The pink† cashmerino‡ finally made its way home.§
For the record? No mail Saturday, Monday, Tuesday... seven copies of the weekly grocery flyer, a Nordstrom bill from November¶ and my yarn today.
I feel *so* lucky to have ever received this package. I believe it may qualify as a miracle.#
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): It's a lovely, lovely pink.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): And the remaining two cones of green.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Home is where you hang your cashmere.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I went paperless in December.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): In the new theism, I believe my post office is Satan.
Showing posts with label going postal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label going postal. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Nicknames
A nickname† says one of three things:@
1) I like you so much, I want to name you myself, to have this tiny, personal link that I give from me to you. It's a token of my esteem.‡
2) You are so horrible and laughable that I feel a need to say something derisive about you every single time I mention you.§
3) Your name or occupation lends itself so readily to a nickname I must apply one, even if I don't know you well enough to determine rules one or two apply.
[SUMMARY: I am a master of useless generalisations.]
Under the black auspices of condition No. 2, I feel my post office needs a nickname.% Post Office of the Damned? The Post Office that Time Forgot? Lost Office?
[SUMMARY: Bitter much?]
Y'all chime in here anytime. I may be starting to lose my sense of humour where the mail is concerned.
Because my post office is trying to kill me.¶
I received HALF of my Colourmart shipment yesterday. Four cones of the blue and two of the green. Four pink and two green are... where? At the Jiffy Lube on South Federal# for whom I inexplicably get mail four or five times a year?†† A neighbour's? In the parking lot of Safeway?
[SUMMARY: The Travelocity gnome got nothing on my yarn.]
On the bright side, the yarn is gorgeous. The blue is almost exactly as it looks on my computer screen and the green has a brighter, more acid edge that brings it even closer to the ideal I was seeking when I started my quest.
I'll let you know how the pink is if I ever get it.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Funny, we were just discussing nicknames in the comments. Not philosophically, just the surety that if I changed my name to Griselda, a certain portion of the population would resist "Zelda" and insist on calling me "Griz."
@FOOTNOTE (atted): For the purposes of this rant, in any case.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Even if I choose to call you Wombat or Fishlips.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Overwhelmingly childish and good for the soul.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): Oh, my PO has a first name, M-O-T-H-E-R...
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Do they not know I'm prone to stroke?
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Currently at least five miles away on SOUTH FEDERAL BOULEVARD, not, one would think, to be mistaken for WEST 37th AVENUE.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Oddly, when I lived on North Hooker Street, I also got mail from that same Jiffy Lube, prompting me once to write, "Do I look like a Jiffy Lube?" in angry red Sharpie on an envelope. A question, I might add, that I don't really want an answer to.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed):
1) I like you so much, I want to name you myself, to have this tiny, personal link that I give from me to you. It's a token of my esteem.‡
2) You are so horrible and laughable that I feel a need to say something derisive about you every single time I mention you.§
3) Your name or occupation lends itself so readily to a nickname I must apply one, even if I don't know you well enough to determine rules one or two apply.
[SUMMARY: I am a master of useless generalisations.]
Under the black auspices of condition No. 2, I feel my post office needs a nickname.% Post Office of the Damned? The Post Office that Time Forgot? Lost Office?
[SUMMARY: Bitter much?]
Y'all chime in here anytime. I may be starting to lose my sense of humour where the mail is concerned.
Because my post office is trying to kill me.¶
I received HALF of my Colourmart shipment yesterday. Four cones of the blue and two of the green. Four pink and two green are... where? At the Jiffy Lube on South Federal# for whom I inexplicably get mail four or five times a year?†† A neighbour's? In the parking lot of Safeway?
[SUMMARY: The Travelocity gnome got nothing on my yarn.]
On the bright side, the yarn is gorgeous. The blue is almost exactly as it looks on my computer screen and the green has a brighter, more acid edge that brings it even closer to the ideal I was seeking when I started my quest.
I'll let you know how the pink is if I ever get it.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Funny, we were just discussing nicknames in the comments. Not philosophically, just the surety that if I changed my name to Griselda, a certain portion of the population would resist "Zelda" and insist on calling me "Griz."
@FOOTNOTE (atted): For the purposes of this rant, in any case.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Even if I choose to call you Wombat or Fishlips.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Overwhelmingly childish and good for the soul.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): Oh, my PO has a first name, M-O-T-H-E-R...
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Do they not know I'm prone to stroke?
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Currently at least five miles away on SOUTH FEDERAL BOULEVARD, not, one would think, to be mistaken for WEST 37th AVENUE.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Oddly, when I lived on North Hooker Street, I also got mail from that same Jiffy Lube, prompting me once to write, "Do I look like a Jiffy Lube?" in angry red Sharpie on an envelope. A question, I might add, that I don't really want an answer to.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed):
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Oh, Baby
You're going to think I've flat lost my mind. Or maybe regained it.
[SUMMARY: Short trip.]
This is just a taste† of the fiberlicious wealth yet to come.
A postal update: Thursday, I received the mad-making‡ note in my mailbox saying, "We put a key in your box a LONG TIME AGO and you apparently aren't bright enough to keep track of such things."§
It was signed by my "regular" mail carrier, Jim, who suggested I call him at the post office if I couldn't find the key.
Here's a funny little bit: last Tuesday, in the throes of deprived desperation, I opened the big, we-can't-fit-this-package-in-your-box@ boxes¶ in my bank of mail boxes in a futile effort to find my missing packages. All were empty. All had the keys.
When I talked to Jim on Thursday, I apprised him of this, and we determined three things:
Long, ridiculous story short,†† I got my packages Friday evening and I have yarn and knitting books and all's right with the world. What's more, I think the USPS is now afraid of me,‡‡ because when I was taking Monday off,§§ the doorbell rang and it was a mailman with a box that could easily have fit in the Big Package Box, but I fancy he just didn't want to risk it.
Yay, me. And good for the Postal Service for learning something.¶¶
[SUMMARY: To forgive is divine.%]
Anyway, the packages... the camera... the pictures... same story, different day... eventually, I'll get the pictures on the camera and subsequently get them back off the camera to beam them to a computer screen near you.
For now, please join me in celebrating yet another finished object^:
I know all y'all knitters have seen it before, but there are a few non-knitters that check in here occasionally who might be impressed by the origami## of the Baby Suprise Jacket.†††
And even if that doesn't get you, aren't the buttons just perfect?
