At any rate. First bus to Queen Anne. Lower. And then the Two to the Soy-Sprinkel Estate. But as you know the Two will not arrive. Did not arrive. And I have learned not to wait. So I hop a Thirteen and request the Sprinkel meet me at El Diablo. And to bring the Soy with her.
Sometimes he is very vanilla. Sometimes he is not.
So I grab a Cafe Cubano. The hard stuff. No soy additive. And usually. I enjoy the soy additive. Which is not to be confused with the aforementioned Soy of the Soy-Sprinkel Estate. He is not an additive. And I head up the spiral staircase to find seats for my compadres. And then I see them. The Nine. Nine women knitting. Nine women knitting in a circle. And for a moment I freeze.
For the first time ever. I am unable to speak. Well. There was that incident in the summer of 1992 when I could not speak. But that was an entirely different matter. So I guess I probably could have spoken. But what would I have said.
So. There is a fucking knitting circle of nine at El Diablo. Instantly I wonder if this is some sort of a coven. And I do not mean a wiccan coven. No. Rather. I am transported back to Rosemary's Baby. A good ol' fashioned satanic coven of folks who want to impregnant a young woman with Satan's spawn. Which of course would not be complete without Ruth Gordon. And in case you were wondering. Ruth Gordon was not one of the Nine.
Her group looked a bit more like this:
But that would have been fucking awesome. Freaky considering she died about twenty years ago. But fucking awesome.
No. The Nine are all very young. The oldest of the group perhaps thirty years of age. Most I would guess are in their early to mid twenties.
The nine knitters stop. And look up from their yarn. They are looking at me. And no longer knitting. I feel like I am some sort of exotic animal. Perhaps part of some traveling exhibit at the Woodland Park Zoo. On loan from a foreign country with a name that no one is willing to learn how to pronounce correctly. Because after all. This is the United States of America. And besides. No one in said country has any resources for us to steal or rape or otherwise pillage anyway.
Uh where was I. Oh yes. The Nine.
The Nine are freshly scrubbed faces with. Ivory soap. Hair pulled back in elastic. Or headbands strategically placed so that long undyed virgin hair remains perfectly in place. The Nine are lily ass white.
I smile. Sheepishly. And find one of the few remaining seats in the corner. Eventually they return to their yarn. Pink. And baby blue. Pastels. The rebel of the group knitting hunter green. And I do not know much about knitting. But I can see from a distance that the stitches are intricate. Their needle work complex.
And it is not that I think there is anything particularly unusual about knitting. In fact. I have friends who knit. And one friend in particular whom I adore. Even though I do not know her nearly as well as I would like to know her. She knits. And she is a dreamy knitter grrrl. But this scene was a bit unexpected. And the dreamy knitter grrrl I know has jet black dyed hair and a lip ring and a very sexy smile.
There were no lip rings among the Nine. I am certain of this. Yes. I checked. In fact. I did not notice so much as a set of pierced ears on the entire group. Perhaps the hunter green knitting rebel had a small set of diamond studs. One in each ear. No more.
So I sit down. And pull out my notebook. Along with a squishy Procrit drug company pen given to me by my nurse practitioner friend who always hooks me up with interesting things from the oncology conferences she attends. So. I am barely doodling on the page. I do not believe I have written a single word at this point. And then. I hear it. And I am not trying to evesdrop. But something catches my attention.
We had the best cake at our wedding. It was so beautiful. Three layers. With a chocolate ganache.
Really. I wasn't happy with my bakery at all. But my younger sister is getting married next year and she could use a good recommendation. What bakery did you use?
You know. I never can remember the name. Isn't that funny? I should know. But I have it written down in one of my wedding scrapbooks. I'll get the number for you.
The conversation about wedding cake continues for at least ten minutes. And I am looking at my watch. Wondering where the Rainbow Sprinkel and Soy might be. I am feeling lost. And abandoned. Afraid. So I do the only thing I can do. I start scribbling frantically upon the page.
The Nine are discussing their respective weddings. There are simple gold bands on the majority of the ring fingers in the room. Each with a large accompanying diamond stone. Almost all of them are wearing little white Keds sneakers.
So I am sitting on the Ikea green denim sofa. And drinking very strong cuban coffee. Listening to seemingly neverending talk of wedding cake. And wedding flowers. And wedding photographers. They speak of wedding party favors they provided to their guests. And bridesmaid dresses. And the various wedding traditions that I find so repugnant that I cannot even repeat them in this post. Not even for you.
And I am starting to feel a little bit ill. Like maybe the coffee was a bad idea. Perhaps I should have gotten a glass of Shiraz instead. And I feel their bright blue eyes staring. Glaring at me. One woman in particular. She cannot possibly be a day over twenty-three. Looking up from her knitting momentarily. Her eyes burning holes through me.
She is wearing pink. And she appears perplexed. I imagine that it is my appearance she is pondering. Perhaps my fire engine red hair and blood red lips and the fact that I am clad entirely in black clothing is somewhat perplexing to the young knitter. And perhaps I am stereotyping. Assuming as much about her as she is assuming about me. But I imagine that she is Mary Poppins. And that she imagines me to be some sort of psychopathic serial axe murdering witch.
And I think it is important to state. For the record. That I have never been a witch.
Addendum: Shortly after witnessing the above. The Sprinkel and the Soy arrived. And I share with them all that I have now shared with you. And in this moment. I stop to ponder the scene before me. And I wonder if I really am that different from other people. And I realize that I am. Thank goodness. Because sometimes I wonder.
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