Page 29 of 165

Pardon My Twang….

December 29, 2008 / PlazaJen

…But I keep hearing an old-timey version of a Ralph Stanley song running through my head, specifically the refrain, “The darkest hour is just before dawn”.

Now, those who know me, and even those who don’t, yet come here for all the sparkling Grief Blogging might worry that I’m in a depression. Fear not. Well, I am, a little, but really, anyone over the age of 14 is bound to get the blues this time of year, what with all the manufactured joy and pre-packaged expectations that come with “The Holidays”. Nope. I’m in the darkest hour because I am cleaning and reorganizing all the kitchen accoutrements. Holy shitballs, Mabel, this is a Task and A Half! And basically, with most un-cluttering and organizational projects, you have to explode the whole thing before you can put it in order. Right now, Houston, we have esplosions.

This morning, I moseyed down to Index, a restaurant supply store in the River Market, and boy, it’s easy to drop your whole wallet there. It gets hypnotizing, as you walk around looking at all these…things… you start to think, “Well of COURSE I could use a dozen of those little stainless cups they serve ketchup in at McCoy’s,” and you catch yourself mentally visualizing and measuring your oven, just in case this enormous cookie sheet could fit in it. And of course you’d need the matching Silpat. I caught myself eyeballing a sugar pourer. It was only $1.50. I was certain that would be useful. I could throw the old one away. Update the sugar pouring aspect of my life. You wouldn’t believe the siren songs I hear in my head in that store. Anyhoo, I did NOT buy anything off my list, my goal was to get some large foodservice-grade containers to put baking supplies in (flour, sugar) and then at least one more big one for rice. This is the downside of the CostCo shopping – enormous bags of flour and rice, and where in the hell do you put them? Shove ’em in the back room off the kitchen, that’s where. Alongside last winter’s birdseed, which, upon unearthing, I later caught Tripper EATING. He is such a motherfucking black lab it makes me crazy. Birdseed. To him, it must have been some gourmet trail mix. (That is going out to the greenhouse. I did not buy a tub for it.)

So now my fantastic birthday-present-to-myself from this summer, the KitchenAid 6, sits on top of a chrome cart, and stacked in glorious organization under it are the flour, sugar, powdered sugar and on the bottom shelf, rice. I will be able to just pull the cart in to the main kitchen area & use the mixer on the cart, instead of having to lift and move the beast onto the countertop (because it’s so tall, it blocks the cabinet doors. Yep.) And this one beacon of organization and containment is in the middle of the dining room, and its strangeness is making Suzy crazy, so she’s been lying here GROWLING at it the whole time I’ve been typing. Dogs. Thank god they can’t drive, they’d lose their minds.

OH, but see, there’s more. There’s a huge big ol’ reason all of this is happening, besides the fact I’m on vacation, and alternating between lolling about & knitting and being productive. I got a really kickass Christmas present. Two, in fact. One from my MIL (Momma Linda) and one from my husband. We draw names in his family, and she got mine. And she has heard me bitch and pick fights with said husband over …wait for it…. a french fry cutter. He has refused to buy it for me because it is…impractical. A unitasker. No. I am not married to Alton Brown, but sometimes it sounds that way! I wanted one because the cheapy one I had broke, and I wanted a solid, restaurant-quality, never-gonna-break sort of french fry cutter. DO NOT ASK ME how many times a year I make french fries. Because that is not the point. Here was something I genuinely wanted. For years. It started to take on a lifeblood all its own. James would complain about how hard I am to buy for, and I would always look at him and say, “French fry cutter.” Yet he refused to get it. (There were arguments made about our walls and the fact it has to be mounted to one, blah blah blah DETAILS, people. Trivial details.) So, since my MIL and I are not unlike each other, she went and ordered me the mac-daddy french-fry cutter to beat the band. Doesn’t have to be mounted on a wall, either. And when she informed my husband of this gift, he knew his goose was cooked. Or tater was sizzlin’, whichever metaphor you prefer. Because in the past – and as recently as last week – others had offered to pool resources, to go around him, to buy it for me. I refused. I purposefully never told my father, because he would have had it shipped express the next day to make a point. This was my lynchpin. My sand in his Vaseline. So the Wo knew he had to do something. And he ordered a twin deep-fat fryer from CostCo. Yes. That clanging noise was everyone’s arteries slamming the doors on crazy. CRAZY. But he had to get with the program or have it forever held against him, and it has made me laugh repeatedly since Christmas day, because it’s partly an O’Henry short story, partly a clash of personalities and priorities, and through it all, completely filled with love.