I know Showers of Flowers is often reviled by the local knitting community, but they've never been anything but nice to me and they have a hell of a button selection.
[SUMMARY: Send me your poor, your downtrodden, your maligned yarn shop owners...]
I think‡‡‡ I spent more than $30 on buttons for future, unstarted BSJ's.¶¶¶
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Like a heroin dealer trying to reel in a new customer.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Keeping in mind that the test says I'm very low on wrath.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): OK, it was a little nicer than that, but I haven't quite got all the postal bitch out of my system.
@FOOTNOTE (atted): BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I'm sure there's a technical term for it, but you know what I mean... the individual mailboxes are fine for flat mail or very small and squishy packages (you can't imagine how creatively I've found sock yarn shipments wedged in there), but they have the larger boxes there just in case.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): And it's a little embarrassing to complain about missing three packages, only to realise you completely forgot about two Internet shopping interludes.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): As my college boyfriend used to say, "Too late."
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): My sense of self-worth is not at ALL inflated; I am, after all, a low-Pride kinda girl.
§§FOOTNOTE (smoke... mirrors...): Don't let that fool you -- Sloth is just not my thing.
¶¶FOOTNOTE (even if you have to club them with it): No matter how small or how short-lived.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): Rumour has it I don't get any saint points for washing my own damned car, so I'm going back to the basics.
^FOOTNOTE (careted): Named the NESSIL BSJ: Not Evil StepSister-In-Law [to be] Baby Surprise Jacket. 'Cause, you know, I have an Evil Stepsister-to-be, but this is the wife of my Fantabulous Stepbrother-to-be. She's actually pretty wonderful herself, but Wonderful Stepsister-in-law was Wssil and that just seemed awkward.
##FOOTNOTE (by the numbers): It's a brooch! It's a pterodactyl!
†††FOOTNOTE (only a saint could use this many crosses without bursting into flames. Or Madonna, during the Lucky Star years when she was a little more Like a Virgin.): I was mostly surprised how much I enjoyed the project. Miles of garter stitch and no lace or cables in sight isn't generally my cup of tea.
‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (have I done the "right track" joke here?): *ahem*
§§§FOOTNOTE (the logic will make your head swim): I do have the yarn for them, though, so it wasn't a complete economic stimulus package.
[SUMMARY: Short trip.]
This is just a taste† of the fiberlicious wealth yet to come.
A postal update: Thursday, I received the mad-making‡ note in my mailbox saying, "We put a key in your box a LONG TIME AGO and you apparently aren't bright enough to keep track of such things."§
It was signed by my "regular" mail carrier, Jim, who suggested I call him at the post office if I couldn't find the key.
Here's a funny little bit: last Tuesday, in the throes of deprived desperation, I opened the big, we-can't-fit-this-package-in-your-box@ boxes¶ in my bank of mail boxes in a futile effort to find my missing packages. All were empty. All had the keys.
When I talked to Jim on Thursday, I apprised him of this, and we determined three things:
- Jim checked the box on Wednesday and was very confused that I couldn't find my packages because they were right there,
- Jim, despite being my "regular" mail carrier, hadn't personally placed any of said packages in the overflow box, so he couldn't really vouch for how long they'd been there, and
- there were FIVE packages.#
Long, ridiculous story short,†† I got my packages Friday evening and I have yarn and knitting books and all's right with the world. What's more, I think the USPS is now afraid of me,‡‡ because when I was taking Monday off,§§ the doorbell rang and it was a mailman with a box that could easily have fit in the Big Package Box, but I fancy he just didn't want to risk it.
Yay, me. And good for the Postal Service for learning something.¶¶
[SUMMARY: To forgive is divine.%]
Anyway, the packages... the camera... the pictures... same story, different day... eventually, I'll get the pictures on the camera and subsequently get them back off the camera to beam them to a computer screen near you.
For now, please join me in celebrating yet another finished object^:
I know all y'all knitters have seen it before, but there are a few non-knitters that check in here occasionally who might be impressed by the origami## of the Baby Suprise Jacket.†††
And even if that doesn't get you, aren't the buttons just perfect?
I know Showers of Flowers is often reviled by the local knitting community, but they've never been anything but nice to me and they have a hell of a button selection.
[SUMMARY: Send me your poor, your downtrodden, your maligned yarn shop owners...]
I think‡‡‡ I spent more than $30 on buttons for future, unstarted BSJ's.¶¶¶
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Like a heroin dealer trying to reel in a new customer.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Keeping in mind that the test says I'm very low on wrath.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): OK, it was a little nicer than that, but I haven't quite got all the postal bitch out of my system.
@FOOTNOTE (atted): BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I'm sure there's a technical term for it, but you know what I mean... the individual mailboxes are fine for flat mail or very small and squishy packages (you can't imagine how creatively I've found sock yarn shipments wedged in there), but they have the larger boxes there just in case.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): And it's a little embarrassing to complain about missing three packages, only to realise you completely forgot about two Internet shopping interludes.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): As my college boyfriend used to say, "Too late."
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): My sense of self-worth is not at ALL inflated; I am, after all, a low-Pride kinda girl.
§§FOOTNOTE (smoke... mirrors...): Don't let that fool you -- Sloth is just not my thing.
¶¶FOOTNOTE (even if you have to club them with it): No matter how small or how short-lived.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): Rumour has it I don't get any saint points for washing my own damned car, so I'm going back to the basics.
^FOOTNOTE (careted): Named the NESSIL BSJ: Not Evil StepSister-In-Law [to be] Baby Surprise Jacket. 'Cause, you know, I have an Evil Stepsister-to-be, but this is the wife of my Fantabulous Stepbrother-to-be. She's actually pretty wonderful herself, but Wonderful Stepsister-in-law was Wssil and that just seemed awkward.
##FOOTNOTE (by the numbers): It's a brooch! It's a pterodactyl!
†††FOOTNOTE (only a saint could use this many crosses without bursting into flames. Or Madonna, during the Lucky Star years when she was a little more Like a Virgin.): I was mostly surprised how much I enjoyed the project. Miles of garter stitch and no lace or cables in sight isn't generally my cup of tea.
‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (have I done the "right track" joke here?): *ahem*
§§§FOOTNOTE (the logic will make your head swim): I do have the yarn for them, though, so it wasn't a complete economic stimulus package.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Take a Letter, Maria
Dear Postal-Going Public,
You have heard me complain about my postal service.†
I didn't think it possible, but it's actually in decline.‡
Picture this: my neighbourhood is nine square blocks en toto, including shopping and open space. It is ACROSS THE STREET from the post office. It is served by five or seven banks of mailboxes.§
The postmaster at the post office across the street tells me our little corner of the postal world is a Training and Limited Abilities Route.¶ Brother's mailman, Dave,# tells him that when someone is done with his route, he just grabs a tub of Highland Gardens Village mail and delivers it.
I've seen four mailmen delivering to four different boxes at the same time. We're just not getting consistency.
[SUMMARY: Therein lies the rub.]
And the rub turns to the smoking electric sander when sights like this become common:
I don't have a picture around the corner behind me from there, but there's another USPS minivan also double parked.††
And look closely:
Two mailmen. Working the same bank of mailboxes.
It used to be invitations would go missing with uncanny regularity. And bills.‡‡ And the amount of mail I got for random and varied other people was amazing.§§
[SUMMARY: We are about to go from bad to worse.]
Now my packages are going missing and I want pounds of flesh.
Eca's package, which is going on four weeks missing.
Nathan's package, which shows as delivered on Friday.
Knit Picks order, which shows arrived at my post office last Wednesday.
You may wonder why I'm bitching here.¶¶
[SUMMARY: My point, and I do have one...]
Well, for one, the nice people who mail me things that aren't bills should be aware. I feel like I need to explain and apologise for my post office like I would if my unruly child was running amok in a bank.##
For another, when Paddy P complained about Comcast in his blog, he got a near-immediate reply from a random Comcast worker and all his problems were solved. I'm guessing Comcast is more in tune with its constituency than the post office, so I don't have high hopes, but... it couldn't *hurt* to put the vibe out.†††
[SUMMARY: Hope springs eternal.]
Hey, I clap for Tinkerbell. This couldn't be any dumber than clapping for Tinkerbell.
*clapclapclap* I do! I do believe in the postal service! *clap*
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): The post office has heard me complain about my postal service. My family has heard me complain about my postal service. Sylvia has heard me complain about my postal service. The checkout clerk at the grocery store has heard me complain about my postal service.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Read: a steep and rapidly increasing downward spiral that makes the White Cliffs of Dover look like a pleasant Sunday stroll, steep-wise.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Nobody in the 'hood has a mailbox on their actual house.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Which makes sense. I could deliver the fucking mail with *my* limited abilities, it's that compact and easy.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): We all live in the same larger neighbourhood. And Brother goes to the gym that is six steps from my front door, so he occasionally runs into Dave, delivering mail to me.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Most of our neighbourhood was not built with sufficient clearance for cars to park on both sides of the street and still allow for two-way traffic, much less double-parked mail minivans.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): I'm waiting for the day somebody sues the post office because their botched delivery caused a nasty case of stolen identity.
§§FOOTNOTE (fuming mad): I once got a piece of mail addressed to a Jiffy Lube, from Jiffy Lube headquarters, on an entirely different street than mine, with an entirely different street number than mine, in a different zip code than mine.
¶¶FOOTNOTE (I have TWO talking sticks): But you're probably just used to it by now.
##FOOTNOTE (let me pound this point home): And by "my," I mean, "my," since I know not everybody shares my feeling that we are responsible for our children, pets, cars... I'm not going to start.
†††FOOTNOTE (three ticks to stop and think about that): Unless, y'know, it's like when the waiter spits in your eggs because you complained.
You have heard me complain about my postal service.†
I didn't think it possible, but it's actually in decline.‡
Picture this: my neighbourhood is nine square blocks en toto, including shopping and open space. It is ACROSS THE STREET from the post office. It is served by five or seven banks of mailboxes.§
The postmaster at the post office across the street tells me our little corner of the postal world is a Training and Limited Abilities Route.¶ Brother's mailman, Dave,# tells him that when someone is done with his route, he just grabs a tub of Highland Gardens Village mail and delivers it.
I've seen four mailmen delivering to four different boxes at the same time. We're just not getting consistency.
[SUMMARY: Therein lies the rub.]
And the rub turns to the smoking electric sander when sights like this become common:
I don't have a picture around the corner behind me from there, but there's another USPS minivan also double parked.††
And look closely:
Two mailmen. Working the same bank of mailboxes.
It used to be invitations would go missing with uncanny regularity. And bills.‡‡ And the amount of mail I got for random and varied other people was amazing.§§
[SUMMARY: We are about to go from bad to worse.]
Now my packages are going missing and I want pounds of flesh.
Eca's package, which is going on four weeks missing.
Nathan's package, which shows as delivered on Friday.
Knit Picks order, which shows arrived at my post office last Wednesday.
You may wonder why I'm bitching here.¶¶
[SUMMARY: My point, and I do have one...]
Well, for one, the nice people who mail me things that aren't bills should be aware. I feel like I need to explain and apologise for my post office like I would if my unruly child was running amok in a bank.##
For another, when Paddy P complained about Comcast in his blog, he got a near-immediate reply from a random Comcast worker and all his problems were solved. I'm guessing Comcast is more in tune with its constituency than the post office, so I don't have high hopes, but... it couldn't *hurt* to put the vibe out.†††
[SUMMARY: Hope springs eternal.]
Hey, I clap for Tinkerbell. This couldn't be any dumber than clapping for Tinkerbell.
*clapclapclap* I do! I do believe in the postal service! *clap*
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): The post office has heard me complain about my postal service. My family has heard me complain about my postal service. Sylvia has heard me complain about my postal service. The checkout clerk at the grocery store has heard me complain about my postal service.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Read: a steep and rapidly increasing downward spiral that makes the White Cliffs of Dover look like a pleasant Sunday stroll, steep-wise.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Nobody in the 'hood has a mailbox on their actual house.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Which makes sense. I could deliver the fucking mail with *my* limited abilities, it's that compact and easy.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): We all live in the same larger neighbourhood. And Brother goes to the gym that is six steps from my front door, so he occasionally runs into Dave, delivering mail to me.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Most of our neighbourhood was not built with sufficient clearance for cars to park on both sides of the street and still allow for two-way traffic, much less double-parked mail minivans.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): I'm waiting for the day somebody sues the post office because their botched delivery caused a nasty case of stolen identity.
