change...

So as most have you have gathered, since most of you follow me on Facebook, quite a few things have changed...

Like for one, I left New York...

...and like for two, I moved back to Californ-i-a.

But this isn't an I got dumped and moved back in with my mama story...this is more like I dragged J's ass to Cali with me story =)

Round about a year ago, we suffered a little set back with J getting laid off and me realizing that the art industry had done everything but shit on my lifelong dream and passion. We started toying around with the idea of moving back west with the promise of technological prosperity and a booming event & marketing industry. And then we got a reality check...a big big as the cost of two new cars, gas prices and insurance (see us silly New York people love public transit...and silly Californians treat it like a homeless shelter and public restroom.)

So we decided to start saving our pennies...and saving...and saving...and saving...and planning...and saving...and planning...and saving some more...and planning some more...and planning...and abandoning plans...and saving

Until this bitch done went crazy and locked herself in the bathroom and cried while listening to Sarah McLaughlin on full blast and yelled at her best friend about the pending life...yeah I went there...

Then J, fearing for the well being of his dearly beloved, put the plan into motion: apply, interview, find jobs, give notice, pick out cars, pick out place to live, pick out flights, take cats to the vet for pre-flight clearance, find reputable and reliable cross country movers, pack, fly across the country three times, sign contract, drive new car off lot depreciating value, sign another contract, sign away our dignity and ability to own a charcoal grill, sleep on an air mattress for 11 days, start new jobs, wait around for movers, crash parents car into a pole, harass movers to figure out where the F**K our furniture is, golf, buy pantyhose and my first ever business suit (x2), scream at the movers some more and finally unpack.

And like any sane and rational 20-something-year-old would do...we did this all in two weeks.

So needless to say a lot of things have changed. New jobs, new cars, new apartment, new furniture, new schedule, new outlook on life. Tons of changes. So many I can't even begin to explain. For instance...

Friday, February 24, 2012

Dear New England…you don’t exist.

Let’s face facts here, geography and navigation are not my specialties. If you were to hand me a blank map of the United States, I would be able to fill in six states with full confidence, the others I find inconsequential until proven of value. I'd likely make up some imaginary places like Saratopia where everyone worships my existence. So with my lack of geographical orientation in mind, this should come as no surprise:

Me: “I’ve never been to New England.”

J: Laughing, “Seriously?”

Me: “Why are you looking at me like that?”

J: “Sara you have been to New England about a dozen times.”

Me: “No I haven’t. I haven’t been north of Connecticut.”

J: “Baby, where do you think New England is?”

Me: “Up by Maine somewhere. Why is this so funny? I have only been to like six states!”

J: “Wow you really don’t know do you?”

Right about now is when I realize I have said something monumentally stupid and that I am now going to receive a lesson in geography from the much superior brain that J seems to think he has. I should also mention that this is also the point where I start wringing my hands in preparation for strangling him.

J: “You’ve been to New England anytime we visit my parents. You’re going to New England when you go to Boston this weekend. Kendall lives in New England. It’s an area. There are six states in the ‘area’ of New England. Connecticut, Massachusetts, Maine, Vermont, New Hampshire and Rhode Island."

Me: “So how do six states have one football team?”

J: “Cause they are all small.”

Me: “But no other states share a football team.”

J: “Carolina does.”

Me: Flustered, “But that doesn’t count because they are both Carolinas. Connecticut and Massachusetts can’t share a football team. That’s cheating!”

J: “That’s why they’re called the New England Patriots.”

Me: “F**k New England! It doesn’t exist.”

Thus the tirade of hatred toward New England began.

While in Boston for a girls weekend I vented my frustrations regarding New England’s existence to my two dear friends Brianna and Kendall.

Me: “I mean for God’s sake, New England claims to be the birth place of the whoopie pie! Uhmmm no! The whoopie pie was born in some lady’s kitchen and that lady did not simultaneously live in six states at once.”

Brianna (who also hates the Patriots and was relishing in the victory of the NY Giants): “And what about Connecticut? How come Connecticut gets to be part of New England and the Tri-State area? Connecticut is just down right selfish!”

Kendall: “All the states are so small though. There aren’t enough people in just one state to make up a full football team.” (We attribute this statement to her newfound New England patriotism. There must be something in the water.)

Me: “This is bullshit! I am writing a letter to my representative. Hell, I am writing a letter to the president. New England is fake!”