Anyway, now, all this stuff has to go somewhere, and some things need to be removed, since they are ever-so-rarely used. And I’m taking FULL advantage of the no-limit-on-trash-bags opportunity this week, going a little crazy with the tossing, but it feels good. With the bonus that now I can have my very own State Fair in the kitchen anytime I want.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun is slowly sinkin’
The day’s almost gone
Still darkness falls around us
And we must journey on
The darkest hour is just before dawn
The narrow way leads home
Lay down your soul at jesus’ feet
The darkest hour is just before dawn

Like a shepherd out on the mountain
A-watchin’ the sheep down below
He’s coming back to claim us
Will you be ready to go
The darkest hour is just before dawn

The narrow way leads home
Lay down your soul
Let jesus in
The darkest hour is just before dawn
The darkest hour is just before dawn

For everyone who found their heart aching over the holidays, just remember…. you are not alone.

My, What A Fetching Chapeau….

December 22, 2008 / PlazaJen

Yes. There has been knitting. I haven’t done much in the way of blogging it, partly because I haven’t done as much blogging in general, but whatevs. You forgive. We move on.

Here we have Hat #1, the lovely Koolhaas, by Jared Flood (Ravelry Link, FYI). This hat rekindled my love of twisted stitches, reminding me just how much I adore them. In fact, they sorta make me shriek with joy. Apparently I was so swept up in my twisted stitches, I opted not to follow the pattern accurately, and so I stunted the first few rows by not knitting them in pattern, and continuing to make the stitches travel. If you do not knit, never mind. I made the hat too short. That’s why you see my buddy Amy modeling it, because it went into her birthday stash.

According to her mom, it was THE hat in the house, eschewing all others, for a while there. Flattery, Miss Amy, it will get you everywhere, and quite possibly into my stash! I’m going to teach her how to knit over the holiday break, and I’m looking forward to it.

Fresh on the heels of no-hat-for-old-Jen, I knit another Koolhaas, this time for James. He wears it well.

Now, I am going to make myself a Koolhaas, and I cast on for one this weekend, in a beautiful merlot-cranberry merino. But I also needed a hat, and fast. Enter the Chunky Cabled Tam, from the latest issue of Knit 1. (Rav Link) It’s a fast knit – two strands of Manos, doubled, and it sorta killed my hands. But I was determined, and it was whipped out over the weekend. Part way through, I tried it on and got an interesting reaction from my husband. Part amazement, part shock and maybe a sprinkle of horror. “Is that for you?” he enquired…. uh, yeah! “Wow!” I think we agreed it takes balls to wear it, and balls, well, not so much an issue for me. Chutzpah. I haz it.

Someone at work pointed out it has the potential to resemble uh, Blueberry Muffin, from Strawberry Shortcake, circa 1980. I’ll grant them that there’s a resemblance, with the caveat it does only when worn IMPROPERLY. That’s if you put the hat straight up on your head, and anyone who’s ever worn a beret or tam can tell you, nobody makes that look work well. So piss off, Strawberry Shortcake. I’m wearing the hat and everyone else can go suck it.

And, apparently, this is my general approach to the holidays. I’ve not even looked for cards or wrapping materials, and I remain unfazed. The more I participate in the crazy, the crazier it makes me, so I’m resisting. I can smell the panic around the corner, though.

Oh Pretty Polly….

