(Shhh...you didn't see me here.)

(Look. I know you guys are all, "Where the eff is post 999 and 1,000 and what is the BIG HUGE THING NEWS? and all that.

I know.

I want to tell you.

All in good time.

Meanwhile, post 999 is in the capable hands of SUPER SECRET GUEST POSTER and I'm tweeting daily BIG HUGE THING NEWS hints.

So, if you don't already follow me on Twitter, I'm @finnyknits. My daily hints are tagged #BIGHUGETHINGNEWS.

If you hate Twitter with the fury and soul-melting heat of a thousand fiery suns and won't be talked into such behavior even to get a glimpse at shoddy photos taken with my phone and obscure references to subjects that I'll cover in the future after the BIG HUGE THING NEWS is announced, well, OK.

I mean, do whatever you like, really. I'm not here to plug Twitter. They're just a company with a bird logo.

So, there you go. A little something to hold you over.

Now SHHH! You didn't see me here.)

Not post 999

Hey friends - just a little hello to say that, while this is not post 999 and I am not your SUPER SECRET GUEST POSTER (even though that'd be kinda funny to be all, "Hey! Surprise! Your super secret guest poster is me after all this HA HA HA. Sorry."), the SUPER SECRET GUEST POSTER will be ready with your post soon and just to ensure that this person can post whenever they are ready, I'm actually going to send them the invite to the blog right now.

Freaks me out a little to give open access to someone to just post whatever they want especially since this person knows more about me than probably me and my mom put together, but I'm doing it.

For you.

You're welcome.

But I'm also doing it for me (which is my main reason for doing most things) because I really want to get post 1,000 and the BIG HUGE THING NEWS out into the world so that you can all judge me and then get over it and then get INTO it and then hang out with me while I go headlong into the BIG HUGE THING NEWS that I promise you is not that I'm pregnant.

Let me repeat that for those of you who don't read run on sentences like that last one -

I AM NOT PREGNANT. 
THAT IS NOT THE BIG HUGE THING NEWS. 
SO JUST SHUT IT ALL UP.

However, SUPER SECRET GUEST POSTER is a busy person who is, right now, trying to accomplish many things and keep many balls in the air and with very little sleep, so I'm trying not to pester this person with WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO DO POST 999 because they might snap.

And I don't want that kind of snappage because yikes.

So, soon, my friends.

And then after post 1,000 will be a string of posts about all the shit I've been drafting but not posting and none of it will make sense anymore, but I'll still post it because why the hell not, right?

Also, I have 500 new pets as of today and you can just sit and think about what that may be because I'll post something about it AP1K.

Where AP1K = After Post 1,000.

Get it?

I thought you would.

998 questions and a bitch ain't one.

So...um...I guess I owe you guys some answers.

Because when I said you could ask me anything - you really didn't hold back.

Which, obviously because you guys are you guys.

Well done, you guys.

Let's get down to it then. So that we can get to the Super Special Secret Guest Post 999 and then the BIG HUGE THING NEWS on post 1,000. Also, there's a prize on that post. A Finny type prize. Which you can take to mean whatever you want. 

For those questions though...

Am I still knitting?
Um, sometimes. OK, no. More like, rarely. OK - truth, truth - annually. I have a sweater that I started two years ago and I've picked it up once each year since. I'm now an annual knitter. Don't tell the blog header.

How come you don't have air conditioning?
Because we live in a house that would be better described as a sieve. In our >1,000 square foot house we have 17 windows. Seriously. That's the actual number I came up with when I walked from tiny room to tiny room counting on my fingers and toes. 

I nearly ran out of fingers and toes!

In a house the size of my shoe!

Ridiculous.

Best parts are that one of those windows is in a closet and that NONE of them close securely. That means that we have sweaters with a view of our neighbor's driveway AND that air conditioning our house wouldn't so much be like air conditioning our house as it would be like air conditioning AROUND our house which is, No.

Um, how do you know when green tomatoes ripe?
Because they are soft when you squeeze them and smell like a ripe tomato. Also, they taste like a ripe tomato, so just pick one that feels/smells about right and taste it. If it's ripe - YAY. If it's not - BOO.

What ever happened to the Ugly Librarian Sweater?
It has been hanging in my closet ever since that post went live from shame. As soon as I admitted it was Ugly, I haven't been able to wear it. I'm very vain and self-involved, in case you'd somehow missed that.

If you missed that somehow, wake the fuck up. 

How come Bubba and I don't have any kids...
Because this.

