Let's Pretend This Never Happened

How I almost maybe kind-of died. Again.

2012-01-19T19:02:00.000-05:00

This winter, Rachael and I have been CURSED. Well, maybe only I have been cursed. Or maybe Rachael is arranging meet-ups with me, then informing a hit-man/woman of my route in order to get me killed. I don't know. Rachael, did you put a hit out on me? Is it because we accidentally buy and make the same clothes?

The first time, I was driving to Rachael's house so we could go to Fort Wayne to go to several yarn stores, Biaggi's, and as many bakeries as we could find. On the way, it was snowing. It wasn't bad enough for me to descend into raw panic, but it was bad enough to cause some slippery road issues. The solution was to drive normally, but reduce speed for turning and also to not slam on the brakes like one would when stomping a spider into oblivion. No problem.

But then, as I drove past the Happy Horse Farm, which Mom named because the horses there looked well cared for and...happy, a dude with some kind of top-of-the-line Chevy truck pulled out of the Happy Horse Farm Driveway, pulling an empty horse trailer. And while the truck had awesome traction and what-not, the horse trailer may well have been the FIRST HORSE TRAILER EVER, it was so beaten and abused, and it did NOT have traction at all, resulting in the trailer swinging back and forth behind the truck like a toddler with one of those duck pull-toy things. You know the ones.

That would not have been a problem, except I was in the opposite lane and suddenly a ginormous truck-plus-trailer was heading directly toward me, poised for a head-on collision. And I had nowhere to go, except off the side of the road, which was elevated, then down into the ditch where I would be trapped until my car could be drug back out, if my car did not flip and roll several times.

Mercifully, the truck regained control before I had to choose between the two.

Then I met up with Rachael and Katherine, and we ate lots of pastries to make up for the near-death experience. And we also bought yarn. To cushion us in case of a deadly, deadly crash.

Today, I was meeting Rachael for lunch, because we do that sometimes. And on my way, as I drove through yet another snow storm, I came to a stop at a light. It was a red light. Then I looked in my rear-view mirror.

In the mirror, I saw a giant Mack truck. They are bigger than the Chevy ones, and are often used in road repair to carry around gravel and things. But this one must have been empty, because it was not heavy enough to avoid the fact that it was going too fast to stop for the light where I was stopped. Much too fast.

But the driver tried to stop anyway, resulting in the entire truck veering to one side, then proceeding down the road, sideways. So, I was about to be rear-ended by this truck, or rather, the truck's side. If I was lucky, only the top of my car would be sheared off as the truck slid over my car.

Have I mentioned that I just finished paying off my car? This is why people keep trying to destroy it.

The light changed, so I drove forward, hoping that my slow acceleration would allow the truck enough time not to kill me, and I was RIGHT. The truck corrected and proceeded behind me at a safe distance, and I met Rachael and we ate BLTs. This was much better than being subjected to the jaws of life.

And now, I have the extreme pleasure of driving home on the questionable roads this evening. I am planning on a night covered in the heating blanket I got for Christmas, and maybe even a cup of hot chocolate before bed. If I survive the drive, that is. Wish me luck.

And here is my favorite snow-driving video, for entertainment purposes. I was not driving any of the cars in this video.

**A Note on Blogger-ly Things: You may notice that the comment form has changed. Hooray! This is a wonderful thing, because one can now reply to comments, meaning I can reply directly to you! Isn't that lovely?**

Inside Laura's Head: a Play in One Act

2012-01-12T15:04:00.003-05:00

Act One

[Camera pans over library. Laura sits in desk chair, staring at cell phone. She is visually nervous. Narrator is offstage, speaking for Laura as she sits quietly onstage.]

Narrator: Some days, I am like, "It's so great that today is almost over, and I get to go home and have fun because today is Fri--Thursday. Crap." Because on Wednesdays and Thursdays, I don't leave work at five. I leave at eight.

Today is one of those days.

And that creates a problem, because I was making plans with Jen for a Girl's Night, and all week I have had the startling realization that it is not the day after the day it actually is, so planning things, it has been hard.

So tonight, due to my stupidity, will have to be Girl's Night Abridged. And that will be fine, except not if I told Jen that I finished work at five like I think I did, and I think that is what I did. I think I told her five. I meant eight. Math has never been my strong suit.

Now, if I were a normal girl, which I am not, I wouldn't freak out about this.

But I am not a normal girl. Like I just said. I'm not. Really.

I am Super Anxiety Girl, who creates imaginary mistakes for herself, then punishes herself for them. Like right now.

[Laura quietly freaks out]

Narrator: I'm all like, "It's three-o-eight, Jen! CHECK YOUR CELL. Have you checked it yet? Get with the checking!"

But there is no new text.

Which means Jen still has no idea about the late-working-ness of tonight.

[Laura continues to freak out]

Narrator: It's three seventeen. THREE SEVENTEEN. Is Jen out of school yet? She must be. I think we used to get out of school at three back when I was little. Didn't we? Was it three or three-twenty? I can't remember. Stupid Laura can't remember. *freaks out some more*

This is not good. I will go down in history as Laura, the Bad Friend who tells people wrong times of things.

I wonder if my cell phone keeps a copy of texts I have sent?

[Laura checks cell]

Narrator: STUPID PHONE, RUINING MY LIFE.

It it clearly the phone's fault. Also, I am such a bad texter! I text terribly, and I cannot get messages unless I turn my phone on and off and stand up on top of my bed to get a signal! I get messages hours after they were sent! This is my phone's fault!

Except that no. It is my fault. Because I am a Bad Friend.

[Laura freaks out even more. Checks phone again, keeps staring at phone]

Narrator: It might be okay. Jen has never murdered me before. I am still alive, after all. But what if she is BORED. Alone and bored, while I am working? Well. Then the boredness would be my fault. Because I suck. I am a pile of suck.

Stupid Laura, ruining everyone's life.

Especially Jen's.

Stupid, stupid.

Little Voice In Head Whose Job It Is to Kick Laura When She Is Down: [From offstage] "Also you look stupid in those pants and are generally unattractive!"

Laura: "Shut up, you."

[phone lights up with new text]

Laura: [reads text out loud] "Yes, You did." [sighs and slumps back against chair]

[Stage lights off. Exeunt Laura]

All of the Things

2011-12-22T14:24:00.007-05:00

I got my hair cut today, so the chunk that was burned away and the hair around it are now one length. I consider this some kind of victory.

I spent five hours last night making origami Christmas cards in order to avoid knitting on the sock.

A few days ago, I cast on for the sock in order to avoid knitting a certain sweater.

I have now made cards for everyone I can think of, and handed them out, so even the extra stuff I made up to make more Christmas prep work for myself after I already finished all my Christmas prep is now finished. I am out of luck. I guess Christmas had better come soon, before I decide to repaint my bedroom in holiday colors.

These cough drops make me want to throw up.

I am not throwing them away, though, because if I do, I will not have any cough drops, and I'm not buying more.

I just took my second dose of antibiotics. So hopefully, there will soon be improvement...

This is my last day of work until next WEDNESDAY. This is a mini-Christmas Vacation for me.

I have yet to watch The Muppet's Christmas Carol, and that makes me sad. I cannot find a copy to rent or to buy. Tragic.

In other Christmas news, Jennifer showed me THIS:

Source: mediatinker.com via Laura on Pinterest

And I love it and want to make one. It is the bestest Christmas tree ever.

Then, while I was reading the various blogs I follow, I discovered this hilarious abridged version of Jane Eyre by YA author extraordinaire Sarah Rees Brennan. She is so very funny.

My favorite part? The Helen Burns section. "HELEN BURNS: Would you like to be friends? I love you, Jane, and I also love Jesus." And, "HELEN BURNS: HERE LIES HELEN BURNS, DEAD OF NARRATIVE INEVITABILITY."

Dead of narrative inevitability. Best way to die, ever.

Merry Christmas! Have a Sinus Infection!

2011-12-21T13:08:00.003-05:00

Sunday I woke up and felt blech.

Monday I woke up and felt a little more BLECH. Then I ignored it, went to work, went to Fort Wayne with Jennifer, forced her to open her Christmas present early, and went back home to collapse in bed and pray for a miracle overnight cure.

Tuesday I woke up and felt slightly better. Except I could not breathe. But other than that, better!

Then today, I woke up and felt Sinus Infection.

"Crap," I said to myself. "I feel Sinus Infection. Merry Flippin' Sinus Infection."

Then I had a glass of milk, because it was morning and that is what I do in the morning, since coffee makes me strung out like a junkie.

Then I listed my symptoms.

List of Laura's Symptoms

Severe Sinus Pressure and Congestion
Serious Chest Congestion and Cough
Multicolored Mucus (ewwwww)
Fever that Came and Went (which means sinus infection 'cause the cold is over)
Can No Longer Hear Anything Except YELLING

Then at the end I wrote, "Laura has HAD HER FLU SHOT" and handed the list to Mom.

"Please help me," I said. "I will be at work all day, so I cannot call the doctor and wait for calling back and call more. Will you call and beg for help?"

"OF COURSE," said Mom, because she had wanted me to go to the doctor yesterday and also today.

"And can you tell him I love Z-Paks? They are the bestest."

"ABSOLUTELY."

And then I went to work. And I puttered around and did things, and my coworkers told me they thought I sounded (sound) like a three-pack-a-day smoker, and I said, "Gee, thanks so much for that."

THEN the doctor called and gave me my Christmas Present.

I get to have MEDICINE for my various infections. At dinner time, I get to go to the pharmacy and pick up the prescription he sent over for me, because he knows I am a Diseased Sort of Person.

Doesn't it look festive?

Merry Christmas, everyone!

What's so Magical About the Magic Hoodie? (Or, How I Accidentally Flashed my Mother)

2011-12-14T11:52:00.003-05:00

This is the Magic Hoodie.

I first snatched this up when my friend Bailey told me how amazing it is. And I thought, I own no hoodie. Maybe I should own one hoodie. I will try that hoodie on. And I loved the hoodie so much, I instantly bought it (and so did Rachael). Then Bailey and I named a book blog after it.

The Magic Hoodie is magical for many reasons. Firstly, it seems to go with anything. The plain version (without big letters all over it) originally came in a few colors, all of which seemed to blend with anything in my closet. I picked the color you see above because I knew I would love it with blue jeans. And I do. In addition to the glory of color-coordination, the Magic Hoodie has never gone all rough on the inside like some sweatshirts do after a few turns in the washer and dryer. No balled-up fleece inside this hoodie! And the material has always felt relaxed, like your favorite old pair of jeans. Only in hoodie form.

But my favorite part of the Magic Hoodie is the zipper. It is not a full-zip, which I hate, because if you're wearing a sweatshirt cardigan, why not just wear an actual sweater-cardigan? And it is not a pullover, which I hate because those always seem to make me feel like I'm being strangled, and there's nothing as nerve-wracking as thinking your clothing is trying to kill you. No, this hoodie is a half-zip, which allows for optimum temperature control and allows you to pull it on without screwing up your hair. Or temporarily blinding yourself. Or getting stuck inside the sleeve.

Before you go out to buy your own, know this: There are no more Magic Hoodies. American Eagle Outfitters doesn't make them anymore. Which is grossly wrong and should be remedied. Do you hear me, AE?

Last night, I had come home from work wearing my Fancy clothes, then switched my sweater for the Magic Hoodie, leaving on the tank top that I'd worn under the sweater. So my layers were as follows: undergarment, tank top, Magic Hoodie. It is important to remember that.

After an evening of making crafts for Christmas, I came out of my room to get a cookie, then went over to pet Darcy and chat with Mom. Darcy has pulled a muscle in her little doggy leg, and she is quite pathetic. So I rubbed her tummy and tried to make her feel a little better, then sat down across from Mom. I was extolling the virtues of the Magic Hoodie, because I was feeling particularly comfortable that evening.

"This hoodie is the Magic Hoodie for a reason," I said. "There is no hoodie better than this one."

"What makes this hoodie magical?" Asked Mom.

"THIS," I said. Then I unzipped the zipper.

My intention was to show Mom that the zipper only unzipped halfway, making the hoodie Magical for all those reasons I told you about before. What I really did was show my mother my breasts.

"DID I JUST FLASH YOU MY BREASTS?" I gasped, zipping the hoodie back up as quickly as possible.

You see, the tank top had worked its way down, so the neckline of the tank top was...well, let's just call what happened a Wardrobe Malfunction and move along. Because Mom wasn't the only person in the room, and I'm not referring to the dog.

Paul had walked in just as I was covering my nakedness like Eve in the Garden. He has plainly heard me shout my question to Mom, and now he could see the two of us crying because we were laughing so hard. Paul's a smart guy. He put two and two together.

"This is how you should meet men, Laura," Paul announced. "You should walk up and say, GENTLEMEN, BEHOLD!" Then he pantomimed unzipping the hoodie and flinging it open for all to see.

He used a funny voice, too. Paul is a funny guy.

"GENTLEMEN, BEHOLD" only made me laugh harder. I was crying and gasping for air at this point. Mom was wheezing and calling for her inhaler. So now Paul will have a new bit, which is using "GENTLEMEN, BEHOLD" every time there is any hint of my liking or dating anyone. I can tell that will happen. It is too hilarious to not use it.

I will never live that down. I don't so much care. And I'm really glad if I flashed anyone during my Indiana Girl's Gone Wild impersonation, that person was my mom.

Name Change

2011-12-13T15:40:00.002-05:00

Yeah...I changed the blog name. It had been bugging me for a while, because this may have started as a knitting blog, but it really evolved into something more...humor-centric. Because I fall down stairs. A lot. So I impulsively changed it.

The web address will remain the same (so no need to update in Google Reader or anything), unless you would prefer I change it to match the title. Let me know in the comments!

Dear Blogger (and Google)

2011-12-13T09:18:00.000-05:00

You know how I love using you? Well, I do. You let me write, you search for things, and you're an all around neat sort of...something. Internety thing. You know what I mean.

But here's the deal Blogger/Google: You think there are more of me than there is. There is one of me. And back when I started my Blogger account, it wasn't connected to Google the way it is now. It was DIFFERENT. And then you became one. And that was fine, no problem. But then you created G-Mail, Google Docs, and Google +, and in the process of doing that, I was forced to create another e-mail address so I could use all of those things.

Then you told me to link up Blogger with G-mail, but you wouldn't let me link it to my G-Mail address, because you think I'm two (three?) people, so you made another address for me, so now I am three (four) people. And that created another problem.

Because my original e-mail address is now associated also with a G-mail address, but said G-mail address is not, for whatever reason, allowed to post comments on any of the blogs I follow (explain that to me, please), I now cannot post comments on any Blogger blog. Which would be no big deal, except that IT IS A REALLY BIG DEAL.

So you tell me my account isn't allowed to post things, and that I should log into another account, except the first account that should work is linked to the bad account, and I would have to start all new blogs if I used the other account(s).

Are you confused yet? Because I am.

I tried to solve the problem by allowing myself to be logged into two accounts at once. That's a really good option to give people, Google. If it worked. But it doesn't, because each of your sites forces me to log out of one account in order to access the other, even though they are both me.

I tried to solve the problem by inviting my other personae to write and post on this blog. Nope.

So what I would like to see happen is this: I would like for you to invent a way for me to put my various login information from all the accounts into one little program, then let me click a button and make the button merge all those logins and passwords and accounts together, to create a kind of super-account, one that would be under one e-mail address so I could log in just once and I wouldn't be forced to delete the other accounts and possibly prevent my getting-at documents saved on Google Docs by one account or a blog started by another.

Confused? So am I. That means you should fix this, right? I would really like that.

Thanks,

Laura

Guess what?

2011-12-02T08:30:00.000-05:00

Toilets FLUSH. Not at my house, but when you go to other places that aren't my house, they FLUSH. Also you can flick light switches, and lights come on. Again, not at my house, but STILL. And some houses (not mine) are WARM. They have things called vents, and hot air comes out of them because the houses have these things called FURNACES that make cold air into hot air. I thought only political candidates could spew hot air that effectively, but I have seen the light. Furnaces are the way to go. And SOME houses even have working refrigerators, and you can put milk inside them, and then, in the morning, you can have cereal.

It's fancy.

Also, today my hair is dry without having been set on fire. That's handy.

Why am I in such a brilliant mood?

Jennifer rescued me. I did not have to stay in the third-world of my house last night. I stayed in the FIRST world, the developed world, where there were lights and Lego Harry Potter. And it was fantastic.

THANK YOU, JENNIFER.

What's that burning?

2011-12-01T15:52:00.000-05:00

Peru, apparently, exploded or something, because I have been without power since Tuesday night. There is no heat, there is no running water, there is no toilet-flushing, no liquids after 5:00 p.m., no internet, no Burn Notice, no lights, no refrigerator, and, above all, NO REASON TO LIVE.

"Laura, you're being dramatic!" you say.

I say, "Try being a one-bathroom family of four when no one can flush the toilet unless they travel to the nearest town, which is 30 minutes away by car, and buy water. Talk about flushing money down the toilet."

But if all of that wasn't bad enough, there is this other problem. I have to go to work just like I do every day. Which means I have to find a way to be clean, which means washing my hair with bottled water, which is sometimes icy cold, like it was this morning.

Cold water is really cold.

Also there is no internet, so for all I know, one of the Republican candidates has already declared war on Iran. Hey--it could happen.

Not having electricity means I can't blow-dry my hair. So I came up with this ingenious solution yesterday, because I remember reading about someone doing it in Little House on The Prairie or maybe in Little Women. It was Little everything back then, apparently. And they also would wash their hair, sit by the fire, and dry it out.

Well. I was totally trying that.

So I fired up the gas fireplace a bit higher, and I tried it. IT WORKS AMAZINGLY. Especially if you are like Jo March post-train ticket, and your hair is super-short like mine. So I did it again this morning.

But between yesterday and today, something must have...changed. Maybe it was the distribution of product in my hair. Maybe the fireplace had been turned up too high for too long. It's anyone's guess. All I know is that as I was standing over the fireplace's vent, I heard a sizzling sound.

It is important to note that at no time was my hair actually touching fire OR the vent itself. My hair was touching AIR ONLY. Hot air, yes, but air all the same.

And that hot air from the fireplace totally scorched my hair.

I have like, two inches of hair? Maybe a little less in other places. But really, I cannot afford to lose hair to the fireplace or the hot air it produces. There is, quite simply, not enough hair to set fire to. Still, as I smelled that tell-tale scent of crispy-fried hair, I knew.

Now, some girls might be actually upset by the loss of hair to flame, but those girls can flush their toilet after they use it without walking down to the river and using a bucket to fill the toilet tank, and I am not one of those girls.

So, I dried my hair the rest of the way, put in the goop I use to make it look all cute and tousled, and went to work like a good little soldier. Because walking around work with fried hair is better than sitting at home with no electricity.

Happy winter, everybody.

Guess What?

2011-11-24T22:20:00.000-05:00

Today was Thanksgiving! I have stories, I really do. But until then, why don't you join me in playing Hipster Dress Up, because that's how far I've regressed after the trauma of post-Thanksgiving-dinner conversation.

See?

I made a little Laura! She is wearing clothes I have, although in different colors. Does that make me an accidental hipster? Hipster Laura knitted her own scarf and her cardigan. She needs those glasses to see, so she's not being pretentious. She's wearing her skinny corduroy work pants, and those shoes she saw on Zappos and loved but couldn't afford! Isn't she adorable?

And here she is modeling the dress she couldn't afford from Modcloth! Notice how the dress actually fits her!

And here is casual Hipster Laura, ready for a night out with her friend, Hipster Jennifer! Notice Hipster Jennifer, wearing a Pink Floyd t-shirt JUST LIKE NORMAL JENNIFER DOES IN REAL LIFE.

Hipster Jennifer is frowning, because she disapproves of being called a hipster and because she's been made into a paperless paper doll. I thought it would be more realistic this way, because Real Jennifer is probably making that face at Real Laura right now.

And you play this game all while listening to happy music a la Juno. Don't you want to play?

Go on.

Today I am thankful for computer games, frozen pizza, and the early Thanksgiving Jennifer and I had on Tuesday. Best Thanksgiving ever, Jen. I am also thankful for my wonderful friends, my family, and my dog and cat. And for Twitter, Pinterest, and this blog, which means I am thankful for YOU. Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!

This Is What Gun Control Legislation Is For

2011-11-20T21:12:00.000-05:00

When guys think of hunting, they think of this:

Image courtesy Destination360.com

When I think of hunters, I see this:

When hunters think of deer, they see this:

Image courtesy rabbitkillerhotsauce.wordpress.com

When I think of deer, I see this:

These mental images were unchanged today, after the visit we enjoyed.

I was showing Mom some adorable dresses I was attempting to con her into sewing for me when someone knocked on our door. Our FRONT door.

No one uses the front door. It shouldn't even be there, it is like an afterthought. The door sucks, it hardly opens, and every year a swarm of ladybugs squeezes through the crack in the seal around the door, dies, and we cart out the vacuum, suck up the bugs, and wish the people who designed our house had just left out the front door altogether. No one even has a key to this lock, by the way. If that were the only door into our house, we would never get inside.

So we knew whoever was knocking was a stranger. The last batch of knocking strangers we had were selling meat out of a truck door to door. Who sells meat out of a truck? And not a good truck, like one with refrigeration and a covered back with a door you open. No, this was a random pickup with a cooler. For all we knew, the guy was selling chunks of his latest victims, hacked up after his latest spree killing.

My response to him had been, "No, thank you. We're vegetarians."

We aren't vegetarians.

I am a liar, and probably going to Hell, but I didn't want truck meat, and neither would you.

THIS time, Mom went over to answer the door, because she had brushed her hair after her nap and I hadn't. That is the way we make decisions in our house.

I overheard bits and pieces while I sat on the floor, keeping Darcy from running over and barking at Random Stranger. Random Stranger was taking an awfully long time talking with Mom.

I wondered if the Random Stranger was one of a pair of Jehovah's Witnesses. In that case, I thought, I would get out my eyeliner and draw an eye on my forehead, then grab some of the sage from the kitchen, light it on fire, and start dancing around in the front room where they could see me through the picture window, just to discourage them. They would, I thought, believe our house was a total lost cause, since a heathen girl with unbrushed hair was dancing around waving sage to ward off evil spirits like the pagans do.

Random Stranger was not a Jehovah's Witness. He was a hunter. And he was, charitably, about 12 years old. Okay. Maybe he was 14. I know this because when he was leaving, I caught a pretty good look at him as he got back on his bicycle and rode away down the road.

"He asked if he could hunt on our land," Mom informed me as I caught the last glimpse of Random Hunting Stranger Boy as he pedaled out of the driveway. "I told him no."

"Of course you did," I said.

"Our house is on like two acres," Mom said. "And there are no deer here. And also we walk around, and he would shoot us through the windows."

"He would," I nodded.

"And then," she said. "He asked if there were any other places he could hunt around here, like in the field between us and the neighbors, or across the street or something. I told him there were no deer there, and also that I walk there every day with the dog."

"You do," I agree.

"And then he told me why he was looking for a new place to hunt," Mom continued. "Which pretty much would have convinced me never to have let him hunt anywhere near our property, even if I had been inclined to say yes, which I wouldn't ever do."

I looked up from petting Darcy, curious.

"He was in this tree stand he'd put up on someone's property," she began. "He'd gotten permission from this man to hunt on his land. And he was watching some deer that came nearthe stand, until a cat came and scared the deer away. Then, he shot the cat because it scared the deer."

I stared.

"But the cat turned out to be the land owner's pet, and the man said he couldn't hunt there anymore."

"What a complete [ANGRY WORD]," I fumed. "What kind of a flipping [BLANKITY-BLANK] would shoot a cat because it scared deer away? And why would he ever think telling you that was a good idea? He is such a total [NAUGHTY WORD]. If he ever tried that here, I would take his gun away and shoot him with it, because he is such a [HORRIBLE AND BAD] idiot-slack-jawed [TOOTHPICK BRAIN] who deserves to be [HURT IN A NAUGHTY PLACE]."

"I KNOW!" Mom exclaimed.

"And what kind of world do we live in if a kid can have a gun and shoot random household pets from a tree stand before he is legally allowed to drive a car or vote?" I proclaimed. "If you are still young and stupid enough to think shooting a small furry creature will bring the skittish big furry creatures back toward the sound of the loud banging, then you are too dumb to be allowed to swing a gun around in the first place!"

"YES!!" Mom said.

"And what would he do if he actually got a deer?" I asked. "Would he strap the poor deer to the side of his bicycle and ride home, dragging it along with him like the Old Man from The Old Man and the Sea

"This is upsetting me now," Mom said.

Then we both hugged Darcy. Then we found the cat and tried to hug her, but she wasn't interested in hugging, so we waved politely and gave her some space.

And that was Sunday afternoon at my house.

*Images not attributed were pictures I found everywhere and all over. I did not take the picture of the adorable deer or the scary picture of Charlie Manson, and I'm very glad I was never in the position to photograph him so closely.*

Mom and Laura Have a Night Out

2011-11-15T10:43:00.001-05:00

Mom and I went to Bloomington this weekend, partly to look around at the pretty and partly to see if I felt like Bloomington was a livable place. We had tons of fun, as we usually do together.