So here it goes…

Dear Mr. President Sir,

I am writing you today to discuss the existence of the area referred to as “New England” and present tangible evidence as to why its preposterous existence should be eradicated from our nation.

Allow me to present you with some cold hard facts:

No other faction of states with entirely different names have joined together to form and support a football team. You do not see the Tri-State area Jets or the Gulf Coast Dolphins prancing about in the league so why should New England be held to a different standard.

To further support my stance let’s take into account the whoopie pie. This tasty and affordable baked good claims it was created in New England. But using both reason and logic we can deduce that there is physically no way that the whoopie pie was simultaneously created in six different states at the same time.

And finally, I present the case of New England clam chowder. The over-generalizing of several distinct forms of soup combined to form a singular soppy slop known as New England style clam chowder. It is just a sad sight to see.

I mean really, just because a bunch of defectors made some colony like one hundred or so years ago doesn’t mean six states now have the right to lay claim to a football team, the whoopie pie and a sad excuse for a soup.

In the spirit of state pride, I do not think we can afford to overlook the fact that the fine folks from these six states are complacent enough to give up their singular identity in order to form a union called “New England.” I suspect an uprising may be imminent.

Think on this Mr. President. Think long and hard before New England decides to lay claim to the surrounding states and their fine accomplishments.

Your faithful supporter,

Sara Ryan Dinubilo

Friday, December 16, 2011

My Tale of Despereaux

So a few weeks ago we had the pleasure of sharing our 1.5 bedroom apartment with a close friend of mine named Kendall. By 1.5 bedroom I mean we have a big bedroom and a lovely little office space that is the size of a California walk in closet, which served as Kendall’s makeshift room during her stay. Not quite as cramped as my first apartment on the Lower East Side but not exactly the ideal living space for boisterous and opinionated J, quite and calm Kendall and the total utter sh*t storm that is me. And although we made it work for 2 months, we definitely had our trials and tribulations…

…like the time there was that mouse in the kitchen…

…it went down like this…

I am at work…

Click-ity Clickity Tappity Tappity

Typing vigorously on my keyboard in some deep discussion with some foreign distributor who dropped the ball on a BIG project. Look at me…such a big bad businesswoman…

Hits keyboard with tenacity and scowls….

So as I am writing about some incredibly important distribution channel that may or may not put me down in the history as the queen bee of corporate partnerships, I get a text message from Kendall.

Kendall: “Uhmmm so I think there is a mouse in your kitchen.”

Me: clearly handling the news with ladylike poise, “THERES A MOUSE IN THE KITCHEN????????!!!!!!!!!”

Right about now I am sprinting down the hall to J’s office (did I mention we work together?) screaming at the top of my lungs…


Like is said ladylike poise…

Me: exasperated from all the screaming, “Kendall says there is a mouse in the kitchen.”

J: “Okay, did she see it?”

Just then a picture message from Kendall.

(Hi, I'm a mouse, just chillin in your kitchen eating your crumbs.)


J: Picking up phone, unenthused, "It's just a cat toy."

Me: "No it's not! It's a mouse in my kitchen!!! We don't own any brown mousey cat toys!!! Don't look at me like I am crazy! It's not a toy!"

J: "I'm just saying, those cat toys look very realistic these days. Sometimes I get confused too."

Me to Kendall via text: "Are you sure it's not a cat toy?"

Kendall: "Not a toy I put a box over it."

Me to J: “She put a box on top of it! What if it chews itself out of the box?! Mice can chew through cardboard! It can get out and make babies and then there will be mice everywhere. We need an exterminator! I can’t believe this is happening!”

J: “It's definitely a toy. If it's not it’s fine, she caught it. I’ll deal with it when we get home.”

Now few of you have experienced my death stare, but for those of you who have yet to experience it picture the sound of nails on chalkboard mixed with a blood curdling scream combined with that feeling you get right when you get a paper cut and add in the super sad feeling you get when you see those damn Sarah McLaughlin ASPCA commercials. That is almost equivalent to the feeling you get when I turn my death stare on.

And right now J is in my crossfire.

Me: “What part of mouse in the kitchen is fine?”

J: “Don’t worry, it probably just came in cause it is cold.”

Me: “There is a mouse in my kitchen.”

J: “Don’t worry babe I will take care of it.”

Me: “Mouse…”

J: “What do you want me to do? Do you want to go home right now and take care of it?”

