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Just a little tip for any of you who might be sleepwalking through your final days at a hated job and have already read every Seinfeld script at least three times: the Friends script archive. Yeah, it’s been a real boring week.

Gmail Invites: It seems like most folks that want one have already gotten one, but if anybody is still interested, I’ve got five more invitations sitting unused in my account.

Mmmm… Chocolate-dipped pork fat. I wonder if they could make the chocolate sauce with Splenda, thus resulting in the Best. Low-Carb. Treat. Ever! (I kid, people.)

It’s certainly shaping up to be a knit-tastic weekend! Tea in the Library (on York Street) is having a “Yarn-A-Rama” event tomorrow night after work. Five knitting gurus are going to talk about the craft and answer questions. Sounds fun!

Mortification and Hilarity
My friend Mardi noticed this morning that photos are available from the Nike Women’s Classic. Curious, I did a search on my bib number (#1422). The image shown here was the only one returned. I was confused. “Where the hell am I? I’m not either of those girls!” Did I have my bib number wrong? Then I clicked on the image to see the full-size version. Ohhhh, good grief, there I am. Yeah, I’m that half-person in the red shirt on the left edge of the photo. Click on the thumbnail to see the large version, complete with telltale wristband. I feel like Charlie Brown. I didn’t even manage to get in a photo.

Kitty Update: Well, whatever it was, it fell off. I picked her up this morning to check and it’s not there anymore. She’s got a tiny little bald patch and the skin underneath is slightly pink. I’m taking this as confirmation that it was just a scab. We’ll be monitoring it but I’m glad we didn’t bother going to the vet.

The Australian Parliament is considering whether to require special driver’s licenses for people with SUV’s. They’d be required to pass an off-road driving skills test. Brilliant! Maybe it’d cut down on all the clueless soccer moms in Land Cruisers yammering away on mobiles while cutting people off in rush hour traffic. Too bad such a thing would never pass in the U.S. (People here don’t believe me when I tell them how many Notre Dame students had brand new Cherokees that were only used to drive between campus and Meijer.)

Great name for a knitblog: When Knitting was a Manly Art. More guys should knit. I spent lunchtime showing a couple girls in the office how to finish a cushion cover (adding button holes and casting off), and a male co-worker joked that we looked like a bunch of grannies!

The Craft and Quilt Fair is on this weekend! Any of you Sydneysiders want to meet up Saturday?

I’ve got a developing case of kitty anxiety. I noticed while I was brushing Dr. Amy Jones the other day that she had a hard little bump under the fur near her right shoulder My first thought was that it was her microchip so I took care not to touch it. Today I noticed that I could actually see the place where it was without touching her, because it displaced her fur a bit. I held her under the desk lamp and checked it out. It’s sorta hard and dry and yellowish, about the size of maybe half my pinky nail. It didn’t seem to hurt her but she didn’t like me touching it too much. (I also think she’s been more vocal with the meowing lately, but maybe I’m just being paranoid.) Anyway, I was pretty sure it’s just a scab, but I thought maybe I’d call the vet just to make sure. Well, that woman freaked me out. She was like, “It’s not the microchip. Those are, like, granular. You should definitely bring her in. Can you bring her in tonight? Ooh, maybe the weekend would be better in case we have to operate.” I’m like, “WHAT? OPERATE?! I think it’s just a scab!” And she was like, “Cats are very prone to abscesses. They can fill up with pus. You should bring her in so we can check her and put her on antibiotics.” So we’re booked in for tomorrow night. The rational part of my brain (and the Snook) insists that she just poked herself climbing around under the dining room table or something, and it’s just a harmless little scab, but the manic little paranoid bit keeps screaming that it’s probably some kitty tumor and she’ll have to have surgery and get shaved and eat weird food and be in all sorts of pain. Which is totally irrational, right?