But whenever Mom and I go to a new city to visit, there is this thing that happens.

We first noticed it when she emerged from a Union Station bookstore in D.C., a victorious look on her face, a plastic bag clutched in her hands.

"Look!" She proclaimed, "It's a walking guide of the city!"

So Mom led Paul and I on an hours-long walk. It was like the walks that end at a mass grave site, only this time there was no open chasm awaiting us, just crippling leg pain and a lost child at the Vietnam Memorial. See, the book was great, it just didn't account for the huge amount of construction going on at the various memorials when we took our trip. They had totally blocked off something like half of the mall, so you had to walk around the blocked portion, waving at Mr. Lincoln from far away, then skirting some kind of arts fair, a giant hole in the ground, and the site of that weekend's fireworks.

We walked most of the day and were still unable to complete 3/4 of the "walking tour." I think that walking tour book was for backpackers, or Everest-climbers, or HEALTHY people, and I am a dedicated lounger, not a hiker.

There were even tears on this walk. TEARS. Not mine. Mom's, what with the Vietnam Memorial, and the lost kid cried, but STILL. TEARS. Tears and the kind of agony that makes you fall when you try to get out of bed the next morning.

But D.C. was nothing to London.

Mom looked out of our hostel and saw the Tower in the distance. We, I should mention, were staying in a former dormitory for a boys' choir near St. Paul's Cathedral. We walked and walked, but the Tower never got any closer. We were along the Thames, and there were these little docks, and bridges, and still, no Tower. As night fell, we turned around and trudged back.

I later found out that tons of hideous, gristly murders have taken place right along the river walk. Isn't that lovely? Really, watch some BBC! You will be as horrified as I was. This is where my mother takes me, to go get murdered on the river walk!

This seems to happen to us every time we go on a trip. We try not to let it happen, but there we are, walking ten miles because the good pastries are on THAT street and we want GOOD pastries.

On our Bloomington trip, it started either with the lady at the crosswalk saying, "Five or six blocks...?" Or with me saying, "Nah, let's just walk it. We don't need to get the car."

We were looking for a pharmacy, because Mom had a headache and wanted some Ibuprofen PM. So we walked. And five blocks became ten. And ten blocks became fifteen. And still nothing.

Lesser women might have given up. But no, not my mother and I. We kept going. Because we knew after 15 blocks, we would never sleep without some kind of pain reliever for the new agonies we discovered on our walk.

Meanwhile, I had a different dilemma. I was wearing adorable shoes. You know what that means. So while my shoes were being adorable, they were also not being very functional as shoes. I had to arch my foot to keep them on, and I STILL kept falling out of them and into holes. There are a lot of holes in Bloomington.

We stopped at a Waffle House, where Mom and Dad had enjoyed meals back when they were in school at I.U. But seriously, the Waffle House looked abandoned, like there was a natural disaster we didn't know about. It was a Ghost Town Waffle House. I think I saw a tumbleweed in the parking lot.

Armed with more directions, we went on. Still, after several blocks, nothing.

Now: Where was the flippin' pharmacy? College students need pain relief, right? I mean, I know I had headaches back in college, and stomach aches, and other aches, and I went to the pharmacy to get treatments for my various maladies. But nooooo. I.U. kids don't get sick. They're too busy being awesome.

We followed still more directions, passing under a bridge. I fell in some more holes. Then Mom leaned over to me.

"I think it smelled like urine down there," she whispered.

"We walked UNDER A BRIDGE," I replied. "What did you expect?"

We laughed so hard, we could not breathe. Then we found the CVS, got medicine, walked back, and collapsed in the hotel room, an hour and a half after we'd set out. My calves still feel like they're about to explode.

The moral of this story? Always pack your medications before you leave home. Or at least spring for a map.

P.S.A.

2011-11-03T14:24:00.000-05:00

You know all those things I've been ignoring? Like not checking my personal e-mail, not blogging, not spending the weekends running around doing fun things I can blog about later? After the week of November 14th, I will go back to doing them.

If you've been waiting for my attentions, I apologize. My life is insane. Just a few more weeks. That is my new mantra. I say it all the time.

Thanks for your patience.

Laura

Dear Jennifer,

2011-10-29T15:45:00.000-05:00

You are killing me right now. I hope you know that.

Sure, you were the one who was rammed by a giant 10-passenger van. Sure, you're the one actually looking at cars, picking a new car, and paying for the car...but STILL.

I think you KNOW I am sitting here at work, while all the little kiddies are at home, putting on costumes, being adorable and not at the library. I think you know I have nothing left to do today. And you are drawing out my curiosity for as long as possible.

You know I am unhinged, right, Jen? You have been around me enough to know that, right? Because I am totally unhinged, and right now, I am so curious, my entire body is vibrating. I don't think I'm even sitting on this chair, I am HOVERING ABOVE IT.

Please, please, please text me a picture of your car. Or come visit me with the new car, if you find one. Or call me and tell me you can't find a car. Or that you hate car shopping. I don't care.

The thing is, I don't actually have a life of my own. So I need to live through yours. I thought we'd talked about this--I am a hopeless case! I will spend every day curled up in front of my laptop, knitting. The only way I can see or experience anything is if you go see and experience things and then come tell me about all the things.

HELP.

Only you can make this curiosity go away. ONLY YOU.

Your friend,

Laura

P.S. I am making this face.

It is my staring face. I will stop staring when you tell me what is going on.

Crying at the Circulation Desk...Again

2011-09-30T11:00:00.000-05:00

I have the best parents in the whole entire world.

Enough said.

Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad, and thank you for everything you've done for me!

Heat Wrap Love

2011-09-30T09:56:00.000-05:00

I decided after the misery of my last post, I owed you something relatively amusing. My funniest story I can't tell you because it's library-related, so I new I'd have to pick something else. So I have decided to tell you about my heat wrap.

(I love my heat wrap.)

Almost two weeks ago, I woke up Monday morning to find my spine had, somehow, turned to dust in the night.

I could not remember a creeper coming into my bedroom and stabbing me repeatedly in the spinal column, but clearly that was what had happened. I slithered out of bed onto the floor. The process took fifteen minutes. The process of readying myself for the day was sheer agony. I could not reach down further than my knees, because bending at the waist was impossible. I was forced to grab the heating pad from the foot of my bed (where it stays to keep my toes toasty) and sit on it until the pain abated enough for standing and walking.

That day at work, I tried to spend as much time as possible leaning against walls. That was the only non-painful activity. By the afternoon, I was dying. I slithered home, napped, woke up, took too many ibuprofen, slept some more, and by the next morning I was sure I was already dead.

"You need to go to the doctor," Mom said.

"What would they DO?" I asked. "Nothing is broken. It is a muscle spasm. They will tell me to use a heating pad and to rest. I am doing both of those things."

"Yeah," Mom replied. "You're right."

In the afternoon, the pain from my lower back had spread to include the spot between my shoulder blades. This meant no reaching forward. My arms needed to remain at my sides, so I could flex my shoulders backward, which relieved pain.

I was a walking corpse.

"Why are you so pale?" One coworker asked.

"You should go to a chiropractor," another advised.

What I really wanted was to be suspended from the ceiling by my ankles, so everything spine-related could slide back into place.

Then Mom walked into the library with a CVS bag.

"This is for you," she said. "It is like a heating pad without the cord."

She handed me a box. On the cover was a man wearing what looked like a bandage around his lower back. The bandage appeared to be giving off some kind of radiation.

"Doesn't Michael Jordan do commercials for these things?" I asked.

"No," Mom said. "He does commercials for the name brand ones."

So I took my knock-off heat wrap to the bathroom and fastened it around my lower back. I nearly needed to call in reinforcements.

Within an hour, the hurting had faded. Two hours took even more agony away, and soon I was creaky, but without pain! I could touch my own toes, and I hadn't done that for DAYS. Not only that, I could bend over the circulation desk and check out books. And I could SHELVE! When I got home, I celebrated my pain-free back by putting on socks.

"I love my heat wrap," I told Twitter. "It is like wearing a hug. It is the best invention of all time."

The person who invented the heat wrap should win a Nobel Prize. Seriously.

These things are fantastic. They never get too hot. They are like magic. Everyone should try them. I think they should come with Happy Meals at McDonald's.

What was my life like without the heat wrap? It must have been a cruel, wicked existence filled with lots of pointless suffering. Sort of like life before I was allowed to listen to mainstream music (thanks a lot for those years, Dad). Or life before I was allowed sugar (shudder).

The only sad part is that you can't just live in the heat wrap. It's an eight-hour time limit kind of thing. It might have to do with the muscles around your spine starting to cook after a while, or maybe it's the freaky chemicals they use to make the air warm up the wrap, but who cares? A little cooked-spine and dangerous toxins are a small price to pay for eternal happiness.

I have written several short songs for my heat wrap. But no, I am not going to sing them for you.

I think they will have heat wraps in heaven. I think the reason everyone is so happy in heaven is because there are heat wraps, and. therefore, no more suffering. No one feels pain, because they are nestled in heat wraps all the time. Pillows should be like heat wraps, too.

I love my heat wrap.

The Air Machine Jerkwad and the Puddle of Suck

2011-09-29T21:34:00.000-05:00

I had lunch today in North Manchester with Rachael and our friend Katherine, and as I pulled away from the coffee shop, I thought, "Gee, my tire seems funky."

August

Remember how my brakes crapped out? And how they cost $180 to fix? Well, then I discovered my tires had also crapped out in response to the brakes crapping out, which cost me ANOTHER $180. When you are a librarian, you do not make a lot of money. This was $360 I did not really have. Part came from my birthday money. Happy birthday new brakes. And then the rest came from the money I would have spent on food. Skinny Laura.

So, I thought it was all okay. I thought I could drag myself out of soul-crushing poverty (brought on by student loans and medical bills) and maybe not live from paycheck to paycheck. Nope.

Because my tire was funky.

An Afternoon with Laura

I got out my tire pressure checker dealie and used it on my tire.

It only had 10 lbs of pressure or air or whatever the heck tires have inside them left. It was supposed to have 35 lbs. That is 25 lbs of empty tire. I poked it with my finger and it went SKOOSH.

Now, that means Tire Repair in my book. And, since the last time I had tire repair, it was $180 of hunger, I was Not Happy.

Add to this the happenings of various other aspects of my life that I can't talk about here (hence my silence of late), and I became a quivering ball of stress. I wanted to crawl under a desk and read The Name of The Star, but instead I was drooled on and then rained on.

I have decided rain should be called "sky-drool."

Then the random Twitter Stranger of Car Tires told me in his or her tweet that car tires should be replaced in pairs. And I was like, "I hate my life and I am covered in sky-drool. Can I go home and sleep now?"

I am always stressed about my car because Dad so often becomes fatherly, walks over to me, and asks me, "Are you checking your oil?" or says, "You should change your oil ever 3000 miles, otherwise your engine will freeze up and then explode." When he sees me do something to help my car, he becomes very proud and hugs me, which he does not do so much anymore since I grew up.

People-Pleaser Laura takes these things to heart. People-Pleaser Laura was now VERY stressed out, because if the Car Tire Twitter Stranger said two tires at a time, chances were that was what Dad would say, and then I would feel like a puddle of human suck because I cannot afford two tires, I can barely afford even one.

The Air Machine Jerkwad

On my drive home, I knew I would have to stop to add more air to my tire, but I decided not to stop in the town where I work because I might encounter one of the potential-rapist town residents that I see all the time at work. At the very least, I would be changing my tire in complete darkness, because none of the area gas stations have their air machines under any kind of security light. They are off to the side of the gas station parking lots, next to the pay phones. Who the frack still uses a pay phone?

Potential-rapists, that's who.*

So I pulled my car into the parking lot of our local gas station/convenience store and pulled right up to the air machine, which is mounted on the side of the building right under giant lights. The store was also still open, and the lady working could see me through the window that was directly between us, above the air machine.** I parked my car across like three spaces, so I could access my tire, because if I had pulled straight into a spot, it would have been difficult to reach my back tire. I was being Smart.

Earlier that day, I had placed a quarter in a secure location within my purse to be used for air. But now the quarter was gone. I started searching.

My phone rang. It was Dad. "Your mom is worried!" He said. "You haven't come home yet!"

"Dad," I replied. "It is not even 30 minutes after work. I won't be late until after 8:30. Tell her to start worrying then. Now, where is my quarter?"

Finally, I found it. I opened my car door and saw a man.

He had, apparently, pulled his car in right behind me. So close that, in my rear-view mirror, it looked as if he had scraped the side of his car into my car as he parked. Then he darted out, locked his car, and put a quarter in the air machine and struggled to yank the hose as far as it would stretch to reach his back tires.

I should note, at this point, that there is no freaking way anyone could have seen my car parked as it was and NOT thought I was there to use the air machine. I was even angled so my rear tires were closer to the air machine than my front ones. No one parks as badly as I had without having a REASON.

I watched the man struggle. Then he walked over to my car. And he knocked on my window. I looked up.

"I can't reach my back tires," he reported through my closed window.

"You want me to move now?" I asked.

"Yes."

I couldn't. He had pulled in so closely behind me that I could not move my now-wedged car without colliding with his clearly-expensive sedan. He unlocked his car and backed it away. Then I pulled out and around in a giant circle, so I could then re-pull up and use the air machine once he had finished cutting in line.

He locked his car again. Who, in the empty parking lot, was he worried would steal his car? ME? He was standing right next to it with his keys in his hand!

He carefully checked the pressure on each tire. He put another quarter in (he'd wasted the first one). Then he quickly gave two of his tires about a half-second of air. Then he hung the hose back up and pealed out of the parking lot in his fancy car, which I now saw was a Lexus.

He did not even NEED air in his tires, I thought bitterly as I put another 10 lbs of air into my further-deflated tire. Don't people know how to be nice to each other? Was he in such a rush that he could not wait in THE LINE FOR THE AIR MACHINE? He had to use his stupid quarter to cut? No one is kind to each other anymore, ever. They just cheat with their cheating quarters and charge five dollars per month to have a debit card.

Then I drove home.

Puddle of Suck Laura

It is worth noting that when I get angry, I cry. I also cry when people ask me if I'm okay when they think I'm not, even when I actually am okay. Their concern makes me cry. Ball of Stress Laura was no different, except that it was, if anything, easier to tip over from choked up to full-on ugly-crying and total self-loathing.

I walked in the door. I must have looked angry or stressed or both.

"Are you okay?" Mom said, putting down her knitting.

I spilled out the horror of the day, starting with the story of the Air Machine Jerkwad and moving backward to the other miseries of my life, highlighting the drool, the soul-crushing poverty, and the likelihood that Dad would want two tires, not one, and that there was no freaking way I could ever afford it.

But because I am in my household, a family that, for some reason, is filled with people who really care about each member's feelings, that was not all. Minutes later, Paul walked into the room and asked me if I was okay.

"I'm fine," I said.

"Are you sure?" Paul said. "You sound angry." (It should be noted that, to Paul, I have two emotions: happy and FILLED WITH ALL-CONSUMING RAGE.)

"I can't talk about it," I said, eyes welling with still more tears. "I will tell you later."

"Okay," Paul said. He stood in my doorway for several agonizing minutes, staring at me and waiting for it to be later.

Because closed doors don't mean anything in my family, Paul left my door open instead of closing it again after he walked out.

Dad came in. Dad, who would certainly try to convince me I should buy two very expensive new tires, to whom I would have to explain my poverty. I focused on Twitter.

"How did it go at the gas station?" Dad asked.

"I put air in my tires," I said.

"You know," he continued. "The tire place has a payment plan. You can get both tires and then pay them back a bit at a time."

I exploded into more tears.

"I cannot owe more money," I said. "I owe too much already, especially with that bill from the doctor Mom lost that is now overdue.*** I know that you want me to get both tires. But I can't. I can't even get my oil changed and it REALLY needs it. I know you are disappointed in me. But that does not change anything. I do not have the money. Where would the money come from, Dad? Where would it come from? I am sorry you are disappointed."

"What?" Dad said.

"You want me to take care of my car, but I can't, because I am a disappointment and I suck."

[Cue the touching, family drama music, just like they used on Full House]

"Aww," Dad said. "I'm not disappointed in you! And you don't suck!"

"Yes, I do," I said. "Because I cannot take care of my car. And now I am a Puddle of Suck and someone needs to find a rubber sack to store me in until I re-congeal into a person."

"Awww," Dad said. He patted me on the back. "You don't suck. You can just have them FIX the tire. Or you can replace the one you need to, and take care of the other one later."

And then he said more soothing things, because I somehow ended up with a TV dad. And then there was a father/daughter hug, because that's the only way a scene like that could ever end.

So now you know, I ended up the only mean one in a family that should be featured on ABC family for being so well-adjusted and supportive.

Also, that dude from the gas station was a total piece of crap for making me dissolve into stress-tears like this. He needs to be tracked down and set on fire.

*Certainly, there are people who are not potential-rapists who use pay phones. Other examples of people who use pay phones: Old people, drifters, prison inmates, terrorists, international travelers...

**Someone to call the cops should the local serial killer decide to pick me up and take me to a shack and chain me to a wood-burning stove.

***Mom called me at work on Monday to tell me she had found a bill of mine shoved in with a pile of her paperwork. The bill was, naturally, past-due. She then called the doctor and explained it was all her fault and they put a note in my file so I would not be called by creditors about a bill I never knew existed.

You May Have Already Heard This Story, But...

2011-09-06T11:00:00.000-05:00

I feel like a complete idiot.

So you get to hear it again.

I wanted ice cream. I really did. And we'd had ice cream at work! It was in the freezer. So I decided to get some ice cream and eat it, to add to happiness levels. I opened the freezer door, because yummy ice cream is yummy. The only thing better than ice cream is unexplained bacon.

What I should have known is that, since the library is filled with other employees, and many of them enjoy ice cream much as I do, the ice cream would certainly be gone. But in my brain, if I'm not the ice-cream-eater, that means the ice cream remains as pristine and untouched as the driven snow.

The ice cream was gone.

Did I mention I had a teen program that night at work? Because I did. A whole herd of teens were coming in, and I was going to do some talking. And people were going to look at me. Keep that in mind.

When I was young, I wore glasses.

My glasses were rather strong, because my family is characterized by sight problems and hearts that suddenly explode. And also pale skin (but only on Mom's side).

One of the reasons PE was so freaking hard was peripheral vision. I didn't have any.

And my teachers seemed to have this philosophy, this teaching strategy, that I absolutely hated: If you don't feel like planning a lesson, just make the kids play dodgeball!

I hate stupid @#&*%*! dodgeball. You know what dodgeball is like for a kid like me? It is like a minefield, or like a firing squad. Dodgeball is giving the evil jocks permission to use nerds for target practice. Think hurting people is fun? Dodgeball is the game for you, and many of my school's future federal prisoners practiced their tactics for upcoming murders on hapless dorks like me.

The only thing funnier than raising welts the size of bowling ball on the extremities of your victim is making a welt fo the same size--on the FACE. See, giant arm-bruises can be covered. But two black eyes and a bloody lip? Not so much.

Would it surprise you to discover I once went through three pairs of glasses in one school year?

I did.

Because my face made such good target practice, my school churned out a few college athletes, and several psychopaths*.

While losing glasses can get expensive, it was nothing like the cost of having reconstructive surgery, so life went on. Glasses offer some protection.

But not when you're 27 and hungry for ice cream.

Can you see your nose? Right now, staring at this page while you read, do you see your nose? Just a little bit, I bet. But before I mentioned it, I bet you couldn't. Because your brain filters out your nose when it interprets what you see, so you don't walk around all the time, staring at the weird bump you have that people like but you hate.

Standing there, in front of the empty spot where the ice cream used to be, I kind of accidentally forgot I had a nose.

I closed the door to the freezer with frustration.

And then pain.

Blinding pain, the kind of pain that makes your eyes water. I curled over, leaning on the shelves next to the fridge. I waited for my nose to start bleeding (it didn't). I waited out the pain.

Then I opened the door again, took out some ice, stepped back super-far, and closed it.

That's right. I slammed the freezer door on my own nose.

Now, I totally lucked out. Because my nose bent sideways and TOUCHED MY CHEEK. If I had hit it higher, I think I would have broken it. Lower, there might have been cartiledge damage. But no. I was okay.

Meanwhile, my coworker (she'd just finished pouring vanilla extract down her body in a tragic baking accident) discovered my plight. Her response? She rolled her eyes and said something to the effect of, "Only you." Then she left me there, huddled against the cabinets, struggling to breathe through my rapidly-swelling nasal passages.

I expected my whole face to swell up. Instead of a nose, I would have a lumpy, purple-black tennis-ball-sized protrusion. But no. The only evidence was a little purple dot of shame. The dot has faded to a green dot of shame.

My question is this: How does a girl come back from this sort of thing? How can I ever trust myself to safely operate a door again?

Was this too much to ask for?

*Schools are now beginning to ban dodgeball. A-freakin'-men, people. Either that, or maybe the government could fund schools enough to let them spring for some flippin' FOAM balls instead of having kids play dodgeball with BASKETBALLS. Because basketballs HURT.

**You think I'm joking? Not so much. Behold the jewel of Jennifer's graduating class. See?

Photo: "Vanilla Ice Cream Cone" by Steven Depolo 2009

That's Just Disturbing

2011-08-30T09:07:00.000-05:00

I cannot take naps. They do evil things to my brain.

"It's not forever," I explained to Paul. "It's not noise or mold. It's the sun. When it's summer, I can't sleep. In the winter, the angle of the planet lets me sleep, because it's darker and not lighter, and my brain likes that. Winter is to sleep the way summer is to awake-ness."

I didn't even know what the heck I was saying. When Paul nodded and backed slowly away...it made sense. I would have backed away too. But I was stuck. My brain was inside me, and that meant I was stuck with it and its crazy analogies.

Paul was just trying to be nice. Paul is always nice. That's why when I get angry with him, I feel like I'm Satan, except human and a girl. When someone is nice to you all the time, and you aren't always a nice person, you tend to feel like you're evil and horrible in comparison.

Paul, thinking that my problems with insomnia were caused by external things (noise, allergies, and the like), had offered to switch rooms with me so I could have his much-quieter bedroom. But noise is not why I can't sleep, unless you count Dad's morning I-Just-Got-Gutted-By-a-Fillet-Knife Yawn, which would wake anyone up no matter how well they slept. Evisceration is loud.

What I was trying to do was explain that I go through spells of sleeplessness, but they pass if I'm patient. Somehow, I don't think my meaning was coming across, with my semi-paganistic ramblings.

I had come home so tired, Mom told me to go to my room and sleep. This was because I fell asleep with my head on my purse while sitting at the kitchen table.

But, as I mentioned, naps don't go well for me.

When I woke up, my brain had become soup. Everything I said was, essentially, Word Salad. Did I feel any better? No. Of course not.

If anything, I felt worse. For one thing, no one could understand me. Not even me.

But, to make matters worse, I'd had a terrible nightmare, something so bad it was beyond imagining, and it was all Dad's fault because his dream self was so disturbed and clearly evil.

Let me try to describe it for you.

Michael Flatley.

Dogs of the Dance.

Dream Dad, spurred on by his love for Irish music and his adoration of our dog, Darcy, had decided to, as a Christmas present for the family, take us all to see Michael Flatley's new musical masterwork, Dogs of the Dance*.

Think Lord of the Dance, except instead of people, there were dogs, all of them in traditional Irish costume.

Even if Dream Me had been able to handle the absolute torture of sitting through dogs dancing to Irish music, it became apparent to me from my seat in the theater that the dogs were looking mistreated. Apparently, the humane society had not been present during rehearsals, because those poor dogs looked hungry and sad. I wanted to rescue them. But before I could, Mom was waking me up, so the dogs were abandoned in the horror of my nightmare.

Poor dogs.

It was a bad dream.

I spent the rest of the evening trying to stay awake for a few more hours in order to improve my mood so I wouldn't fall asleep and be plagued by more nightmares involving dogs dancing to Celtic music.

No more naps for me.

Sadly, I can't let this go, because I want to know where Michael Flatley came from. I get the Irish music. Dad plays the Irish whistle. I even understand dreaming about dogs. I love dogs. But why Michael Flatley? WHY?

The only thing I can think of is that Maureen Johnson's Riverdance story emerged from my brain after a year of percolating in my subconscious. But who can be sure?

I'm a little afraid to sleep again.

*Let me make this clear: The REAL Michael Flatley is, to my knowledge, not planning any Irish dancing with dogs at any point in the future. It will not be coming to Broadway or to anywhere, because having dogs dance like Michael Flatley is a horrible, horrible idea and probably impossible.

The Brown Driving Mocs

2011-08-22T14:15:00.000-05:00

I love my brown driving mocs.

I found them at Target years ago, for, if I remember correctly, around $20. They reminded me of the J. Crew driving mocs I could never afford (unless I sold off some major organs), and I snatched them up and ran to the check-out like I was being pursued by rabid shoe-eating demons.

Women's Merona Micaela Moccasins from Target. Picture yoinked from Kaboodle, your source for shoes you wish you could still buy. Like these.