Me: “…in my kitchen.”

J: “I have 2 more hours of work to do. I can’t just leave now.”


J: “Fine! Let’s go home and kill the mouse.”

So off we go to the apartment to take care of our unwanted mousey friend

Now, because this is such a newsworthy event I decide it is necessary to inform the masses and text everyone in my phonebook that, “Kendall caught a mouse in my apartment. FML we have mice! I am moving!” and got the following responses:

Mom: “So let me get this straight…she does the dishes, picks up the apartment and catches mice? That’s it ditch the cats and keep Kendall.”

Dad: “Your cat didn’t kill it?”

Jeff: “Isn’t the only reason to own cats is to prevent stuff like this from happening?”

He who hath been exiled for saying mean things about my babies: “Your cats are retarded. They can’t even catch a mouse.”

It’s about this time that I realize that I have two of the laziest most useless cats on the planet. I mean really…the golden opportunity to prove their worth and superior hunting skills and the b*tches leave it to the temporary roommate.

As we get off the subway in Brooklyn, I dash up the stairs like a boss and sprint to the apartment half worried that the mouse has already gotten smart and chewed its way through the box and somehow has managed to trip Kendall and eat her brains…or something much worse like burrowed into my mattress.

As we arrive home, Kendall sits nonchalantly in the living room playing with her iPad. I exhale a sigh a relief when I realize her brains are indeed still intact, thus preventing me from the awkward situation of explaining her death to loved ones.

J and Kendall saunter into the kitchen where a box is laid upside down with a pot on top for weight. Kendall and me flank J as he prepares to lift the box.

Spatula in hand…

J: “1…2…3”

(size of a wiffle ball)

Either our dear mousey friend had an incurable self-mutilating blood disease or some little kitty had some fun…

Upon further inspection we discovered the crime scene…

(uhmm icky)

…and pieced together an elaborate case after discovering an extremely nervous and depressed kitty…

(depressed and crazy is a dangerous combination)

After some intense interrogation Milton fessed up to the crime in the form of kitty vomit that we assume was due to guilt over killing his little friend. Kendall was charged with aiding and abetting for helping to hide the body.

Monday, October 31, 2011

So it goes a little something like this

J: “If I pay then you call.”

Me: “But I called last time.”

J: “So! I am buying dinner…you call it in.”

Me: “I don’t want to. Lets just eat here.”

J: “Sara, just make the call, really? Put on your big girl panties…”

Me: “If it’s so easy why don’t you call”

J: “Because I am paying…”

This happens about twice a week whenever J and I want to order delivery. As I have previously wrote on this blog, I am a big fan of New York’s delivery options. You can get anything delivered in this city. You can even get a single cigarette and a stick of gum delivered to a bar for a nominal fee (don’t ask me how I know this). Thus most of New York’s lovely dining establishments have deliverymen on staff that will deliver within a short radius of their location. (As Mike, my step dad, learned you can also have Manhattan restaurants deliver to Brooklyn for a pretty penny…i.e. Kriff Dogs. He even sent us a menu at midnight just in case we wanted to hop in on his order. Thanks dad!).

However there is one flaw to every delivery dreaming yuppies quest to a savory restaurant meal in the comfort of your own home in your underwear while watching Jersey Shore.

Calling the damn thing in…

Now this goes a little something like this:


Rude Angry Phone Answering Lady: “Hello!” add thick Brooklyn accent.

Me: “Uhmmm hi is this Mama Rosas?”

RAPAL: “Yes, what do you want!?!” sounds of clattering dishes in the background mostly an illusion of a busy bustling restaurant.

Me: “I’d like to place an order for delivery.”

RAPAL: “Speak lady I don’t got all night”

Me: “Can I have the cranberry blue salad with dressing on the side and whole wheat bread?”

RAPAL: “No whole wheat no special orders."

Me: “Okay then just the salad.”

RAPAL: “Which one?”

Me: “The cranberry blue.”

RAPAL: “With white or wheat bread.”

Me: “You just said I couldn’t have wheat.”

RAPAL: “No I said no special orders, no dressing on the side sweetheart. Alright what else?”

Me: “The chicken parm.”

RAPAL: “Fine, address?”

Me: “Oh I wasn’t finished with my order.”

RAPAL: “ Jesus Christ, what else toots?”

Me: “A side order of the pesto penne.”

RAPAL: “Fine address?”