§§FOOTNOTE (fuming mad): I once got a piece of mail addressed to a Jiffy Lube, from Jiffy Lube headquarters, on an entirely different street than mine, with an entirely different street number than mine, in a different zip code than mine.
¶¶FOOTNOTE (I have TWO talking sticks): But you're probably just used to it by now.
##FOOTNOTE (let me pound this point home): And by "my," I mean, "my," since I know not everybody shares my feeling that we are responsible for our children, pets, cars... I'm not going to start.
†††FOOTNOTE (three ticks to stop and think about that): Unless, y'know, it's like when the waiter spits in your eggs because you complained.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Noro Porn!
It has been suggested (Stacey) that if I posted some yarn pictures, it might make my sporadicity more acceptable. Thus:
I have jumped on yet another bandwagon. Such a joiner. Such a follower.†
eca told me to, so I did.
Noro sock yarn.
I plucked it out of the mailbox in the morning,‡ then raced home after work to cast on a pair of socks.§
And realised I really, really need a scale to do that.
This isn't one of my, "No, I don't *want* it, I really NEED it" ploys to justify my superconsumer ways. It's the actual product of knitting two socks at once. See, with two socks at once, you must have two separate balls of yarn -- one for each sock.
I've tried to eyeball the yarn in the past. It worked OK with eBeth's Glittens because it was a 500-yard skein and the wiggle room could accommodate a restless whale. But this time, I didn't want to take a chance on 110 yards for one sock and 300 yards for the other.¶
[SUMMARY: Justifi-CA-tion!]
So I hopped back in the car,# headed for target, and got this,†† the least-understood of all the knitting tools.‡‡
And raced home§§ to find that the "100 grams, more or less" on the ball band actually translates to 91 grams, which seems like a really large margin of error to me, but it's Noro Kureyon sock yarn, I have a big, grand idea for it¶¶ and I just wound the shit up and headed down to cast on.##
Here are your glamour shots of the yarn and my progress so far:
I know the toes look like members of two entirely different socks. I trust that once I have two whole socks, they'll at least look related.
Go look at the yarn again and don't worry about it.
[SUMMARY: Yarn. It makes everything better.]
That should appease you masses††† until this deal closes at work.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): For someone who prides herself on her quirks, oddities and unique perspective, I sure give a good impression of not having an original thought in my head.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): If the myriad postal workers who service my box (BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!) only realised that bringing the good stuff in a timely fashion (OK, the innuendo is going to overwhelm me) would get me out there more often so they wouldn't have to cram my Oprah magazine into accordion pleats to get it in (*snort*), they may straighten out their perspective acts.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Don't tell my brother. I'm sure he thinks I should be working on his Arrrgyles, and I am, but... Noro! Sock yarn!
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I'm a little cockeyed, apparently. (heh. I said, "cock.")
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): It was 15 degrees, icy and snowing. That's dedication.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): And all kinds of good stuff for the Black Valentine prize package (heh. I said "package"). I think eca and Ally can attest I put a pretty good package together. And it isn't just for knitters -- oh, no. If a knitter wins (NOT just for knitters), that knitter will most certainly experience some sort of yarny goodness (trademark, Pam, the Yarn Goddess), but there are representatives of my favourite things and all the food groups that make me think of Valentine's Day: black, books, hearts, purple, skulls, voodoo, dark chocolate, blood, office supplies (I'll leave it to y'all to decide which are "favourites" and which are Valentines)... just sayin' it'll be worth the effort if you win. But to win, you have to enter. Hint, hint.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Or maybe I'm projecting.
§§FOOTNOTE (sushi swirls): Again.
¶¶FOOTNOTE (two socks at once!): Which I will share with you if it works.
##FOOTNOTE (pounded like the snow on a prairie night in Denver): And knew I had to cast on 32 stitches for each needle and managed to divide that in half and "finished" my increases after 16 stitches. Even I could see it was wrong, so I only knit a little way with the tiny little midget toe before frogging back and trying again. Still knitting, still a dork.
†††FOOTNOTE (cross cross cross): All seven of you.
I have jumped on yet another bandwagon. Such a joiner. Such a follower.†
eca told me to, so I did.
Noro sock yarn.
I plucked it out of the mailbox in the morning,‡ then raced home after work to cast on a pair of socks.§
And realised I really, really need a scale to do that.
This isn't one of my, "No, I don't *want* it, I really NEED it" ploys to justify my superconsumer ways. It's the actual product of knitting two socks at once. See, with two socks at once, you must have two separate balls of yarn -- one for each sock.
I've tried to eyeball the yarn in the past. It worked OK with eBeth's Glittens because it was a 500-yard skein and the wiggle room could accommodate a restless whale. But this time, I didn't want to take a chance on 110 yards for one sock and 300 yards for the other.¶
[SUMMARY: Justifi-CA-tion!]
So I hopped back in the car,# headed for target, and got this,†† the least-understood of all the knitting tools.‡‡
And raced home§§ to find that the "100 grams, more or less" on the ball band actually translates to 91 grams, which seems like a really large margin of error to me, but it's Noro Kureyon sock yarn, I have a big, grand idea for it¶¶ and I just wound the shit up and headed down to cast on.##
Here are your glamour shots of the yarn and my progress so far:
I know the toes look like members of two entirely different socks. I trust that once I have two whole socks, they'll at least look related.
Go look at the yarn again and don't worry about it.
[SUMMARY: Yarn. It makes everything better.]
That should appease you masses††† until this deal closes at work.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): For someone who prides herself on her quirks, oddities and unique perspective, I sure give a good impression of not having an original thought in my head.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): If the myriad postal workers who service my box (BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!) only realised that bringing the good stuff in a timely fashion (OK, the innuendo is going to overwhelm me) would get me out there more often so they wouldn't have to cram my Oprah magazine into accordion pleats to get it in (*snort*), they may straighten out their perspective acts.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Don't tell my brother. I'm sure he thinks I should be working on his Arrrgyles, and I am, but... Noro! Sock yarn!
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I'm a little cockeyed, apparently. (heh. I said, "cock.")
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): It was 15 degrees, icy and snowing. That's dedication.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): And all kinds of good stuff for the Black Valentine prize package (heh. I said "package"). I think eca and Ally can attest I put a pretty good package together. And it isn't just for knitters -- oh, no. If a knitter wins (NOT just for knitters), that knitter will most certainly experience some sort of yarny goodness (trademark, Pam, the Yarn Goddess), but there are representatives of my favourite things and all the food groups that make me think of Valentine's Day: black, books, hearts, purple, skulls, voodoo, dark chocolate, blood, office supplies (I'll leave it to y'all to decide which are "favourites" and which are Valentines)... just sayin' it'll be worth the effort if you win. But to win, you have to enter. Hint, hint.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Or maybe I'm projecting.