December 21, 2008 / PlazaJen

The Wo finally had a good duck hunting day yesterday. I’ve been telling him, despite every weekend sucking badly, that it would turn around once the weather finally changed.

Hey, has anyone noticed if the weather’s a little different? FUCK. It’s really, really cold! I always bitch & moan about how winters here in KC are lame, compared to my childhood winters in NE Iowa and then my post-college years in Minneapolis, where we waded through snow and braved sub-arctic wind chills every year. I still miss snow, and I still miss the capability of the drivers, and I really hate the fact we’re in the “Ice Band”. But I am grateful for daffodils in early spring, and not being hunched over for four months in a futile attempt to preserve body heat.

However, the weather to the north has pushed down the waterfowl, and while he wisely stayed home today, he and Polly had a very good morning yesterday. My dog… is a bit driven. Her personality is to always be ready to go, always alert, even when sleeping. She’s fearless, she throws herself into retrieving with gusto, and yesterday was no different. James thought she’d have broken her legs, the force with which she hurled herself at the ice yesterday. She just….goes. And when she returns, she’s ready to go again. He took a picture at the end of the day, and I think you can see from her face just how much she loves (and lives) to go hunting.

ETA: Note those folded paws. She does this all the time, and when she gives you “hugs” – it’s so cute, to not put her paws directly on you, and makes her seem even more delicate and proper. Proper pretty Polly….

Knitterventions and the Blue Christmas…..

December 18, 2008 / PlazaJen

We have a young designer here at the agency who has only knit scarves. She came to me because she wanted to knit her husband a hat for Christmas (in 9 days), and she was struggling with the yarn she had. I asked her what sort of yarn it was.

“Alpaca.”

“Ok, but is it thick? Thin?”

“I don’t know. I got it from my grandma, and it’s really tangled. I’ve spent four hours trying to untangle it.”

“Oh, dear. What are you doing for lunch tomorrow?”

So yesterday, I took her up to the Studio (just a few blocks from work) and encouraged her to look at some bulky-weight yarns, since this was her first time knitting something other than a scarf, she’d be working in the round, and, well, Christmas is next week. Always aim for success when you’re beginning, I say. Before we left, I asked her if she had a budget. “Five dollars?” She said, hopefully. I looked at her and I said, “Well, that’s gonna be tough.” She moved it up to ten. They’d agreed not to buy each other anything for Christmas. I said we’d do our best to get her something she’d like but wouldn’t break the bank.

Now, you don’t know her, but imagine a wee wisp of a thing, with black wavy hair, wide eyes, and pale perfect skin. She dressed up in a toga for our Halloween party, and she looked like some sort of mythical wood nymph, straight out of a Homer classic. A veritable doll, quiet and keeps to herself. I feel quite lumbering, loud and mule-like around her delicateness. At one point, while she was looking at some Manos, I felt like I’d thrown her into a frat party of yarn. She responded that she’d just never seen so much yarn before in her life. Wow. It took me back to when I first went to Depth of Field in Minneapolis, uh, 20 years ago, and I couldn’t believe how much it all cost. In the end, we set her up with a $13 skein of a mellow rusty orange Manos, and I volunteered to loan her the needles.

Before we headed back to work, I zipped over to Wendy’s for a little potato-and-chili to go, and as we were driving there, we talked. It started out with geography of Kansas City – they live far to the North, and she would like to live closer in, and I was telling her how the river and bridges definitely separate worlds, and how a situation of mine had unfolded when a friend had moved. That veered into post-dead-dad stuff, and the angry email I’d gotten, about having changed (“and not for the better!”), and I was talking about grief, and I realized I was talking like a forty-year-old woman. Which, of course, I am. But I turned to her as I said, “I realize I’m talking to you as though you’ve never lost someone close to you, and that’s a misguided assumption on my part, I don’t mean to speak that way.” With the tiniest glitter in her eyes, she solemnly looked back at me, and said, “I lost my mom when I was 16. Right after Christmas.”

