martinimade

From the local almost daily: I want to go there.

“. . . from that day forward she lived happily ever after. Except for the dying at the end. And the heartbreak in between.”

– Lucius Shepard, "The Scalehunter’s Beautiful Daughter."

Also: Of Tracks and Tests, this week's Martini Friday over at Another Mother Runner.

Yesterday was a great mail day. And, yes, it doesn't take much more than that to make me happy.

Any envelope addressed to "The Magnificent Adrienne Martini" is guaranteed to be opened. What was inside? It's a garment for a little running thing Norma roped me into organized. More later. And for the record, One More Mile has the best customer service ever.

Another package turned up yesterday, too. This was in it:

Mmmmmm. Skinny Bugga. I can't tell you what this is for quite yet. Soon, though, all will be revealed. 

The dog is a'quiver with anticipation.

(Because of a variety of circumstances, Lisa and I are taking a Figs break. But! For those who just started reading the blog, I'm going to reach deep into the wayback machine and toss up some old Figs for your enjoyment.)

He told her she looked like a pirate. 

It’s just the eye patch, she said. Anyone wearing an eyepatch looks like a pirate.

No, he said. It’s not that. It’s also not the parrot colored hair or the limp. I didn’t even notice those when I first saw you in that dark bar, silhouetted by the moonlight. I saw the eyepatch later, when I was lighting your cigarillo. 

It’s just you, he said. The way you stand as if you’re compensating for a rocky sea. How your good eye looks to the horizon, scouting for incoming marauders. And, of course, your cutlass.

You hate pirates, she said, accusingly. It’s not me, it’s you, right?

No, he said. I love pirates, especially this one. 

Text ©Adrienne Martini; illustration ©Lisa Horstman. Until the end of time. Or something.

* I am happy to see that my unwillingness to get too involved with the kids' homework has been scientifically proven to be best for them. I like it when research supports my laziness. (Also from the Atlantic.)

* Casseroles are also my religion.

 * I kinda love this story -- and it takes place just down the road from me.

* For your inner MacGuyver.

* A story about artisinal toast that isn't actually about artisinal toast but about so much more.

* Word. 

* LInda Holmes is right. These are very silly.

* In case you have some extra time that you want to say goodbye to.

* Advice you can really use.

This winter will never end.

See?

Over the weekend, I decided to help things along by making a wreath. This one, to be exact.

And so I folded and taped and arranged:

 See? Spring!

It will be all of 22 degrees here today. So, um, maybe I didn't fold it right?

"But the 'Boston Marathon Bombing' had nothing to do with the Boston Marathon. It had to do with two sick souls who were looking to strike out at enemies who, being imaginary, could be played by any strangers conveniently placed on a sidewalk."

-- Peter Sagal in his Runner's World Road Scholar column.

Also: the week's running round-up at Another Mother Runner. This one is about my cranky calf.

Two+ things I'd like to draw you attention to:

Thing the First: I'll be speaking/reading/showing off Mary Tudor in Rochester, NY, on April 3. The event is at 12:15 and totally free -- but you ought to register just so that the Penfield Rec. Center has a rough idea of how many chairs they might need. Let's make them haul out ALL the chairs they have! Or something like that.

Thing the Second: I am still happily collecting donations for Postpartum Progress in honor of my upcoming half-marathon. To those of you who have tossed some cash at me, thanks. It really means a lot. Let's see if we can drown them in money. I can think of worse fates. 

Thing the Second-and-a-half: I should be in the 'burgh on May 3, which is the day before the race. Should we try to arrange some sort of low-key meet up? 

Finally, the knitting:

Every time I see Noro Kureyon or Silk Garden on sale I buy as much as I can so that I can make one of these scarfs when I don't want to think too hard about what I want to knit. They never fail to satisfy. Plus, the finished scarf can go in the long-term planning box for later. I'm two balls in* and still smitten with the color, even that disappointing patch in the middle where the values are two similar to stripe. Such is Noro.

Finally, finally, a gratuitous corgi:

who, as usual, wondered why I was taking a picture of knitting when I could be rubbing her belly.

------------------------------------------------

* that's what she said.

(Because of a variety of circumstances, Lisa and I are taking a Figs break. But! For those who just started reading the blog, I'm going to reach deep into the wayback machine and toss up some old Figs for your enjoyment.)

The Devil went down to Georgia, looking for a soul to steal.

He met Bubba, Jr., shuffling beneath the pines on State Route 143 just outside of Waleska. 

The Devil’s rats, well, rat, after the austerity measures, took one look at Bubba, Jr. and poofed away, leaving the stench of sulfur behind. No one noticed, given Bubba, Jr.’s persistent reek. 

The Devil’s own sweat pooled in that little hollow place between his infernal shoulder blades. The red leather suit was a bad call in August. 

Sadly, Bubba, Jr.’s soul was no longer on the market, having been sold to the twin evils of Commerce and Fried Chicken. 

The Devil sighed and walked on.

Text ©Adrienne Martini; illustration ©Lisa Horstman. Until the end of time. Or something.

* 50 Shades of Dave Barry.

* Anyone who has interacted with graphic designers has wondered about this.

* Thanks to the summer I spent working in my college's library, I know how to do this -- and did it for hours at a time. I also know how to repair library books, which, like calculus, has never come up in my adult life.

* A great idea and so well written. 

* True costs.

* (Mostly) wonderful advice for newbie runners.

* I miss Vonnegut so much. 

* The South will never rise again.

* AIEEEE! Take my money.

* I just ... sigh.

* Even Churchill thought that orange kitties are the best kitties.

* If WWI were a bar fight.