§§FOOTNOTE (sushi swirls): Again.
¶¶FOOTNOTE (two socks at once!): Which I will share with you if it works.
##FOOTNOTE (pounded like the snow on a prairie night in Denver): And knew I had to cast on 32 stitches for each needle and managed to divide that in half and "finished" my increases after 16 stitches. Even I could see it was wrong, so I only knit a little way with the tiny little midget toe before frogging back and trying again. Still knitting, still a dork.
†††FOOTNOTE (cross cross cross): All seven of you.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Heads Up
I was reading through the latest Vogue Knitting last night when I ran across a blurb on the knitting in "Pushing Daisies."
As those of us currently jonesing for an end to the writers' strike so we can cosy up with this Burton-esque little show know, the irascible Emerson Cod knits.† Prolifically.
Turns out there's a woman‡ who is sort of the go-to gal for knitting on screen in Hollywood. She taught Chi McBride to knit convincingly for the camera, and occasionally hangs around on-set to be sure he's still on track.
She also knits all the holsters, kleenex box covers, coffee cup cosies and other knit items that are piling up on the show. Apparently, they will continue to accumulate to illustrate his love for the craft and level of tension. So she will continue to invent and knit.
[SUMMARY: Best. Job. Ever.]
I F'd another O last night, just a simple little something I whipped up to go with eBeth's glittens.§
Poor eBeth still doesn't have her Christmas glittens and now it appears I'm withholding a second item from her.
[SUMMARY: Meanest. Sister-in-law. Ever.]
I could tell you about how the giant mucus wad that's sat in my throat for the last month has multiplied like Steve McQueen's blob and migrated both into my chest and into my sinuses, leaving me wheezing moistly and big-headed¶ with a dry, cottony cough... but you don't really want to hear about my phlegm issues.
[SUMMARY: Best. Marketing Plan. Ever. Possibly even better than my "sex sells" scam.]
I haven't checked my mailbox in a week, but I bet there are all kinds of good knitting things I could share with you if I did.#
Why do you suppose it's so hard to get the mail from the box a block away? Is it because I can't poke my head out while clad only in my robe and just pluck it off the door frame like I used to be able to do? Or do you think it's more psychological... like how I only get about half my real mail, all my junk mail and a goodly portion of various neighbour's mails†† and it's just too disheartening to see?
[SUMMARY: Laziest. Postal customer. Ever.]
Yeah. I shot my wad in that first bit. I got nothing exciting today.‡‡
Tomorrow is another day.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Y'know... so he doesn't kill people.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): And if I were half a reporter, I'd remember her name. Or at least have taken note.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): A word I co-opted from eBeth herself.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): If the head cold makes my head feel bigger, why doesn't the chest cold make my boobs feel bigger?
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): I know I have good knitting things to share because even if none of the mail-order knitting han't arrived, I have a small shopping spree from the January sale at Posh at home. If my camera, yarn and I are ever seen together in daylight hours again, you might just see them. It may be June.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): And some non-neighbours too. I've received stuff addressed to the Jiffy Lube at 1525 South Kipling in Lakewood. Wrong name, wrong numbers, wrong direction, wrong street, wrong city, wrong zip. I've received stuff where the postal carrier has transposed odd combinations of numbers to where I feel I can almost get where he decided to put that mail in my box ("Hmmmm... the last two digits of their zip is the same as the first two digits of my street number. I'm on a number street. They're on a name street that begins with the same letter, if you spelled out the number. Oh, his name is Mike. Maybe the M confused the postal carrier..."). I have yet to receive anything from an entirely different state, but that day may be coming.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): See excuses under bits 2 and 3.
As those of us currently jonesing for an end to the writers' strike so we can cosy up with this Burton-esque little show know, the irascible Emerson Cod knits.† Prolifically.
Turns out there's a woman‡ who is sort of the go-to gal for knitting on screen in Hollywood. She taught Chi McBride to knit convincingly for the camera, and occasionally hangs around on-set to be sure he's still on track.
She also knits all the holsters, kleenex box covers, coffee cup cosies and other knit items that are piling up on the show. Apparently, they will continue to accumulate to illustrate his love for the craft and level of tension. So she will continue to invent and knit.
[SUMMARY: Best. Job. Ever.]
I F'd another O last night, just a simple little something I whipped up to go with eBeth's glittens.§
Poor eBeth still doesn't have her Christmas glittens and now it appears I'm withholding a second item from her.
[SUMMARY: Meanest. Sister-in-law. Ever.]
I could tell you about how the giant mucus wad that's sat in my throat for the last month has multiplied like Steve McQueen's blob and migrated both into my chest and into my sinuses, leaving me wheezing moistly and big-headed¶ with a dry, cottony cough... but you don't really want to hear about my phlegm issues.
[SUMMARY: Best. Marketing Plan. Ever. Possibly even better than my "sex sells" scam.]
I haven't checked my mailbox in a week, but I bet there are all kinds of good knitting things I could share with you if I did.#
Why do you suppose it's so hard to get the mail from the box a block away? Is it because I can't poke my head out while clad only in my robe and just pluck it off the door frame like I used to be able to do? Or do you think it's more psychological... like how I only get about half my real mail, all my junk mail and a goodly portion of various neighbour's mails†† and it's just too disheartening to see?
[SUMMARY: Laziest. Postal customer. Ever.]
Yeah. I shot my wad in that first bit. I got nothing exciting today.‡‡
Tomorrow is another day.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Y'know... so he doesn't kill people.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): And if I were half a reporter, I'd remember her name. Or at least have taken note.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): A word I co-opted from eBeth herself.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): If the head cold makes my head feel bigger, why doesn't the chest cold make my boobs feel bigger?