That is what they looked like back when they were all new and pretty.

They served me well. I wore them nearly every day for...more years than I probably should have.

See, I have this thing with fashion. I like fun, quirky, different things, and I like classic designs. That's normal, I suppose. The thing that may someday get me drug out to face Stacy and Clinton, though, is my firm belief that if I like it, and I think whatever article of clothing or accessory is cute, fun, and ME, then it is in style and no one can tell me otherwise.

Take that, Fashion Industry.

So when Target stopped selling knock-off driving mocs, and J. Crew stopped selling not-knock-off driving mocs, and all the other places stopped selling any kind of moc, except for that Minnetonka Moccasin place, I still kept right on wearing my brown driving mocs. Because I loved them.

The think with the little mocs was, they weren't made to last a girl five-ish years. Or six...and that's about how long I've had them.

They stretched. They got dirty. I cleaned them, added an insole, and kept wearing them. The insole rubbed my heels funny, so I got those little heel cushion things you stick on the inside of shoes, and that fixed it. They were fine...until the "suede" of the shoe absorbed the adhesive of the stick-on heel cushions, leaving dark marks on the back of each heel. Sticky dark marks.

I was very sad.

Devastated.

Clearly, I needed to replace the little brown driving mocs.

There was only one problem: No one wanted to sell me replacement mocs. No one. Not even Ebay.

I was ready to pay for these mocs, folks. I was ready. I had already planned it out. See, my love for the mocs was so great, I was willing to pay double, triple, or MORE for a new pair, a nicer pair, one that would presumably last me decades into the known future. I would pay for good shoes and then care for them like the children I don't have, with the kind of love a person only gives to their spawn (or their little furry dogs).

But no one was selling the adorable driving mocs. They were only selling bizarre, animal print ballet flats.

What was up with those? I am glad they are gone now.

The next year (because yes, we're talking years, here), I searched again. This time, I discovered that the flats had become solid colored, but still of the ballet variety. I gave up and bought a pair of those. They hurt.

So at the start of summer, with only the same, boring, solid-colored flats to be seen, I gave up and bought a nice black pair that didn't hurt my feet, thinking that they would be good enough to fill the yawning hole in my heart left behind by the driving mocs.

Nope.

But then, just after I'd given up hope, I found them.

Frye Reagan Campus Driver in Saddle, via Zappos.

These are not exactly identical to my Target mocs, but they are very similar. In fact, I like these MORE.

So if you catch me admiring or petting my shoes in public...now you know why.

Poor Mom Can't Drive

2011-08-17T14:30:00.000-05:00

Mom still has no driver's license.

First, it was because she had her car's brakes die. Then my car lost its brakes. Then Mom had a week of migraines. Then it was the week of my vacation. Last week.

Mom and I went up north to stay with my grandpa, where we planned on eating tons of awesome food (especially my current favorite sandwich place, Penn Station). When you live in the middle of nowhere, you plan your vacations around where you get to eat (And shop).

I drove us the 2.5 hours north. Then I drove us around while we ran errands for Grandpa.

The next day, when Dad called to announce he was having chest pains*, I drove Mom to get dinner out to distract her.

The day after that, I drove us back home, and then, the next day, to pick Dad up from Parkview. Then I drove us to Biaggi's, where we celebrated Dad's return to the land of the healthy by eating things covered in cream sauce.

During all that, Mom realized how...impractical it was to not have a driver's license. So we resolved to renew it on Monday. That was the plan. Nothing could interrupt the plan.

Except for maybe this.

And this.

Do you see it?

Here's a hint. We went on a Monday.

Which means the hour we spent sitting, stuck in traffic was all for nothing.

*Dad is totally fine. He had a HEART SPASM, which he claims I've been giving him for years, so this one is no different from any other day of the week except for the fact that we got this one on an EKG.

Making Cake

2011-08-03T14:51:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time, Rachael brought cake to knit night. Raspberry buttermilk cake. She said she brought it for everyone, but I think we all know, deep down, that she really brought it for me, so I could gobble it down like a pig, then beg for the recipe so I could eat the cake at home, thereby hiding the shame that comes from eating an entire cake by myself.

I realized this Monday that I'd purchased buttermilk for another recipe, which meant I had buttermilk LEFT OVER, and in my life, that means I get to make that cake again. This time, I would throw in some of the blueberries we have frozen. I took out a cup and thawed them.

Then I measured out the flower. Then the sugar, then I grabbed an egg, the buttermilk, and I reached for the butter.

We had no butter.

Well, we had a little tiny butter lump, sitting on a butter dish, fused to the dish by the butter Mom had melted when trying to get the butter soft enough to spread.

I could not make my cake.

I really wanted that cake.

Maybe if my urge to bake came at, say, mid-afternoon instead of at 7:00 p.m. when the convenience store has already closed, I would have been able to leap into the car to go GET the butter, but I was screwed. There was no butter to be had unless I went to an actual grocery store, and, as I've complained before, the nearest one of THOSE is 30 minutes from my house.

I really wanted cake. IMMEDIATELY.

Then I remembered: The heavy cream!

As some of my fellow country-folk will remember, back in the fourth grade, butter-making was kind of a THING. See, in fourth grade, if you live in Indiana, you learn Indiana history (as opposed to New Jersey history or Oregon history). And learning about Indiana history means herding together a group of ten year-olds, dressing them like pilgrims, and making them SQUARE DANCE. We also learned things like where the Indiana capitol USED to be (who cares?) and teachers try to convince us that, even though Lincoln was totally from Illinois, he was secretly from Indiana, since he lived here for like two weeks or something. After that there are funnel cakes, and you can go home and hurl your bonnet across the room, confident in the knowledge that, no matter how tasty, you will never be forced to pull taffy again.

At any rate, in the fourth grade, somebody had the brilliant idea to teach us how to churn our own butter, something they accomplished by handing out glass jars filled with cream and a single marble. They then forced us to shake the jar around until the marble made the cream turn to butter.

How well did that work, you ask? NOT WELL AT ALL. Imagine getting a group of kids, forcing them to dance, then promising them taffy and a funnel cake, if only the butter could be churned first. Then imagine ten kids, shaking glass jars around vigorously, and, fuelled by hatred (they did have to square dance), imagine the children leaping, running around the table, and jumping up and down rather than continue the shaking, because NOTHING WAS HAPPENING.

Cut to Laura, age 22, sitting in the backseat of a car with her parents. You see, it was Christmas time, and Paul couldn't leave home for whatever reason (probably so he could cling to whatever shreds of dignity he still had left), and we were all headed to Connor Prairie.

If you're not from Indiana, you likely have not heard of Connor Prairie. It is a refurbished farm from way-back-when, and locals are hired to dress up and pretend to be from 100 years ago. Basically, a museum, only the exhibits work and are operated by people acting like they have no idea what a cell phone is, even if they likely have one stored on their person, perhaps under their corset.

It's actually pretty fun.

The church had given us a trip there as our family Christmas present. They thought since Dad secretly believes he would have been a tough-guy mountain-man who trudged through the wilds with a flintlock rifle and killed wolves with a club and a hunting knife, he'd get a kick out of seeing what life was really like back then. And we all got to go along. The church is so sweet to us.

So we drove to Connor Prairie and met up with our guide, a 60-something man who was just snarky enough for me to like him. We spent the evening, along with a few other families, cooking a meal the way meals were made in ages past, then eating our handiwork. I spent my time quoting literature back and forth with our guide in a rather epic verbal-sparring match. It was fun.

The second we walked into the kitchen, they'd handed Mom a butter churn and sent her to the corner. My job had been to shred cabbage. It took like five minutes. Probably less, because, well, I can use a knife. Then I went to help Mom.

To say that the entire group was waiting for Mom to finish churning the butter would be an understatement. No matter what she did, NOTHING HAPPENED.

"Do you think the cream is defective?" She asked. "Maybe it's bad cream."

We decided to take turns.

"The fire is too hot," I said. "It's making the fat in the cream stay liquid instead of becoming solid!"

"The room is too cold," Mom said. "It's making the heavy cream whipped instead of separating it!"

It must have taken 45 minutes to churn that flipping butter. Eventually, the cook took pity on us and grabbed the churn. She had butter in 30 seconds. I think maybe she used magic.

After that, she showed me how to press the remaining liquid--the buttermilk--out of the butter, so it would be ready for consumption. She also showed me how to mold it into a pretty shape.

And after that, I decided butter-making was pretty darn cool.

So when I discovered we were out of butter and spied the heavy cream, I thought, "We are in business."

I broke out the electric mixer. Butter-making is much easier with an electric mixer, I have learned. I dumped the cream into a bowl. Then I cranked that mixer up high.

It should be noted that, when using a mixer to make butter, a splash guard is...handy. In my case, my laptop served as a splash guard, as did my shirt, the fridge, and the wall. It's also helpful to have your bowl chilled to start with, or so I've been told.

As I churned my butter, I noticed something strange. The mixer was dissolving in my hand. Well, not exactly dissolving, but the casing had come un-cased, and the motor was exposed. So instead of the bowl, I started holding the casing together as well as the handle of the mixer. And if you've ever used an electric mixer, you know how important it is to hold the bowl. Oops.

I needed 1/4 cup of butter. My cream yielded 1/4 cup of butter. Exactly.

After all that, the cake went together rather easily. It finally came out of the oven at 10:30 p.m., but it was good cake. And it had vanished by morning.

Make your own butter.

Make your own cake.

Just try to start a little earlier than I did.

My Car Is Trying to Kill Me: Part Two

2011-07-29T13:51:00.000-05:00

Read the first half of this saga here.

I made the mistake of thinking everything was going to be okay.

My car has what my brother has affectionately termed, "ghetto brakes." The name comes from his former roommate, Jerome, who grew up in what Fort Wayne has that passes for a ghetto. Since I have a friend who was shot in the face just for opening his front door in Fort Wayne*, I'd imagine it sort of does have a bad part of town, and if Jerome says he grew up there, I suppose I believe him. But I will never let him pull my teeth when he becomes a dentist, even if he does think up ingenious solutions to problems. This is because, despite his claims, pouring a cup of water on the floor and stomping on the liquid does not count as washing the carpet. I don't know what the tooth equivalent of that is, and I don't want to find out.

My brakes got their nickname due to the squeaking. Screeching, really. I had them taken apart and reassembled three times before I gave up and accepted the noise as a part of life. According to Expert Opinion, the screech occurred due to dirt and grime that became trapped in the rotors. They would get cleaned out, but the screech would come back a few days later. You would have given up too, if you had to go without your car so much.

Noisy or not, they were good, reliable brakes. They worked well, even if they were so loud I stopped going through drive-thru windows out of shame.

When Mom's brakes went out last Saturday, I got into my car with confidence, knowing that MY brakes were loud but TRUSTWORTHY. My car would never hurt me. My car LOVES me.

That is a lie.

Today I left work to drop off my car payment. See how responsible I am? But after I handed off the check, I noticed a change in the behavior of my brakes. By that, I mean they weren't behaving. At all.

Again, when I pressed the pedal, it swooshed down to the floor of the car with no resistance. The car continued to roll forward determinedly, leaving me grinding my teeth down to nubs from my place in the driver's seat.

"This can't be happening," I said out loud. "It is too much of a coincidence for my car and Mom's car to fail within the same week."

But sure enough, it WAS happening. At the next stop light, which was (mercifully) green, I continued to roll into the intersection. There I waited to make my turn, then made my way into a parking spot at the library. Once there, I applied my emergency brake, put the car in park, and turned it off. Still sitting inside, I started making phone calls.

The first was to my dad, as it is each time a horrible car-related thing happens. Who knows why. It isn't as if he can fix cars or tow them or even offer reassurance, but he changes a mean tire, and his jumper-cable skills are legendary throughout the county.

I reached his voicemail, and the message went something like this:

"Hey Dad. You know how Mom and I have identical cars? Well. We also have identical car problems, because that brake thing that happened to her car is now happening to mine. My car is like death on wheels. It is like one of those Loony-Tune giant snowball things, only in summer instead of winter. I don't know if you want to pick it up and drive it home or have it towed. You can do either. But I wouldn't drive it if I were you. You shouldn't drive it. Just have it towed. Don't drive it. It's deadly. I am not even kidding you. This car will kill you dead. I'm parking it and leaving it. You shouldn't touch it. Anyway. Bye."

Then I hung up the phone and called my car guy. I reached his voicemail.

"Hello!" I shouted into the phone because my car guy is basically deaf, which is why he could not hear the screeching and therefore why the screeching was never repaired. "It's Laura! Kelly's daughter! You fixed my mother's car! But now my car is having the same problem! Can you come tow it?! It is at the library! Call me back if you have questions!"

Except the instant the beep sounded, the voicemail box said, "Goodbye." And I talked for a few seconds and moved the phone from my ear, only to discover the voicemail box thing had hung up on me while I was talking. So it recorded nothing.

I stared at my phone. Then I called home. Mom answered.

"Mom?" I said. "My brakes failed just like yours. And now it is at work. But I will need a ride home at five."

Of course, Mom cannot drive anyone anywhere, including herself, because she let her license expire.

"Paul?" Mom called. "Can you drive Laura home at five?"

There was a mumbled response.

"Paul will come pick you up at five," Mom said.

"Thank you," I told her. Then I hung up. I then sent Dad a text message.

"I called the car guy, but his voicemail box must have been full or something, because it hung up on me. So I didn't reach him. But I will try again. But maybe you should try too. And you can call me back at the work number. But make sure you ask for me so they will transfer you. Also I have a ride home."

It must have been longer than that, because it sent as three text messages and not one.

Moments later, I was calling my car guy again. This time his voicemail let me leave a message. "It's Laura. Can you pick up my car from the library? It's Laura. Kelly's daughter. The pastor. That Kelly." It went on for a while after that, including references to Mom's car, brake lines, towing, and how to properly reach me via the library phone system ("call the library. Ask for Laura and they will transfer you. Or you can ask for the Children's Room. That would work,too. But make sure you don't just talk to the first person who picks up, because they will have no idea what you're talking about...").

Then, Dad called back. "I will come and get you," he said.

"No," I replied. "Paul is coming. And anyway, I am not going home until five."

"Oh," Dad said. "I will try to reach the car guy. But he might be in Indy. He goes there practically twice a week for auctions."

"Okay," I said. "I will just leave my car here."

"Good. We shouldn't drive it around like that."

"No," I said.

"But I hate to tell you this," he continued. "You're going to have to leave your car unlocked. And put the keys under the mat."

Now. The library isn't in the most horrible neighborhood on Earth, mostly because this is not a big town or even a small one. It is more a settlement than anything. We are lucky to have a Walmart. Or a zip code. But what we do have is drugs, and lots of them, especially heroin. You would be shocked to find out how much drug activity there is in this area. SHOCKED. Needless to say, if anything of value is left in a vehicle in our parking lot, and, if said vehicle is left unlocked, the thing of value will no longer be there when its owner returns to the car.

The good news would be, if someone stole my car, it would be easy to find. My car would be a block or two down the street, wrapped around a tree or telephone pole, or embedded in a shop window or brick wall.

"Dad," I said. "I can leave my car here. I can leave my keys inside. But I cannot leave my keys in my car if I want to come back and find my car again. Either it will be stolen, or people will get inside it and smoke and drink and maybe do unspeakable things in the backseat."

"Okay," Dad said.

"We can drop the keys off tomorrow. And I will leave a set here inside the building with a note on them."

We hung up. Then he called back, the car guy was going to try to come today, before five. This was good news. Then he called back again to tell me the car guy was on his way. This was better news.

As of now, I have a set of keys in my pocket, ready to be handed off to the car guy the instant he comes for them. Hopefully, I will get my car BACK before I need it for something important, but it has grounded me for the weekend, trapping me at home with Netflix and Star Trek: Voyager instead of allowing me to do what I'd WANTED to do, which was head to Best Buy to use my birthday money to get the radio fixed. Now my birthday money might go toward replacing the brake lines. Yay.

Grown-up birthdays are no fun.

*This was a couple of years ago. He made a full recovery. The motive was robbery. The guys stole a VCR. Really. Not even a DVD player

Birthday cake picture © Will Clayton

My Car Is Trying To Kill Me: Part One

2011-07-29T12:33:00.001-05:00

Mom let her driver's license expire, so I was playing chauffeur. This involved me driving to the grocery store, first stopping at what Mom calls her "craft store," which is actually a little gift shop that sells rustic-style decor items, like the giant crocks Mom now uses to hold the potatoes and onions (and no, I do not mean those hideous shoes).

(I wish.)

I drove, and I spent most of the time talking about horribly depressing things, which seems to have become my new habit, likely because there are so many depressing things happening to people I know lately.

Mom and I have invented a new driving game, a game that certainly would work nowhere on Earth so well as it does in our part of Indiana. You see, there are these giant metal stars...who knows where they come from. And people take these stars and they mount them on the side of their barn or their house, and then the neighbors see the star and think they had better do the same, so now there are billions of stars all over Indiana, firmly attached to any building that stands still long enough for someone to approach it with an electric drill.

The game we have invented involves those stars. When we see one, we half-heartedly swat each other on the arm and announce, "STAR." It is a rather stupid game. Mostly it is to keep a running tally of the number of these stars, in much the same way as the game "How Many Dresses?" kept that Jennifer Love Hewitt show from being as tediously boring as it was. Her character had clearly suffered a psychotic break, to see dead people all the time like that. I forget the name of the show--Mom and I just called it "How Many Dresses?" (It is worth mentioning that no one WINS these games. They only exist to pass time.)

I think all the stars originated from this crafty store, though, because stars are everywhere inside. They were also playing the most horrific country music of all time that day, this man with an absurdly low voice, singing about how it's the end times RIGHT NOW, and we are about to be raptured at any second.

When Mom and I had finally escaped (with a rug for the kitchen floor), we hopped back in the car to drive across the parking lot to the grocery store, because it was nine billion degrees outside and no way were we walking.

As I drove from one parking space to another, I noticed something was WRONG. Very wrong.

I would press on the brake pedal and push it all the way down to floor. Then we would start slowing down. I discovered this as I pulled into a parking place, so I wasn't SURE there was a problem. It just felt strange, stopping.

When we'd gotten our groceries, I drove the car up toward the store to pick up a tank of propane for the grill. And was the car stopping? Not so much.

I knew the problem was serious when I stood on the brake pedal, only to have the car roll forward several more feet before beginning to slow down.

We did the only thing we could do, given the circumstances. We called Dad and told him to come rescue us.

I don't mean to tell you that Dad can FIX cars...because he can't. What he CAN do is DRIVE a car when you think that driving it will lead to your untimely death. So we stopped at the county's school administration offices and waited for Dad.

And he arrived.

And he added brake fluid.

And nothing happened.

He then drove the car home with Mom as I followed. I had warned him that the car pulled into the opposite lane when the brakes were utilized. What I didn't know was that the brake light on the passenger's side wasn't even bothering to turn on when the pedal was pressed. Basically, half the brakes were not even getting the signal to stop. This was a...problem. To say the least.

So we drove home slowly, Dad jerking to the left each time he applied the brakes, me following with my emergency flasher-dealies going just in case people didn't get the hint from our shockingly slow pace.

The next day, Car Guy came and towed the car away. Mere days later, we were alerted that the car was fixed, and it came home.

Everything was better.

Stop Sign photograph © Kt Ann

It's (almost) my birthday. Now what?

2011-07-22T12:35:00.000-05:00

Next Wednesday is my birthday, everyone. Yay.

For the first time in my entire life, I feel well, apathetic about my birthday. I have no emotion about it whatsoever. I am not excited, because I have to work that day from 11:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m. (with two special programs during the day), which does away with any possibility of fun. I am not unhappy, because I really don't care how old or young I am. I am nothing.

That's what I find depressing.

Shouldn't birthdays be fun? Shouldn't I be excited about it? I feel like I SHOULD be. But that's not happening. Does this mean my birthday will not be happy?

I feel like a complete downer. Sorry. I promise I will be funny again, when I am less downtrodden by the summer reading program and miserable heat.

Toys Jennifer Should Waste Money On

2011-07-17T08:57:00.001-05:00

Sometimes I find toys I think Jennifer should have in her house. They are always dorky, always musical, and just nerdy enough to make me excessively happy.

Usually, I forget to show these things to Jen, and when I remember, the little limited-edition toys are gone forever, and Jen is without things I think are very necessary to her happiness and well being, if not her very survival.

It's like regular ice, except COOLER.

This was the first toy I found while at Target, and the only one I think you shouldn't live without. The others are cool, sure, but this is YOU, Jen. I can see you with your guitar, playing and singing, drinking chai you stir with a guitar ice-cube-stirrer. OR you could put juice in the little trays and have a guitar popsicle. The possibilities are endless.

Cool Jazz Ice Cube Tray, Amazon and Target stores, by Fred

Earbuds with Personality!

Here is an obvious example. These little ear buds look like the volume knobs on an old record player! Aren't they fantastic? They're musical and they play music!

Volume Knob Earbuds, Target stores, Urban Décor Collection

Musical Pans (for nephews OR music teacher aunts)!

Who said wooden spoons had to be boring? Now they can be REAL INSTRUMENTS, because they are drumsticks, see? Just like band class, only you can flip these around and use them for eating! Well, serving. But still! It makes every food cooler--would you rather have a salad, or a ROCK AND ROLL salad? What band nerd wouldn't want to play with these?

Fred Mix Stix Spoons: Amazon and Target stores, by Fred

Too much of a good thing? I think NOT.

Really, why should you just have fun when you're COOKING? You should have fun while you're eating, too! With chopsticks. DRUMSTICK chopsticks! Don't you think dinner would taste better with these? I do, Jen. I do.

Beat It Chopsticks Set: Amazon, by Fred

Give Piece a Chance.

It's a peace sign cake pan! So you can have a piece of cake! Get it?

Peace of Cake Novelty Baking Pan: Amazon, by Fred

(This is when I just started playing on Amazon and the Fred and Friends website.)

Your Father's (or MY Father's) Next Birthday/Christmas Present...

Now, I'm not going to pretend I don't want these too, because I do. Still, you don't have a gun and neither do I, but your dad does, so I thought this would work for a gag gift for him. They are, frankly, hilarious and completely made of awesome. Think of the puns. Mobsters say they're going to "ice" someone, and they mean KILL.

They have brains too, Jen. Ice cube BRAINS. And sinking Titanics. That's IRONIC. And those weird stone heads from that ancient civilization, and coffee beans (cool beans, get it?), and jewels! They even have Lego ice cube trays! I get a strange kind of joy from these. JOY, Jen. Why can't ice be used to make us all happier?

Freeze Handgun-Shaped Ice-Cube Tray: Amazon, by Fred

Behold the Adorable!

Speaking of presents for people you love, how about these for your nephews? Aren't they cute? SO CUTE. Won't that help them eat their veggies? Maybe I'll try getting Paul a set...

Constructive Eating Utensil Set: Amazon, by Constructive Eating

Dear New Foot Cream,

2011-07-16T08:57:00.000-05:00

The following is a letter I composed in my head on my drive to work this morning. The foot cream is this one, Soak Heel. Naturally, I picked the unscented version*. No one bribed me with presents to make me write this. Although if you have presents you want to give me, feel free to do so. I like presents, and I do have a birthday coming up.

I love you. No, I really do.

There is no foot cream like you.

You have done magic things to my feet. Glorious things. And you have done it all without being toxic to me, and I appreciate that.

You are not greasy. You absorb and vanish, leaving my skin soft, for once in my life.

You do not smell of freaky unnatural scents (Don't tell me that's what a watermelon smells like, beauty industry: I have smelled a watermelon. You tell LIES). You do not smell of natural things that are, nonetheless, poisonous to me. You do not smell of your various component-chemical parts. You smell like nothing, and you have made this walking allergic reaction very happy.

You last. Many a cream is nice when you first use it then, after an hour, the effects wear off. Many creams make me wonder, "Why did I even bother?" But you are still making my feet soft, even after I took a bath, which I imagined would wash away your magical qualities.

But you are still working. You make me so happy.

If I could marry a moisturizer, I would marry you**.

You are beautiful. Promise me you will never leave me.

Love,

Laura

*I would imagine the effects of the scented versions are the same, but I didn't try them (I don't have a death wish. I do have asthma. You understand).
**I think this is against the law.

Random Monday

2011-07-11T15:24:00.000-05:00

1. It is Monday.

2. I have a problem with that. But since Monday also has a problem with me, I suppose it all works out.

3. I think I have consumed more than my daily requirement of sweet tea. My entire body is vibrating, though I think the medical term is "tremor-ing."

4. Today I went to Wendy's and it rained really hard, and the rain came down through the sun-room roof and poured into my open purse, which was sitting on the chair next to me. Fortunately, the rain landed on my unused umbrella, which was stored inside my purse. I just carefully lifted it out, dumped the water, and fled to higher ground.

5. I told everyone that since the animals had already been gathered two-by-two, for the 4-H fair, we were going to have a Noah-quality flood. Dad said lumber was too expensive for arks, and I said it was okay, because we have the National Guard.

