The Vomit has found us. I don't know who brought it into the house, but it's here, and so far two of us are down. The other two of us are waiting, just knowing it could strike any time it wants.

In fact, I'd encourage you to stop reading this now. It's possible the Vomit has found a way to transmit itself to new victims via words on screen, right through the reader's eyeballs.

Sorry if that's creepy.

Actually, I always think eyeballs are creepy.

I need to go wash my hands again.

Here's a tag from my hon.

Four Jobs I've Had
Retail Monkey
Pharmacy Technician (before the days when you had to be certified, which made me a glorified assistant who got to touch pills.)
Editorial Assistant
Copywriter

Four Movies I Can Watch Over and Over
Lord of the Rings (Yes, all of them. End to end.)
Amelie
The Big Lebowski
Wings of Desire (the German one)

Four TV Shows I Love to Watch
Project Runway
Gilmore Girls
Six Feet Under
Scrubs

Four Places I’ve Been on Vacation
Kansas City
Lake of the Ozarks
The Smokies
Disney World

Four Favorite Dishes
Sushi
Baked mac & cheese
Shrimp scampi
Lasagna

Four (Two, actually) Websites I Visit Daily
Craftster
You Knit What?

Four Places I’d Rather Be
At home, knitting
At a park in the summer, knitting
At one of my favorite yarn stores
Starbucks

Four Bloggers I am Tagging
Kym
Lori
Red Fish
Yaya

I've somehow stumbled upon the perfect lunch, I deem it worthy of sharing with the blogging world.

Take one flour tortilla and give it a thin spreading of pesto. Layer this base coat with several slices of smoked turkey and provolone cheese. Add a few leaves of crunchy lettuce and roll the whole thing into a tube.

I suggest pairing it with a Braeburn apple and a few homemade chocolate chip cookies for the complete lunch experience.

Or, just do what I did and polish off all the cookies by 9:05 a.m., and then leave the apple sitting all lonely in your lunch bag until 4:12 p.m. when it's either that or a stale package of donuts from the vending machine.

Once (or maybe more than once) my dad brought home one of those gigantic plastic bags of popcorn, the kind that you'd buy at the bulk stores, that are literally as tall as a child of average height and twice as big around. I believe we used it as a pillow, a field goal post, and a blunt-force weapon before finally diving in (literally) and consuming it.

Gertrude and Matilda spotted one such popcorn monstrosity at the grocery store the other day. They laughed at the ridiculous excess, and then carried it between the two of them over to Gary and suggested that he buy it for them.

"Okay!" said Gary.

"WTF?" I said. I intercepted the popcorn and returned it to the shelf. But it didn't end there. Dad and the girls talked about the popcorn for days. It became legendary.

Finally, Superbowl Sunday arrived. In our house, this means turning on the game for everyone to ignore and firing up a crockpot full of Li'l Smokies. And Gary makes these amazing little turkey pinwheel things. I knit. We drink Fat Tire. The kids dance at halftime. All is right with the world.

I came home from the store with the Smokies and beer, plus some chips, dip, and avocados to make into a batch of guacamole that only I would eat. Gary and the girls just looked at me.

"Where's Caroline?" said Matilda.

"Who?"

"Caroline!" said Gert. "Our popcorn!"

I looked at Gary. "You named the popcorn?"

He said, "I asked Gert what we should name it, and she named it Caroline. This is not my fault."

Of course, I had to go back out to the store and get Caroline, lest I risk having the girls sit around moaning and wailing, "Oh, Caroline…noooooooooo…"

Obsession in miniature

miniknit2
Originally uploaded by squeakyweasels.

This is exactly what it looks like - a tiny plastic basket of tiny balls of yarn, with a tiny swatch carefully knit on toothpick needles.

Now aren't you glad you asked what I do with my free time?

At this point, I'd like to look directly into the lens of the camara and wave. Hi, Mom and Dad. Since you're reading this blog, I find myself at a sort of crossroads. What does one do with the knowledge that one's parents are peering over one's shoulder through the expansive online void?

For me, I've decided this means I'll be saying the f-word a lot more, as well as making elegant use of its more creative derivations such as fucktard, fuckwit, and fucktastic.

It's all rumors and lies. The Internets are filled with them.