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): I know I have good knitting things to share because even if none of the mail-order knitting han't arrived, I have a small shopping spree from the January sale at Posh at home. If my camera, yarn and I are ever seen together in daylight hours again, you might just see them. It may be June.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): And some non-neighbours too. I've received stuff addressed to the Jiffy Lube at 1525 South Kipling in Lakewood. Wrong name, wrong numbers, wrong direction, wrong street, wrong city, wrong zip. I've received stuff where the postal carrier has transposed odd combinations of numbers to where I feel I can almost get where he decided to put that mail in my box ("Hmmmm... the last two digits of their zip is the same as the first two digits of my street number. I'm on a number street. They're on a name street that begins with the same letter, if you spelled out the number. Oh, his name is Mike. Maybe the M confused the postal carrier..."). I have yet to receive anything from an entirely different state, but that day may be coming.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): See excuses under bits 2 and 3.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Morticia Knits
This is the song that never ends...
Like Monday, we are re-visiting the "what to do with my fibre when I die" issue. I'm going to have to join the American Association of Undertakers if this doesn't stop.
And, like Monday, I open with the operative comment (from Red this time) so you don't have to go find it:
How are we going to knit your projects at your gauge? It's going to need to be picked and done again. For the love of wool don't start any big projects like afghans! Remember Stupid Blanket and his sudden growth spurt? (Is stupid Blanket a he? I just sort of assumed)
First, OK... I hadn't thought of that. "Tight knitter" is apparently a huge understatement in my case. I do have a theory, though: If you knit each stitch as tight as it will go, you have reached the single finite point to be found in tension, thus allowing you to have perfectly even stitches.*
I wouldn't necessarily recommend it to anyone, and it's not my actual strategy,† but I think it's a good point.
Shut up.
Second, c'mon... frogging and reknitting socks under promise of cashmere.‡ Are you telling me it's not worth it? eca would do it. I know she would. 'Specially for Brother.
Third, hmmmmm... lessee: Stupid Blanket looked simple, carefree -- even fun -- at the beginning; rapidly became a pain in the ass; became difficult to leave because of time invested; eventually inspired so much bitching, moaning and loathing as to drive away friends and family; required professional help and lots of wine to get over the hump toward closure; when finished, looked oddly lovely and when delivered away from me, aroused rear-view mirror longing after time.§
Yep. Pass out the cigars. It's a boy!
*ahem*$
So, yeah, when I die, you may have to frog entire socks and reknit them, lest they be mistaken for wine glass cozies, but won't it be worth it?
As for the afghan issue, you know Lizard Ridge is on the horizon, but I figure it's done in individual squares, so y'all will just have to block the HELL out of my pieces and shove yours into a vaguely geometric shape before sewing them up.
[SUMMARY: Ghouls. You're all ghouls. And my brother? Lord High King of the Ghouls.]
In other news...
Back Story:
Years ago, I had an issue with Amazon.com and they lost my business.
See, I had moved and changed my address with them and blithely shopped with them and everything was peachy and suddenly, one day, my package didn't show. And didn't show. And didn't show.
With increasing impatience, I followed their instructions to "wait one more week" and "check with your local post office" until I could take it no more. Through some digging, it turned out their software, in some sort of pre-destined audit function, had spontaneously regenerated an old address and the package had been sent to that erroneous place out of my past.
Of course, this was after I'd been away from that address for over a year, so, of course, the forwarding was expired. And, of course, the lowlife who lived in my old apartment probably just kept the shipment of CDs for himself so I was, of course, screwed.
Amazon offered me a $10 gift certificate for my trouble, but did not offer to replace the lost purchase. Cherry on top? While I had no intention of being an Amazon customer anymore, I did decide to use that gift certificate.
It didn't work.
[SUMMARY: Fuck Amazon...]
Fast forward to 2007.
In May, I ordered six skeins of Lorna's Laces from Yarnela on eBay.
EBay uses the same software platform as Amazon. Can you see where this is going?
Because the shipment came from Canada and there is this ongoing pissing match betwixt the Canadian Postal Service and all things American, the proprietor of Yarnela begged me to "wait two more weeks."
Holy fucking cats, that sounds familiar.
When we finally concluded the package was missing, said proprietor¶ was ready to ship new yarn to me right away. The email with the particulars showed my old address.
Where I haven't lived for a year-and-a-half.
My stomach made a beeline for my toes.
I pointed out that I've only had my PayPal account for a couple of months, therefore the PayPal address couldn't be anything but my current address. Les (see¶?) pointed out that the confirmation he/she got apparently drew the address from whatever eBay was dishing out. And forwarded me his/her confirmation to prove it.
Three items of interest for those who shop eBay/Amazon/whomever else uses that software platform:
Like Monday, we are re-visiting the "what to do with my fibre when I die" issue. I'm going to have to join the American Association of Undertakers if this doesn't stop.
And, like Monday, I open with the operative comment (from Red this time) so you don't have to go find it:
How are we going to knit your projects at your gauge? It's going to need to be picked and done again. For the love of wool don't start any big projects like afghans! Remember Stupid Blanket and his sudden growth spurt? (Is stupid Blanket a he? I just sort of assumed)
First, OK... I hadn't thought of that. "Tight knitter" is apparently a huge understatement in my case. I do have a theory, though: If you knit each stitch as tight as it will go, you have reached the single finite point to be found in tension, thus allowing you to have perfectly even stitches.*
I wouldn't necessarily recommend it to anyone, and it's not my actual strategy,† but I think it's a good point.
Shut up.
Second, c'mon... frogging and reknitting socks under promise of cashmere.‡ Are you telling me it's not worth it? eca would do it. I know she would. 'Specially for Brother.
Third, hmmmmm... lessee: Stupid Blanket looked simple, carefree -- even fun -- at the beginning; rapidly became a pain in the ass; became difficult to leave because of time invested; eventually inspired so much bitching, moaning and loathing as to drive away friends and family; required professional help and lots of wine to get over the hump toward closure; when finished, looked oddly lovely and when delivered away from me, aroused rear-view mirror longing after time.§
Yep. Pass out the cigars. It's a boy!
*ahem*$
So, yeah, when I die, you may have to frog entire socks and reknit them, lest they be mistaken for wine glass cozies, but won't it be worth it?
As for the afghan issue, you know Lizard Ridge is on the horizon, but I figure it's done in individual squares, so y'all will just have to block the HELL out of my pieces and shove yours into a vaguely geometric shape before sewing them up.
[SUMMARY: Ghouls. You're all ghouls. And my brother? Lord High King of the Ghouls.]
In other news...
Back Story:
Years ago, I had an issue with Amazon.com and they lost my business.
See, I had moved and changed my address with them and blithely shopped with them and everything was peachy and suddenly, one day, my package didn't show. And didn't show. And didn't show.