6. Dad then revealed that Mom was installing our new light fixture, on her own. His explanation for not helping her was, "I only get one day off a week." This was some impressive logic that will totally serve him well when he is pushing Mom from room to room in a wheelchair after she is crippled by the slipped disc in her back. One wrong move with that light fixture and that disc will shoot out from between her vertebrae like a rubber band, and poor Mom will be lying in a heap on the floor, groaning in agony.

7. I then called Mom to insist that she STOP what she was doing until I got home to help her. Paul had arrived at home and was already assisting her. In another few months, Paul could get work as a handyman, because he can do (and does) more around the house than Dad can do without his head exploding. Dad and home improvement don't mix very well. They actually don't mix at all.

8. Paul reports that there have been "major strides" toward having a working dining room light. If only he had poster squares. What do poster squares have to do with installing a light fixture?

9. I need to send a package. The Something* that goes in the package is the exact length of my forearm and hand, but it is super-skinny, so I don't want a HUGE box. I went to look for a box in our recycling closet outside and discovered the contents had just been picked up and we only had ONE box left.

10. The box was the exact length of my forearm and hand. It was no wider than a CD case, which is the PERFECT length. In other words, FATE gave me a box. It arranged the destiny of the box and my destiny perfectly to allow us to cross paths at the correct time. This was kismet, people.

KISMET.

Hope you're all having a lovely Monday.

L.

*This Something is a special present for Victoria Schwab, author of The Near Witch, which (hee, that sounds funny) is coming out in only THREE WEEKS! August 2nd! I am very excited. Victoria is doing a giveaway on her blog every Monday until her book is released. Check it out at http://veschwab.wordpress.com/

One of Those Weeks

2011-07-08T14:59:00.000-05:00

I feel like my head is about to explode.

It has not been the best of weeks. I think it was coming back to work after being so ill over the weekend. I was not ready for this.

Children.

Children pouring inside from the outdoors, dripping with various fluids: sweat, chlorinated water from the nearest pool or Kool-aid.

Children scribbling on tables.

Children tearing posters from the walls.

Children tackle-hugging me when my back is turned.

Children standing on chairs and smashing tiny fists onto computer keyboards.

Children tearing books from shelves.

Children climbing shelves.

Children everywhere.

Normally, I can handle this.

I can even be patient. Kind. Understanding.

This week, I want to tell parents to kindly dislodge their children from my bookshelves, with VENOM. I think there may actually, be real SMOKE coming out of my ears. But I can't see it. Maybe because it's too humid.

The children aren't doing anything worse. Nor are the parents. This is the way the kids usually act. Except...I am not my usual self. I have spent the entire week a breath away from self-immolation.

I got a call from someone this week, announcing, "I just can't handle [this] anymore." THIS was a project we'd been working on together. "I can't do it. You'll have to finish on your own. My life is too busy."

I wanted to hurl my cell phone at her. Because she is not the only person who has a busy life. In fact, many of us have CRAZY busy lives, but we do not commit to things and then give up on them to do other things, like watch television. Some of us stop watching television. Some of us multitask. Some of us are so busy filling in for a half-dozen different employees through various emergencies, we put our own tasks on the back burner. Some of us have learned to triage.

Instead I listened to her flimsy excuse and hung up the phone, then went home and finished our task on my own.

What I need is chocolate. Lots of chocolate. And maybe a trip to the yarn store, to buy yarn for a tiny little sweater that wants knitting. I need sedatives.

I want to be the sort of person that can scream at other people. But I'm not.

I want to be the sort of person who tells another person: If you don't do X, it won't get finished. And if that happens, and Person Y is unhappy, I will blame YOU.

But I'm not.

Instead I do the work of two and let myself have half the credit. Instead I gnaw on Tums and do without sleep.

That's okay, I suppose.

But sometimes, my sort of person needs a box of DeBrand's chocolates, comfy pajamas, a furry sheltie or kitteh, knitting, and Netflix. Lots of Netflix. And this is one of those times.

What's that hanging down from the ceiling?

2011-07-06T11:53:00.000-05:00

While most people were spending their Fourth of July Mondays blowing stuff up and grilling in their backyards, I spent the day with Mom at Lowe's where we looked at new light fixtures for the dining/living room. We found some very pretty ones. And some neat ones. But mostly we discovered that the trend in lighting involves mounting glass and metal breasts on your ceiling.

Don't believe me?
Really. Explain to me how these were not designed by a very lonely man.

We ended up picking this for the dining room (for over the table) and another smaller light I now cannot find (but it looks a lot like this one) Our selection parameter was: Pick the nicest non-breast-looking light fixtures and BUY THEM.

Mom and I went hunting for vent grate-cover thingies too. We found some we really liked, like this one. This is to go in the newly-tiled kitchen floor to replace the gaping hole in the ground that we have now. This hole has come in handy for small cereal spills, because the cereal falls inside the hole and VANISHES, never to be seen again. Which means, basically, that no one has to sweep, ever. And even if you did, the hole works better than a dustpan, right?

When I revealed that this was how the rest of the family was "unintentionally" using the hole in the floor, Mom stared at me, aghast. Then she shrugged. After all, the grate we used to have has been swallowing the odd pill and egg shell for ages. You could build a miniature city with all the Micro-Machines and toothpicks that have fallen in there throughout my life. It's best just to give up, or to buy a high-powered vacuum.

But, as with many home improvement projects, we soon discovered that we could in no way get the awesome grate cover thingy we loved.

This is because the people who built our house liked to smoke lots of crack.

You see, the vent covers you can buy, or even special order, are all on some kind of standard measuring system. So, you can get a grate cover that is 2" x 14" to cover a hole that is 2" x 14" because why make grate covers in every size when all ducts are that size, or in one of the many other standard sizes.

I think the people who built our house were waiting behind the scratch and dent truck for irregular duct work to fall off, because OUR duct is actually 2.25" x 15.75" instead of like, a NORMAL size.

I would think that standard sizing had just changed over time, except in my room, the vent is about a foot long, but the vent COVER extends across the whole of one wall, something like 6 FEET. What is underneath if not a duct, you ask? The sub floor, that's what. It makes no sense. And did I mention it can't come off? Well, it can't. We tried everything. We even went to work trying to pry it from the wall with various prying tools, only to TEAR THE METAL, while the rest of the cover remained in place. I think it might be welded together.

I wish the ducts and vents were the only strange things about the house, I really do. But they aren't. We have no idea why the people who built our house did what they did. But we are endeavoring to understand.

My mother and I have created a list of methods they used in the construction of our house, ages ago. Some were also used by whatever psychopath built my aunt's house.

How to Build a House, Farmer-Style

1. Buy really awesome wood for the frame. Because you don't want this house falling down.

2. Put the boards together with nails. But not just any nails. You should use roofing nails, because they are cheap but also super-long and long nails mean STURDY nails.

3. Buy a LOT of roofing nails, since you will be using them for everything, even to hang pictures on the walls.

4. Your house now has a frame. Hooray! Now you need to do other stuff, like putting in a floor and making walls and adding a roof. So buy the cheapest materials you can find!

5. Now that you've filled your new walls with insulation that will quickly turn to dust, wire the house with electrical wires! For LIGHTS! You know they have those in houses now. You flip a switch and it's like a candle lights itself AUTOMATICALLY. You want to live in a Rich People House, don't you?

6. Well, copper wiring is kind of expensive. Too bad you can't use roofing nails...Better save money by wiring the house yourself! So what if the random wire sticks out of the wall or ceiling! Just cap it off and no one will notice but your wife!

7. While wiring a house by yourself is, arguably, a fire hazard, fire extinguishers are for Soccer Moms and you should totally save money by not buying any.

8. Do you really need air conditioning? Really? I mean, you sweat all the time outside, so why should the sweating stop when you go INSIDE?

9. Plaster is boring. We plastered half of the house, so why should we keep this up? It's too much work. I know--we'll just buy paneling in bulk! And look, this paneling is a little different--we'll have an accent wall! Get out the roofing nails, let's get to work!

10. You know what else would be cheaper in bulk? CARPETING. So here's what we'll do, we'll buy that whole bolt of carpet that's on SALE! So what if it's the color of pea soup?

11. Wow. Did you know that carpet needs to, like, have padding underneath? Gee. I never thought of that. Hey--I know! This stuff will work! The carpet guy says it's only supposed to work for automotive purposes, but what do we care?

12. What side of the carpet padding is supposed to face up again? Oh well, it won't matter.* Get the roofing nails!

13. I've got this screen and these boards--that works for a door, right?

14. Bathrooms need carpet, too. So why don't we go back to that auto-carpet place? Let's do that.

15. You know what would be pretty right over the bathtub? A window! Let's make it a wooden frame, too. That's nice. And we don't need frosted glass, we're in the country. No one will ever want to put a shower here.

And, of course...

16. Make sure no one can ever replace those duct covers, ever.

The duct cover could not be purchased. We went online, and they just don't make duct covers that size anymore. That means we're stuck with the ancient one. Unless you guys have any ideas.

* They actually picked the wrong side. So the part that's supposed to adhere to the back of the carpet actually stuck, quite permanently, to the floor underneath the carpet. Then the bottom (now the top) of the carpet padding slowly decayed and turned to what might liberally be called sand. But it was pretty much a fine powder that would puff out of the carpet if you smacked it with something heavy. Also it would gather in places like sand dunes.

Hair GONE

2011-06-17T14:54:00.000-05:00

Guess what?

I got sick of my hair, so I had Beth lop it all off. I could have EASILY been talked into a pixie cut. But I think Beth was afraid that seeing my hair that short would make me cry. It doesn't. I've had it that short before. It just makes me HAPPY because then I don't have to brush it or use a hair dryer anymore.

I'm kind of lazy.

So...here is a TRULY AWFUL PICTURE in which I have this new haircut. I took it with my cell phone camera, which is terrible. I tried to position it so you could see the back of my hair and the front at the same time, which succeeded. Sort of.

There you go. Goodbye, hair of Laura. Hello 15 more minutes of sleep every day.

Dear Netflix, Again.

2011-06-14T21:00:00.000-05:00

Netflix,

I just discovered that you yielded to my earlier demands and restored Sports Night to your watch-instantly collection. Clearly, this was due to my well-reasoned arguments. Or pity.

It was probably the pity.

What I wanted to say, Netflix, was THANK YOU SO MUCH I LOVE YOU AGAIN AND YOU HAVE MADE ME SO HAPPY I HAVE NO WAY TO THANK YOU FOR THIS AND I AM JUST SPEECHLESS!!!

I think that about sums it up.

Love,

Laura

Waiting Is Hard: Near Witch Countdown Craft Tutorial

2011-06-13T11:21:00.001-05:00

In case you haven't noticed, I'm very excited about The Near Witch by Victoria Schwab. So excited that I have the NW countdown widget over in the doobly-doo . See it?

Now, The widget is great and all, but I have this issue with remembering numbers. The issue is that I can't remember numbers. I have to give each number a letter to correspond with it, so I can remember what it is. Then I memorize strings of letters instead of dates or phone numbers.

What? You're surprised I do something bizarre? Have you met me?

The widget, as I said, is great. I love the widget. And when I'm at home, I can just bring up my blog on my laptop and I can watch the widget count down. I'm not going to lie to you, folks. I do that quite often. Especially since Netflix took my Sports Night away from me.

But, driving to work this morning, it occurred to me that I might forget that there are only 49 days until The Near Witch is released.

Forgetting is bad.

So, when I had a free moment, I decided to make a Craft. And now I will teach you to make it, too.

Near Witch Countdown Calendar

You will need:

Paper and access to a printer
A computer with the word processing or photo editing program of your choice
Scissors
A ruler or straight edge of some sort
Heavy-duty scrapbook paper in an appealing pattern and color
A stapler of dangerous proportions
The ability to count

1. Go here, and download the picture.

2. Open your photo editor or word processor, I used Microsoft Publisher, and put your newly-downloaded book cover in it.

3. Admire the cover of The Near Witch. Daydream about reading it.

4. Pick a font that goes with the cover font and a color that works with the cover's color scheme.

5. Make a text box, and put it somewhere on the cover. In the text box, put the number 49.

6. Copy your picture and text box.

7. Paste your picture and text box many, many times.

8. Start counting down from 49, changing the numbers in all the text boxes except the first one. The first new box should have the number 48, then 47, then 46...you get the idea. Count down to one.

9. Paste your cover one last time. Make another text box with a happy saying announcing The Near Witch's release. Mine says, "It's HERE!"

10. Print, in color.

11. Cut out each cover neatly.

12. Arrange the pages of your calendar with the highest number on the top and the smallest number on the bottom. The numbers should be in order.

13. Put the happy announcement cover at the very bottom.

14. Cut out a piece of pretty but heavy-duty scrapbook paper (card stock) so it is the same size as the other pages of the calendar.

15. Place the scrapbook paper underneath all the other pages.

16. Use the heavy-duty, dangerous-looking stapler to staple your calendar together.

18. Admire your finished Craft Project.

19. Each day, tear off a page of your calendar, to signify the passage of time.

While you use your fantastic new calendar, make sure you go over to Victoria Schwab's blog and enter her giveaway! You could win a signed first edition of Hourglass by Myra McEntire, a signed Hourglass poster, a $10 iTunes gift card with an Hourglass playlist, and Near Witch swag pack* (signed bookmark, bookplate, set of buttons, playing cards). Trust me, you want all of these things.

*I can tell you from personal experience, the bookmarks and buttons are lovely. I read my set of buttons when I need a NW fix. I have them memorized.

Dear Netflix,

2011-06-12T00:04:00.000-05:00

I was so happy this week, when I went hunting for something new to watch instantly. You see, I'd just watched through Numb3rs from start to finish, mostly because I find Charlie's nose to be very attractive, but also because I like to listen to lectures, even if they are about math, because they make me feel like I'm getting smarter. I was happy because you had made Sports Night available to watch instantly, finally. I have been waiting to watch Sports Night for a very long time. You know how long, because it was after I finished watching Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip using your watch instantly feature, because that was when I discovered that Aaron Sorkin had created another show before he made The West Wing.

I really love Aaron Sorkin. He's an amazing writer, the kind of writer I would love to be at some point in my future. He is on my list of Fantastic Writers Who Can Do No Wrong. You don't get on that list unless you're Very Special. Patricia McKillip, John Green, Melina Marchetta, and Victoria Schwab are the only other living writers on that list. You'll have to trust me about Victoria Schwab, because her first novel, The Near Witch, isn't released yet. You will discover how amazing she is when you read her book, and you should go preorder it. Right now. Go do it.

As I was saying, Aaron Sorkin is really great, and Sports Night was a huge treat for me. I was totally hooked, and I'd just started season two when, much to my surprise, it went away. I searched for it, only to discover that I couldn't watch it instantly anymore. You took it away from me.

In short, Netflix, you ruined my life.

"Sure," you say, "We totally ruined your life, Laura. Yeah, we stole your Unfrosted Strawberry Pop Tarts, broke your car, and infested your wool with moths."

And now you're laughing at me. I swear I can hear you laughing.

Netflix, I live in the middle of a corn field. Gas is $3.88 a gallon, and my car needs new rotors, or maybe just a new wheel bearing. It takes me an hour to get to the nearest major city, and this is Indiana, so how major can that city be? When I get there, I can choose between eating and shopping, both of which require money I spent buying the gas it took to get there. I could turn on my television, but I can't really watch anything, because we don't have cable or a dish or anything, and we live in a cornfield, so there really isn't any signal since TV went digital. And it's summer, so there are no new episodes of anything, anyway.

What I'm saying, Netflix, is that any entertainment in my life comes from YOU.

I was so happy to have Sports Night. I was already rewatching my favorite episodes again and again. I was quoting Sports Night. I was trying to have walk and talks at work, except no one knew what a walk and talk was, because no one there is as obsessed with Aaron Sorkin as I am, so it didn't so much work, but I TRIED. And I was happy, Netflix. I was really happy.

But you did me wrong. You took my Sports Night away from me.

I tried to be patient, Netflix, but it's been a WHOLE DAY, and Sports Night hasn't come back yet. This tells me that maybe, just maybe, this isn't site maintenance. Maybe Sports Night isn't coming back. I want you to know that taking Sports Night away from me is pretty much the same as killing me. There is a giant spear sticking out of my chest right now, Netflix, and you put it there. It was all you.

I was mad at first, but now I am just sad. So very sad. It's like a country song over here, a country song without the twang-y-ness and the cowboy hat. You hurt my heart, Netflix.

I wanted you to know all that, so that you will understand how important it is that you give me an honest answer to my question: When is Sports Night coming back?

I really do need an answer, so I know if I should just order the two seasons on DVD right now. They're sort of expensive, so it would mean not eating for a while, but it would be worth it to have Aaron Sorkin's writing. That's better than food.

Sincerely,

Laura

Something New

2011-05-31T10:36:00.000-05:00

You all should know by now, I love to read. Love, love, love, love. Love. And I read a lot. Crazy amounts, really. So much that I frighten co-workers. Seriously.

I keep a blog for work which is filled with all manner of book-related things, but I find that reviewing books on the work blog means that the book I review should be in our collection RIGHT THEN, and that isn't always the case. Sometimes I get books months before they're released. Sometimes I buy the hardcover version of a book for ME but have to wait for the paperback release date before I can review the book on my work blog. This leads to 1. Me forgetting I planned to review a book, 2. Me being distracted by another, newer book with an all-consuming distractedness, causing me to no longer want to write a review of the other book because I love this new book so much.

In other words, I don't want to wait anymore. You can't make me.

Sometimes, ~~Jen~~ certain individuals ~~complain~~gently remind me that I ought to write more blogs. So I have a solution that might fix my problem ~~AND Jen's~~. Book reviews! I will write them and post them here!

Reviews will mostly be of ARCs or new releases that I completely adore and want to gush about. I will also create a completely ridiculous rating system for the books. It will make you laugh. And I will post it on the sidebar so you can remember how funny it is. And also so you know what the rating system is.

Some of you might be thinking, "Gee, Laura, I really don't want to read your book reviews, because I don't think they will be entertaining in the same manner that the stories you tell about your father are. Book reviews have nothing to do with your father leaving apple cores all over the house, like on bookshelves or on the top of the TV, or in the basement where they grow Friendly Mold and are discovered only when you go on a Smell Hunt trying to figure out what exactly must have died in the crawlspace."

To you I say, "That is sort of mean. But I guess you don't have to read them if you don't want to. You can just ignore me." *crawls into a corner and weeps piteously*

But don't worry. I will still have funny stories for you. And knitting ones. And various rants. I will tell you what my computer did this weekend! You will love that story. It involves me saying nasty things to my computer, questioning its lineage, and otherwise hating on Microsoft. It's a good story.

Near Death Experience Number...I've Lost Count

2011-05-24T08:01:00.000-05:00

I tried to leave work yesterday, but the rain was coming down in sheets and I was wearing my new cute little ballet flats (the ones I was obsessed with last week), so I waited a bit. That choice either 1. saved my life or 2. greatly complicated my drive home.

On the drive through the country, I saw fields filled with only water. The road actually had a current. Really. I don't know how many inches of rain we got in five minutes, but it was a LOT of rain. And the wind was insane. When I got to the gas station in the little town near my house, I pulled in and waited for the wind to calm down and the HAIL to stop, because it was just that bad. I don't have trouble driving in the rain, but I was thinking at that point that if visibility was poor enough, I wouldn't see a car in the opposite "lane" of the little country road I now have to take home because the bridge over the river is being torn down.

I would like to take this moment to repeat: If I were blind, I would have no idea this bridge is out, because no one took the time to, you know, post the fact the bridge being ripped apart on the state's website, or send out fliers or newspapers or...anything. Surprise! Road construction! Who knows when it will be finished--we'll get back to you!

When I could see to drive, I started my car again and made my way over a bridge and onto another road. As I traveled, I noticed a barn that had a perfectly good roof that morning...but the roof was now gone. Nice, I thought. I wonder if that other chunk of tree has fallen on the house? Then I noticed that the same house was missing shingles--that's how windy. Or how tornado-ey.

I drove down the little hill we used to race our bicycles over, across the tiny bridge over a now-roaring creek, and stopped behind a pick-up that was now executing a rather pathetic three-point turn. I could tell why: there was a tree down over the road.

But seriously. This dude was in a pick-up. Couldn't he, like, DRIVE OVER the pathetic little skinny branches? I knew I could drive over those wimpy branches. And I almost did. But as I got closer I noticed there was also something else wrong. The tree had taken a power line down. And it was now on the road, in a puddle. A puddle my car was now sitting in.

Great, I thought. I really did want a little electrocution with my commute. Whatever.

That was when my fuel light went on.

Crap.

I had to find a new way home. Those of you who know me at all are well acquainted with my sense of direction. I don't HAVE a sense of direction. I am like the opposite of one of those homing pigeon things. Spin me around in a circle and I couldn't find the bathroom in my own home. How did I expect to find a new route home when the two paths I knew about were blocked?

I'll tell you how.
Hello, gorgeous.

I pressed the little button that said "Home" and drove back along the road to my last turn. I proceeded on THAT road, and I thought I was doing okay. I was heading further North (forward) and that meant I would have to turn in that other direction, the direction that was right. I mean left. I would have to turn left (this is why that GPS comes in handy).

I went over another tiny hill and discovered--another felled tree. This one was ginormous, too big to even consider driving around, because it would have meant my car in a ditch with no suspension, sinking rapidly in Indiana clay. I turned again, zig-zagging closer to North Manchester and further from my house.

Did I mention the fuel light was on? Because it was.

That road turned onto another country road, this one unpaved. While the car sank in the mud of the "road," I stayed on the phone with the 911 ladies in two counties, because I was sort of in two counties at the same time. The poor 911 ladies could barely hear me because cell service is so bad out in the country.

That is why that movie, Deliverance, could totally happen, even though everyone has cell phones they could use to call 911 if they happened to be stalked by crazy inbred hill people. And I have seen those hillbillies. They come in the library to check their facebook pages and their Match.com requests. Seriously. They are on Match.com, so think twice before you go looking for love there.

I tried to explain this to the 911 ladies, but they couldn't hear me.

By the time I had reported the downed line, I was reaching the end of the soggy dirt (mud) road. I turned onto another road, which was, fortunately, the road I was originally trying to get to when blocked by the power line. Unfortunately, the road was mostly flooded.

At this point, I was sick and tired of all of the turning. The road was flooded, but I could still see through the flood water enough to know how deep the water was and if there was still road underneath it. So I did the Country thing. I plowed my car through the water. Yeah. Even though the nightly news told me that's an easy way to die. Whatever. They never tried to drive home in these conditions. They have HELICOPTERS.

When I arrived home, Mom opened the freezer and presented me with a bowl of hail. She had sent Paul outside to gather it, because she thought I should see.

At least my Monday night wasn't boring.

Can I please have dinner, please?

2011-05-19T14:45:00.000-05:00

I am so blasted hungry right now. So hungry I cannot concentrate on things like wanting these shoes or book discussion tonight, during which we will talk about The Hunger Games.

I feel like Katniss right now.

Why WHY WHY did I think two Pop Tarts would get me from 9:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m.? WHY?

Low Expectations

2011-05-16T17:10:00.000-05:00

I wish I could say I was surprised.

My home state cannot spell the name of my hometown. See?

It's "Roann" not "Roan." Roan is a term used to describe the color an animal's coat.

I could go on and list the many other failings of Indiana's website. But instead, I'm going to issue a challenge to you, my readers. Can you figure out what the cause of the closure of State Road 16 is (this would be between State Road 15 and State Road 19)?

If you can, I promise I will think of a way to reward you, like with cookies or praise or by letting you pick a new blog topic or something. (In other words, I will BRIBE you.)

From Worse to...Much Worse: Laura Gets Some New Neighbors

2011-05-10T09:17:00.001-05:00

You know how that tree fell on my house? And then Dad and Paul smashed one of the back windows because they didn't understand Newton's Three Laws of Motion?

Well, clearly we had to file a claim with our insurance company.

Mr. Insurance Agent Guy told us an adjuster would call us, talk to us, visit us, verify that, yes, a tree DID fall on the house, and then we could get things fixed. But as I told you earlier, Insurance Adjuster said, "You are too far away for me to travel to you," and "I will have this reassigned." We were told to wait. A new adjuster would get in touch with us.

We waited. Nothing.

After the two weeks Insurance Adjuster told us to wait, Mom was suspicious. She called. Mr. Insurance Agent Guy was in shock. No one had been to see us yet? So he called the office where Insurance Adjuster worked to find out what had happened. Then Insurance Adjuster called us.

You see, when the case had been "reassigned," it was sent away from Insurance Adjuster. And then it was sent back. Basically, it was "reassigned" to HIM, so really, it had not been reassigned at all, it was just a bureaucratic black hole, like the Circumlocution Office in Little Dorrit.

Insurance Adjuster guy had clearly been yelled at by Boss Insurance Adjuster, because he made it very clear that this was in no way his fault.

(I'm just not even going to say anything else about that...you know what I'm thinking.)

Mr. Insurance Agent Guy was Unhappy about this Situation. So, HE is going to come and tell us we can go ahead and fix things. So that's good. Something can finally be done, right?

Except, no.

