Kelly (the one who lives in the 'hood, as opposed to the thousands of Kellys apparently reading this blog and becoming my new best Kellys**) called last night, making me a happy and relieved new-best-friend, but ruining the great scheme to turn her absence into a bit that would rival the Heathers schtick for sheer blogdorkness. Sometimes ya gotta give a little to get a little.
[GREEK CHORUS: Kelly's back!]
Meanwhile...
When the Brown Palace shindigs, they really dig their shins in.
Fabulous food, free drinks (good ones! not box wines and Miller Genuine Dreck!), free massages, 50% off a spa service booked at the event (and that makes some of their very expensive stuff -- like the $85 signature pedicure -- absolutely reasonable).
The manager of the hotel, Marcel Patin (and I have no idea if his last name is close to right. That's what I heard. He's French, so use an accent when you say it to yourself) even stopped to talk to us, and when he found I'm a regular at the spa, he was genuinely interested in whether I was getting good service or had any suggestions. I'm such a geek for customer service, even if it was all a front, I dig that kind of stuff. Almost as much as I dig shins.
Funny side story: When Marcel (and we are on a first-name basis. If only because I'm not remotely sure about his last name. And because he's my new best friend) first approached us, both Annie and I thought he was going to hit on us. Is it a French guy thing or is it a 40-something chick thing?
I did take my camera, but both the pictures I came home with had to be taken before my hands were full of martini and food plates. I was already in dire straits about how to pick up the hors d'oeuvres (are you supposed to use an S for the plural on that?) that were circulating without spilling my drink, so photo ops were limited. To two. Here they are:
The friends (Annie and Tani, respectively) and the drinks (pomegranate martini, blueberry martini and mango mojito in the background, respectively) that made it all worthwhile
Tani (or that bump in her belly) is the future recipient of the Stupid Blanket and Annie is the future recipient of the Heathers ("It's your turn Heather." "No, Heather, it's Heather's turn. Heather?" "Sorry Heather. " Nope, not old yet).
So this weekend finds me trying to smash St. Patrick's Day in with the following:
1) Baking and decorating four dozen carrot cupcakes for Tani's baby shower
2) Tani's baby shower
3) NCAA Tournament watchage
4) Taking Dad to the airport at (get this) 4:00 Sunday morning. MORNING. 4:00. I volunteered. I'm not as smart as I look.
I may sleep some on Sunday. I may not sleep at all *until* Sunday.
Oh! And because I threatened this, and I generally keep my word, I did some business (then cancelled some business) with a yarn place and I want to let y'all know what a small and irritating clusterfuck it was, just in case.
Remember the Trojan Sweater? That I kept saying the yarn would come any day? I ordered the yarn from the Yarn Barn on February 26. I ordered it there because it was one of the few places that came up when I Googled "Dark Horse Fantasy" that actually had anything to do with yarn. Y'all know what I mean.
Anyway, the next day, Pat Kirtland, owner of the Yarn Barn emailed to say thanks for the order, I don't have the seven balls you want [side note: with all this talk of fantasies and balls, I'm either going to start getting hits from Cinderella enthusiasts or... well, you know], I only have six, I'll have to order more. I asked how long it would take for me to get the yarn. She said about a week, because she had to order it from Colorado Springs. I mentioned that I live in Colorado and perhaps they could drop-ship my order directly from the Springs. She said she didn't know if they'd drop ship partial lots, but she'd check and let me know.
Never heard from her again.
Yesterday I called to ask what the status of the order was. I'm still not convinced she even ordered the right colour, since she kept talking about "reddish orange" and I ordered shocking pink (I shouldn't make fun. She may be handicapped. A colour-blind yarn purveyor. How horrifying is that?). She said she'd gotten the order in today (that would be yesterday now. Tense can be a little tense in blogworld). She didn't mention when she'd ship it or how long it would take, nor did she express any sorrow or concern over my complete lack of sweater yarn.
"Is this common with your shop?" I asked, "because my inclination is not to order again if I have to wait three weeks for yarn that I can get other places much quicker."
"Well," she said, in a defensive and snotty tone, "this wasn't in my control. There's nothing I can do about it if the yarn company doesn't send me the yarn."
I was tempted to say, "You could have written, you could have called. You could have apologised. You could have -- at bare minimum -- acknowledged my concern and answered it like you actually want to have customers." I decided not to engage. I just said, "Then please cancel my order. I can get the yarn at my local yarn store."
(I know we love and support our LYSs, but at the time I went looking for the yarn, none of them showed it on their websites as available. Then I was in A Knitted Peace one day and -- ta-daaaaa -- there it was)
"FINE!" she said. You know the tone of voice.
So I sent her an email reiterating the cancellation of the order and told her that her reaction to my inquiry earned her both a one-way-ticket away from my yarn-friendly bank account and as much bad publicity as was reasonable in my purview. So here I am, making good on the bad publicity thing. Do with it what you will.
[GREEK CHORUS: AntiM complains a lot, mostly about high class problems like too many cool social events, but at least French guys talk to her. Don't shop at Yarn Barn. And don't fuck with the HKIC.]
I leave you with this funny story from my friend Mick (who has a Blackberry and knows how to use it), who hypothesised that it's only funny if you were there, but I think it's pretty funny even though I was nowhere near the store in question at the time:
Anyway, here is a random event from my life. I went to the gas station, everyone has to pre-pay, I left my CC at home so went inside, long line I'm looking around. Next to the hotdogs are 3 pumps for condiments, one for Catsup, one for Mustard and the 3rd just says sauce. That's it just sauce. I get to counter and ask the guy, "what kind of sauce is that." He looks kinda pissed off. "Sauce!" He says. I ask for 20.00 in gas and 2 cans of Copenhagen, he rings it up. Before I pull out the cash, I ask "what kind of sauce, hot? Sour? Cheese? Just saying sauce tells me nothing." The guy isn't happy now. "30.92" he says. Now I want to play. "First tell me what's the sauce? I might like to have some. How can I buy it if I don't know what it is?" "Hot dog sauce, ok?" He says. Now the guy behind me who has been chuckling asks. "What kind of hotdog sauce?". At this point the 3 of us are only ones in store, and the counter guy figures out we are just messing with him. Anyway it was funny, probably a lot funnier if you were there.
[GREEK CHORUS: AntiM's friends are a little weird too. Figures.]
**FOOTNOTE (asterisked): There aren't thousands of Kellys reading this. Who am I kidding? There are at least two, however, and that gives me the compulsion to exaggerate for the sake of drama, blogworthiness and personal ego boost.
**FOOTNOTE (unasterisked): Didja ever notice how all blue alcohol looks like Windex?
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