With increasing impatience, I followed their instructions to "wait one more week" and "check with your local post office" until I could take it no more. Through some digging, it turned out their software, in some sort of pre-destined audit function, had spontaneously regenerated an old address and the package had been sent to that erroneous place out of my past.
Of course, this was after I'd been away from that address for over a year, so, of course, the forwarding was expired. And, of course, the lowlife who lived in my old apartment probably just kept the shipment of CDs for himself so I was, of course, screwed.
Amazon offered me a $10 gift certificate for my trouble, but did not offer to replace the lost purchase. Cherry on top? While I had no intention of being an Amazon customer anymore, I did decide to use that gift certificate.
It didn't work.
[SUMMARY: Fuck Amazon...]
Fast forward to 2007.
In May, I ordered six skeins of Lorna's Laces from Yarnela on eBay.
EBay uses the same software platform as Amazon. Can you see where this is going?
Because the shipment came from Canada and there is this ongoing pissing match betwixt the Canadian Postal Service and all things American, the proprietor of Yarnela begged me to "wait two more weeks."
Holy fucking cats, that sounds familiar.
When we finally concluded the package was missing, said proprietor¶ was ready to ship new yarn to me right away. The email with the particulars showed my old address.
Where I haven't lived for a year-and-a-half.
My stomach made a beeline for my toes.
I pointed out that I've only had my PayPal account for a couple of months, therefore the PayPal address couldn't be anything but my current address. Les (see¶?) pointed out that the confirmation he/she got apparently drew the address from whatever eBay was dishing out. And forwarded me his/her confirmation to prove it.
Three items of interest for those who shop eBay/Amazon/whomever else uses that software platform:
- The address on Les's confirmation was, indeed, the old address, BUT there was also a specific note (marked by a question mark) that said the address wasn't confirmed and should be confirmed with the purchaser before any shipping took place. I assume PayPal concedes its address database to that of the vending website, but warns if the billing address they have doesn't match. EBay sellers: HEED THE QUESTION MARK.
- The address on my confirmation from PayPal was the correct one. It is the only email confirmation I got, so I can't tell you if the screen eBay gave me had the correct address or not. I didn't pay that close of attention, having purchased things from eBay, via PayPal, that had shown up just fine. EBay buyers: HEED THE CONFIRMATION SCREEN.
- When the package of Lorna's Laces finally showed up (much marked for the non-forwarding, returning and re-sending) last Wednesday, I went to check my eBay account to be sure I'd changed the address as thoroughly as possible, it showed yet another address, this from two moves ago, where I haven't lived for seven years. Everybody#: PERIODICALLY CHECK YOUR EBAY INFO.
Does it seem a little stupid and cumbersome that one has to think of one's address change for upwards of seven years? Does it seem outside the lexicon of modern living that one would have to change one's address harder and more thoroughly?
[SUMMARY: ...and the software they rode in on.]
To para-quote Buffy again, I suddenly find myself having to know the plural of "apocalypse."
That's my public service for the month, unless you count the one about hiring trained professionals for waxing, which is more a pubic service.††
TOMORROW: Actual pictures of the actual yarns you saw on the bed in the Lake series. WIPs. Perhaps a Cat for Scale picture. You know... real knitblog shit.
*FOOTNOTE: (asterisked... yeah, yeah): "Tight stitches are all alike; every loose stitch is loose in its own way." Anna Karenina as knitter.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Like I have a strategy.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Note to self: must add cashmere to stash so knitters won't exhume and re-kill after finding they reknit socks for no cashmere. Or opt for cremation. Mental image: betrayed knitters peeing on charred remains.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Wow. Who knew that analogy was going to be so apt? Like dating situations gone babies-on-spikes, I think we're going to have to add to the argot "Stupid Blanket" for those guys you stay with too long for all the reasons listed.
$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): That's my changing-the-subject-away-from-the-embarrassing-revalation throat clear, for those of you scoring at home.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): On whom I'd like to bestow a pronoun, but whose name may be short for either Leslie or Lester.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Or maybe it's just me.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): No, I didn't use this whole post just as a setup for that stupid joke, though I can see why you might think so. You know me too well.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
But Wait! There's More!
I thought we were all through this Things to Do in Denver if You're Planning to Be Dead, but I ran across one more yesterday.
My father had a colonoscopy yesterday afternoon. Because they use a general anaesthetic, the clinic requires a helper bee both to drive the victim... er, patient home and to listen to all the doctor's recommendations and admonitions, because, as Dr. Jay said, "He won't remember this later, so it's up to you."†
You may think this leads to some revelation on mortality or potentially embarrassing posthumous discoveries by straight-laced elder relatives, but the colonoscopy has nothing to do with nothing here.‡
[SUMMARY: Colonoscopy as tease. Interesting choice.]
It does sponsor today's morbid thought, if only because CNN was on the TiVi in the waiting room and I got to see the parade of death that follows the financial news on that most informative of channels: If you got shot at an Old Chicago by a random gunman or held hostage by a crazed postal employee,§ what photo would be splashed all over CNN?
In the case of the chick who apparently was shot at Old Chicago and splashed on CNN, she had this beautiful black-and-white portrait that you'd be proud to hang on your wall. Maybe you've seen it. I thought to myself, "Self, there's a girl who planned ahead."
I know, I know... the compassionate heart would be bleeding for the girl and her family (and it did a little), but I couldn't help but go to the place where I wondered what my public photo would be. As it stands right now, I vote for the one on the blog. I look friendly. Accessible. Eye-bag free with a hint of cleavage and definitely worth the hostage release effort. Just so y'all know.#
[SUMMARY: Because it is better to look good than to feel good, darling.]
Another cool thing about Dad's colonoscopy¶ is that it took place RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET FROM A BIG YARN STORE.& I kid you not. I think it was my Kharmic Cracker Jack prize for taking the afternoon off to drive Dad and look at his colon and take doctor's instructions.
Of course, when I bounced into said yarn store and giddily announced, "My dad is having a colonoscopy RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET! Can you believe my luck! I get to shop for yarn!" the lady just looked at me with an expression between fear and horror and finally her shopkeeper rote kicked in:
"Oh. [*pausepausepause*] Can we help you find something?"
When I related this to Dad,^ he just shook his head and said, "No sense of humour."