And our words spilled back and forth – she also graduated at 16, has a strained and difficult relationship with her father, and the similarities and differences sorted themselves into tidy little piles. I hate that it’s a “club”. I hate that no matter how vividly I articulate the pain I’ve felt, and will feel for the rest of my life, still can not fully bring comprehension to those who have not gone through it. So inevitable, so dreadful, so so hard. The holidays are bittersweet, because they bring memories, and even the good ones have the rind of melancholy. You just get through, you fake it a little bit, withdraw a little bit, and try to be aware if the sand is sinking under your feet. But in odd ways, the Dead Loved One club does prove to be a strange forger of friendships and understanding. Like those shops at an outlet mall, they stand lined up yet alone, facing outward – but they are all interconnected by a passageway a few steps beyond the stockroom.

Last weekend, I found myself crying a little bit, just sad, just missing my father, and one of my inner voices railed at the sky, crying out “WHY”, why do I have to feel this pain for the rest of my life? And for the first time I heard a response. “Because the pain you feel is in direct proportion to the love you had for him.” I would never give up that love, and I know that love will stay with me until I die, which is a comfort. So I have to accept this piece that wails and cries and sometimes feels as raw as June 10th, 2006. Balance. The depths parallel the heights. Despite my tears, I know I’m not going to be as depressed this year as I was last year, and cognitively, I can see that the next year will most likely be better.

Ah. Death. What strange and twisted growth you encourage when you prune from our hearts.

Taptaptaptaptap….Yes! There’s a Pulse!

December 11, 2008 / PlazaJen

Hi.

I wrote this great post on religion and I still need to proofread it & edit it, because it was in the midst of having some hideous short-lived bug attack me and give me stomach cramps that felt like being belted across the midriff with a baseball bat. Good TIMES! It’s just about gone.

So, the snow! It’s practically all gone. But so fun to watch falling, and really not all that bad to drive in, of course, we have a joke at the house that I fight the urge to become SUV Bitch, ever since I got the Murano. And I try really, really hard not to be that beyotch, blowing by you, but I’m sorry. When the roads are only as wet as if it had rained? And all the snow on the road is melted? You DO NOT need to drive 15 mph on a major street.

But there is still knitting. And yes. I’m behind on photos. So behind. Story of my life.

Work? Busy. Lots going on. It’s good, there are parties and plans and all sorts of things, new things, new projects, all of it. I need to remember what day it is, on almost an hourly basis, and then when I realize what day it IS, in relationship to the holidays, I have a little special panic attack.

Like a minute ago, I remembered the cookies. And that I need to make 72 cookies. So I’m going to sorta cheat, and make bars. Iowans, we love bars. And the recipe is even FOR bars, and I have the Largest Calphalon Pan Under The Sun, so I have confidence I can knock them out on Saturday. (That’s six dozen for those pondering at home. SEVENTY-TWO.) I’ll share the recipe & pics once they’re made! The ingredients include caramel, cashews & chocolate, so seriously, how can they not succeed? (OK, note to self, don’t burn them. That’s definitely one path to FAIL.)

We Kansas City residents have the odious joy of daily ridiculousness, courtesy of our Mayor & his wife; lawsuits, now ethics investigations, he continues to office from home because he refuses to work without her by his side, constantly – I definitely feel like an old lady, caught up in local civics, all frothing and irritated with the utter stupidity and ridiculousness of it all. At least Illinois’ taking some of the heat off us now. But still. It just doesn’t end.

OK. I’m guessing your plates are pretty full, too. At least put a cookie or two on it to sweeten the pile!

Can’t Buy A Thrill….

December 7, 2008 / PlazaJen

Alrighty, so, we’ve had a little bit of an issue with our furnace. And said issue happened so infrequently, we didn’t think much of it. Until it started happening with greater frequency, and then we discussed it. And then it happened when the Wo was doing his laundry right next to it. That is how it moved to the top of our attention! list.

