Another morning, another sock on kiyoshi’s head.

She put a sock on my head again. I don’t understand humans.

Shoelace!

—

So. On my way out of the parking lot at the fiber fair — and by “parking lot” I mean “grass” — there was a bump which caused me to scrape the underside of my front bumper, pulling out onto the street. I thought little of it beyond “damn, you guys could fill in the craters once in a while.”

Five miles down the road — in some suburb between Crystal Lake and Elgin — there was a mild bump in the pavement, after which my car started making an unpleasant scraping noise. I was on the phone with Kim at the time, and pulled off into the nearest handy parking lot, which happened to be a (plant) nursery which was closed for the day, which at least kept me from getting funny looks from anyone except a couple of employees leaving for the day, one of whom eventually walked over and stared at me without saying anything — I assume he was planning to ask if I needed help but couldn’t quite find the courage to actually speak, and/or overheard me talking on the phone with Kim and figured I was crazy for babbling about yarn while messing around the underbody of my car. Anyways, I got out and looked under the car, and what had happened was that the skid plate — which is a plastic sheet that covers under the oil pan, etc, between the two front wheels, from the front lower valance all the way back to behind the axle — had lost its front bolt and fallen, and was scraping along the pavement.

(Side note: a replacement skid plate is $160. I say again, Crystal Lake, you couldn’t fill in those craters once in a while?)

But I am a girl of no small amount of ingenuity, and I fixed my busted skid plate, right there in the parking lot of the Platt Hill Nursery: I tied it up with a shoelace from my ice skates. Laced it up nice and tight right through the bolt holes – the ones other than the one in the front which was ripped, presumably from the force of a bolt being pushed through it. I even tucked the ends of the laces away neatly so they wouldn’t drag on the asphalt.

Hey, it worked. Shut up!

This guy spent the whole game on his crackberry.

Dressed up for the game

‘You can tell by the way we lose!’

Inside the towel-dispenser in the second-floor ladies in the Truman College tech building — where most towel dispensers would have a trash bin — there is a small, shallow tray with this green-dyed sawdust stuff. I cannot figure out what on earth it would be there for. Even if it wasn’t a completely non-smoking building, you can’t use sawdust for ashtray filler. But why would you have a tray of small particulate matter in the bathroom? Especially a tray that’s not even deep enough to hide anything in. This is truly a mystery.

The microwave is angry.

Five drinks in, and they’re still giving us the good glassware.

ETA: I feel compelled to note that Rachel was highly motivated by the potential moblogging of her bosom. In fact, an early version of this photo was vetoed due to its inadequate Rachelbosom quotient. So, please, everyone, when you read this post… take your drink, and let’s make a toast: To Rachel’s bosom!

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