Turbulence

Right this minute, I feel like I'm on an even keel. I know that as soon as I step out the door of my professional life into the parking garage (I'm working right now, gently toiling in the soothing calm of nonfiction loveliness), everything will suddenly speed up and whoosh all around my head, perhaps a little like that jacked-up scene in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory when Willy takes the kids on the boat and it's all psychedelic and gross. But for now, it's good. There's a calm all about, even if it is a forced calm.
I need to print t-shirts this weekend, using an archaic and slow hand-method and oily inks, and I don't know when I'm going to fit it in, but I will. The blank American Apparel t-shirts came today, and while at first I was freaking out because I thought I had ordered too many, now I think I may not have ordered enough. The colors are really nice, better than I expected. C'est la vie.
I had a fit of insomnia last night, awaking at 2 a.m. to put wet laundry into the dryer so that I'd have something clean to wear to work today, and then a fit of panic seized my brain and I couldn't go back to sleep. Instead, I sat at the diningroom table for four hours and played around online on the laptop, enjoying the new wireless connection set up by The Neefer last night before retiring to bed. I watched countless bits of video on YouTube, fantasizing about hooking up with Jon Stewart in a culturally enlightened but still hot three-way with Stephen Colbert (can he be considered hot? Sometimes. Maybe.), and tried to figure out how to speed-clean a basement filled with the detritus of six years of shoving things in the basement instead of throwing them out. The leftover marriage mass programs from my wedding are still down there, for poop's sake. I need the big industrial folding table under all that stuff on which to sell said t-shirts at the Great Basin Fiber Fair. I'm becoming a business woman, ya'll. Sort of like Britney Spears (she's the one I'm quoting, ya'll), but less trashy. And with no, ahem, singing. Oh, so maybe we're exactly the same. Except I've never danced with a snake or slept with K-Fed (thank God for small mercies). But what should I call the fledgling venture? In the middle of the night I thought of "Carpe Knittum" (or Knittem, with an "E"), and right now "Knit`e Diem" also occurs to me, which maybe sounds better. Before that, I was considering:
"Shu-bi-Shu"
"Yellow Shoe Press"
"Tu-Tu"
and some other stuff that I can't remember right now, like:
"Baby Monkey Underwear"
and "Nascar Porn".
What do you think?

P.S. I scored, during a respite-seeking trip to Sam Weller's during last night's Camper Van Beethoven concert at the Gallivan Center, a first edition hardback copy of Barbara G. Walker's "A Treasury of Knitting Patterns". It had come in the day before. I've been looking for this book for a few months. Even better, it was 20% off because of Weller's annual August used and rare book sale. Yippee-skippee! I spent yesterday afternoon wishing that I had the book checked out from the library so that I could check out some lace patterns, and the universe TOTALLY delivered. I take it as a very good sign.