How is that front yard meadow is working out...
Eh, it's OK. I mean, it's the summer so it's not all WOO! like in spring time, but it looks just like our golden hillsides in this golden state which is to say the meadow is golden. AKA it looks like it's dead and that we are neglectful homeowners. 

I'll be working out some of the kinks in the meadow this fall so that it looks less like "Um, does anyone live here?" next summer and fall than it does now. 

Do you even knit anymore?
See above.

How I decided that sewing as a profession wasn't for me...
Yeah, so remember when I made the Not Ugly Car Trash Bag? Yeah. Well, I put it up on Etsy for a while and offered my services for a price. Like, I'd sew you a custom Not Ugly Car Trash Bag for some price (I can't even remember now how much) and then *gasp* someone wanted me to make it for that price.

Actually, I should say that they wanted me to make a dozen of them for that price. For some event they were having that involved hair dryers, a corporate promotion and the Hamptons.

In a week's time.

And because I don't know how to manage my time but I do know how to piss it away, I told them I'd do it and then I spent every non-work waking hour fulfilling my obligations. 

Then, after I'd fulfilled my obligation and resumed normal sleeping hours, I swore I'd never do it again because LOATHE.

My sewing machine and I did not get along well during our inseparable time together and I'll tell you right now that it is only because I WILL NOT WELSH ON A PROMISE that I did not spike that soul crushing machine on my dining room floor.

Also because my dining room floor could likely have not taken that kind of impact. 

But really, it was about the fact that I needed that machine so that I wouldn't disappoint this person/company to whom I had made this promise and so I did not get all Office Space on its ass even though it sooooooooooooorely deserved it.

Sunuvabithing machine that breaks needles going through quilter's cotton COME ON.

What ever happened to all that crap you wrote for NaNoWriMo?
Well, firstly you're right to call it crap. Because it was. And - HEY HEY - it still is because I have not gone back to edit a single word of it. Any of the three years I've done it. 

That's right. Three years in a row I wrote 50,000+ words in the month of November for NaNoWriMo and have done dick with the results.

Nothing. 

They're all sitting on my laptop in Scrivener gathering dust and my growing hatred. 

They're all unwashed garbage unfit even for my compost bin. 

Sure, they might be something if I cared one big rat's behind to go in and edit them, but I have bigger tastier fish to fry about now and all of those words can just sit there being the awkwardly constructed sentences and the plot holes that they are until such time as I see fit to pick them apart and reconstruct them into completely different sentences and plot holes.

Maybe.

One day.

Doesn't mean I won't go at NaNoWriMo again this November. And it also doesn't mean that this year's NaNoWriMo 50,000 words won't be the same variety of horseshit. But it probably means that this year's words will end up a similar looking pile which I will ignore forever.

Also, no you may not read any of it. Because I'm pretty sure it's not even written in English or a modern language any of us understand. 

Just come to this blog for proof of that fact.

Ever think of cleaning up that language?
Fuck that.

Don't you think you're becoming an alcoholic? 
Probably. It's my most effective coping mechanism, so coping with that realization has had unfortunate results. I am keeping it mostly in check though, so please don't alert the authorities or my mother. 

You're shaving your heads and moving to Nepal for a year.
No and no. 

When are we going to play? 
Checkers? Scramble on the cell phone? Hopscotch? Name that tune? I don't know. Email me at finnyknitsATgmailDOTcom and, when we're in the same hood, maybe we'll work something out. Meanwhile, if you do play Scramble on the cell phone, my username is finnyknits (shocker) and I do want to play. So there.

Who gets invited to your fantasy dinner party?
People who like whatever I happen to be cooking that night, clean up after themselves, bring booze, like dogs and don't mind eating outside because our dining room is small.

I don't really have fantasies about dinner parties at my house because, frankly, the idea of it stresses me out. 

Honestly, I'd just like to have over people I already know so that there's no pressure to remember names or cater to anyone's bullshit dietary needs.

Whose singing voice do you wish you had? 
Pretty  much anyone's but my own. I am a terrible singer. It's awful, really. Not that it stops me from singing - I totally sing - but I get mean looks and people throw trash at me, so I try to keep the public singing to a minumum.

I guess if I could choose, I'd have Billie Holliday's singing voice. She is one of my favorite singers and her voice is unequaled in the world today. 

What would you title your autobiography? 
I'm not for everyone. 

What top ten CDs can't you live without? 
I don't think I've handled a CD in years, but I'll play ball. Though I'm going to go with artists because I can never choose one album over another. That's a job for someone like Bubba who knows music better than I.

FYI: I don't know dick about music. Bubba's been trying to educate me for years by asking me "Hey, name the band!" when something's playing on the loudspeaker somewhere. I never know the band. Literally, not ever. Even if it's the Rolling Stones. 

