“Graph FAIL”.
/WW. <3.
Archive for November, 2008
Cohesive, schmohesive
- On Saturday morning I got a bee in my bonnet to start a quilt, so I picked up some fat quarters from JoAnn’s (the bajillion fat quarters I already had were, of course, all wrong for this project) and began a wall hanging for our living room of vintage-inspired prints. I think I like it.
- I hardly knitted a stitch this weekend. Partially because Roxie ate one of my bamboo DPNs and I was too angry at her to knit, and partially because of aforementioned quilt-in-progress.
- We went to Jeff’s parents’ last night for dinner, and my MIL gave me a bag of sister-in-law’s old clothes–destined for Goodwill–to go through. SIL likes good stuff, and she cycles through it pretty quickly, so it was a win-win: I found a couple cute turtleneck sweaters and a great leather jacket. The whole hand-me-down experience was quite new for me, but since SIL and I are the same size (she’s a bit taller) and we have very similar taste in clothes, it worked out well. Not sure what that similarity says about Jeff, though
- One morning on the train last week, I was sitting next to this woman and knitting and minding my own business. She watched me all the way from the Delmar stop (where I got on) to the Grand stop (where she got off), and finally asked me in a thick accent “Do you speak Russian?”. Weird. Kind of cool, kind of funny, but weird. “I knit, therefore I speak Russian.” –T-shirt idea?
- This weekend I taught Roxie how to shake. It took about 3 days of intermittant effort, and maybe 30 or 35 reps of the idea. Last night we put on quite a show for Jeff. I had her “Sit.” “Stay.” [[walk away]] “Come.” “Sit.” “Stay.” [[walk back the other direction.]] “Come.” “Sit.” “Shake.” How far she’s come, in only a month!
- I’ve got Thursday off work, of course, and then Friday is an “optional day.” Who wants to bet that no one will take that option? Anybody? Anybody?
- Last night Roxie decided to poop on the living room carpet. I’ll spare you no detail: It stank SO BAD that we scrubbed the carpet twice, opened the windows and burned some incense, and I *still* had dry heaves. Horrible. Worst poop I’ve ever smelled (including all my years teaching preschool and nannying.) EVER. OMG. That dog is possessed.
- I love picking both cats up at the same time, one under each arm, like a couple of footballs. I’m not entirely sure why I enjoy this so much, except that it does increase that whole “woo hoo I have *2* cats! Look at my multitude of cats!” thing. And if there’s one thing I like, it’s a good multitude.
- One day last week I think I OD’d on coffee–I’d forgotten my water bottle at home so I just kept drinking coffee all day–and now the very thought of coffee repulses me. Makes me nauseus. Good thing a co-worker gave me some tea bags a while back!
- I think tonight I’m going to hit up Target or Old Navy for a simple, dressy black cardigan to wear on Thursday and beyond. (There was nothing in last night’s “shopping trip” that fit the bill). Something to wear with a knitted shawl–something that makes me look like A Knitter without looking too knitterly (as the Yarn Harlot says), y’know?
- Last night I had the Middle of the Night Quilt Freak-Out. You know the one? Where you dream that you’ve cut *all* your fabric to precisely the wrong dimensions, and the whole quilt will become a giant mess of Fail? That’s why I like knitting: you fuck up, you curse, you frog it, you start over. Unless you’re dealing with steeks or Kidsilk Haze (), nothing is irrevocable.
Pooped Pupper
After returning home from the dog park on Sunday, I thought it might be a good time to take some photos of Roxie in the house–maybe she’d be a bit more calm than usual, having run her little legs off.
The light was low, I’m vehemently anti-flash, and Roxie is exceptionally wiggly (you may have noticed). I took 300 photos. These are the best of the lot.
“Where’s my dog?”
“Oh. There’s my dog.”
An Obama-esque fist bump? Or is he punching her in the face? 
Thinking of being ornery…
Still thinking…
Really ornery plan up her metaphorical sleeve…
Or maybe it’s just an itch:
And now a bit of a chew…
And we seem to be settling down:
Settling…
Settled!