Me: “XXX 1st Street”

RAPAL: “Your order will be there in an hour, Bye”



And because I am such a wuss and couldn’t possibly muster enough confidence to call back, I ran down to the bank to grab cash before the deliveryman could beat me to the apartment.

Now not all restaurants are the same. Sometimes you call a restaurant where English is an option not a requirement. My personal favorite is the Chinese food restaurant that keeps delivering our food to 3rd street rather then 1st.

This all leads to me and J duking it out over who will inevitably have to scream our order into the phone and thus deal with the ramifications when we get extra mushrooms when we specifically said no mushrooms…seven times…with clarity…and force.

I write this as I wait for my vegetable dumplings and dragon&phoenix plate from Hing Lung. It’s been an hour…bet those f**kers on 3rd are enjoying my meal again…

Saturday, September 3, 2011

Super Amazing Genius Beautiful Smartest Princess In The World

Those of you who read my blog can generally grasp the idea that J is the practical balanced sane person in our relationship who constantly has to deal with my childish temper tantrums, my naïve reasoning and my overall dumbness (today this is a word). Let's just say he is more rational and collected then my obnoxious emotional self.

So when J does something so utterly wrong and has a complete meltdown about it, only to be remedied by my superior thinking brain I must share it with my audience.

Recently J purchased a group coupon from a site other then Groupon and Living Social, a knock-off if you will. This particular group coupon was a discount for a family members upcoming birthday.

Yesterday he went to redeem it:

J: “F**k! This stupid f**king code isn’t working!”

Me: “Did you try it without spaces?”

J: “I’ve tried it every way possible Sara! With spaces, without spaces, with dashes, without dashes! The stupid thing doesn’t work!!!”

Me: “Did you try lower case and upper case?”

J: “I already tried that!!! F**k f**k F**K!”

Me: “Well maybe you should call the customer service number and ask…”

A few minutes pass…

J: “So the site doesn’t have any number listed other than on the return policy page…So I called it and it goes to this one guys cell phone and he’s like…‘Uh…shoot me an email and I'll try to get to it by tomorrow’. Worst customer service ever!!!”

By now his head is spinning.

Me: “Well let’s wait for him to get back to you."

Mr. Bad Customer Service never gets back to J so now he is breathing fire.

J: “The code still doesn’t work!!! I paid a lot of money for this thing. It wasn’t cheap! And it doesn’t even work! This is the worst site ever!!!”

Me: “Well call 'unnamed knock-off group coupon' customer care and fill them in on the issue. Maybe you can get your money back.”

In the back of my head I begin to think about how J lacks pleasant negotiation skills. He is more of a, “I am going to come over there and break down your door,” kind of negotiator, so he might need some help on this one…

I saunter over to his work space while he explains the situation to the gal on the phone...

J: "I bought this coupon on your site and the code isn't working and I needed to purchase this a few days ago so it would get there on time. Yes, I already called the site and they were extremely unhelpful...probably the worst customer service I've ever experienced...(looks at me and rolls eyes)...Okay, I'll try the code one more time before I request a refund..."

I watch as J copies the code from his coupon THRILLH8S8 and pastes THRILLH8S into the coupon redemption field on his computer.

Instantly...I know whats wrong.

He presses enter.

J: "Nope it was denied again...It says Error: Coupon code THRILLH8S is invalid...I can send you a screen shot if you don't believe me."

I lean down real close to his ear.

Me: "Honey?"

J: Hushes me, "Yes, I do want to request a refund."

Me: "Honey?"

J: Shhhhh'es me with a sharp look, "How soon will it process?"


J jumps as I scream this into his ear. He looks at me, looks back at the computer, deletes the space in front of the T and enters an 8 at the end and presses enter.

"Thank you entering discount code THRILLH8S8 a discount of $170.00 has been removed from your total."

J: "Uhmmm...I...I mean my girlfriend...just got it to work...I don't need the refund...Uhmmm thank you...Goodbye."

Thus I have demanded that I be referred to as the Super Amazing Genius Beautiful Smartest Princess In The World for the rest of the month.

It's only fair, right?

Friday, August 19, 2011

The Very (Not So) Wife-able Me

I am suffering from wedding fever…

…or a very strong case of wedding envy.