OK, maybe once I got it when it was AC/DC, but it's a super rare occasion. To the point where Bubba will look visibly relieved that there's evidence that his wife may not be a total music retard. 

The fact is that I mostly just like genres of music rather than particular artists. And I can always tell you the genre I'm in the mood for. 

Like, when Bubba asks me what I want to listen to, I'll say something like, "Oh! Something doodly-doo!" which falls into the jam band genre or "Lady jazz!" which means, well, vocal jazz or "WAAAAAAAAA" which means hard rock (I think the genre is technically called ScreamO, but that's lame sounding. Instead we call it WAAAAAA because that's the sound they make when they "sing".)

I mostly like Doodly-doo, Lady Jazz and WAAAAAAAAA.

You get it? Kinda. 

Best I know how to describe my fucked up music taste is to say that I know the sounds I like and these people make those sounds.

(in no particular order)

1. Billie Holliday
2. Volbeat
3. Dave Matthews
4. John Hiatt
5. Sarah Vaughan
6. Seether
7. Widespread Panic
8. Theory of a Dead Man
9. Django Reinhart
10. Warren Haynes

What are your phobias? 
Failure. 

Arriving at my death bed regretting not having done things that I TOTALLY could have done but didn't do because I was lazy or afraid.

Grasshoppers. They jump at your face and that is wrong.

Horses. They have enormous teeth that could totally bite your face off.

Chimpanzees. Because they ripped some girl's face off. 

I think I have a face issue. Maybe I have a face phobia? No. That makes no sense. 

Militant religious evangelists.

Who is a real hero in your way of thinking? 
Anyone who makes their own way in the world rather than adhering to the norm. 

People whose default setting is optimism and positivity.

Each of my best friends.

My grandmother.

What Olympic sport would you chose to medal in? 
The biathlon. It's the coolest of the Olympic sports. Or maybe the high dive. That shit is just amazing. Also, I'd like to know that no matter how high the dive, I wouldn't belly flop because OW.

Were you born in the wrong century?
Probably.  A future century where all my beefs with our current century have been sorted out and we all have jet packs fueled by something biodegradable like religious evangelists' limbs.

Can you tango?
Nope. 

What's the worst thing you've ever tasted?
Grilled beef liver. Thought it was a small piece of steak. Was tragically wrong. Had to spit it out on the ground. 

The dog liked it though. 

What's the best? 
Warm Brandywine tomatoes fresh off of my plants. 

Do you believe in ghosts? 
Eh. Not in any real way.

Who among your friends do you admire the most and why? 
I don't really admire one over the others, but of close friends, I admire certain things about each of them THE MOST of anyone I know.

Does that make sense?

Like, Kelli's dedication to writing and her bravery for moving to a new place for the sake of pursuing her own happiness.

And Shelley's bravery for moving to a new country - TWICE - in pursuit of her own happiness.

And Decca and Fo's Blaze Your Own Path Despite The Norms approach to working and managing a household.

Bubba's ability to figure out how to do anything. And then do it. Well.

Elke's ingenuity with languages and how well she knows herself. Also, her fantastic German-ness. 

Dave and Aimee's adventurous spirits and the fact that they're the best travel and ski buddies. Plus Dave's ability to out-swear me.

I could go on. 

I really admire people who go in the direction of their own happiness and don't accept what the world tells them they should be doing. Bravery. Competence. Dedication. Adventurous spirit. These are all good things.

What book do you wish you had written? 
Winterdance. Which would mean that I would have raced in the Iditarod. Which would be incredible.

What movie will you watch every time it's on no matter how many times you've seen it? 

Tombstone. Cold Mountain. Sixteen Candles. A River Runs Through It. High Fidelity. Australia. Say Anything. Star Wars. Out of Africa. Indiana Jones. Tommy Boy. Legends of the Fall. Lots of other ones that are even more shameful than these. 

Who did you lose your virginity to and how? 
Some dude. In the normal way.

Do you believe in god? 
No.

If you had to swap lives with a friend for a month whose life would you choose? 
My friend Christine who's living in Paris right now. She just spent a year in Zurich and that's just awesome.

What food or beverage have you always wanted to try but haven't? 
I've always wanted to eat at the French Laundry, but haven't had the chance yet. I've also wanted to try durian because I imagine it's tragically bad and I want to know *just how bad*. Or, as the case sometimes is with things that *everyone* says is awful - *just how great*.

Why do you run? 
Because this.

Where does the name "Finny" come from? 
From here.