….Or ARE we?
Nope! Roxer Boxer is at it again! 
“What’s wrong, Mommy? Don’t you want to play?”
Photo barf
Photo barf: n. The act of throwing a bunch of photos into a blog post, in lieu of actual content. “It’s Tuesday and I’m lazy, therefore enjoy this photo barf.”
On Sunday we took Roxie to the dog park.
She really doesn’t like the Gentle Leader:
“Oh, the shame!”
“Hi. Can I sniff your butt?”
“Sure, can I sniff yours?”
Before long, she’s off and running:
And running:
And running:
I’m not entirely certain her feet ever actually touch the ground:
All the other dog owners always comment: “Wow! That’s a fast dog!” 
Yes, yes she is.
This one really exemplifies her puppy gangliness:
Every once in a while she’ll slow down:
Check in with us:
And then she’s off again!
You can tell she’s getting tired, because her tongue is lolling out:
Really lolling:
No, I mean REALLY lolling:
She sometimes seems to like the other owners more than the dogs. This man she’s loving on is NOT her daddy:
And as ya know, all that running makes a girl have to pewp:
(Is this my city equivalent of PW’s “Keepin’ it real”?)
And a touch of the crazy-eyes:
(Roxie’s, not Jeff’s).
Later today: The exhausted aftermath
This is why we have nice things!
From the time we moved to St. Louis up until Saturday, our books looked like this:
Appealing, right?
I like to think of it as a postmodern installation, a commentary on the value our contemporary culture places upon the written word versus the instant gratification of the idiot box.
But then I got tired of the installation, and tired of digging around in boxes whenever I needed a new book, and tired of looking at cardboard boxes in my living room.
As our Christmas gift this year, Jeff’s parents offered to give us one big thing instead of a bunch of small things.
And what one big thing could be better than 4 medium-ish things? 4 medium-ish things we’d get a lot of use and enjoyment out of?
Answer: Nothing. Nothing’s better.
This brings us up to Saturday, during which we spent daylight hours driving to various Targets and clearing out their stock of espresso bookshelves (not hard to do, when they only have one in stock). The evening hours were dedicated to assembly of said espresso bookshelves, and by 10:00 that night, we had our result:
(Only, uh, without books at that point…)
I spent Sunday morning arranging all the books just-so. [[Hey! That gives me a new post idea! Note to self...]]
Oh, I also decided to rearrange the living room on Saturday morning before Jeff woke up. But y’all know that, ’cause you read my 6:20-7:00 am post.
Here’s the old:
After a few months of living in it, I’d decided that I hated having the couch in the middle of the room like that.
So here’s the new:
Essentially, the couch is where the chair was, and the chair is where the couch was.
The bookcases are behind:
But the living room is still very much a work-in-progress. I detest that recliner more than a person *should* detest an inanimate object. And as soon as we donate enough plasma we’re in a better financial situation (and after we buy other stuff, like a new dining set…dresser for me…china cabinet…), I’m going to get something either identical to, or very similar to, this:
Only maybe in this fabric:
I’d like to get two, and put a table between them. But that’ll be a couple months off.
So what does Roxie think of all this excitement?
She really didn’t like being locked up during all the assembling and rearranging. She wanted to help.
Good dog, Roxie. Good dog. Pass me the screwdriver.
6:20-7:00 am: A SATURDAY
6:20 am: Wake up. Too early. This is too early. Wait. Is it Daylight Savings again? No, we just had that.
6:21 am: Why did I wake up? Oh yeah. Dog. Potty. That.
6:22 am – 6:29 am: Immense moral struggle – will dog soil kennel and lose trust in me if I sleep a few minutes longer? Does this make me a completely unqualified parent? What does this say about my future qualifications for Hoopling care?
6:30 am: Give in to conscience. Fuck Jiminy Cricket. Fuck him with a cricket mallet.