Let me break it down for you:

In the past year a majority of the people I grew up with have gotten married, engaged or, in some cases, already finalized their divorce. I casually dismissed this as part of THEM getting older, which allowed me to comfortably disassociate myself with the concept of growing up (jingle I don’t want to grow up, I’m a Toys R’ Us kid jingle). Husband and wife seemed like something only grown-ups could say and frankly I was still slumming it as a careless post-college-discovering-ones-self-20-something-year-old..
...and then my best friend got engaged.

It's not like I didn’t know this day was coming. I had heard about the ring and knew they were mushy mushy "meant for each other" but then POOF one day I got the phone call and despite all the in-the-know information I already had it still hit me like a stampeding elephant.

Grabs paper bag from kitchen cabinet…scrunches small hole for breathing…locks self in bathroom…puts head between knees…places bag to mouth…commences hyperventilating.

I am going to be in my best friends wedding.

…rapid inhale…

I can no longer call him her boyfriend.

…rapid exhale…

Husband and wife.

Light Bulb.

Suddenly those words didn’t seem so unnatural anymore. Could this be the great shift? The moment where a girl thinks to herself, “I need me a husband!” Could J possibly be that husband. And then I could picture it, the dream wedding I had never pictured before with the dream guy who just happened to be my boyfriend. Of course we had joking breached the topic before. It was never something I had taken seriously or started planning. We had both left it with, "I don't want to get married yet."

But maybe...just maybe...

Naturally I decided that it is about time that I start making myself out to be wife material so I made a mental checklist of all the things that I consider wife-able qualities.

1. Can maintain a budget.
2. Is easy on the eyes.
3. Is neat and organized.
4. Is calm under daily pressure.
5. Likes sports.
6. Can bake for an army.
7. Can cook a hearty meal.

After finishing my list I decided to make it a point to prove all of these qualities to J in the hopes that the yet in, “I don’t want to get married yet,” will come sooner rather then later.
So let us begin…

1. Maintain a balanced budget: Statistically marriages tend to fail due to financial burdens and stress. So for a healthy marriage financial stability reigns supreme. But let's be honest, I suck with money. I am a creature of wants versus needs and if I want that $65 dress chances are I will opt to buy it rather then buy myself lunch for a week.

People call this being irresponsible.

I call it dieting and looking good.

Maybe this quality should be moved further down the list.

2. Easy on the eyes: Puhhhhlease…I got this down! However I am wary to say J see’s me in sweat pants and a baggy t-shirt 98.7% of the time versus the 1.3% of the time that I actually put on high heels and if it’s a non-fat day, then maybe a dress. J is also aware of the fact that I hate showering and shaving and thus place them secondary on my hierarchy of needs list (frankly sometimes they don’t even make the cut).

Fine, from now until forever I will make a point to get up on the weekends, take a shower, get dressed, do my hair and be cute princess Sara (this lasted one day).

3. Neat and clean: Yeah (twiddles fingers, looks at feet)…about that…

4. Calm under daily pressure: Uhmm not so much…with the exception of work...small crises can often times turn into an atomic explosion.

Me: distressed “JJJJJJJJJJJJJJ!!!!”

J: running from the other room, “What? Honey, whats wrong?”

Me: sharp screeching trembling voice, “I tried to turn on my mixer and it won’t turn on!!! I already put all the ingredients in and its ruined! RUINED!!! Ruuuuiiiinnnneeedddd!!!" collapses on floor.

J: “Just give me a second baby. I’ll find out what’s wrong with it. Just hang tight for one second. It'll be okay, the cookies will taste great.”

Me: “There is no point! They are already ruined,” starts crying, “why does this always happen to me? I never do anything right! Failure! FAAAIILLLUUURRREE,” sobbing.

J: Bends down to collect me off the floor, “Honey, I think I fixed it. It’s all better now.”

Me: “How could you have possibly fixed it!?! It’s broken forever!!!”

J: Calmly, “Baby…you plugged in the vacuum cord, not the mixer.”

5. Likes sports: Go Ram’s, Bear’s, Met’s, Bull’s, Shark’s, Galaxy and occasionally the Red Bull’s. Don’t worry, my cousin Chrissy taught me and my mom a valuable lesson when it comes to men and sports (her advice: just read the front page of the sports section, mention one thing about it like,“I heard Keane got traded to the Galaxy,” and let them roll).

6. Bakes: Honey, please. This girl can bake her way out of a hostage situation. Any guy I have ever dated has suffered the unfortunate increase is waistband due to the amount of goods that I bake and J is no exception. Despite his aversion to anything non-chicken flavored he damn well knows I can bake.