What language would you like to speak fluently? 
Italian and Spanish. I'm much closer on Spanish, but I haven't spent as much time with Italian because of my one million other hobbies.

Actually, fuck that shit, I'd rather be able to speak Greek. Or Japanese. Or Arabic. Or Pashto. Or something that would completely freak people out to hear me - a blondish American girl - speaking fluently.

What celebrity do you have a crush on? 
John Cusak. Matt Damon. Renee Russo. The Rock. Pierce Brosnan. Nicole Kidman. Mike Rowe. Val Kilmer. Johnny Knoxville. 

Have you ever been arrested?
Yep. 

Ok, so that ought to do it. Every single one of your questions has been answered in one way or another and the window for question asking is now closed.

That's mean, isn't it?

Whatever...on to post 999 and the Super Secret Guest Blogger who you've probably already guessed.

Then...1,000 and the BIG HUGE THING NEWS.

I'm going to go jump in a lake now.

Let us all pause in the counting down for an important announcement.

We're still counting down to 1,000, and this post will serve as 997, but I have a very important announcement for which we must all pause.

Today is Bubba and my 8th wedding anniversary.

HOLY MIRACLES

I say MIRACLES because LO I am no easy dame to be married to.

To whom to be married? To which? I'm confused. Bubb - which way is it? You know all the answers. TELL ME NOW.

Also, help me shave the cat.

Ugh, it's like this all the time. Poor man, I fear he's still realizing what a tragic misstep it was to link himself to me permanently. I require a lot of attention. And detail. And attention to detail.

I'm sorry that I hoard running shoes and garden gloves in your garage.

I also assume that he knows all things. Which, I feel, is a very old fashioned-y way for a wife to feel about her husband, but this guy has done nothing but reinforce this assumption of mine over the years and I'm just going to be OK with the fact that, in this way, I'm old fashioned.

As far as I'm concerned, he's a genius. He knows a LOT of things. And those things he doesn't know? Well, he figures them out. Which I know because I have never - not once - heard him utter the phrase, "I don't know. Let's just forget about it."

Nope. It's either, "Yep. Here's how you do it." or "I don't know. Let's figure it out."

I love that. In a SO MUCH I'LL MARRY IT kind of way.

Cases in point:
(Hey! A bulleted list! My absolute favorite! Another secret surprise I didn't unveil until after our vows were official with the state. Strategic Crazy, that's my style.

• SplitboardI decided I wanted to go into the backcountry with him after he started going backcountry skiing so that we could, as a pair, avoid the blech lines and crowds at the resorts and also so that we could bring Jada and spend our days in the woods, which is what we prefer.

• 
  

  

  I prefer it.

  So, what did this man do? Um, found a cheap deck online, gave it to me for Chrismahanakwanzika and then proceeded to saw it in half.
  
  Then he built me a splitboard so perfectly balanced and tuned that my first trip into the backcountry was a screaming awesome success.
  
  Just like that. Man + board (+ new swears even I hadn't heard before) + tools = splitboard
  
  
  
  
  Miraculous.

• Brewing beer
  About a year ago some friends left their brewing stuff behind while they went traveling abroad. Bubba inquired about the potential use of their brewing equipment - just in case maybe he was sorta thinking about trying to brew beer.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A year later, like now, he has made no fewer than a dozen spectacular brews, including a particularly stunning oatmeal stout (not pictured because we drank it at light speed) which I'd like to be bathed in on a daily basis. It's glorious, rich, flavorful and an absolute delight after a rowdy day on the slopes. Right now we're drinking a Bourbon Porter made with Maker's Mark that is nothing shy of fuckingawesome.
  
  Man + carboy + sacks of grains and things = beers
  
  Miraculous.

I'd keep going through the list of miraculous shit that this man pulls out of his hat on a daily basis (mountain biking - like for reals mountain biking, masterminding a home network, grape trellising, CSS/Javascript/HTML/Scripps/Moveable Type/More Computer Languages I Don't Speak, knots - all kinds of knots, rebuilding cars, welding, programming the sunuvabitching super remote...), but I think you get the point.

This guy's awesome. He can DO anything.

And, the kicker and Moral of the Story, if there can be one for a blog post about a wife's love and devotion for her husband on This The Day of Their Anniversary, is that he thinks that *I* can do anything, too.

Well, at least that's the act he's putting on in the sweetest and most genuine fashion.

See, perhaps you've noticed that I have a lot of hobbies. I do a lot of random things. I try a lot of this and that. I also obsess, get up to my ears in and lose myself to some of these hobbies.

Take the garden for instance. Yikes.

It's true. I do it. It's OK to talk about it.