6:31 am: Contemplate poking Jeff until he gets up to feed the dog. For the sake of martyrdom and future arguments, reject this idea.
6:32 am: Remove cat from its seat on my slippers (…so that’s why it wasn’t on my head.)
6:33 am: Release dog, blah blah blah. Notice that her bladder has maintained its control in the face of extreme adverse circumstances and general suffering.
6:34 am: “Roxie, COME!” “Roxie.” “Roxie.” “Roxie, COME!”. Wrangle dog and place Gentle Leader over head. Break a sweat in the process. This counts as exercise.
6:35 am: Standing outside…notice none of the promised snow for today. Curse the weather gods.
6:36 am: Plead for potty.
6:37 am: Dog must be tired of the sound of my voice, as she quickly succumbs to the sweet temptation of the yard.
6:38 am: Head inside, crate dog.
6:39 am: Fix my daily smoothie. No yogurt. Will applesauce sub? Experiment. No. It won’t.
6:40 am: Vow to eat smoothie anyway. Or, perhaps, mail it to those poor kids in China who don’t have any smoothies.
6:41 am: Wonder if that’s no longer PC. What disadvantaged group do today’s moms guilt their picky eaters against?
6:42 am: Settle on couch with smoothie and Jeff’s laptop.
6:43 am: Put feet up, prepare for a long and relaxing day of doing nothing.
6:44 am: Look around living room. Never really liked the placement of couch.
6:45 am: Or the placement of chairs.
6:46 am: Set smoothie and laptop down, stand up (hands on hips of course) and look appraisingly around living room. It’s all wrong. Horrid. Insufferable.
6:47 am: Mentally map out changes. Couch over there, chair over there…getting rid of chair soon anyway…will pretend it’s already gone. Must get bookcases. MUST.
6:48 am – 6:58 am: Flurry of room rearranging. Veritable storm of rearranging.
6:59 am: Look at clock. Really? Not even 7 am yet? Plenty of time to get stuff done. Off to the next task! Perhaps should get dressed first….
You know what grinds my gears?
First of all, go read this:
http://fashionparamedic.com/?p=578
I did. And I got irritated. Y’all may (or may not) know that I worked at Sears as a cashier and then as a fine jewelry associate for about 3 years – Junior year of high school through (breaks during) my freshman year of college. So I know how it went for the poor girl that the blogger above is tearing apart. And even though the likelyhood of that Sears cashier ever reading the blogger’s post is minuscule, I had to stand up for her.
Here’s the comment I left (because I believe the blogger above might delete my comment):
(Sent over here from Shut Up & Knit)
I hate to do this, but I MUST take issue with this post.
When I was a teenager, I worked at Sears. And I stuck around there for over 3 years, so it couldn’t have been too bad.
Let me tell you how it went from the other side of the counter:
1)We were REQUIRED to pitch the Sears card to EVERY customer. Management constantly drilled this into our heads. Employees who didn’t get enough apps per month were lectured, put on probation, and even eventually fired.
2)”EVERY customer” includes the non-English-speaking customers. If we didn’t offer to them, it could be seen as discrimination and Sears, like every other big corporation, is scared shitless of lawsuits. I find it very offensive of you to insinuate that the checkout clerk “didn’t care” about the customers. No, maybe she didn’t. But maybe she felt a smidge of human decency (which seems to be more than you feel for HER) and wished desperately that she didn’t have to force the credit application onto these people. Maybe she was a college student majoring in social work, who was acutely interested in the complex issue of culture assimilation and was using her part-time job to gain invaluable exposure to the daily lives of disadvantaged minorities.
Or maybe she was a gum-snapping 16-year-old who just wanted to get off her tired feet and relax with her friends, who’d make fun of the very same minorities who she’d been helping hours before. But you don’t know that. And making assumptions about her–just like how you made assumptions about the other customers–is rude.