Yesterday, Mom was walking Darcy. Dad was with her. Darcy was sniffing and chasing things and running around. Dad and Mom were looking at the tree from the river bank, not from the house the way we usually see it.

They noticed a few holes in the tree. No one had seen them before, due to the giant branch that used to obscure them, but there they are. Who knows where they came from. Do birds do that? Raccoon? Squirrels? Whatever.

But Mom noticed the holes in the tree weren't ordinary holes in a tree. They were moving, sort of. And so was something in the air around the holes and--oh.

Crap.

You see, when the tree decided to die, because clearly it was a choice by that tree to screw with us, it had become a home to various woodland creatures. I know birds have nested in it, definitely squirrels, but they have all moved on. The new family that's moved into the tree is about 40,000 strong, and I hear their mom is giant, fat, and lazy. Also she bosses everybody around while she lies back in her cell all day, shooting out babies.

Because she has her own cell, in the BEE HIVE where she LIVES.

At this point, Nature is flipping us off. Nature is mooning us. Nature is making obscene hand gestures, and we are Its target. Nature was like, "You like falling asleep to thunderstorms? Okay!" Then Nature said, "You love trees? Really? You planted so many! You must love them! So have a tree!" And then it hurled one on the house. Now it's saying, "You wanted to save the bees, didn't you? So SAVE THEM." And it gave us an entire hive of bees to take care of.

Because you can't just kill bees, what with that hive collapse thing.

Now, none of us have seen the bees up close, so maybe they aren't really honey bees. Having honey bees would kind of be a good thing, because they are having so much trouble, healthy hives are great to find. I'm sure someone would want our bees, in that case.

And I suppose it's great that we didn't send some guy up the tree with a chainsaw only to have him come running down, followed by a swarm of angry bees.

If our luck stays the same, though, these bees are Africanized honey bees, otherwise known as Killer Bees.

No one will want to get rid of our deadly-deadly bees. They will want to leave them alone, and it will take us even longer to get the tree, which is dead and could fall down at any moment, cut up and taken away.

This is what will happen. The tree will fall down. On the house. Through it, really. A swarm of angry, deadly-deadly bees will rise up out of the tree and come for us while we are sleeping. We will try to run, but only the cat would escape because Dad is a bigger target and the rest of us don't like running, plus I have asthma, so I would probably die first, swelling up like a giant Laura Balloon, just like that Violet Beauregarde girl in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I will be a blueberry-shaped corpse, and they won't be able to fit me into a coffin, so they'll have to have one custom-made for people shaped like berries.

What do you even do to get rid of bees? I've never needed to try to make them move before. I mean, bees won't move to a new place because they'd be in a better school district or to be closer to family and yarn stores. Can you bribe bees? Can I get a new bee-house for them and say, "Here bees! Come live here, and I'll give you THIS," while I show them a giant flower I bought from the garden supply store?

Do you think that would work?

Why Won't People Go Away?

2011-05-06T15:18:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, She came back. You know. Her. The one with the granddaughter. The one that asked The Question.

This time, I was ready for her evil ways, so I watched her. And as I stared, it occurred to me that one of us did very much look pregnant. But it wasn't me. She was wearing athletic gear--high waisted yoga pants--the kind that cover the belly but do nothing to conceal or restrain it. The Question burned on my tongue. I forced myself to look away.

While I concentrated on NOT putting her in the same void of despair she put ME in, a little girl came in. She was about eight, young, cute, and eager to find books. I helped her look for a few Junie B. Jones novels to read. She explored.

When she came back around the corner, she walked up and asked if she could leave her books on the circulation desk while she looked for more. I told her she could. Then she walked away.

As she left, I noticed something. A wet spot.

She had wet her pants, I realized.

The location of the spot made it impossible for her to have gotten it any other way. But her grandmother was with her, I thought. Her grandmother would take care of her.

I went over and said as delicately as possible, that I thought the little girl had wet her pants.

What would YOU do if your child or grandchild or niece or nephew or little cousin or baby-sitting-charge had lost bladder control in a public place?

I know what I would have done. I would have whisked the child out to the car, put a plastic bag down on the seat, put the child on the plastic, then driven home before giving the child a bath and a change of clothes, then laundry. If we'd been in a store and I had a cart of things, I would bring them up to the service desk and tell them I was very sorry, but I had to leave in a hurry. If I were, say, here in the library, I would put the books down and take the child home.

That's what anyone would do, right?

Not this grandmother. She first asked the child if she'd wet her pants. The child, with her wet pants (they were gray leggings, so it was VERY obvious there was an issue), stood there. The grandmother checked, made a disapproving noise, and then said--

Wait for this. This is really something.

"Okay, we'll finish picking out your books and then we have to go."

They stayed for another fifteen minutes; the little girl sat on the floor, sat in chairs, leaned back against tables, pretty much everything any normal kid would do while looking for books.

Unlike any other child, when she did it, she left urine on the carpet, chairs, and tables. I watched her every move, marking in my mind the spots I would have to clean when she left.

After five minutes had passed and still I saw no signs of the family departing, I went into the office and asked what on Earth I could do to...contain the problem. Everyone told me to do the thing I'd already done--tell the grandmother and let her take care of it.

Except she wasn't.

I finally checked out the little girl's books, expecting the family to leave then. No. She sat down in a little chair and read a book out loud to her grandmother. The grandmother listened. THEN they went home.

And I went to work. First I grabbed disposable gloves. See, urine might be sterile, but it still comes from the inside of a living creature and is a waste product, so I wasn't taking any chances. Then I went hunting for carpet cleaner, which I basically dumped on the floor in the various spots where the little girl had been seated.

Then, still in my protective wear, I scrubbed down the tables and chairs with bleach wipes.

Once that was finished, I got a new wipe and scrubbed the bottle of carpet cleaner. Then I peeled off the gloves and threw them away, put the carpet cleaner back in the cleaning supply area, and then washed my hands.

This experience, along with Pooping Man, goes on the list of the things the library doesn't put in the job description. That's because if people really knew what they'd be getting into, they'd never sign on.

That's why I need this trip to Chicago so much. I really need a break from cleaning up human waste.

**While writing this, we had another issue, this time with a young man who apparently was unable to clean himself after utilizing the facilities, and now the entire top floor of the library smells like feces**

Dad Wants a Blog

2011-04-28T18:44:00.000-05:00

"I want to do the bloggy thing," Dad said to me today, at the library. He'd come to visit and use the Wi-Fi. "I have blogses. In my head."

And then he made this bizarre finger flail move that I think was meant to signify typing.

Luckily, I had been prepared for this, and I'd already started setting up a blog for Dad. And I have a great method for this whole enterprise, because I know full well that he won't be able to post a blog any more than he can copy and paste things. My plan is to set up the blog, give him an ID, and have HIM give ME his post in a Word document. Then, I will take what he wrote and copy and paste it into Blogger. I will then publish it.

So I looked up at him, narrowing my eyes. "You mean you want to start a blog, right Dad?" I said.

"Yes."

"Okay," I told him. Now came the hard part. "So what you need to do is go here," I scribbled down the web address for Blogger. "Then make yourself an ID, so you can have a blog. Don't do anything else. Just make an ID."

"Good. I'll do that now," he told me. He had his laptop.

Naively, I thought he'd have no problem. I mean, all you do to set up an account is, what, type in your name and your e-mail? That's not so hard, is it?

When the time came for me to eat dinner, I left the library. I didn't see Dad anymore, so I assumed he'd left. He hadn't.

At about 4:34p.m. EST, I heard the Doctor Who theme, so I answered my phone. (Yeah, that's right. My phone rings with the Doctor Who theme. I am just that cool.)

"Hey," Dad said. "Where are you?"

"Wendy's," I said. "Where are you?"

"I was at the library," he replied. "But then you weren't there, so I thought I'd find you."

Lots of our conversations seem to follow this pattern.

"I'll be here for another fifteen minutes," I said.

"I'll come meet you," he told me. Then we hung up.

Moments later, he was there with a vanilla Frosty.

What is the purpose of a vanilla Frosty? Frosties should only come in chocolate. All other flavors, and those stupid MIX-INS are an affront to God and Nature. They lower the Frosty to the level of milk-shake. It's appalling.

Dad started eating his "Frosty."

"I couldn't get that Blogger thing to happen," he said. "I filled out the forms but it kept telling me something was wrong, but I looked for red marks and there weren't any more of them, so I don't know what happened."

That's right. My dad found a way to screw up typing in his contact information. Oh, yeah.

"Well, do you have a username?"

"I have a password."

"Okay, do you have a username?"

"I got a password. I didn't get a username yet, though."

"You get them at the same time, Dad," I replied. "If you have a password, you have a username."

"Oh," he said. "Then it has to be my e-mail, then."

"Write it down for me," I said. He scribbled down an e-mail and his password. "Good," I told him. "Now I will see what happened and try to fix it."

"It just kept taking me to this place called Blogspot," Dad said. "Whistlin' for Him at Blogspot."

Let me pause for a moment while you all cringe inwardly, the way I did.

Because Blogger and Blogspot are THE SAME THING.

"You know how you have to take continuing education classes?" I said calmly.

"Yeah," Dad said.

"I really think you need to start taking computer classes," I said. "Because I can tell from this conversation that me as your computer teacher is not working. I know everything, but I clearly am not teaching you the way you need to be taught."

Dad looked at me, brow furrowed. "I think I need to take an intro to computers class," he said.

"Yes." I said. "I completely agree with you."

When I looked at the comments on my last post, I saw a comment. It was from Pastor Kelly. He said:

As my darling daughter Laura's "Dad," I would like to remind her millions of readers that blogging is like political commentary, in that the commentator uses only those facts that support his position. As the discerning reader I'm sure you are, you will therefore not want to take all these facts at face value. Just sayin'. --"Dad"

Pastor Kelly. Which means Dad has a user profile. Which means he has a username. Which is Pastor Kelly.

*headdesk*

Dad's Rooftop Adventure

2011-04-27T14:43:00.001-05:00

Darcy has a phobia. She is thunder-phobic. She has doggie brontophobia. It developed last spring, when we all went to bed with our respective bedroom doors closed, but without Darcy inside one of the rooms. During that evening, there was a horrible storm, and the massive amounts of thunder and lightning terrified her so completely, she cannot forget the trauma.

Lately, her anxiety has been escalating. She is now also afraid of rain. Ombrophobia.

Yes. Darcy has a doggie anxiety disorder. I know this because she has puppy panic attacks, during which she shakes violently, pants, goes to dark enclosed spaces to feel safe, and sometimes throws up.

All Darcy's fears were realized on Tuesday night. She'd been panicking for a while before the power went out. Seconds after the house was consumed by darkness, the wind picked up.

Standing in my room, I heard something slam into the house and I knew, deep inside, that a tornado was currently rending the house into tiny pieces, including the gorgeous new kitchen floor and probably most of my family.

When no more horror followed, I got back up and made my way to the basement, where death was slightly less likely. We got Darcy downstairs, her poor doggie panic attack in full swing, and Dad recovered from his rude awakening and followed.

After a few minutes, we could tell the worst was over, so we creeped back upstairs (excluding Darcy, who was hiding in the cupboard under the stairs--yes, we have a cupboard under the basement stairs just like Harry Potter lived in back in the Dursleys' house). I mostly just stood there, because I had dropped my flashlight when the giant noise came. Mom was using a flashlight to peer out the picture window intently.

Because there was a tree on our roof.

Well, on and a little bit in.

The giant oak tree outside our window had split apart; part of it was left standing, the other part had landed on our roof like that plane fuselage from Donnie Darko. Except Donnie wasn't killed this time, mostly because we don't have a second floor and Donnie doesn't and has never lived with us, because he's a fictional character. Actually, no one was killed. And the tree wasn't in our living room or anything. It stayed outside, we thought, but we couldn't be sure.

So before the lightning had ended, Dad went outside, got the METAL ladder out, propped it against the side of the house, and climbed up onto the roof with a flashlight to see how bad the damage was.

Luckily, he didn't so much need a flashlight, because the lightning was bright enough to allow him to see. Also, it was constant, so nature provided plenty of light to work by. Never mind the danger of being struck by lightning, or anything. Apparently, Dad believes he is immune to the effects of lightning.

Now, the last time Dad went up on the roof, this happened, so Mom wasn't so happy. With each branch that Dad hurled off the roof, Mom gasped, thinking that the falling branch was her husband, struck dead by lightning. Or just falling off the roof, which is pretty much his hobby.

Paul, convinced that with each passing moment, the likelihood of one of our parents' deaths increased, went outside and climbed up on the roof too, then quickly came back down to announce that we needed tarps and the staple gun, so that we could cover the hole in the roof. Dad reported that the hole was about the size of his thigh (not so big), but that it would cause damage if we didn't cover it. Also, he said, he needed his chainsaw.

Mom and I were willing to go to Walmart to get tarps. None of us were willing to get the chainsaw. Still, Dad was convinced. His mood always becomes...unpleasant when something like this happens. But he kept calling for the chainsaw, until finally he went down to get it.

At that point, I tweeted the following:

Soon, limbs will be flying off the side of the roof. But will they be tree limbs, or human limbs? #ChainsawsintheDark

And then, instead of waiting for more things to go horribly wrong, I went to sleep.

In the morning, we discovered that in addition to the hole Dad found, there were several more smallish-sized holes in the roof. Also, a cracked support beam.

Also, when the tree hit the house, it did so with enough force to cause our ceiling to bow. And the nails driven up into support beams? They were pushed down out of the beams they live in, so now we have several exposed nail heads on the ceiling, which I constantly think are giant spiders coming to kill me. This is more frightening than the prospect of the ceiling somehow caving in.

Dad called his friend Jeff from church, who was also directly involved with Dad's Silver Surfer Wipe out back in November, and Jeff came over to help clean up the damage and patch the roof. This wasn't really what the insurance company wanted, but hey--it's been over a week, and have they sent a claims person to our house to even look at the damage? Nope. So they fixed the immediate problems, to keep water from coursing down on our heads as we watch television.

Dad and Paul cut the remaining chunk of tree into smaller chunks, which they pushed off the roof.

That would have been great, except that one or both of them flunked elementary physics, leading to further complications.

See, the tree was hanging off the house like this:

(Click to embiggen)

The skinny part of the tree, which was hanging over the edge of the roof, was problematic. Dad and Paul decided the best way to remove that section of tree was to cut it, push it, let it hit the ground, then keep pushing it until the end they cut fell away from the house and landed on the ground. Then, Dad and Paul would finish cutting it up and moving it away from the house.

That was what they wanted to happen.

Do you know Newton's various Laws of Motion?

My family doesn't.

This is why I can never leave the house.

Objects, whether they be shoes or strawberries or giant hunks of trees, all have mass. Mass means they take up space, have some kind of weight, and whatnot.

When the forces of nature are at "equilibrium," then whatever the thing is, the thing wants to stay where it is. That's balance. Everything wants to not have to move. Like me. I don't want to have to move. Do you?

If equilibrium didn't exist, like if we had no gravity, I could throw my shoe and it would keep flying away in the direction I threw it forever, or at least until it hit something that made it change directions. That's inertia. Bill Nye says inertia is a property of matter. I remember. But because we do have gravity, it fights the inertia, so if I throw my shoe right now, gravity will make it stop, probably pretty quickly.

The reason my shoe won't go very far is because I am a total wimp, and you need lots of force to make things move fast and far away from you when you throw them. That's why major league baseball players take so many steroids.

To make this Sciencey, that means the mass of my shoe, multiplied by the acceleration of me throwing it, will equal it's force. That looks like this when you Math it:

Fnet = m * a

See?

The giant chunk of tree has mass. Lots of mass. Dad and Paul provided a force when they shoved it down off the roof.

But here's the thing. This is where we get into the Big Physics. If the force isn't great enough to combat, say, gravity...then you end up with something like a pendulum. The mass of the big thing has an impact on the way it moves. So does the power of Gravity. You have to fight both to make a thing move. That's physics. This takes us to Newton's third law of motion, which is that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

Since Dad and Paul didn't account for the various forces of nature, they were thwarted totally by the mass of the tree and, you know, gravity.

They shoved the tree off the roof, as planned. It hit the ground, as planned.

But the big fat part of the tree was in the air, and the tiny, skinny end of the tree was on the ground. That made the tree swing, like a pendulum, from the fixed point of the ground.

What was in the way of the ground?

Oh. Right.

The house.

Basically, my father and brother had a Physics Fail, and the tree slammed through one of the windows of the house, shattering the window inward. Also, it was right in the spot where my mother knits all the time.

So, of course, Dad thought he'd killed Mom, and he totally would have if she hadn't been on the phone with various people trying to explain how we had a giant tree on the roof of the house. Dad ran down off the ladder, making Mom think Paul had fallen off the roof and died, because we have a bad track record with roof-safety.

Instead, Dad came rushing over and there was a touching moment, before Mom realized that Dad could have killed her, plus he'd broken a window, and now there was glass all over the sofa and the carpet, broken glass which was super sharp, and we all know Dad wasn't going to clean it up.

So now there is a boarded-up window at my house, plus various spider-like nail heads poking out of the ceiling, plus a bowed ceiling that may or may not cave in, plus no insurance adjuster guy, because the man assigned our case lives in Indianapolis, so right when he was ready to come visit us and see the damage, he realized where we lived and gave our case to someone else and now we have to wait something like two more weeks before we fix anything.

We're not angry about waiting, though. Mostly, we're just laughing.

What Happened to My Eye

2011-04-19T13:33:00.000-05:00

I feel that I need to confess something.
This morning when I woke up, I washed my hair the way I do every morning, and then I got out my hair dryer, and I dried my hair, because that's what I do.

Then I turned off the hair dryer and pressed the button that retracts the cord. This is a new feature that my old hair dryer didn't have. But my old hair dryer exploded, so I bought this one, partially due to the ease of cord-management.

But when I pressed the cord button, I was holding the cord to my hair straightener, not the cord for the hair dryer, so the hair dryer cord whipped me in the face, and the big square plug section of the plug hit me in my eye, which was open.

Also, it knocked out my contact lens.

This is why I can't have nice things.

The Anatomy of a Headache

2011-04-13T14:19:00.000-05:00

I always know I'm about to get a sinus headache because I get a toothache.

Really.

After several trips to the dentist, it was explained to me in a not-so-patient tone that the roots of teeth come up surprisingly close to sinuses, and sinus swelling can put pressure on teeth, causing a toothache without a cavity.

My headaches start between my first and second molars. First it feels like I have something caught between them. Nothing is there. Slowly it starts to feel like I'd better have these teeth pulled or something, before they cause an infection that will kill the nerves of my face, but the dentist says that's not going to happen, so I cope.

If I take two Sudafed (the little red tablets) and two ibuprofen RIGHT THEN, as soon as I feel the problem starting, usually I can stop the headache in its tracks. I usually switch from my contacts to my glasses then as well, because the added pressure of two flimsy little contact lenses is enough to worsen sinus pressure for me, and that's not what I want.

At Loose Ends (that's knit night) yesterday, I got those symptoms. BUT I DID NOT HAVE IBUPROFEN.

As a result, I got a sinus headache. And when I didn't leave instantly for a cold, quiet, dark place, the headache quickly became a migraine.

Believe me when I tell you, if you think you've had a migraine, you're probably wrong. If you think "migraine" means "really bad headache" or "a headache I can live with but I'd rather not have to" or "a headache I have to lie down to get rid of" you're wrong. A migraine makes you think dying isn't so bad. A migraine makes you feel like dying is VERY GOOD. My mother has gotten migraines for most of my life, and people are constantly saying that they get them too, but the way they laugh and shrug and wonder why Mom can't just "pull herself together" the way THEY do means they have no idea what they're talking about. And, as a result, I lose my temper with them.

People who really have migraines talk about them differently. They go very serious and I swear, some of them look like old soldiers talking about war. Because finding medicine that can actually help you get rid of a migraine IS war, I watched my mother go through it all, back when you used to have to take your medicine by injection. Mom would have Dad give them to her because she couldn't manage it herself. He used to have to take her to the emergency room.

A migraine makes you feel like this.

Phineas Gage engraving, 2010, Warren Anatomical Museum,

Francis A. Countway Library of Medicine*

Sometimes, a migraine feels WORSE than that. And usually, the angle of entry on that railroad spike is different. Imagine the spike entering from the temple, then it's about right.

Migraines come with other fun things, like a heightened sense of smell. Wondering what newspaper ink really smells like? Walk past the local newspaper with a migraine! You'll also find yourself refusing to buy ballpoint pens because "the ink smells horrible," hating your family for cooking meals, thinking that the flowers outside are punishing you, hating the scent of balloons and inflatable pool toys, and so forth. Not appealing enough? How about sensitivity to light? Suddenly, velvet is in vogue again, and you have double-thick velvet curtains! Sensitivity to sound? Of course! You'll be screaming at relatives to stop "typing so loud" and yelling at your brother, "NORMAL PEOPLE DON'T LAUGH THAT LOUD," and generally making your bedroom a sound-free zone.

How about visual hallucinations? Those are fun, too. No, really. Those are fun. If you can get past the brain-crushing pain. Colors are very pretty and shiny.

You don't HAVE to get all of those extra symptoms with a migraine, but I do. Just like I get all the deadly, deadly side effects that come on the warning labels of prescription medications (metalfishdeath). Luckily, I don't get them as often as my mother does. I just get them when I make the stupid mistake of eating processed meats.

That means no hot dogs. Usually, anything sold in the hot dog section of a grocery store gives me a migraine. I am okay if I have kosher deli meats, because they're safe. But only if they're Kosher. I'm a big fan of Hebrew National hot dogs. The reason is nitrites. Sodium nitrite is used to preserve meat and keep it looking fresh. It does not preserve me.

But I know to avoid those things! So life is more or less okay.

Except for yesterday, when I made myself a frozen pizza. It was a new kind of pizza, with a super-thin crust and roasted red peppers and mushrooms and onion. And pepperoni. I have never had a problem with pepperoni before. Yesterday was an exception.

I left poor Rachael almost the second she arrived at knit night, raced down to CVS and bought ibuprofen. When I arrived at home, I threw up and went to bed. It was a great Tuesday.

You know how people say their leg or arm still hurts, after it's been amputated? That is how my head feels today. I don't HAVE a headache, but I feel the place where my headache used to be. It is unpleasant. And it stole my night from me, which should have been filled with knitting and maybe some Glee.**

No fair.***

*Image from the Center for the History of Medicine at Harvard University at Countway Library.

**Yes, I'm watching Glee. I hate myself a little.

***Was this entire blog post one long build-up to a complaint? Why yes, it was. I'll try to make the next one a bit less whiny.

Physics Is Not the Answer

2011-04-12T09:14:00.000-05:00

What is wrong with this state?

The weather here is insane. I know I should be used to it by now, and I also know that I shouldn't be blaming Indiana for having crazy weather when I don't really know about the weather in other states, but STILL. I don't see how the weather in New Jersey or Texas or Colorado could be as bizarre as the weather here.

Last week, I was wearing a winter coat everywhere. Sunday, it was over 80 degrees (we're talking Fahrenheit, if you were wondering) outside, and easily 90 in my bedroom. I thought I could combat the rising temperatures by taking a fan and putting it in my window, so the cooler air from the outside would come inside and make my life happier.

But it didn't work.

I spent Sunday night sweating in bed. On bed, really, because I threw off all the covers hoping that maybe, just maybe, I could lower my body temperature that way. Nope. When I get home and look at my sheets, they will look like the Shroud of Turin, only Laura-shaped. That is gross beyond belief. C.S.I. gross.

When I was a little girl, we didn't have air conditioning. Luckily, I didn't know the difference. Dad bought us fans. Three of them. Four, really. I got a small pink fan, Paul got a tan colored one. They didn't rotate. If there was any such thing as rotation back then, I didn't know about it. I used to sit with my face inches from the fan and wait to cool down. It never worked.

We had a large industrial-strength metal fan that sat in the living room. It didn't rotate either. This led to me convince my brother that sitting behind the fan meant he'd get the cooler air faster than me, because the air had to go past him to get through the fan to get to me. That was a lie, and this is another reason why I am on the Bad Sibling List.

On one very exciting day, Dad brought home another fan. This one was tall and it MOVED on its own. So Paul and I started sitting next to each other, and that was when he stopped believing my lies.

Well. He stopped believing the lie about the fan...he still believed other ones.

When we reached junior high, Dad decided that, while we were too immature to use a real paint brush, we were allowed to have box fans, which he shoved into windows. Wow. It was the best invention ever. Cool (humid) air came inside the house, and although I still felt like I was about to die, at least the situation had slightly improved.

We went on that way for several years. By then, my cousin was in college, and one of his roommates had a window air conditioner. Then the roommate replaced his window air conditioner and gave it to my cousin, who then passed it on to us.

It was huge. I think it was the first window air conditioner ever to be invented. It spat out dank air, but the air was cool, and it made the living room habitable--no more sticking to the couch! We peeled the sheets off of the furniture, we didn't need them anymore. Sure, the air conditioner sort of made the living room smell like a swamp, but a cool swamp was way better than basting in the rotisserie that was our home.

Paul and Mom looked at me. I looked at them.