[SUMMARY: Because colonoscopies are ALWAYS funny. ]
One further cool thing was a guy who was there to chaperone his niece whose name was (I'm not making this up) Snicklefritz. This is a Lorelai Gilmore word. I love this name. I wanted to ask him if he had sons. I would marry one of them and hyphenate (because my own last name is ten kinds of weird and would be OUTSTANDING hyphenated with Snicklefritz).
I guess the trip to Lakewood Endoscopy was really worth any hassle it might have been, what with all the education and entertainment value.
[SUMMARY: Because a colonoscopy is ALWAYS worth the price of admission.]
And the two books$ I picked up. *coughbookproblemcough*
But you'd be proud... not a single skein of yarn was purchased. At the yarn store today. Maybe at Cider Moon online earlier, but not at the yarn store today.%
On beyond SABLE...
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): And then he made me look at a picture of my dad's colon. And SIGN it. He did not explain this (and by "this" I mean the signing part. He explained the picture in thorough and loving detail). Nobody explained this. I think they probably have a hidden camera and at the end of the day, they grab a beer and watch America's Funniest Facial Expressions. I did appreciate their efforts, however, to make it good clean fun for the whole family.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Except, of course, for the last footnote, brought to you by the colonoscopy. Couldn't have done it without you, colonoscopy!
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Not that I have any crazed postal employees in particular in mind. *ahem*
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Brother? Sis-in-Law? Favourite Cousin? Taking notes, please?
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I realise there should have been a first cool thing for there to be another cool thing, but I'm hoping you'll fill in the blank with your own version of "cool" and I won't have to explain myself.
&FOOTNOTE (ampersanded): And you can't imagine the pride I feel in being able to turn a colonoscopy into proper knitblog fodder. Still a knitblog!
^FOOTNOTE (careted): Who didn't seem to mind I'd told complete strangers about his colon, though it's not the first time, as my brief stint in Catholic kindergarten resulted in my whole class praying for his diarrhea. Maybe he's used to it or maybe it was just the IV drugs providing the necessary buffer.
$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): Thus:
%FOOTNOTE (percented): And I TOTALLY resisted the urge to join the Fearless Fibers Seven Deadly Sins Sock Club. *coughredcough*
So far.
My father had a colonoscopy yesterday afternoon. Because they use a general anaesthetic, the clinic requires a helper bee both to drive the victim... er, patient home and to listen to all the doctor's recommendations and admonitions, because, as Dr. Jay said, "He won't remember this later, so it's up to you."†
You may think this leads to some revelation on mortality or potentially embarrassing posthumous discoveries by straight-laced elder relatives, but the colonoscopy has nothing to do with nothing here.‡
[SUMMARY: Colonoscopy as tease. Interesting choice.]
It does sponsor today's morbid thought, if only because CNN was on the TiVi in the waiting room and I got to see the parade of death that follows the financial news on that most informative of channels: If you got shot at an Old Chicago by a random gunman or held hostage by a crazed postal employee,§ what photo would be splashed all over CNN?
In the case of the chick who apparently was shot at Old Chicago and splashed on CNN, she had this beautiful black-and-white portrait that you'd be proud to hang on your wall. Maybe you've seen it. I thought to myself, "Self, there's a girl who planned ahead."
I know, I know... the compassionate heart would be bleeding for the girl and her family (and it did a little), but I couldn't help but go to the place where I wondered what my public photo would be. As it stands right now, I vote for the one on the blog. I look friendly. Accessible. Eye-bag free with a hint of cleavage and definitely worth the hostage release effort. Just so y'all know.#
[SUMMARY: Because it is better to look good than to feel good, darling.]
Another cool thing about Dad's colonoscopy¶ is that it took place RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET FROM A BIG YARN STORE.& I kid you not. I think it was my Kharmic Cracker Jack prize for taking the afternoon off to drive Dad and look at his colon and take doctor's instructions.
Of course, when I bounced into said yarn store and giddily announced, "My dad is having a colonoscopy RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET! Can you believe my luck! I get to shop for yarn!" the lady just looked at me with an expression between fear and horror and finally her shopkeeper rote kicked in:
"Oh. [*pausepausepause*] Can we help you find something?"
When I related this to Dad,^ he just shook his head and said, "No sense of humour."
[SUMMARY: Because colonoscopies are ALWAYS funny. ]
One further cool thing was a guy who was there to chaperone his niece whose name was (I'm not making this up) Snicklefritz. This is a Lorelai Gilmore word. I love this name. I wanted to ask him if he had sons. I would marry one of them and hyphenate (because my own last name is ten kinds of weird and would be OUTSTANDING hyphenated with Snicklefritz).
I guess the trip to Lakewood Endoscopy was really worth any hassle it might have been, what with all the education and entertainment value.
[SUMMARY: Because a colonoscopy is ALWAYS worth the price of admission.]
And the two books$ I picked up. *coughbookproblemcough*
But you'd be proud... not a single skein of yarn was purchased. At the yarn store today. Maybe at Cider Moon online earlier, but not at the yarn store today.%
On beyond SABLE...
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): And then he made me look at a picture of my dad's colon. And SIGN it. He did not explain this (and by "this" I mean the signing part. He explained the picture in thorough and loving detail). Nobody explained this. I think they probably have a hidden camera and at the end of the day, they grab a beer and watch America's Funniest Facial Expressions. I did appreciate their efforts, however, to make it good clean fun for the whole family.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Except, of course, for the last footnote, brought to you by the colonoscopy. Couldn't have done it without you, colonoscopy!
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Not that I have any crazed postal employees in particular in mind. *ahem*
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Brother? Sis-in-Law? Favourite Cousin? Taking notes, please?
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): I realise there should have been a first cool thing for there to be another cool thing, but I'm hoping you'll fill in the blank with your own version of "cool" and I won't have to explain myself.
&FOOTNOTE (ampersanded): And you can't imagine the pride I feel in being able to turn a colonoscopy into proper knitblog fodder. Still a knitblog!
^FOOTNOTE (careted): Who didn't seem to mind I'd told complete strangers about his colon, though it's not the first time, as my brief stint in Catholic kindergarten resulted in my whole class praying for his diarrhea. Maybe he's used to it or maybe it was just the IV drugs providing the necessary buffer.
$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): Thus:
%FOOTNOTE (percented): And I TOTALLY resisted the urge to join the Fearless Fibers Seven Deadly Sins Sock Club. *coughredcough*
So far.
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