3)They paid us $2 (or at least, that’s the rate we got in 2001) per completed app. You happy now? $2. Not enough to make a difference. Hardly a drop in the bucket. We weren’t pitching those credit cards to line our teenaged pockets; we were pitching them for fear of reprimand or even for fear of getting fired.
4)Managers’ presence isn’t at all reassuring. If anything, that meant we had to be MORE diligent about pitching the cards, lest we be called out at the next meeting.
But furthermore, it’s hardly even the managers’ faults–sure, some of them take advantage of their little power trip. But remember, retail managers are pretty far down in the corporate cogs. They have regional managers and corporate reps to answer to, too. They wear the stupid polo shirts and nametags and take shit from snooty customers, and receive $10/hour pay in exchange.
Pardon me if my assumption is incorrect, but it seems that you have never worked retail, and most definitely never worked corporate retail in the busy season. To me, you appear to be completely ignorant of the experience from the other side of the counter. And until you’ve had that experience, it’s probably best that you not rag on those who have.
Finally, do you realize that you were just slowing the line down even more, by grilling the poor clerk as she tried to ring people up? If you were truly that concerned about your and the other shoppers’ time, you would’ve quickly and politely answered the questions, then gone on your way.
Like you, I have a blog. And I’ll be posting a link to your post above, as well as the text of my comment.
(Notice what I DIDN’T say. I DIDN’T call the blogger names or make unfair accusations. I qualified all statements by denoting them as my observations and feelings. Those observations might be completely off-base, but based on the information she gave me I think they’re highly likely to be on target).
And THAT’S what grinds my gears for Friday, November 14, 2008.
PS>Here’s a blurry kitty:
6:20-7:00 am
6:20 am: Wake up. Feel for cat on head. 90% of the time, detect presence of cat on head. Remove cat from head. Reset alarm for 6:30 am.
6:30 am: Wake up. Remove cat from head again.
6:31 am: Remove other cat from Jeff’s head, lest Jeff be smothered in his sleep. Am kind like that.
6:32 am: Release dog from cruel, cruel confines of the kennel that takes up a full fourth of the dining room. Greet dog.
6:33 am: Greet dog again, this time with treat. Notice that treat garners attention.
6:34 am: Stand in front yard wearing bathrobe and PJ’s, pleading with dog, hoping against hope that dog will soon pee.
6:35 am: Plead.
6:36 am: Plead.
6:37 am: Experience a moment of optimism when dog squats.
6:38 am: False alarm. Recommence pleading.
6:39 am: Plead.
6:40 am: Successfully bore dog. Either that or the extensive reasoning skills developed by many years in the classroom. Whichever, dog finally pees.
6:41 am: Forcibly drag dog back inside house, settle down on the floor for a few valuable moments of dog love before morning routine recommences.
6:42 am: Dog willingly runs back into kennel, expressing a clear signal that the offense of my morning breath far outweighs the pleasure of a belly rub.
6:43 am: Give dog 2 treats: “1 cause you’re cute, and 1 cause you’re good.”
6:44 am: Smell of dog treats reminds me that I’m hungry. Bemusedly observe that I must be really fucking hungry if dog treats smell good.
6:45 am: Turn on shower. Nudge cold-water dial fraction-by-fraction in hopes of obtaining optimal shower temperature.
6:46 am: Shower temperature still not right. In fact, horribly horribly wrong. Curse.
6:47 am – 6:54 am: WTF do you think I’m doing. Shampoo. Rinse. Body wash. Rinse. Face wash. Rince. Duh.
6:55 am: Hear bathroom door creak open, fear it is sleepwalking husband. Yell out “Close the damned door!”, thoroughly scaring the inquisitive cat that opened the door in the first place.
6:56 am: Exit shower, apologize to cat. Wonder why am apologizing to a cat.
6:57 am: Draw astronaut helmet in fog on mirror.
6:58 am: Exit bathroom, noting sudden bathroom –> hallway temperature change by nipples’ sudden detached state.
6:59 am: Reattach nipples, head to kitchen to make breakfast. Perhaps dog treats this morning.