See, it would suddenly make a whooshing noise and then unbelievably loud banging. Which would subside, or you would race over to the thermostat to turn it off, then on again, and it would be fine. As the resident worry-wart in the house, I have been concerned the furnace is going to explode. While I’m in it, of course.

Turns out, it still could self-combust. But a LOT of things would have to go wrong, all at the same time, so until the repairman gets back here with the correct part, we’re coasting on karma and playing the odds! Living. On. The Edge.

The first company we called (after consulting Angie’s List) couldn’t get out until sometime this week. The second company, equally well-rated, was able to come out Friday afternoon, which was awesome. Kristin wished me luck, & that I’d get Luke, the really hot repairman (they’d used the same company earlier.) The repairman was waiting in the drive when I got home, and as I wrote her later, unless the definition of “hot” includes “missing no less than three visible front teeth”, “being a heavy smoker”, and “looking like you walked straight out of 1972, replete with porn ‘stache and wild hair”, then my conclusion was that no, I had not gotten Luke to fix our furnace.

I took the repairman down to the furnace, where he proceeded to plug & unplug things, and actually re-created the whooshing gas igniting, which startled the shit out of me. He was silent most of the entire time, and as I shifted back and forth on my feet, I finally said, “I feel like I’m standing here to hand you tools; I’m not sure if my presence is bothersome, or if it’s ok.” He peered up over his shoulder at me. “Makes no difference to me.”

ok.

“Well, I find it fascinating,” I chirped, because I really do, I envy specialized skill sets that I don’t possess, and I admired his fearlessness in the face of exploding gas, what with all his facial and head hair. Plus you never know when someone’s gonna have a question.

He replied, “Well, let me tell you, for me? The thrill is gone.”

And we laughed, because of course, he’s seen more furnaces in a week than I have in a lifetime, and I’m sure he looks at furnaces and sees a whole list in his head. Kind of how knitters think when we see you wearing a really unique sweater, or when I watch a commercial on tv that doesn’t make sense. I appreciated his humor, and I finaly asked if he had made a diagnosis. He had, it’s a faulty gas valve, and he needs to locate one that can replace it. These little things are not the cheapest things on the planet, of course. Frickin’ Tilli Thomas silk yarn of furnace parts. Which doesn’t thrill me, either. But having the heat come on and not blow up the house? It’s not only necessary, it’s desirable.

Extra points if you got the reference in the post title!

The Yoko Ono of Kansas City

December 4, 2008 / PlazaJen

OMG. This final frame was just too, too funny today in light of all the mayoral drama.

Yoko Glo

Perfect

Happy Happenstance

December 4, 2008 / PlazaJen

Yesterday, I left for my lunchtime hair appointment. I was exactly on-time, which is always a riveting moment and should be noted, since on-time has never been one of my strengths.

My stylist greeted me with a slightly puzzled air – turns out, the appointment was for Thursday (in her book). I chalked it up to her pregnancy brain, because I never make plans on Thursdays, as I am often at a client meeting that can last an undertermined amount of time. This week, I wasn’t going, so I just told her it wasn’t a problem & I’d see her tomorrow, and now I could go to CostCo and get a new mini-fridge for my office!

You know, the old one-door-closes-and-a-window-opens thing? Or, make-the-best-of-it? So into the blowing cold wind & tiny snowflakes I went. Walked into CostCo and saw my BFF Beth! She was there to pick up pictures, but they’d mucked up the print job & needed to be redone. She didn’t have plans, so we cruised through CostCo together. I especially liked the part where I wrestled the enormous fridge box into my cart, telling her that while I knew she wished she COULD help me, secretly, I was hoping everyone around us would look at her with disdain for not helping her friend out. (She is not able to lift anything over 10# right now while recovering from a procedure.) (Obviously I was prepared to wrestle this by myself. She actually helped by holding the cart still.)