Well, you may be interested to know that every time I even casually and quietly mention that I might want to try my hand at something - anything - new, he's the absolute very first one (probably because he's usually standing right there keeping me from killing myself while I try some other random thing) to be all, "YOU SHOULD! TRY IT!" or whatever.

And then later, when I'm waffling, he'll be all, "Come on, man - you're going to be awesome/win the race/love it/have honey/look great in that sweater/grow a hundred pounds of vegetables/be fluent/etc.

And despite the many things he's encouraged me to try over the years, he's never lost that enthusiasm.

Yes. It's possible that he's insane. It is also possible that I'm insane and the fact that we found and linked ourselves permanently to one another is not coincidental because no other person would have either of us, but I love him tons and he's a genius and he thinks I can do anything and let's not forget that he is - HANDS DOWN - the funniest fucker that I know. 

And because you just sat through that whole rambling gushing post about my Bubba, I will share with you all a recent gem of his that totally got me right in the funny parts.

This is my sports bra.

It's from Enell. They just call it a sports bra. Even though it is the most stranglyest, suffocatingest, most GET THIS THING THE HELL OFF OF ME after a race-ingest contraption ever wrapped around two unknowing boobs.

It works, don't get me wrong, but it is neither flattering nor comfortable.

Bubba knows this. Which is why, when I get ready to go running and go through the process of inserting myself into this torturous device, he calls it either:

The Boston Marathon Strangler

OR

Fort Knockers

See? Funny guy. And that's just a random off-the-cuff comment made in the wee early morning hours as I'm getting ready to go out for a run. Imagine what it's like when he's fully awake, caffeinated (or drinking) and in full Laugh Riot mode.

Yeah, it is a bit scary. You're right. But it's worth it.

Anyway, set the countdown to three posts and - JUST FOR BUBBA - I love you, man.

Like, a lot. 

Just try not to be an asshole. That's all I'm saying.

So, you guys have some random ideas for me to cover over the last few posts before we hit 1,000.

And, I'm sure I'll half-assedly cover some of them, but I'm sorta keen to delve into another topic of great controversy because why not and all...

Religion.

Yep, I said it. It's a big touchy DON'T GO THERE subject with everyone and, you know what, I'm just totally going there.

I'm four posts from 1,000 and I'm probably going to alienate the rest of you who haven't already been alienated by my other offensive posts when I tell you that I think that organized religion is bunk.

For me.

I do not embrace it.

That said - I know lots of good lovable people who totally DO embrace it and, you know what, I think that's fine, too.

And I think it's great that we live in a country where you can decide to embrace it or not embrace it and that's technically OK.

Sadly, much like the No Kids thing, saying that you don't believe in organized religion is also frowned upon and inspires many Askers of Why.

The part of it that gets me is that it's not that I'm saying that YOU or PEOPLE shouldn't believe in organized religion, I'm just saying that *I* don't.

I am not into organized religion.

Much in the same way that I'm not into NASCAR or MMA or golf or birding or the color pink or a million other things that *some* people get REALLY into - as though it's a religion. 

I'm not into those things.

And no one gives one fat rat's behind that I'm not into any of those other things that I'm totally not into.

People only seem to pipe up with their obnoxious WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOUs when I say that, although I was born into a Jewish household, I don't practice and I don't believe in God and I don't follow the teachings and avoid eating bacon or delicious lobster because a book says that it's a no-no.

It's just not what I believe. It's not what I'm about. Although I am a spiritual and curious person who seeks out enlightenment and some other usually-reserved-for-organized-religion types of activities, I don't go to church or synagogue and I don't believe in God.

I won't go into the whys and hows of why I don't embrace organized religion or believe in God because that's not the point. The point is that, much like the fact that I don't want kids and don't watch NASCAR and don't bow at the altar of Wal-Mart or wear head-to-toe pink - I don't do organized religion.

Are you offended that I'd lump Christianity or Judaism or Catholicism or Buddism in with NASCAR? Probably.

I imagine that might really bother some people.

And it bothers me that my ski season gets lumped in with Christmas and my fall honey harvest is lumped in with the Jewish high holidays.

Because snowboarding and beekeeping are two things that I *am* into and they are inextricably linked with these events in organized religion - something I *am not* into.

But, that all falls into the category of WHATEVER because, in my mind, we are not all here to be the same.

In my mind, the best thing I can do to contribute to my happiness and to the happiness of others as they go about their lives doing the things that they are into is for me to just try not to be an asshole.

That's basically as close as I get to religion - I try not to be an asshole to people and let them go about their lives in pursuit of happiness as I go about mine.