Moments later, we'd disassembled our mattresses and pulled them into the living room. We carefully arranged them in a manner reminiscent of a malaria ward or one of those hospitals in Panama they built for all the workers keeling over with yellow fever, but what did we care? We were no longer sweating out half our body weight at night. That was enough. I nicknamed the air conditioner "Swamp Cooler" after the air conditioner in Laurie Notaro's books, and we were happy.

But all good things must end.

One summer, the Swamp Cooler spat out humid, legionnaire's disease-ridden air...and nothing else. There was no more cool air. The air conditioner had died.

Dad was happy to just sweat. He'd been sleeping in his bedroom without the air conditioner for years, he said. We could live without air conditioning.

He was wrong.

Before, the heat had been a fact of life. I would leap into the bathtub or go into the basement to cool off. But now I knew what life could be. It could be a happy place where driving to the mall meant shopping, not just sitting in the food court until it was time for the movie because it was too hot to stay home. Standing in the front yard waiting for a storm to come and rain so maybe, just maybe, the temperature would drop a few degrees had lost its appeal.

Mom, who had always been plagued with migraines, now had to lie in the path of several fans, her brain poaching like an egg inside her skull. I took to driving the lawn mower extra fast, so I could have a cool breeze while I mowed.

And then it happened.

I didn't believe it at first, but soon the house was in the midst of construction. First, there was new wiring. The Swamp Cooler, infamous for blowing fuses, had done so because the house had old wiring. New wiring would mean we could run the washer and dryer with the air conditioning and still open the garage door if we wanted to.

Then a man came with booklets, and Mom studied them carefully. Then he came back. With our new air conditioner. It was the best part of the summer, maybe even the best part of my life.

But I can't justify turning on the air conditioner when it's a nice, breezy 60 degrees outside. Or even if it's 70! Think of all the electricity it uses--we can still just open a window then.

So Sunday night I roasted, feeling that the hand of death was surely upon me. I hated my life, I hated my stupid fan and the pathetic way it was churning out room-temperature air all over the room. I decided that there must have been some kind of issue with air pressure. The wind, I thought, is hitting the garage door, after all. My room is on the other side of the house. In fact, my window is EXACTLY opposite. That means, I thought, that there is a vacuum or something that's making the hot, gross air in my room stay in my room and never move. Physics, I thought. That is why I am suffering.

Monday evening.

The air outside was lovely and cool. I was still in a roasting hot bedroom. What was I to do? I pried my window open again and waited for cold air. This time, I thought, air would come in. Air COULD come in, because the wind direction had changed!

But there was no cool air.

Why, I thought, does Paul's bedroom get cool air from outside while my bedroom got nothing? Clearly, something was wrong. I was being punished for lying about that stupid fan.

I grabbed my little fan and shoved it into the window again. But the air was still the same as it had been the night before. I was going to die. I would have to sleep in the basement. But there was a weird smell in the basement, and we hadn't figured out what was making it yet. I wasn't going to sleep next to a dead mouse or a spider colony. No way.

I sat up and yanked the fan back out of the window. And I saw myself. In the window. Except the window was open.

The window was open, but not the storm window. I had been lying in bed, miserable, wondering for DAYS why I was so overheated. And all because I opened every storm window in the house except mine.

This is why I need a special sticker for my car or something. Really.

Found: A Study in Relief

2011-04-05T13:22:00.000-05:00

I called home. I really couldn't help it.

"Mom," I pleaded. "Could you go check the pockets of my corduroy pants? I think my key is in one of them."

Because she loves me, Mom checked.

There it was. My key. Nestled in a pocket safe and sound. No horrible, gruesome death for me. Tonight I will go home and fashion some kind of key-bracelet or key-necklace that I will put on and never remove, just in case.

Missing: A Neurosis

2011-04-05T09:36:00.000-05:00

I am missing a key.

I can feel the space it once occupied. It's like a hollow place, a sinking pit. Deep inside, I know it's not where I think it is. It's missing.

I do this thing with important things. Keys, iPod, phone, inhaler, book--all go into my purse and stay there. During the day, I remove them as needed and replace them when I finish with them. But that doesn't stop me from pausing, a sense of dread washing over me, to rush back to my purse or coat pocket so I know I still have keys to my car and my cell phone isn't in the hands of terrorists or tourists who make long international phone calls.

It's not that I don't think these things are where they belong--far from it. They have never been missing before. I go hunting for them compulsively, and when I find them, I feel a sense of peace and joy, a contentment that comes only from knowing that I haven't locked anything in my car or dropped whatever it is in a public restroom. I do it for the rush I get when I discover the objects aren't missing.

I think it's evidence of mental illness.

In the seventh grade, we got lockers for the first time.

In the beginning, I got a lock with a key, because I couldn't figure out the combination lock Mom gave me to practice with. But then I lost the key, so I used the bolt cutter-thing from the front office, and I had to get a new lock.

I repeated this process a lot. I went through seven locks in the first semester of junior high. I killed two more in my second semester. Keys, I explained to my mother, are hard. They can't just live in your pockets, because then you wake up and put on CLEAN pants, and the keys stay in your dirty ones in the laundry basket, where they are of no help to you.

Mom bought me a purse, but I refused to carry it, mostly because it kept me from carrying around the giant Complete Sherlock Holmes book I was reading when I was bored in class. It was over a thousand pages of Holmesian Goodness.

I had a lot of friends in junior high.

To make matters worse, I couldn't use the bolt cutters. They were heavy, with long handles that made aiming them difficult. If I positioned them around the lock and tried to reach back and take the handles, the blades (are they called blades?) would slip and mean I'd only managed to scratch the locker's paint. I used to have to beg an office helper to come with me, or else wait for someone to walk down the hallway to help me.

Mostly I just wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

That was how my System was devised. First, you make certain you have lots of sets of keys, then you put them in various places. Then you panic, check that they are still where you put them, and after that, you can relax and go to class or work or home to sleep.

I'm telling you--mental illness. I scare myself on purpose. I like to scare myself. Are your keys still there, Laura? (I think to myself in the third person, like my brain is the narrator). Then I check. Good, I think. Keys are good.

This morning I did that when I got to work. Car keys? Check--just finished driving. Key to the building....what?

MY KEY IS GONE.

Naturally, I am panicking. At some point between yesterday and today, my key VANISHED.

Now, I know where it is. It has to be in my pants pocket. Really. There is no other place.

BUT WHAT IF IT ISN'T.

In the car, maybe? Did it fall into the seat? What could I have done to it at the pizza place / Walmart / home that made it leave me?

YES, BUT WHERE ARE THEY NOW?

Certainly they are in my pants pocket. My pants from yesterday. And they are in my room. In the laundry. So they can be washed. But there are keys there. Unless they fell out, and then they're somewhere else. Like at the pizza place, where I ate dinner, in that booth by the window, across from the woman who left her teeth at home when she went out for pizza. She spent the whole meal using her gums to tear off pizza chunks, then her whole face seemed to collapse as she tried to chew without teeth. It was...alarming. And maybe it was why I didn't hear it when my keys fell out of my pocket. If they fell out. Because maybe they didn't.

Of course they didn't.

Since when does stuff just fall out of my pockets? The only pants with that problem are these pants, which I am wearing today, which means I most definitely did not wear them yesterday. And still, even with these, I only lose lip balm--never keys. Keys are heavy and not round, so they stay where you put them, generally.

Unless they fall out.

But they didn't.

You know, if people use those keys to break into my house and murder me and use my skin as material to make a dress like that one man I heard about on TV did, it will be because I could not find my keys*. He will be waltzing around in his Skin Suit and hating his mother, who made him crazy, and I will be skinless, dead on the floor. It will be on Dateline, and it will all be because I could not find my keys.

Or I could just get robbed. Because there is so much robbery here in the country, where no one lives.

Maybe they will steal my car, and they will use it as the getaway vehicle and there will be a nation-wide manhunt because of the Skin Suit thing, and that car isn't even paid off yet.

But I will be dead, so I guess I won't really be in a position to care.

Still, I would rather stay alive and find my keys. I need my keys. They let me into places, like my house, where my books live. And me--I live there too!

WHERE ARE MY KEYS?!

I need to find them.

But I can't go home at noon like some people do, because it takes me 30 minutes to drive home and 30 minutes to drive back, and that adds up to my whole lunch hour. Notice that it would not include time for eating. That defeats the purpose of having a lunch hour in the first place.

Maybe I can call home.

Mom could look in the pockets of my pants, and then she will find my keys!

Unless they aren't there. And what if they aren't? THEN WHAT WILL HAPPEN?

You cannot use bolt cutters to take off the door of your house when you lose your keys! You have to call a guy to come, and he'll make you a new key--BUT THOSE GUYS ARE EXPENSIVE! Also I don't think anyone would be walking down the road to help me work the bolt cutters. People don't just walk down our road, mostly because there is no sidewalk and it would be easy to die when large trucks barrel down the road at a high speed.

This is bad.

I think I was the only one with a key to the house! Maybe Dad has one too, but everyone else doesn't! Or maybe they do, but they always have me unlock the door! I won't be able to unlock the door without a key?

We will have to start living in the garage.

And spiders already live there. We ceded the garage to the spiders when we ran out of Bug Death Spray in the fall. They are as big as my face, and they want me dead, I'm sure. I could see it in their eyes, which are big enough to see from across the room. Shelob lives in my garage.

Please don't make me share a bedroom with Shelob.

If you see a set of keys, they will have a key ring on them from my college, which is what they give you when you graduate even though it is worth a fraction of a percentage of what you spent to attend school there. If you find them, please tell me. Seriously. Call me on the phone. I will come pick them up, and then I will be able to, you know...

Live.

*You probably shouldn't click the link to Wikipedia, but I'm putting it there anyway so you don't think I'm making horrible, disgusting things up, because I'm totally not. I just remember everything and some of the everything involves the life stories of gross and morally reprehensible people whose lives inspire movies like Psycho and books like Silence of the Lambs.

Evenly Spaced

2011-03-30T18:21:00.000-05:00

The pattern said I should mark the positions for seven buttonholes. It said I should space them evenly. That was all the pattern said.
I am hugely devoted to Gundrun Johnston. I am addicted to her patterns, partially because her designs are super cute, partially because no one writes a pattern better than she does.

That being said, when Gundrun Johnston wrote the evenly space seven buttonholes line, she triggered something in my brain. I don't think she could have possibly anticipated how one little sentence could make me so crazy. But it did.

Last night, I picked up something like 20,000 stitches around the front and neckband of my sweater. I'm making Shalder, from The Shetland Trader, Book 1 (without the pockets, because I think I would not use them and because I think they would only exist to make me look rounder at the middle than I am, or to make my torso look like a frowny face, depending on the angle).

The pattern said I should have a 32" circular needle, a U.S. size 7. This posed a few problems because I keep buying size 7s, but the second I shell out the money for them, they hit some kind of Hawking black hole in my room or my knitting bag or in that cute little fake luggage box thing I bought at Hobby Lobby that has all the other circular needles inside it. I should have at least three or four size 7s. When I started knitting I found only one, and it was a 16" (okay, maybe it was a 20-something-inch circular) and not a 32", which means the cable was shorter than it needed to be. But I shrugged off the difference, because I've made sweaters on that length before, and it all works out just fine.

I was proud of my picked-up stitches, even if they were crammed on my tiny cable so tightly, I could not move them around at all without dropping a few off the needle. No matter--I had picked up some good lookin' stitches. I was proud! So proud that I walked around the house and showed my family.

"Paul," I said. "Look at these stitches. Just look at them. I picked these up. See that nice, even line? And there are no gaps! These are the best stitches ever!" And Paul stared at them, stared at me, and said something or other about how I'd done a good job.

"Mom," I said. "I have to show you this, because you're a fellow knitter. You know what this means." I displayed my stitches. And then I may have volunteered to pick up stitches for her all the time. I blame wool fumes.

I had all 7 billion stitches picked up! This was great! And then I noticed the "evenly spaced buttonholes" sentence.

Really? Really? Had I actually missed that?

Of course I had.

I grabbed waste yarn. I moved one section of stitches onto the waste yarn, pinned the sweater with blocking pins, and stared. Then I measured. Then I stared.

I begged Twitter for help. Then I tried to do math. Then I begged for more help. And then I searched for help on the internet, because the internet knows everything.

Then I stared.

I did math in inches. Then I did math in centimeters. It didn't help.

I have to get this right, I thought. Because if I don't, people will know.

I envisioned myself standing at some kind of knitting mixer, holding a martini glass with yarn inside just like at a yarn "tasting" I went to when I first started knitting. Then I envisioned Stephanie Pearl-McPhee, the Yarn Harlot, coming up to talk to me. Then Imaginary Stephanie went over to Franklin Habit (also imaginary), leaned over, and whispered, "That girl's buttonholes aren't even. One space is giant, and the other spaces are tiny! What is that about?*"

I should probably tell you that, in my head, all the cool people of the Knitting World hang out together all the time, even though some of them live in different states or even different countries (Twitter feeds this illusion). Also, the Cool People of Knitting in my nightmare scenario were in some kind of Knitting Mafia, and I was there as some kind of dumb kid who was about to be embedded in the concrete supports for some kind of bridge.

Believe it or not, I have never watched a crime movie, nor do I know anything about the real mafia at all, or any other sort of organized crime family, except that in part of Italy, the mob stopped collecting garbage for a while, and it was gross.

Imaginary Franklin Habit looked at Imaginary Me in my Imaginary Completed Sweater with its Unevenly Spaced Buttonholes. Then he made a face.

Yes. In my scenario, Imaginary Franklin Habit made a face like the girl Willoughby ended up marrying in Sense and Sensibility, the movie version with Emma Thompson and Kate Winslet, when they're all in London and Marianne says, "Will you not shake hands with me?" And Willoughby shoots her down. Then he goes over and tells his new girlfriend some excuse, and she looks over at Marianne and makes a FACE. It's a "Look at the trashy country girl" face. Imaginary Franklin Habit was MEAN, which is not actually true at all, because I met him once, and he was REALLY NICE. He was knitting lace--a baby blanket, I think--and he'd designed the pattern. Seriously--he's super nice! No way would Real Franklin Habit make that face. NO WAY.

In my deranged, buttonhole-spacing mind, Stephanie Pearl-McPhee and Franklin Habit had become Evil. Which is especially crazy of me, because I'm pretty sure Stephanie has been through all this before with knitting, including the mini-meltdown. In fact, I'm sure she has.

But I had become convinced. The next time I go to one of her readings, I thought, Stephanie will pull out a tape measure, one she carries for this purpose and this purpose alone, and then she will measure my buttonhole spacing. It will be like a Knitting Exam, and I will fail, right there in front of all the knitters and spinners.

I ate another Reese's Mini. Clearly, Reese's Minis are some kind of drug that contributed to my meltdown.

Suddenly, I thought of Elizabeth Zimmerman. What would EZ do?

Just as quickly, Imaginary Elizabeth Zimmerman was in my head with Imaginary Franklin and Imaginary Stephanie, and she was raising an eyebrow, and she was taking a deep breath to start a knitting lecture.

Wait. I thought. Elizabeth Zimmerman is no longer with us--so how is she there making fun of my sweater? But then Imaginary Elizabeth Zimmerman became transparent, so I wasn't being lectured to by Imaginary Elizabeth Zimmerman, but by Imaginary Elizabeth Zimmerman's Ghost (you know, like Hamlet's father).

Meanwhile, Twitter was busy telling me that my scenario was covered in crazy sauce, and no way was Elizabeth Zimmerman's Ghost about to drop by my house just to mock me. Also, Twitter said, no way was Stephanie going to measure the spaces between my buttonholes.

Something finally clicked. Of course they were right. In fact, I thought, in Stephanie's books, she talks about how she can never find tape measures! So if she tried to measure my sweater, she wouldn't be able to...theoretically. Also, Franklin is NICE. And so is Stephanie! And even if Elizabeth Zimmerman happened to drop by...it seems like she was nice too! So she wouldn't be mean, would she?

I relaxed enough to place the buttonholes. And yes, my cell phone camera makes funny pink-yellow spots in the middle of pictures. It's very flattering.

Who knows if they are even or not. I certainly don't.

But I'll be measuring the buttonhole spacing before I go to another one of Real Stephanie's readings, just in case.

*It is worth mentioning that Stephanie says the word "about" in a fantastic way, and I love listening to her say it. This was why I majored in English, and why I got an A in History of the English Language when we all listened to different people speaking English, then wrote down what they were saying phonetically. Because I am a Word Nerd.

35 Steps to a Lazy Weekend

2011-03-28T09:06:00.000-05:00

1. Leave work. Note that train is stopped on tracks. Realize that this is related to train accident you heard about earlier, in which semi filled with five hour energy drink had not fully crossed tracks when struck by train. Recall that semi is now in three pieces, not counting the spilled energy drink. Curse under breath.

2. Sit in traffic jam for thirty minutes, until police (also stuck in traffic jam) manage to navigate through town and to intersection. Wait for police to direct traffic. Cross energy drink-free tracks.

3. Drive home.

4. Arrive home from work. Change from work clothes into jeans and Magic Hoodie.

5. Realize that Reese's Minis are still gone.

6. Drive back to Wabash in order to go to Walmart. Pretend that you are doing this to buy cat food, when really, it is all about the Reese's Minis.

7. Buy Reese's Minis. Normal Reese's Peanut Butter Cups are not an acceptable substitution.

8. Drive back home.

9. Arrive home ten minutes after Fringe has begun. Curse under breath.

10. Begin knitting yoke of sweater. Start lace chart.

11. Discover that lace chart is not worked over only right side rows, but also over wrong side rows. Eat Reese's Minis.

12. Start watching Criminal Minds, because Prentiss is now somewhere in Europe if not somewhere even further away, and everyone thinks she's dead when she really isn't, which is tragic, and way more tragic than it was when J.J. left, because they could call J.J., and they so can't call Prentiss, because they just buried her, even if the coffin is actually empty. Cry a little.

13. Realize that random bouts of tears might be related to lack of sleep over work week. Go to bed early.

14. Wake up. Stare at clock. Shrug.

15. Wake up again. Eat lunch.

16. Start working on yoke of sweater. Proceed through large portion of lace chart.

17. Cook dinner.

18. Eat dinner.

19. Go back to working on sweater.

20. Stare at lace chart. Watch as chart blurs and swirls over page.

21. Develop migraine.

22. Go to bed early.

23. Wake up. Squint at clock.

24. Crawl out of bed. Start working on lace chart.

25. Finish lace chart. Count stitches. Discover that sweater has approximately 20 stitches more than what sweater should have.

26. Eat a few more Reese's Minis.

28. Rip back six rows of sweater. Put stitches back on needles.

29. Rip back four more rows of sweater. Put stitches back on needles.

30. Knit lace chart. This time, actually follow chart.

31. Finish lace chart, discover sweater has 3 stitches less than what sweater should have.

32. Shrug. Pretend sweater is size smaller than sweater is.

33. Work short rows across back.

34. Place sweater on waste yarn. Eat more Reese's Minis. Try on sweater.

35. Rejoice that sweater is both cute and correct size. Go to sleep.

Numbers, Bugs, Toad Girl, and GQ

2011-03-25T09:41:00.002-05:00

I've had enough of vomiting, really I have. But it seems as if fate thinks differently about the whole Laura throwing up thing, and that's sad. For me, at least.

And no, before you dart away in terror, this is not a blog post about the different ways I have thrown up, but that could actually be pretty funny, even if it is disgusting.

No.

My story is about a bug.

Not good enough? Okay.

My story is about two very, very attractive guys.

Mostly it is about numbers.

I cannot remember them. Give me a list of dates, I will remember the month and maybe the day, but never the year. That's because I can only remember about two or three numbers at a time. My short term memory and numbers don't mix. It got so bad that in college, when I had to know dates for history courses, I would use a basic cipher to make dates into a sequence of letters, which I could remember. No problem.

That's how I passed Western Civ when I accidentally took it from the wrong professor, the lady who could speak while she was inhaling, sneezing, and yawning. Seriously, take a minute and try saying something while taking a breath. It's almost impossible. Our bodies can't make noises that way. You'd have to be some kind of alien to speak while breathing in--

Oh.

That makes all kinds of sense.

The number thing is usually no big deal. I write things down a lot, that's all. I can survive. But Saturday, I was going to the movies. To a matinee, with a friend from work.

Ugh.

I suck as a human being.

The two of us had made our plan, I'd scribbled a number on a post-it note, and I'd gone back to the Children's Room, where I'd transferred the number from the post-it to my cell phone event planner.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.

The problem: The post-it said 2:35 p.m. I programmed in 3:25 p.m.

WHY couldn't it have been the other way around? I can wait for an hour--I have knitting!

I discovered my error as I hopped into my car. I'd been planning to arrive a bit early for the movie...but that plan had already failed. Stupid.I texted my friend to warn her of my error. I prayed she would notice my text, and I barrelled down the road, breaking several traffic laws so shockingly, even I was impressed.

When I finally pulled into the parking lot, I was beginning to worry that the movie theater people wouldn't be able to even sell me a ticket for the showing I had mostly missed. But I didn't care. I was getting into the movie if I had to beg, plead, or buy a ticket for a later showing that would have cost me double the price of a matinee ticket. I had screwed up, bad, and I needed to FIX IT.

I was, needless to say, sprinting across the parking lot. When I got the the sidewalk, I noticed people, so I slowed to a walk and tried to act dignified while still sort-of rushing.

Did I mention it was spring-like on Saturday? The week had been warm enough that I'd discovered a mosquito. The bugs had emerged, and I hated it.

On my walk into the theater, I noticed a Beetle-and-or-Fly-Creature dangerously close to my face. I swatted it out of the way and kept walking.

And there was my problem.

Because while I was coping with BaoFC, it's counterpart, Stink-Bug-Thing, was soaring through the air. And I sucked it straight into my lungs.

The noise that followed was something between a gag and a retch, kind of like a dry-heave, only with more spit. It was something like throwing up, mixed with coughing, but with no actual vomit involved. It was a gross noise, and after I'd made it, SBT was still in my mouth so I was forced to spit, which didn't work out because I really can't spit very well, it usually ends with spit on my shirt, shoes, or chin. Spit for me is like drool for most people, because I was trained from a young age that girls do not spit, and that no one ever should, because it is vulgar, gross, and unhygienic, spreading all kinds of illnesses like that 1918 flu epidemic that ravaged the world during WWI, killing more people than the war. And yes, I remembered that date with letters.

I spat out the bug, missing my feet, but the noise and the spitting had attracted the attention of two people I'd passed seconds before. Two people that I now discovered were guys. Guys my age. Men, really. And these men were cover-model gorgeous. They were so good-looking, I was instantly convinced that the two of them had to be from some other state, a Pretty People state, where the good-looking live and are discovered on the street by various talent scouts, photographed, cast on CW television shows, and released back into the wild so they can procreate, thus creating more gorgeous people who can then exemplify all that is beautiful in the world.

These two guys were GQ-Cover-Handsome, and standing next to them, I looked even more like Toad Girl than normal, especially with the fly catching I'd just done, and with all the tongue-involvement of getting the fly out of my mouth.

Needless to say, the guys were looking right at me.

Guys don't look at me. I am sort of invisible. I like it that way. I may not have a fancy cloak or anything, but I have PRACTICED my invisibility. It is my art.

"That's graceful," Guy One said. Guy Two just stood there.

"It was a fly," I stammered. "It flew into my mouth. I had to get rid of it...I'm so sorry!"

Rather than endure another second of the conversation, I fled into the movie theater, begged the manager for a ticket, and rushed in to meet my friend. This was when I realized that, with all the spitting and coughing, I had maybe killed SBT, or at least it had released its stink-bug stink, because my mouth tasted awful in a serious way.

And that is why there is no way I will ever be late to meet a friend again. Ever.

Note: Toad Girl is a super-hero name I gave myself just now. It is because I love cool, dark places, I burn in sunlight, have dry, speckled skin, suck bugs into my mouth, and I have what my eye doctor once called, "Prominent Eyes," which was just a nice way of saying my eyes are huge and stick out from my head like some kind of amphibian, although when I swallow, my eyes do not go back into my skull like a toad's, so maybe it is not the best super-hero name out there.

Don't Ask

2011-03-22T09:29:00.000-05:00

There are some things you just can't come back from.

Take for example, speech class, in which I bravely stood up to give my extemporaneous speech only to panic and flee. I ran back to my seat after barely half a minute, with some random sputterings, and the only reason why I didn't fail my speech assignment was that I had some good eye contact in that first few seconds, which not many of the other students attempted. Or maybe it was just that my terror was so visible, I could not be punished. Or maybe it was that I love Nick Drake and my professor was thrilled that one of his students even knew who Nick Drake was (yeah, in hindsight, it was probably the Nick Drake thing).

From then on, whenever I gave a speech, I remembered the cold, naked eye of the video camera recording my every flaw. I still remember. I will never be able to give another speech without thinking about it, and about the tape, which I watched later, a cruel reflection of myself, grinning like an idiot with wild, terror-filled eyes.

Some things just get stuck in your brain. They're like a kind of mental tattoo. You know you've made a mistake, and you can try to get rid of it, but no matter what, there's always a mark left behind.