I got a fancier, bigger model (of course you did, I hear my husband utter), but I had researched them on Consumer Reports, and they basically hated all those little ones. The brands of the bigger ones they did like still cost a bit over $100 online, just for the hated-little size. So, that was all the justification I needed, my fridge is the equivalent of hunting quail with an elephant gun, but whatev. CR said it’s good, and that’s all I need!

Getting it in the car would have been easy, had the Murano been cleaned out. We purposefully didn’t get it seated in the cart, so it would be easier to offload. But I had to keep tilting and wedging the box in the hatchback area, and all I could think about was when I first moved here, and moved a 70-plus pound air conditioner into my apartment – by myself. That was a bitch and a half. People walked by me and watched me struggle then, too. Whatever. I am MIGHTY, dammit, and I am tenacious, and I am stubborn. I realized afterwards that some of the looks might have been because my shirt had pulled down and my bra & a nice expanse of my bosoms were greeting the world cheerfully. Hm.

After that, we grabbed a bite at the Westport Flea Market, and I was greatly amused to have my order called in song. (to the tune of Snoop Dogg/Pharrell’s “Beautiful”) “Jennifer….. I just want you to knoooow….that your food is doooone.”

The new fridge is fantastico, if a bit overkill for an office fridge, but it actually keeps things cold (the other one conveyed more like … the notion of cool.) I actually had shards of ice in my Diet Coke this morning, so I took the temperature down a smidge. I like the ice, but I also put some apples in there, and I don’t want those frozen. Of course, I could put them in the crisper. Yes. I now have a crisper. Currently it holds the mini ice cube trays. For the mini freezer. Yes. Shush.

‘Twas a happy day. I did get my haircut today, it’s fabulous! I came back and ate my sammich from my new fridge & need to figure out who has Diet Coke on sale so I can stock up. And then, tomorrow’s Friday! Yippee skippy! Cold weather & knitting go hand-in-glove!

I AM NOT BEIGE.

December 1, 2008 / PlazaJen

God. When will the insanity about our “mayoral first couple” end?!

The fearless stubborn duo appeared on Good Morning America today, and I shared some of Diane Sawyer’s incredulity at the situation. “Why not just stay home and stop causing a kerfuffle?” she basically asked. EXACTLY! Oh no, just dig in your heels and sue the city. That’s great. Y’all are damned royalty the way you talk, and hey, I’m sorry but you are just a mayor and his wife. Elevating and comparing yourselves to PRESIDENTS and their respective First Ladies? Wow. I’m just astonished.

The audacity to put herself in the same category as HIllary Clinton and Michelle Obama astounds me. I’d like to take the opportunity to point out that yes, Hillary did support her husband, and she did stand by her man, but did she sit outside his office door & stick to him like glue 24/7? I seem to recall seeing plenty of photos of Bill Clinton quite handily doing his job without his wife by his side, managing everything for him. Oh, and while we’re talking Hillary, did she ever call any of the White House staff “Bernie Mac”? This Ma’am-E or Mammy explanation is preposterous.

KMBC: “Mayor Mark Funkhouser said his wife once said the word “mammy” to a black woman on his staff, but that she did it as a term of endearment.”

Why, silly me – she meant it as a form of affection! Yes, and daddy only beats you cuz you cry. WTF? Really? Now our tax dollars are paying for lawyers & most likely, settlement money with the employee who was so lovingly addressed. Meanwhile, crime’s up, the metal plates in the road still plague us, sewer problems abound & the city’s budget is effed up. Hey, concept #1 on that budget?! Drop the lawsuits.

Honestly, these two have pissed me off from the get-go with Glo moving into City Hall and interviewing people and speaking as the mouthpiece for the mayor. Now they seem to have an irrational determination to sacrifice everything for the sake of being able to “work” together, by golly. Trumpeting her as this flashy, brassy LongIsland Italian in-your-face woman, how Kansas City just can’t handle her feisty spirit, how we’re just a reserved bunch of beige people (seriously, watch the interview – the original term was “beige”, she’s trying to switch it to “reserved”), and no matter what, HE NEEDS HER. Well, grow a pair, buddy. Wait, that’s right, we heard all about your nether regions in the Christmas letter last year. There’s a big difference between crude and feisty, friends. I fly across both territories quite comfortably, and for the record, came from IOWA. It don’t get blander than that. Fuck that East Coast attitude, I officially challenge her to a Feisty Dance-Off.