I guess my beef has to do with the fact that, for whatever reason, my not being into organized religion is an issue for other people. Even though those same people don't care that I'm not into NASCAR or Nickleback or reality TV or whatever.

Why is that?

Why care that I don't believe in one book that you've read but then not care that I don't believe in one TV show that you watch?

To me, that's a conundrum.

Not that I want these people getting on my back about whatever it is that I'm *not* doing that they think I *should* be doing, but it makes a godless heathen wonder.

Anyway, my solution to this is to give zero fucks and just go about my life trying to not be an asshole to people despite their Askings of Why and When and whatever that has to do with me not doing the things they think that I should be doing.

And for those of you who ARE into organized religion or NASCAR or beekeeping or birding or Nickelback or weaving your dog's hair into unitards for your other dogs - keep on keeping on, if it makes you happy and fulfilled.

Just do whatever the fuck makes you happy and, maybe, if you're into it, try not to be an asshole while you're at it.

That's all I'm saying.

---

Countdown goes to four posts and the next one I'm really answering your questions. All of them.

Should be interesting. Or at least really, really confusing.

#1 (and 2) Tomato Day

I realize that I'm supposed to be here writing about mysterious and burning topics, but I think that you know that the #1 Tomato Day is the burningest of topics in my weird little world.

Also - burningest - it's my newest word. Enjoy that little nugget.

Speaking of enjoyable nuggets, though - WOULD YOU JUST GET A LOAD OF THESE:

They're supposed to be green, you smart ass.

Yes. In a weird turn of events, the green-when-ripe Green Giant tomatoes were the first to spring forth fully ripe from the plants. So, even though they don't look like the ripe red #1 tomatoes of previous years, they are indeed quite ripe and totally ready for feasting.

Also, the first Gravenstein apples and a sad old lemon.

Except, because of activities related to the BIG HUGE THING NEWS, I haven't been home to eat them.

YET.

This weekend, though, it is SO ON. I'm going to eat their effing pants off. It's going to be wild.

OK, it'll probably not be wild at all, but I will eat them and even share some with Bubba and probably the neighbors and it will be lovely. I imagine there will be some olive oil and fancy ass charcoal sea salt (it's a thing) involved and I will take photos to share with you as proof of the act itself.

Then I'll also be able to tell you whether this green-when-ripe tomato is as delicious as I was lead to believe.

And it fucking well better be because I will tell you that these are not the most satisfying tomatoes to see on the vine.

Call me traditional (that'd be a first), but I expect my tomato plants to have reddish fruits on them.

More like it.

 Even if the fruits are more pink or purple than red, I'm OK with it, but green just sort of doesn't do it for me. My eyes need to see some color out there because right now it's a lot of green.

Booooooooooooh-ring. Also - white trash tire potatoes.

But whatever.

I guess I should just be glad that even though it seemed like the first tomato was taking FORever, we're actually only one day past last year's #1 tomato.

I get very impatient when it comes to tomato events.

OK, I get very impatient when it comes to most events. And anything that involves me standing in a line, sitting in traffic or waiting on technology to work (WHY DOES THE DVR TAKE SO LONG TO CHANGE SCREENS? UGH.)

It's not pretty, my Crazy, but there it is.

But the #1 Tomato - she's pretty. And I will eat her fucking face.

Just go on and set the countdown to 5 posts now...

Oh, and if you want me to address some burning question or topic - leave it in the comments or expect more random ass posts like this one. Your choice.

To the Askers of When

Let's just fricken do this - the kids subject.

So, Bubba and I have been together for just about a dozen years, married for eight and happy as two highly immature clams who should probably be supervised at all times but by the magic of expertly honed misdirection are running a household in which cocktails and popcorn for dinner are considered acceptable nourishment.

A man for whom the phrase, "Reapply regularly" is completely unknown.

To say that we wouldn't be fit parents for bringing up a well-balanced individual to be a proper citizen is an understatement. We're also not real into kids to boot, so the notion of us bringing a child into the world to fulfill the expectations of parents, grandparents and Askers of When seems a bit...I don't know...ill-conceived.

If you'll pardon the pun.

PARDON IT, DAMN YOU.

I mean, I hardly ever pun. Let me have my moment.

Thanks.

Also, we stab with forks. Which I think is not what Dr. Spock means when he says, "parenting tool."

So, we've tried explaining this position to The Askers of When (we are unfit and aren't into kids) to no avail.

The response we most commonly receive in return for our candid admission is, "Oh! But you'd make great parents! You have so much to teach to the children of our future! And, plus, even if you don't like kids in general, you'll always love your own kids and OH MY GOD THEY'RE JUST SO FUN."