I think there are some questions people just shouldn't ask. In fact, in a book I just finished, my point was proved for me! The forty-something protagonist was pregnant, but she wasn't saying a word. Her friends waited and waited and waited, becoming rather obviously angry with her about the silence, but still she stayed quiet. But her friends never asked her if she was pregnant, even though they knew. Why? Because that's not a question you ask.

Just say the forty-something protagonist had enjoyed her amazing Australian cuisine a little too much. Just say she'd gained weight the way I do--in her belly region--and just say she WAS NOT PREGNANT. Now imagine what would have happened if her friends HAD asked her...she could kiss what was left of her self esteem goodbye.

Speaking of self esteem...

When my gallbladder stole away my love of food, I dropped three pants sizes. But that wasn't the only thing getting rid of my gallbladder did. I just feel better now. I'm less run down, I'm able to sleep at night (sometimes), and I've stopped getting carsick! Oh--and I can eat food from EVERY food group--not just bread!

All of those things have combined to make me feel a little better about being Laura. I wouldn't go so far as to say I feel like signing up for America's Next Top Model, but I feel like I CAN look good, which is more than I could say at this time last year.

One evening, I was working at the library.

A woman had brought in her three year-old granddaughter. They sat at a computer, and I helped them find games to play. Then they played, read books, and did all the other bookish things kids do when they come to the library. When the grandmother was about to leave, she brought up some books to check out. I started scanning and stamping, as I do, and after a while she thanked me.

But before I darted off to meet Paul for dinner, the woman smiled at me.

"I just have to ask," she said. "Boy or girl? When are you due?"

It was like an atomic bomb.

First the explosion, as the words dropped from her mouth...

Then the wave of destruction...

Finally, the devastating radiation, infecting everything, leaving me a walking ghost, my hair falling out, my skin changing to paper and flaking away, until all that was left of me was ash, ash and the shame of being the not-pregnant-but-still-pregnant-looking girl.

"I'm...not pregnant," I replied somehow, my mouth finding words my brain had forgotten.

She looked at me, but I couldn't see her anymore. She left.

I stayed.

"Please find me a hole," I said to one of our student assistants. "I need to crawl into a hole, so I can stay there and never see another person again."

The student made a sympathetic noise.

"I am mortified," I continued. "I am just...mortified. There is no other word for it."

I started to leave so I could meet Paul for dinner.

All day I had been planning on custard from Culver's. The flavor of the day was REALLY good, and I had been at work, starving, all day. Or at least, I'd thought I was starving. Apparently, though, I have a great pillow of fat I can use to feed myself during the long winter months. I'm like a bear that way. I can curl up in bed and sleep, living off stored fat, until the sun returns and I can grumble, stand, scratch my claws against the odd tree, and catch salmon right out of the river.

"You do not look pregnant," the children's librarian said. "You just lost 30 pounds! How could you look pregnant?"

Because I must have been a whale-shark before, or elephantine in some fashion, I wanted to reply. But my mouth wasn't working yet. It just kept saying the word "mortified" again and again.

"Besides," she continued. "I'm sure she was just confused. She thought you were someone else."

She was referring to another library worker, who works upstairs and who is, in fact, pregnant.

But all that meant to me was that I looked more pregnant than an actual pregnant woman.

I met Paul. I had the garden salad.

As I gnawed on my leaves and carrot pieces, I recounted my tale of woe.

"That woman is stupid," Paul said. "That is the one question YOU NEVER ASK."

"I know, right?!" I said. "It's a bad question! Yes might mean you're pregnant, but answering no just means you're acknowledging that you're fat in front of everyone!"

Paul could tell I was in distress. I texted Jennifer. If anyone could save me from this black hole of misery, it was Jennifer. She has skills.

"You have to be an idiot to ask that question," Paul continued. "You wait for people to tell YOU. Even if they are currently in labor, you wait until THEY TELL YOU. It doesn't matter how sure you are."

"I think you should wait until the woman in question is giving birth on the rug in front of you, and even then you should be nice about it," I said. "You shouldn't just say, "Oh my goodness, you're pregnant! You're giving birth!" You should say, "Gee, you appear to be in some kind of medical distress. What could be the problem?" And then you wait for the woman to tell you, or for the baby to be born all the way, and then you ask kindly, "Oh! You were pregnant? What a surprise!'"

Paul was nodding. "If you're right," he said. "Then everything might be okay. But if you're wrong, the damage is irreparable."

"I know," I replied. I felt pretty irreparable. I chewed the end of a pea pod. It tasted like pea pod and despair.

On the way back to work, I called my mother. "Mom," I said. "A woman in the library thought I was pregnant. And I'm not pregnant. Unless God sent some kind of angel I missed, but even then, I'm probably going to Hell because I ignored Gabriel."

"She had you confused," Mom replied. "Someone told her the girl at the library was having a baby, and she thought that meant you."

"But it isn't me," I said. Although I do look more pregnant than my co-worker does. "It isn't me at all."

"She shouldn't have asked," Mom continued.

"I'm never eating custard again," I replied.

Meanwhile, Jennifer had sent me a text. I forget exactly what it said, but it was something along the lines of, "Is that person stupid?" Or maybe "Was that woman blind?" But it did make me feel better. Jennifer has skills.

I told Twitter what happened. "I know you can't see me, Twitter," I said. "But a woman at the library thought I was pregnant. Do I look pregnant, Twitter?" I needed Twitter to tell me the truth, so that I could decide whether or not I should spend my whole food budget for the year on a YMCA membership.

"What? That's laughably ridiculous. Who said that?" Bailey asked. I told her.

"There isn't a thing about you that looks pregnant. And, you know, that's like the one thing you're never supposed to ASK," Bailey continued. "It's is THE widely-accepted social rule! Don't ask women if they are pregnant. Wait for them to tell you. That's the rule."

And she is, of course, right. Because if you don't wait, THIS HAPPENS: I obsess, I decide the whole thing is funny, I laugh excessively, and I still think, "You look PREGNANT FAT LAURA because that lady at the library said you did" every time I get dressed or look at myself or put on pants. And the whole blasted thing reminds me of this. But those words are in my head now, and there is nothing I can do to get them out. They're just sitting there, hovering over my right ear, in the temporal lobe region, waiting to work their dark magic over me whenever I least expect it.

Laura's Run-In With the Cops

2011-03-12T15:43:00.000-05:00

Coming home from Crafty Book Club, I was tired. More than tired--it was nearing 10:30 p.m. and I'd been up since 5:00 that morning, when the cat had decided that a second can of cat food was worth more than her life, yowling outside my bedroom door for twenty minutes until I got up and banished her to the basement where she couldn't torture me anymore.

I followed the long straight line of the road, squinting at the too-bright lights of the car behind me. I was so close to home, so close! And I had a bag of Reese's Minis in the top drawer of my nightstand, where I hid them so Paul wouldn't eat them while I was at work. And I wanted to eat them. Also, there might have been food at home. Or maybe not. Probably not, because I didn't cook anything, but it would have been nice to find tasty food, I thought.

I rounded the curve in the road. The curve marked the location of a house Mom and I are sure smells like mold. We say this every time we drive by it. And since we have to drive by it every day to get to anywhere we want to go, we say it a lot. It's a kind of psychic automatic-speech triggered by seeing the house. It's built into a hill, right at river-level, so when the river floods, we think it must get in the house. It has to be like living in a basement all the time. And if it's anything like our basement...let's just say living there would be one long asthma attack.

And that was when the lights behind me changed color.

Crap. I thought. Crappity-crap-crap. That was my exact thought.

I pulled over. I put the car in park. I kept both hands on the wheel.

That's what they tell you in C.O.P.S., you know. Keep both hands on the wheel, so the police don't think you're going for a gun and tase you. Or so the police don't think you're going for a gun and shoot you. It could happen at any time, just like that guy who got tased at the John Kerry rally thing at his college. Not that we have a whole lot of police brutality cases out in the wastes of Indiana, but you never know. My cop could be a trigger-happy newbie. Anything's possible. I envisioned myself writhing like an injured snake on the pavement, post-tasing, and knew I had better keep my hands on the wheel, just in case. You can't be too careful. They have video cameras in their cruisers now, you know.

I had only been pulled over once before, by a state policeman who clearly wasn't from the area, because he thought I was speeding in a 30mph zone when I was driving in a 40mph zone. But I paid the ticket anyway, because I was too traumatized by the whole experience to care. I cried for two full hours, because someone had accused me of doing something wrong, and I couldn't stand it. I was crying the whole time the policeman was talking to me, so much so that I could barely hear what he was saying. In fact, he could have said "Purple asteroid refrigerator squeasel!" And I would not have noticed anything out of the ordinary. That was how traumatized I was.

You'd think when the policeman saw my horrible devastation, he would have given me a warning. I'd never been pulled over before! Clearly, if I was crying so hard, gulping for air like a fish, I'd learned my lesson. Seriously. I drive 30 from the sign that says 40 all the way to the sign that says 55 now, on BOTH sides of the road. If the State Police People don't know the road is 40 on one side and 30 on the other, that's fine. But I'd rather be safe than sorry. Other drivers hate me, but they can't write me a ticket.

Back to me, in the car, at the side of the road, Wednesday night, waiting.

In my small experience with being pulled over, I have noticed that it takes police officers a very long time to get out of their cars. I think they do it on purpose, to make people nervous or to make scared young women burst into hysterical tears. The plan is for the driver to go over the past few minutes in their minds, so they can figure out what they did wrong and feel the burn of guilt inside them, or the overwhelming wave of hysteria. Then, when the police officer comes over to the window, the guilt will show on the driver's face, and the policeman will know he's got them. Or the person will cry in great, gulping sobs for as long as it takes for the policeman to write a ticket and drive away. Either one.

While I waited, I considered the past few minutes of my life, to see where I'd gone wrong.

I had not been speeding.

It was late. Late enough that the two families of deer I know about were active. During the evenings, I can always count on seeing them near the river. So I only go 45, just in case. I already brutalized one car in a deer-encounter. I don't want to lose a NICE car. Also, deer are pretty and should be protected. Because it's BAMBI.

I hadn't been talking on my cell phone.

I hadn't been texting. That's DANGEROUS.

I had my new registration sticker. Paul stuck it on for me, because it came when I was sick and I couldn't risk not having it on the second it came in the mail. I was obsessing and being what I could only imagine was very annoying, so he took the sticker outside and slapped it on my license plate. Then, when I felt better, I checked to make sure it was okay. It was.

I was wearing my seat belt. That's a law in Indiana, too.

So...that about covered it. I wasn't doing anything wrong. Plus--I have car insurance! It's the law too! So I was in the clear.

And that was why I wasn't crying when the policeman came over to talk to me. I was sure he would just say, "You have a light burnt out. Get that replaced as soon as possible!" And I would say, "Sure thing, officer!" Then I would do my idiot-grin that I get when I'm super-nervous about something.

But that isn't what he said.

"Hello," the officer said. He seemed kind of...nice. He was actually smiling. "Can I see your license and registration please?"

My license was in my purse. My purse was in the backseat. If I reached for it, I could end up a statistic, I thought.

"It's in the backseat," I said. "Is it okay if I reach back and get it?"

The officer gave me a quizzical look. "Yeah, go ahead. Where are you coming from so late?"

"I'm on my way home from the Wabash library," I said. "I work there."

"They had you working this late?" He asked.

"Not usually," I smiled. "We had a program. It was Crafty Book Club tonight. We made necklaces." I debated showing him my new necklace, but decided that might be oversharing, because he clearly believed me. I did not need to offer the necklace as proof, no matter how much I wanted to. I wasn't in court, after all...

I gave him the license and my new registration card with the empty spot where the sticker used to be before Paul pulled it off and stuck it to my license. He went back to his car.

Do you know they have all kinds of computers in their cars now? They're really cool. I saw it on the news. They can use them to look you up, right there while you sit in your car. That way, they know all your info. It's nifty. I kind of want a computer like that in my car, although I would have no use for it. It's the novelty, you know?

After a while, he came back. I had spent the time staring at the moving lights from his cruiser in my rear view mirror. They were the new kind of lights. I think they are LEDs. They are brighter than the old ones, and pretty, kind of. Hypnotic, even.

"We're checking people out for Operation Pull-Over," the officer said. "The reason I pulled you over is that you went onto the center line back there." He gestured toward the curve in the road.

Laura, Driving Hazard Extraordinaire.

That's what you can call me from now on.

"Really?" I asked. "I'll bet it's my brakes. I have an appointment to get them fixed."

"It's no big deal," he told me. "We have to pull over someone every hour."

I was likely the only person he'd seen in the last hour, since we were in the middle of nowhere, Indiana after 10:00 on a weeknight. I began to wonder if my wheel had even touched the center line, or if I was just alone on the road, with no one else for miles.

"But," he said, giving me a big smile. "You're CLEARLYnot drunk."

He handed me back my license, my registration, and a little printed-out warning from his car's tiny printer, leaving me wondering if I just have some kind of a sober face. The face of a teetotaler.

It's true. The hardest drink I have is Wendy's sweet tea, and yes, I am addicted. I don't even have coffee, not after the Thanksgiving Incident* and the Raspberry Mocha Incident.** It's just a bad idea. Starting the morning with vomit doesn't land on my list of fun things to do, and ending the day with vomit doesn't seem all that fun either, especially after the gallbladder issues.***

I finished driving home, very careful that my wheels touched no lines at all. And I waited for the deer family to cross the street. And then I arrived at my house and told my story to everyone who would listen, including Twitter, because that's what Twitter is about.

*Grandpa and Grandma brought Poison Coffee which I drank and then threw up seconds later. Still, I must have obtained enough caffeine from the experience to impact my consciousness, because I launched into a full-on Lady Gaga Is Having A Crisis of Identity and Losing her Sense of Self lecture during Thanksgiving Dinner, effectively killing the mood of thankfulness and family togetherness we all felt, if any of us was even feeling that at all.

**I had lunch with Rachael and Audrey, then I felt sleepy because for some reason cold cucumber soup made me sleepy, so I got a medium Raspberry Mocha and drank it down, then, wired, I went to see Jennifer at her elementary school classroom, and then I went to work and started to feel gross. Then I went home early because I thought I was dying, then I threw up the Medium Raspberry Mocha and the cucumber soup, which was not nearly as tasty on the way up as it was on the way down.

***It's possible that those two incidents were actually inspired by my gallbladder problems and that coffee is safe to drink again. But I am sort of afraid to try it again.

Realizations

2011-03-07T20:48:00.001-05:00

1. I am still sick.

2. I will be working every night this week, except for tonight and Friday night.

3. I am alone.

4. Dad and a spoiled cat and dog might be in the house too, but none of them are paying any attention to each other.

5. Also, I am sad.

6. Mostly because I don't have an audience.

7. I want cookies. Or cake.

8. I want someone to bake them for me. From scratch.

9. I know that's not going to happen.

10. I can't make cookies or cake, because we are out of butter and oil and we have hardly any eggs. We have, like, one egg.

11. You cannot make brownies without eggs. You also cannot make peanut butter cookies, chocolate cake, or that pull-apart cinnamon bread that Joy the Baker was talking about.

12. I could buy the groceries, but I'd have to wait until Friday night to do the baking and--it's not going to happen.

13. Pouting is not going to change that.

14. No, really. I mean it.

15. Getting into a staring contest with the cat does not make my life less pathetic.

16. Neither does talking to the cat in meows.

17. I should probably go have a popsicle and stop whining. But that means getting up, and you know what?

18. I think we both know that isn't going to happen.

Monkey Bars Are Evil: How to Become Unpopular in Three Easy Steps

2011-03-07T14:30:00.000-05:00

It was laundry day. That meant my 90s-cool burgundy stretchy crushed velvet stirrup pants were the only pants I had to wear. They were clean because technically, they were too big for me. That meant they fit in length, but not in width. I had to spend my days pulling them up, knowing that with each leap or bound I made, the straps beneath each foot would pull my pants down.

The stirrup pants weren't the problem. This was the 90s, after all. Stirrup pants were cool.

The problem was that I had to wear the stirrup pants with a shirt that had red-not-burgundy accents. That meant I DIDN'T TECHNICALLY MATCH, which was perhaps the most traumatic thing a fourth-grade Laura could envision. I had, after all, been the only perfectly color-coordinated Hobo in school for our third-grade Halloween party*.

I argued, I begged, I pleaded, but I was stuck with the horrible outfit.

Recess came. We were playing games, running around, and I climbed on the monkey bars and let my legs dangle beneath me. My friend Shannon** decided this was hilarious, but not as funny as it would be if she grabbed my legs and yanked on them, pulling me to the ground.

Naturally, she tried it.

It would have worked, it really would have. But it didn't, because I wasn't about to let go of the monkey bars. My pants, however, were more than happy to let go of me.

Horrified at the sudden breeze, I dropped to the ground and brought my stirrup pants back to their correct position. Shannon was horrified, she kept apologizing again and again. My classmates were laughing, which was horrible, but perhaps worse was that the fifth grade had just started their recess early, so I had flashed all of those students as well.

I went to a distant corner of the playground, where I waited for recess to end.

Later that day, my fashion-faux-pax self went to use the restroom. I sat alone in the stall, contemplating my misery, wishing I could stay there all day, hating my cursed crushed-velvet pants and the horror of being forced to wear them with a shirt that didn't match.

But I wasn't alone in the bathroom.

"Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle!" A voice rang out.

I froze. I could not believe what I was hearing. Someone was singing along with me as I...utilized the facilities. This was BAD. This was NOT COOL. people were not supposed to--

And I--

Maybe--

Would a teacher--

If I just--

"Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle!" Another voice sang along with the first. I now had two people serenading me.

I flushed.

"Baby is all done!" Giggles erupted.

"Yay!" The first girl said. "Now it's time to wash our hands!"

There was no hiding. I slowly walked out of the stall. It was like a scene from one of those prison movies, when the convict is walking to the room with the chair--you know the one--accompanied only by his own certain death.

My brain does this thing in some situations, where it says, "No way is this real. I'll just wait for reality to start back up again!" Then it turns off, and I am left slack-jawed, staring at whatever inhuman creature I've come in contact with, unable to give a retort.

What I wanted to say was, "Good, I'm glad you're practicing. Any time now, you'll be able to go all by yourself too." Or maybe, "Sorry, you're in the wrong bathroom. This one is just for humans." Or even, "You can remember this and laugh in a few years, when you have kids of your own and I'm starting high school."

But my brain doesn't work that way.

What I said instead was this: "........................................."

Only, with my mouth maybe wide open and a look on my face reminiscent of an inebriated goldfish.

There they were, my two abusers, Carrie, a fifth grade girl, and her equally obnoxious friend, whose name I don't remember anymore because she didn't have a sister in my class like Carrie did. Unfortunately for me, they were as loud as they were...mean. Laughing hysterically, they walked out of the restroom and I could hear them recounting, loudly, the story of my depantsing AND their tinkling song. More laughter erupted outside.

And all of this when my pants and shirt didn't so much exactly match.

Clearly, my only option was to take my own life. But my shoelaces weren't long enough, and anyway, I didn't know how to tie a noose. Also, I wasn't very strong, or very tall, so I doubted I could wrap the end of the noose around anything high enough to actually be able to use it.

The entire school was about to know my shame. I would never be cool now. I would always be Toilet Girl, Underwear Girl, #NoPants Girl, or Clothes-Don't-Match Girl.

My fellow students would line up and yell, "Taking your pants off won't make them match your shirt! Also you are never getting married! Also you won't get into a good college!"

I was mortified. I waited for the fifth graders to be called back to class, and I meandered, late, back to my classroom. I spent the rest of the day not talking to anyone, reading my book and wishing I was old enough for Mom to let me use the washing machine myself.

And I swear that's why I never got asked to prom.

*This was A Very Marxist Halloween, because everyone in my class was ordered to come as Hobos. You couldn't dress like you normally did (unless you were a Hobo normally) and you couldn't come as Spider-man or as a My Little Pony or as Karen from The Baby-sitters Little Sister books. Nope. Just Hobos.

**No, Jen, this is not Unconscious-Bear-Tagging Shannon, this was a different Shannon.

"monkey bars" photograph by David Kessler, © 2005

Help Laura

2011-03-03T12:08:00.000-05:00

I always know I have a fever when I decide I hate my brother for no reason. Surely, there can be no human being on this earth LESS deserving of my loathing than poor Paul, who rescues insects instead of killing them, because it isn't their fault the house is in their natural habitat. Paul never argued with me or hit me when we were kids. Even when I was tormenting him with mud and sticks, he never retaliated. Paul deserves a nice sister, but instead, he got me.

I have bronchitis. This comes with a fever, and fevers, for me, mean thinking that the whole world hates me and is leaving me to die (also that Paul is evil and is plotting to kill me in my hour of need).

Sunday, I went to pick up fun story-hour things from my aunt's house, and I felt sick. Then I went home and felt sicker. Monday I went to work, feeling sick. Then I felt worse. Then I went home and curled up in bed and felt sorry for myself while I waited for my family to care that I was sick. Then I went to sleep.

I spent Tuesday at work, then in bed, lying there grumbling about how no one cared that I was sick in bed, because it just gave them the opportunity they've always wanted: to ignore me. Surely they would have done this all along, but while I am healthy, I follow them around and force them to pay attention to me. But now I am too sick, and my family shows their true colors, ignoring me in my suffering as punishment for how annoying I have been over the years. None of them really love me.

I got sicker and sicker from Sunday to Tuesday. Yesterday, I went to the doctor and he gave me medicine. Then I went home.

Clearly, at this point, my mother had decided she hated me too. I could tell by the way she was looking at me. She was taking me to the doctor and getting my medicine from the pharmacy, all the while thinking, "This is my chance to let Laura know how much we truly hate her. She is the worst thing that ever happened to our family. Now I'm going to buy her tasty food to make her feel better, because I HATE HER."

Meanwhile, I was sitting in the car, waiting for death. Then I took some medicine and waited for death.

Then death came.

See, one of the medicines was supposed to ease my coughing reflex so I would stop coughing up chunks of lung.* The other medicine was an antibiotic, Biaxin, and it was supposed to cure me.

Instead, I was allergic to Biaxin, and started throwing up. Now it is Thursday and I am still throwing up. In addition, one of the glorious-glorious side effects of Biaxin (for me, at least) is the taste of metal. And death. My mouth right now, tastes like I have been sucking down pennies from a garbage-filled gutter littered with corpses. It tastes worse than that time the refrigerator stopped refrigerating and Mom made fish for dinner except the fish had TURNED without her knowledge, and I ate a giant, huge mouthful of rotten fish. WARM rotten fish. Except also with metal.

On the plus side, I no longer have a fever. Sadly, I have other issues. Like throwing up, which also means starvation. I am back to the starvation diet from back when my gallbladder filled with fossilized pineapple gummi bears and died, and I am bound to lose even more weight, because I just bought new pants and new pants mean I will lose weight so they don't fit anymore.

This is because I am poor and cannot afford to buy more new pants when I lose even more weight. All I can afford to do is to allow my new pants to fall down around my ankles just like my old ones did, except slightly more slowly, because the new pants fit a bit better than the old ones.

I had better not lose any more weight.

Why am I telling you all of this?

Because I need one or all of you to do me a favor. I need you to kill me.

Now.

That's right. Get in your car. Get some supplies. Come here, and put me out of my misery, as gently as possible. Sure, you might go to jail, and sure, Indiana has the death penalty, but it will be for a good cause. My suffering will end. That is what you want, isn't it? For my suffering to end?

So don't waste time. Come help Laura. My family won't do it. They just ignore me or laugh. They don't know how serious I am.

I'm counting on you to do the right thing.

*While I never actually coughed up chunks of lung, it was certainly about to happen at any moment.

The Gummi Bear Story

2011-03-01T10:32:00.001-05:00

Years ago...

Gran was in the hospital.

My cousin Krissy has always been able to read me like an open book. For an introvert like me, (or, as a friend once called me, "an extrovert trapped in an introvert's body") this is a big deal. She could tell I was worried, so she abducted me after dinner. She proclaimed that we were going to see the chocolate fountain at a candy factory that had opened recently.

I had never seen a chocolate fountain before. Moreover, I could not imagine a chocolate fountain that went from the floor to the ceiling with gurgley deliciousness, and I may have imagined the chocolate river from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and pictured myself filling a cup with molten chocolate and drinking it.

I swore that I would never let the Oompa Loompas out of my sight (they're secretly evil and plotting to kill us all, because they are all rhymey and they use poetry to disguise their evil ways. They knew what was going to happen to all those kids. They knew and they let it happen.) Krissy said there were no Oompa Loompas, but I knew the truth. Just because you don't SEE any Oompa Loompas, doesn't mean they don't exist. That just makes them sneaky, like serial killers in iambic pentameter.

Sadly, I did not get my chance to take down the mass-murdering, child-endangering Oompa Loompas. But the candy factory was basically heaven on earth. Not only did the chocolate fountain go all the way to the ceiling, it was also MILK CHOCOLATE, which is the best kind. The fountain was so high, we couldn't drink the chocolate, but there was a ton of chocolate you could eat, and they gave out free samples.