7. Cooks: Someone, somewhere once told me that you are either a baker or a cooker. Well I am a baker, thus I suck at cooking. However, sucking at something has never stopped me from trying. So unfortunately for J, I keep trying to cook…and let me tell you…I once cooked a sauce lethal enough to kill a cockroach (seriously, I left it out overnight and in the morning the cockroach was lying dead next to it).

But I just won’t give up that easily!

This weekend I will tempt fate and try my hand at cooking…


Wish me and my kitchen luck! (Trust me, I am sure this will warrant another blog.)

In review…I scored 2.1 out of 7 (.1 comes from point #2) on my own scale.

It’s a wonder I’m not single.

Fret not, folks who think this blog will be scary and run J to the hills. J is actually my editor so he see's and approves every blog before it goes to post =)

Monday, July 25, 2011

Down with the K's & P's

If you are anything like me and you feel the need to impress your boyfriend's mother on multiple occasions then you might be like me and attempt to bridge the gap between the awful low-life wench my son is dating and the perfectly lovable future daughter-in-law.

So if you were into bridging gaps you might offer an olive branch and attempt to find a common ground such as baking to relate upon. And then you might royally f**k up a pumpkin cheesecake for Thanksgiving and thus crash and burn.

You might be inclined to try to connect again by allowing said mother to teach you a trade, such as knitting. Which might inadvertently lead to you wanting to stab your boyfriend in the eye with a needle but eventually might lead to an enjoyable hobby you thankfully learned from your maybe future mother-in-law. Gee thanks ma!

Well if you are like me you may become obsessed with said new hobby and subconscious challenge your boyfriend’s mother into a knitting challenge to see who could finish their potato chip scarf first…and because you are obsessive…

(Victory is mine!)

…you’d win. You might do a victory dance and whisper taunts while your boyfriend tells his mother over the phone that you finished your scarf and she says she is still on the third ball…I WIN!

But then as you look amorously at your knitting needles you might compulsively feel the need to knit more. And you might look at your Facebook post that states that you now know how to knit and you might take your friends absentminded comments as requests.

(2 scarfs, 1 hat, 1 pair of slippers. Mission accepted.)

So you might secretly knit your mom a pair of slippers…


And you might think to yourself how amazing you are at knitting and knit your boyfriend’s mom a pair of slippers to show your tremendous thanks for teaching you a new hobby…

(In the business word they call this bribery.)

And then you might decide you might actually be an awesome knitter if someone would actually show you how to do the fun stuff. So you might bug the crap out of your boyfriend until he buys you a knitting book.

(Apparently there is a revolution of b*tchy stitchers)

You might speed read the book in 30 minutes or less and declare yourself an expert. And even though you had to rip that b*tch apart 17 times you might actually accomplish to make…

(sock puppet?)

…a cabled golf club head cover for your boyfriend. Woohoo you are really knitting now!

But then you might have nothing else to knit. So you might decide that even though it is now 102 degrees outside with 68% humidity that your boyfriend needs a new scarf.

(OH! J is just sooo very excited about is very new wool scarf. Can't you tell?)

…and that your best friend needs one too…

(Now this was suppose to be a picture of Memo in his new blue scarf. But he neglected to pick it up from my parents house for 2 months...thus retaliation on my part. Love you Memo!)

…and you might plot making everyone on your 2011 Christmas list a striped scarf because now you are the master of the garter stitch.

But then you might realize that you don’t know how to use the totally wicked awesome cool circular needles that are all the rage right now. So you might throw a temper tantrum for a whole week about being a crappy loser knitter until your boyfriend sends you to knitting lessons cause he can’t stand the thought of you being a loser anymore =)

Then the evil nazi b*tch knitting lady might tell you that you suck at knitting and that you have been purling wrong all along (tell that to the golf club cover lady). And she might teach you a few useful new things that open up the rest of the world of knitting for you.

So you might knit a beanie on circular needles…

(...I call it the thinking cap?)

…and it might look like a mini mushroom or one of those gangster caps you always see thugs wearing. But you don’t let that get you down because you can knit anything. In fact after just one month, you are so good at knitting that you can knit…


…a checkerboard dish towel…

(Winny is prepared for Fresno's 101 degree weather.)

…or a weinie dog cover…

…or you might be nothing like me cause apparently I am a freak with a knitting problem.