Think about it carefully -- Is this what you want a kid learning?

And then, every time, we have to awkwardly change the subject instead of head butting the Askers of When while screaming, "DOUBTFUL! I KNOW FUN AND THAT IS NOT IT!", which is totally what we're thinking.

Plus, should the devil really spawn children? I think that No.

I just don't know why honesty is not the best policy in this case, but from what I've seen from the frazzled parents who most commonly approach us with this tired Q&A, honesty is not enough.

Perhaps they would respond better to fire?

So, we've resorted to a variety of different responses based on the various aggression levels of the Askers of When:

Aggression Level: Wannabe Grandparents
Response: You know how selfish we are because you remind us so frequently. It just wouldn't be right for us to bring a child into the world knowing that we'd obviously abandon it in front of the television while we did keg stands with Bubba's home brew before running off on a spontaneous backpacking trip into Desolation Wilderness with nothing but our eatin' knife and a crossbow. NOW WOULD IT?

Aggression Level: Wannabe Great-grandparent
Response:  We are terrible awful people who have no excuse for why we do things. We should be put down. (You can't reason with wannabe great-grandparents. They are too sweet and adorable. Just give them the answer that they want OR act so pathetic that they actually begin to hope that you won't procreate.)

Aggression Level: Frazzled parent of young children
Response: Really? You should really work on your salespitch or at least comb the vomit out of your hair before posing that question.

Aggression Level: Understanding parent of teenage children
Response: Really? Yeah. I didn't think so.

Aggression Level: Random Asker of When For Whom This Subject Is None Of Their God Damned Business
Response: We eat delicious little childrens. Like, as a meal. Eating our own would be...I don't know...wrong somehow. We just can't risk the temptation.

Aggression Level: The "Serious" Asker of When For Whom This Subject Is None Of Their Special God Damned Business Either Even Though They Put On Their "I Really Care" Face
Response: Global overpopulation is one of the greatest concerns of our time. We just couldn't, in good conscious, bring more people onto a planet as taxed and resource constrained as this. I mean, if we, as a people, decide to inhabit and destroy other planets, then, certainly we'd consider it. I mean, what are we going to do with our lives otherwise? Pursue happiness or some such nonsense? I think not.

Happiness? Ridiculous.

Unfortunately, none of these responses are adequate, so we keep working up new ones and the Askers keep asking and being dissatisfied with our responses. It's a fruitless and boring game that we play until such time as we are clearly beyond child-bearing age and then asking us such a question would be considered rude and confrontational because what if they can't have kids? Wouldn't that be tragic and sad? We wouldn't want to make them uncomfortable!

Because right now, the question is totally appropriate and not presumptuous or accusatory at all.

OK - so that's what the deal is with us and kids. We're not into it.

Will we live to regret this decision? Maybe. Just like we'll *maybe* live to regret the decision to put a kegerator in our garage. Except that we can hock that thing on Craigslist for $50 if we decide we don't want it anymore and, with a kid, I hear that shit is frowned upon.

Set the countdown to BIG HUGE THING NEWS to 6 posts...

Countdown to 1,000 and an adventure of the life variety.

You know what's on the horizon out there? Aside from the sun and shit?

My 1,000th post.

Yep, that's the right amount of zeros. So many that I had to add a comma.

One thousand posts, people - that's a LOT of swears and knitting and growing crazy plants and throwing scissors across the room in a quilting-fueled rage and big messes in the kitchen and adventures with Bubba and old cars and new dogs and oh nooooooooooooooooooooooooo and blahblahblah.

Right? It feels like a lot.

In fact, it feels like I was a totally different person when I started this blog SEVEN years ago.

Wow, let's just sit and think about *that* number for a minute. Seven years of putting words onto the internet in a somewhat coherent fashion. Freaky.

So, here's what I'm thinking - since I keep alluding to this BIG HUGE THING that's coming to Finnyknits and since I have this 1,000th post coming up in...oh...lemme see...SEVEN posts from now, I'm thinking that we'll treat the next seven posts as a countdown to 1,000.

And on the 1,000th post I'll share the BIG HUGE NEWS that I've been sitting on.

The BIG HUGE NEWS that will be so big and huge that our lives (OK, maybe just mine and Bubba's) will never be the same and some people will certainly think I'm scrambled in the brains and some people will think that YAY! and everyone will be able to follow along with what happens after the BIG HUGE NEWS if they keep tabs on this here blog.

Which should be entertaining if what you like to do is live vicariously through someone doing bizarre things with their life. Or you like to judge. It'll be fun for that, too.