And no, her husband can’t bring a sheet of cardboard and break dance to warm up the crowd. To keep it fair, the Wo will keep his moves to himself as well. Because I can actually fight my own battles, do my job everyday, and operate independently from my husband. Who could put an approach move on the scene before Funk even knew what was goin’ down.

Bizzitches only.

God. Please let this insanity STOP. Part of me actually pities them, it’s like the old childhood story of the Emperor who had no clothes. Yeah, and for the record, I ain’t beige. But my regular readers already knew that.

On Friday’s Shopping

November 30, 2008 / PlazaJen

I used to get up at the ass-crack of dawn, and go out into the cold dark winter air, armed with a list and a game plan. I say “used to” like it was ages ago, but in fact, I was out and about just last year. I even went back and read the post, because I wanted to remind myself just how lackluster & disappointing the experience was for me.

So this year, I didn’t go. Or I should say, I didn’t go at the ass-crack of dawn. And of all the sales, the only one I wanted to go to was JoAnn’s, so I made a list, grabbed my coupons, and headed out shortly before 11 am, thinking the crowds might be less and I’d still skate through with the 20%-off-before-noon coupon.

uh, yeah. Nice thought.

I wanted some wool felt, so I thought I was smart when I grabbed my number BEFORE finding my fabric. The line for the cutting table was huge. I looked at my number. E76. Went off and found the bolts of wool, and heard overhead, “D54! D54” Uh, WTF? Did that mean there were 75+46 (121!!!) people AHEAD of me? Fuck that. A woman putting fabric away told me they sold packs of wool felt fat quarters, and I decided I’d go that route. No line, and I’d use my 50% off coupon on ’em. It didn’t take too much longer for me to get the other things on my list. Another sales clerk asked me if I needed help, and inquired about the one thing I needed to buy as a present; she told me to get in line & she’d go get the item for me. Nice! Now, where’s the end of that line?

I thought I’d try to show you, through the magical powers of illustration, just what it took to check out.

My face:

Yes. I was standing a few aisles back from the ribbon. And we went all the way around through Home Dec, by floral, and then into the big chute towards the registers.

That’s me, about 15 minutes in. I can see Home Dec at this point. Then I run into my dental hygienist. She walks with me and chats for a little while, but then goes on to join her mom, who is already in line. Far, far ahead of me.

At about 45 minutes of standing there, my legs got a little tingly. Everyone in line around me was antsy; we’d watch each others’ carts while darting down an aisle to entertain the notion of purchasing something else. The lady in front of me left for five minutes to put back a no-sew throw she’d impulsively put in her cart. Everyone was running out of patience.

Meanwhile, overhead, a man came on the speaker system and reassured everyone their “shop before noon” coupons would be honored, not to worry, they appreciated our patience, etc. I was all, “uh, yeah, otherwise you’re gonna have some crazy-ass women starting a riot!”

Finally, after standing for an hour, it was my turn to check out.

And flee. And go home, and collapse, and take a cat-nap on the sofa.

ETA: Yes. I saved 50% overall on all my purchases, with the bonus discount. So it was worth it – but I’ll have to think long & hard next year if the total savings on what I “need” will justify my time!

PlazaJen: The Blog

Page 29 of 165

Pardon My Twang….

My, What A Fetching Chapeau….

Oh Pretty Polly….

Knitterventions and the Blue Christmas…..

Taptaptaptaptap….Yes! There’s a Pulse!

Can’t Buy A Thrill….

The Yoko Ono of Kansas City

Happy Happenstance

I AM NOT BEIGE.

On Friday’s Shopping

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