But until then, we'll count down with posts about whatever the hell you may want to know about me or want me to write about.

Perhaps a lost topic from the archives?
Perhaps a burning Finny question about whothehellknowswhat?
Perhaps you'd just like my take on the political landscape at the moment or how I feel about the riGODDAMNEDdiculous commercialization of the Olympics and how I will.not.watch.it. now that McDonald's has decided that they're the only ones who can sell "fries" and anyone caught using the Olympics logo or namesake (ruh roh) will be strung up by their toenails and bludgeoned with a trademark infringement lawsuit?

Or...
What ever happened to the Ugly Librarian Sweater?
How come Bubba and I don't have any kids...
How that front yard meadow is working out...
Do you even knit anymore?
How I decided that sewing as a profession wasn't for me...
What ever happened to all that crap you wrote for NaNoWriMo?
Ever think of cleaning up that language?
Don't you think you're becoming an alcoholic?

That's right - whatever you want to know or hear about - leave it in the comments. Go on, don't even be shy about it. That's not what we're about around here, you know that. Get your questions out into the world! Say a swear! There are no bad words here! 

And then, for five posts, I will do your bidding writing about whatever you want.

Then post 999 will feature one special post by one special guest blogger. GUESS WHO.

Then post 1,000 will be me sharing with you the BIG HUGE THING NEWS which is so BIG HUGE THING NEWS so that it now has its own label. Right there on the right. Go click right on it. For practice or whatever.

And then, well, then we will obviously all need a drink, so I will unveil the latest Official Drink of Finnyknits to kick off what should be a pretty exciting or at least entertaining for voyeurs and people who are looking to judge adventure of the life variety.

*sucks in a deep breath and has a minor heart attack*

Today on Finnyknits: We learn a thing.

Once upon a time, Bubba gave me a pile of dirt. Remember?

Yeah. Me too.

And let us also remember that I got all eager beaver crazy puppy over it and, before thinking or adequately scouring the internet for information about it or heeding the warning of my knows-a-lot neighbor, I just went shoveling it merrily into my vegetable beds.

Oh.

Because I thought - OH WELL I'LL TEST THE SOIL AND THEN ALL WILL BE RIGHT WITH THE WORLD.

Sort of. Things are sort of right.

Also, things are sort of wrong.

Overall, things are meh.

Right things: The cucumbers and peppers are happy as muther fucking clams.

Happy

muther effing clams

Meh things: The tomatoes and potatoes are not.

Just whatever.

Um, those tomatoes should be a hedge by now. Whoops.

And why do we think that is, class?

Because jackass over here (that's me) took one look at the magically delicious soil test results with their "YOU DON'T NEED TO ADD A DAMN THING TO THE SOIL" readings and went, pffffffffft, we are so done here.

TOO MAGICAL

Except that I did need to add some stuff to the soil.

I mean, I thought about it, but then based on the information in the soil test kit about what pH level the vegetables liked, I just left it all alone.

I should have added some peat moss to the tomato beds to bring down the pH. That was a mistake.

So, as a result, this year's tomato harvest is looking a lot like last year's cucumber harvest - potentially sucky.


So, that thing we learn today: Tomatoes like a pH between 6-6.5 and cucumbers like a pH around 6.5-7. and mucking about with those numbers too much is bad business and results in lackluster plants who can't absorb the nutrients in the soil adequately because things are just not right for them.

PICKY BASTARDS.

No, I kid. I love the bastards very much. We'll make it just right next year.

And, there - don't say you never learned anything from Finny.

Oh! Bonus thing to learn: What does Finny do when the tomatoes are sucking ass but the cucumbers are being all LOOK OVER HERE AT US AREN'T WE CUTE?

Almost too cute to pick. ALMOST I SAID.

We pickle.

Every cucumber that comes out of the garden.

NO ONE IS SAFE.

Is it just me, or do these look like poos in there?

Pickling to fend off feelings of failure. Pickling to soothe the cries of WHAT HAPPENED I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS that I scream at the tomatoes. Pickling because that's also what I do in the summer because LO we never have enough pickles.

Do you guys eat a lot of pickles? Apparently we do. And my family does. They're the first things to disappear from the cupboard every winter and the first thing I'm chomping at the bit to get back in there.

Enough stories about pickles, though, you get it. I have cucumbers. I have made pickles. They are in the cupboard.

Also, the tomatoes and potatoes are in revolt because their soil is too alkaline wahhhhhhhhh. Except for the dirty hippie who was spared the drama in the raised beds by living in its weird spot elsewhere in the yard.

OK, that's as disjointed as I'm willing to be in one post.