If the chocolate wasn't enough, I spied bins of brightly colored gummi bears.

I have always loved gummi bears. They are fun AND delicious. What was great (and slightly racist) about these gummi bears was that they were divided by flavor. It was gummi bear segregation. The whole thing was sad, until I realized this was my chance to get rid of the gross citrus flavored gummi bears and go right for the good stuff. That was when I saw the pineapple bin. Pineapple gummi bears are easy to confuse with lemon ones, but there is a big difference. Mainly, lemon is gross and pineapple is delicious. Also, there is no evil and potentially deadly red dye number 40 in them.*

"Pineapple gummi bears are the best ones," I told my cousin. "They taste like summertime. And the gummi bear people undervalue them, because they only ever give you one or two in a gummi bear package. Or maybe they know how wonderful the pineapple ones are, and they're messing with us."

My poor cousin is used to this sort of thing from me. She was eight when I was born, so she knows how my brain works and somehow manages to put up with me. She's basically a saint.

Then I saw a giant Pez dispenser complete with giant Pez, and I became distracted.

Did I mention they roast nuts at that factory? They do. Plus, my cousin is allergic to nuts. Plus she is diabetic. And we were in a candy factory. But Krissy had just switched the shots she took around, and for the first time, she could have candy (in moderation). That meant that the novelty of a chocolate fountain was, to Krissy, the same as to me. And my joy was the same as a small child's, because I have never quite managed to grow up. And I don't care to.

The nuts, though, meant we had only about 15 minutes in the candy store, because if we stayed too long, Krissy might get sick without needing to actually eat any of the nuts.

I bought chocolate. When we went out to the car, I noticed Krissy's giant bag. She'd wanted peach rings. But when she reached into the bag, she didn't pull out peach rings. She pulled out a giant bag of pineapple gummi bears. A pound of them. Triumphantly, she handed me the bag, while my eyes swam with visions of dancing gummi bears, taken directly from the 1980s children's cartoon.

I will spare you my response. Let's just say it involved loads of thank-yous. And maybe a short description of the virtues of the pineapple gummi bear.

Late that evening, back at Gran and Grandpa's house, I curled up in the guest room alone, because Mom had taken Grandpa to the hospital to say goodnight to Gran. I started worrying again, so to distract myself, I turned on the television. There was a That 70's Show marathon, and I started watching it. Then I kept watching, but broke open the bag of pineapple gummi bears.

Never think that your eating habits are the same when you're emotional as they are at any other time. They aren't.

At first, the gummi bears tasted glorious, the way gummi bears are supposed to taste, all fresh and lovely. They were such delicious gummi bears, because they were fresh and new, made right there at the factory, not stale and dry and gross like some gummi bears are. After a while, though, I started to notice the taste of that stuff they put on gummi things to keep them from congealing into a giant block of gummi-ness, and it was not so nice.

I mean, that stuff is bitter, and powdery, and weird. I really thought it was gross. And it was all I could taste. It overwhelmed even the perfect taste of the delicious delicious gummi bears.

I decided this meant I'd had enough bears. I picked up the bag and went to seal it, only to notice that a meager eight or nine bears lined the bottom of the bag. I'd eaten nearly the whole bag of gummi bears in one sitting.

This could not be good.

I waited and waited, certain my evening would end in violent stomach revolt, but it didn't. I felt gross, sure, but I never threw up. The gummi bears, it seemed, loved me almost as much as I loved them.

When I thought of this story over the weekend, I realized something. I just THOUGHT the gummi bears loved me. But I think now I know what their game was all along.

I think, when I ate the gummi bears, my body hit its gummi bear threshold, and there was no way it could accept more. But I kept eating them. I think what happed is that my gummi-filled digestive system overflowed gummi bears into various places. I think my gallbladder filled to capacity with gummi bears. Pineapple ones. I think that then, the undigested bears became fossilized like this lady I read about who should have had a baby but didn't, and they discovered she had a fossilized fetus inside her for years. I think the gummi bears went hard like chunks of glass or plastic, they crystalized inside me, which made them stick inside my gallbladder until they started to irritate it, and that is why I had to have my gallbladder removed.

I also think it must have been hard for the Mayo Clinic to know what to do.

For the record, lots of stuff that doctors pull out of me gets sent to the Mayo Clinic, because apparently, I am a freak. Also, that the Mayo Clinic people know me better than I know myself, because they've seen the worst parts of me, pulled out and dissected and under microscopes.

It must have been complicated, when they found the gummi bears in my gallbladder. They must have stared at the bears for a long time, turning them over under magnification while they tried to figure out how on Earth the bears had gotten into my gallbladder in the first place.

But I think, in the end, the doctors decided it would be better if I stayed in the dark. What good would it have done, they thought, had I known the dangers of gummi bear consumption? I could go on with my life feeling safe and comfortable, eating all manner of candies without fear of biological retribution.

Now I know better. Gummi bears are dangerous. And also, I want a chocolate fountain to go in the entrance of my house. And there will be cups, and you can scoop up chocolate when you visit me.

*At least, I hope not. They haven't made me suffer the way some things do. I don't have food allergies, but I do have "food intolerances," mostly to foods laced with chemicals to increase their shelf lives. I try to buy foods with the smallest ingredient lists possible to avoid migraines, throwing up, and all manner of other unpleasant things.

I did it!

2011-02-24T15:08:00.000-05:00

My long hair is no more.

I measured after Beth the Hair Goddess cut it--I gave up a foot of hair. Twelve inches of heavy, thick, annoying hair. I already feel lighter and more stylish!

There's something about having short hair that just makes me feel prettier. I think it's because short hair makes my face look rounder--I have a narrow face (kid's glasses, remember?) and I think the long hair just accentuated it.

Here's the first picture, taken by Beth the Hair Goddess herself:

I think she did a brilliant job cutting it--and I'm never letting it get that long again!*

*Sorry Dad. Sorry Paul. I know you thought it looked extra pretty long. But you are guys, and guys like long hair. I'll make you a deal. If you two grow your hair out that long, I'll grow mine out again.

Dear Melynda,

2011-02-23T13:45:00.006-05:00

I love my slippers, Melynda. I really do.

When I first saw your pattern, it was love. I grabbed a coworker with no knitting experience and drug her to my LYS, and we stocked up on yarn and watched as it clicked away on the swift and ball winder. Then I taught her to knit as we made our first pairs of your slippers.

Together, we seamed up each slipper, and then we had a felting party over the phone. With my slippers in tow, I went from store to store looking for the perfect buttons. I found them, I sewed them on, and it was magic.

I am not exaggerating when I say I never took the slippers off. I don't like walking around barefoot, my feet get too cold, so through spring, summer, fall, and winter, I wore my slippers. Along the way, we met in Detroit, and I made an idiot out of myself raving to you about your pattern at the market. But in my defense, I was smitten with the slippers. I hope you didn't think I was dangerously unbalanced. I really am quite harmless.

Sadly, not all good things last forever. Around Christmas, I noticed that the soles of my feet seemed a little colder than they had in past months. I shrugged the feeling off. Certainly my feet would be colder. The house was cold. The world was cold. That's what winter is all about.

But last month, I was pulling my slippers on when I noticed a bit of fuzz on the bottom of my left slipper. I reached down and removed it. It wasn't fuzz, Melynda. It was slipper.

Indeed, the sole of my slipper had felt drafty because it had become paper-thin through excessive wear. I might have been able to save my slipper, had I examined them when my feet first felt a chill, but ignoring the problem had only caused it to grow, and now I would need all new soles to save the slippers. While I could have felted new soles and attached them, I knew the act would only prolong the life of my slippers by unnatural means. The slippers would want me to say goodbye, let them go, and move on with my life. I went back to my LYS. I found yarn, carefully selected to match the buttons from my first pair of slippers. I took the yarn back home, wound it on my new swift, and on Sunday afternoon, I started knitting.

Experience had made me wiser. Now I knew how to seam my slippers to help them felt smoothly (the process involves actually following your seaming directions instead of making up my own). I knew that a touch of hand-felting would make the tops flawless. I knew how long the straps ought to be and when to take them out of the washing machine. Armed with my knowledge, I felted them.

See?

Aren't they lovely?

(Yes, those are the same buttons.)

I know I'm not the first to tell you how amazing this pattern is, and I know this isn't the first time I've said it. Still, I have to say it again. I love these slippers.

Thank you for designing them. My feet would be much colder (not to mention less stylish) without them.

Ask Me About My New Felted Slippers!

2011-02-22T09:25:00.000-05:00

I finished another pair of the French Press Felted Slippers last night. But I started felting them too late, so I didn't get to sleep until something like 1:30 in the morning. I had to wake up at 6:00. This after a weekend of lying in bed, waiting for sleep.

Friday night I was curled up in bed, sleepless, listening to the rush of water and gurgles from the bathroom sink. As I waited for the evil person in the bathroom to be finished, I got angrier and angrier. Didn't this person know I had to work early in the morning? And it was way late. It was like TWO in the morning. And I couldn't sleep with all that NOISE.

It sounded maybe like someone was doing THIS:

I listened to more gurgles from the sink until finally, I'd had enough. I stormed out of my room and pounded on the bathroom door.

"Just a minute," Paul replied.

Paul.

Curse the fiend! He was the one ruining my life. He would have to PAY for what he'd done. He must have filled the tub with live waterfowl, to make that kind of noise. Didn't he understand how massively cruel he was being. He was destroying my will to go on. If he wanted to keep using water, he might as well have just killed me right then and there. It would have been more merciful. Jerk.

"You need to stop waiting this late to get ready for bed," I snapped. "You woke me up with all your noise, and now I'm lying there, and I have work tomorrow. You know I can hear all the noise from the bathroom in my room. The pipes are right next to my head! It's like you're bathing an elephant in there, with all of that splashing."

"I just got in here," Paul said curtly.

"No, you didn't," I replied. "I can hear everything. I heard you getting washed up, and it WOKE ME UP. You need to stop doing this. It's getting worse and worse."

"I haven't even flushed yet!" Paul seethed.

And as I stood there, bleary-eyed, I realized he was telling the truth.

You see, I'd heard the water running for what felt like hours. And the toilet had been flushed five, maybe six times. The sink had kept gurgling and gurgling, and I was sure I'd heard the bathtub filling up.

One person would not make all of that noise.

"Oh," I said, realizing the full impact of what had just happened.

"Just give me a minute," Paul growled.

"I am so sorry," I replied.

Silence was the only reply.

"I've been lying there listening to the water," I said. "But there was no water. I dreamed it all."

More silence.

"I thought it was going on too long. And it was. Because it was a dream. I'm sorry."

I went back to bed.

You see, I have a recurring semi-nightmare of not being able to fall asleep. I remain curled in bed, panicking more and more as I worry about the next day and how exhausted I know I'll be at work. The dream, like all of my dreams, is so vivid that I fail to realize it is a dream until I wake up. Then I think, Gee, I'm pretty well rested for someone who didn't get any sleep last-- And I know that it was the same dream again.

Lately, I've been trying something called lucid dreaming. I will be lying there, thinking I'm stuck awake when I need to sleep, and as a test, I try thinking about, say, a new book from a favorite author. If the dream changes at all (like, I see the book or start dreaming about a library or something like that), I know I am actually asleep. It's like a wakeness test for Dreaming Laura. It keeps me from spending my whole night dreaming the same miserable Insomnia-Dream.

But this thing was new. It was my normal nightmare, but with water gurgling. My dream had reached a new low. And Paul was the innocent victim.

When I got back to bed, I fell asleep almost immediately. But when I woke up that morning, I started thinking about Poor Paulie. I had totally screamed at him, and for no reason at all. He was innocent. All he'd been ding was...well, using the bathroom, and I had been horrible.

Clearly, I am the worst sister in the world.

I waited patiently for Paul's normal wake-up time, and I gave him a bit more time after that to be fully conscious (we are not morning people). Then I called him and apologized again. Poor Paul. He so did not deserve my rage.

After all that, two more nights of minimal sleep were not really a good idea. But what did I care? I had a giant hole in my slipper. That had to be fixed, before I stepped on something cold, like the basement floor, and the cold surface made my foot icy cold through the fist-sized hole in the sole of my slipper. Okay. Maybe not fist-sized. But it's definitely quarter-sized. Silver dollar, maybe.

My new slippers are lovely. They're drying now. I have buttons waiting. But the whole sleep situation makes me regret felting them. I am exhausted.

I have also watched too many episodes of The Cosby Show in a row, while running up and down the basement stairs to check on the felting process. I need to buy tennis balls so I can dump them in the washing machine and speed the whole process up considerably.

Now I'm just sit here, wishing I knew how to make coffee that didn't taste like feet. I'm sure this will be worth it tomorrow, when I can pull on new comfy slippers. But right now, I'm exhausted. Knitters have demanding schedules.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow (Well, Thursday)

2011-02-19T15:05:00.004-05:00

After I posted my earlier announcement, I got this from Kenzie via Twitter:

DO THIS. :D

Normally, I would just do exactly what Kenzie tells me, because she seems smart, and if she decides, that means I don't have to. But this is big change for me, getting rid of all this hair, so I should probably make my own decision. Even if doing that is hard and pretty boring, especially when I could be reading my new book or knitting the back of my sweater.

And the cut I fell in love with as I hunted through the cutest sweaters on Ravelry was the one ciriliarose (that's a Ravelry link, folks) has in THIS picture. Except you can't see the whole cut, just how cute it is at chin level. I think it looks almost the same as Kenzie's picture, so I might just end up blindly obeying her after all. It is easier that way.

Because I really liked the style, and because I get bored at home when other people are out having fun on the weekends and I am knitting and watching Masterpiece Classic, I went to Flikr, because it's a magical place,* in an attempt to find a picture of the Magical Haircut that actually has the whole of Cirilia's head in the frame.

It turns out, Cirilia is WAY more organized than I am. I take pictures of everything I knit. Unless I forget to and then give them away. Or I do take a picture, then forget to upload it. Or I upload it and it just never makes it to Ravelry. But Cirilia isn't like that. She uploads everything. And that means I could find a picture of her Magical Haircut!

See? I love that haircut.

Anyone else have hair ideas? Make your case in the comments, and I'll use your advice as I make my decision. Or I'll print out a stack of pictures and give it to Beth the Hair Goddess, and she can decide for me. I really am clueless about hair.

OR, if you think choosing my next haircut is boring, if you could care less about my personal style and would really get a laugh out of me pulling a Britney Spears and shaving my head bald and rolling around on the floor of the dressing room unable to stand, you can go to Cirilia's Berroco Design Studio Blog, and take a peek at some of her fantastic designs! I'm partial to Aidez and Americano myself.

*No matter how I phrase this, it will sound like I'm a stalker. I'm not, I promise. I lose focus to quickly to be a successful stalker. You have to have real concentration for that. I'll just be reading and then--Elephants are great! Let's go visit them--In Africa. I've never been to Africa. No, wait--the ZOO! I want some ice cream! They have that at zoos. Oh--Let's go to the movies--no, to the bookstore! What was I saying? Oh well, it doesn't matter.

EDIT: Rachael just sent me a link with another potential haircut. Am I the only one seeing a theme here?

Say Goodbye...

2011-02-19T10:34:00.000-05:00

The date has been set.

It's all over.

I always knew it would end this way. Part of me didn't want it to, but I know it's for the best. We've had a good long time together. Now it's time for us to move on to something new and fresh.

NOW--grab a scrap piece of paper and scribble down what you think I'm talking about. And hold onto it--I want to know what you were thinking. And no cheating, Rachael. I know you already know.

If you guessed "she's cutting her hair," you answered right!

I've had enough. It now takes 45 minutes for me to get my hair dry with the hairdryer, and that's 45 minutes longer than I want it to take. And that doesn't count the time it takes to actually style it after it's dry. More often than not, my hair ends up in a truly pathetic semi-bun that permits me to spend the day bent over bookshelves and still able to see. I can't wear it in a ponytail anymore, because it won't stay in--the weight of my hair pulls the ponytail holder looser and looser until--BAM--no ponytail.

On top of all that, it HURTS. I was warned when I started growing it out that my hair is very, very thick. It might not look thick (my hair is very fine), but it is, thick enough that I can't use any slides in it (that's barrettes for people not raised to speak British English) or bobby pins or those fancy new bun-pin things that are spirals.

Despite the weight of my hair and my utter lack of styling skills, I would be tempted to keep my hair if it weren't for my allergies. This is where Jennifer will think I'm lying. But the rest of you know, it's TRUE.

I am allergic to my own hair.

It doesn't matter if I change shampoos and conditioners. I've used every hypoallergenic shampoo I could get my hands on. No change. Ever since I was a little girl, cutting my hair meant that I'd have to rush back home to take a bath, because the little bits of hair resulting from the trim were touching my skin, pricking it, and giving me hives everywhere. Any place that's pricked by my hair gets a hive. Sometimes, more than one.

My cousin is the same way. So is my brother. We are allergic to our hair.

Jennifer thinks this is not possible. But it IS. No, I don't think I'm allergic to having hair, but to use an example to argue my point: I am also not allergic to cats. But, if for whatever reason, my skin is broken and I come into contact with something cat-related (like if my cat decides to punish me for not feeding her at 3:00 a.m. by scratching me), I get hives wherever my skin is broken. So, cut plus hives. And you can't put antihistamine ointment on it, because that stuff can't go on broken skin.

I think that I have the same problem with my hair. It pricks my skin, I get a hive. And since I'm riddled with allergies, if I get enough hives, I get them everywhere, even if the allergen (my hair) hasn't touched, say, my elbow.

Thursday at work, I started to feel hot and feverish. But I kept going through The Lists, because why not? Then Sarah from Upstairs came Downstairs and said, "Gosh, Laura! Your poor skin!" Only then did I look at the skin and find that it was beet red and covered in hives. Stupidly, I didn't stop for Benadryl on the way home, so I ended up having an asthma attack. Plus hives EVERYWHERE.

It wasn't the best night for me.

I've made an appointment with Beth from Loose Ends (that's our knit night). Beth is very good. She is a genius of hair*. And SHE believes me, Jennifer.

The hair is going.

I have no idea what I want to have done with it. I am so hopeless with hair. As far as I know, there are only two ways to do my hair. Up (ponytail, maybe ugly semi-bun thing) or down (straight, nothing fancy). If there is another way to style it, I have no idea.

Do YOU have any haircut ideas for me? Let me know in the comments! I am very open to suggestions.

*There are all kinds of different sorts of genius, and you can be more than one kind of genius at a time. What kind of genius are you? Think about what you do best. I am a genius of useless information.

What Happens When Things Get Out of Hand

2011-02-16T13:33:00.001-05:00

Those of you who follow me on Twitter will remember me complaining about The Lists. "Laura," you say. "Tell us more about these lists! Your life is infinitely more interesting to us than it is to you!"* Who am I to argue with that kind of talk? Of course I'll tell you about the lists! I just didn't want to bore you.** So, by popular demand, here is The Saga of The Lists!***
(This will also serve as my personal testimony prior to my commitment to some kind of Facility for the Criminally Insane. You know, for after my breakdown, which The Lists will cause.)

Here is The Complete List:

This includes every book (except five) that was checked in when our inventory began. That's about 550 pages printed from Excel.

During the inventory, over two days, we located every book on the shelves, checked them off The List, removing books with errors in their call numbers or labeling and books that should have been on The List but weren't there for one reason or another.

When inventory was over, we were left with five carts of books that had notes on them marked, "Not on List." This was, of course, not true.

See, if a book was mis-shelved, ideally, it was given to a person who found it on the section of the list dedicated to that part of our shelving. A biography of Mark Twain found in with Huckleberry Finn, for example, would be pulled, then marked with a check on the biographies list, then shelved. That isn't what happened.

The reason was, The List wasn't just one list. It was two. Three, really. And they were a mess. Entering data in an item record in a slightly different way meant not finding a book on The List when it was actually there. We had three different Nonfiction Lists. So, with three sheets of paper in hand, we scoured one shelf and marked off books on each sheet as we found them. Still, a few were missed.

So, when The "Finished" List was slapped on the desk, I grabbed it and went hunting. First, I found every book on the carts that was on The List but not checked off, the process took a week. That was all but one cart of books. Those had errors in their item records, which I fixed. The few left over that had issues with their labels, I sent upstairs for someone else to cope with. Because I can't print labels here. Also, no one can print them right now, because our new circulation software isn't friends with our printer. Or our labels. Or both.

I was left with this:

And this:

The first picture is The List of Books That Were Found. It is the biggest pile of paper right now. The second picture is of pages from The List Books That Were Not Found. I have started going through the second stack, typing up the titles of missing books, and adding them to the first stack, but it's a long process. I have to go look for the books on the shelves, see if they've been circulated in the last six years or so, check our paperback shelving, and check to see if we have a second item record in the computer for the same book--a duplicate record with, say, a different barcode and call number but all the same information. If that's the case, I withdraw the "missing" book, which in fact, does not exist.

I have spent over a week on this task. I'm betting I'll be spending a second week on it too. But when it is done, we will actually know what is in fact in our collection. Until we get another shipment of new books, someone withdraws a book without telling the computer what they're doing and making sure the computer remembers (saves the changes), or until we find a book with messed up info on it's labels and send it for a "fix" it but the fix isn't saved in the computer (right labels, wrong item record).****

As I do this, I'm focused on figuring out what exact circle of Hell I'm in. I can't really ask Dante, because he's dead. Is there one with Endless Toil? My solution last night was to order books from Amazon. My solution today was to pre-order books from Amazon. This inventory thing sure is expensive.

*No one actually said that. But I'm sure you all were thinking it.
**Really, The Lists are very exciting. I just didn't think you could handle the fun.
***What? Someone had to be wanting this. Just because none of you actually demanded an explanation doesn't mean you weren't secretly thinking about how great it might be to have one!
****This is my excuse for why there was no new blog post on Monday. I'll try to get you another one over the weekend to make up.

Shame and Semi-Nudity: Laura Goes Jean Shopping

2011-02-12T21:35:00.001-05:00

None of my jeans fit me anymore, so I had to go jean shopping.

You see, when my gallbladder was coughing, sputtering, and dying, I was also losing weight, lots of it. During the fall, I had broken down and bought size 12 pants, because I wanted to conceal everything, and I was certain they would be too tight by winter. I was wrong.

When your gallbladder goes kaput, you stop being able to digest things like...food. So your body says, NO WAY, and what results is a kind of involuntary bulimia. That's the nice way to say, I threw up a LOT. It was unpleasant in the extreme. I cannot express that enough.

I lost weight fast, mostly because I stopped eating anything but bagels. Bagels were delicious and they didn't make me feel like death. They stayed (more or less) comfortably inside my stomach. They lacked variety, but who cared? They were food, and they took the edge off of my soul-shattering hunger.

Goodbye gallbladder.

I don't know exactly what all the symptoms are for Gallbladder Death, but they must be more than just stomach issues. I think my gallbladder made me gain weight. I don't know how, but it MUST have. Because even since FIXING the gallbladder by getting it the heck out of Dodge and returning to my normal diet (lots of cookies, lots of Italian food), I still kept dropping weight.

Remember how I said I'd been a size 12? Yeah. That didn't last. By the time I had my gallbladder removed, I had already snatched up size 10 pants. They still fit beautifully after my surgery, and for about a month afterward.

I went jean shopping today, and I am now a size 6 again, which was my college size. Hence, my Dying Gallbladder Made Me Gain Weight Theory.

I find that whole process so shocking, I just had to share it with you. Also, I've told my family like a thousand times, and they don't find it interesting anymore. But I do. So you get to hear it. Again.

Jean shopping.

I always hate it. Why? Because I know EXACTLY what I like in pants, and I want to buy only jeans that fit that criteria, despite the fact that fashion disagrees with me. Wide flares? Eww. Skinny jeans? Only with my tall Frye boots. The Epic, Steampunk Boots. The ones that now have a fixed zipper that is amazing.

I want a jean that is not distressed*. If my jeans have holes in them, I want to have put them there myself, by falling down a flight of stairs or catching them on a nail of some kind. If jeans are already worn out, I want a discount, because that means they will last me less time. Stores do not agree with me on this issue. They charge MORE. So I won't buy distressed jeans.

I want a jean that doesn't have a giant flare. I like a jean that doesn't conceal my awesome shoes. I also like a jean that fits me through the hip and thigh, not too tightly (I like having circulation in my toes) but not so loosely that I can grab tons of fabric or put both of my legs in one pant leg. So, no "relaxed" jeans for me.

In other words, it took me a long time to find pants at The Buckle today.

I went there this time, because I needed serious professional help. Losing all that weight meant I was back to buying pants for College Laura, and College Laura was long gone. Current Laura didn't remember what kind of pants College Laura bought**, and Current Laura also had no idea what size she was anymore. And I had noticed on The Buckle's website that they were having a giant jean sale, so that meant fancy jeans CHEAP. And I like that.

Are you bored yet? I hope so. Because that will make this next part even more entertaining for you.

The Buckle I went to has stupid dressing rooms. Firstly, they are in the corners of the room, so each door opens toward the other, meaning you can slam innocent people in the face with your door, or jump out of the dressing room at each other, both of which happened to me and a really nice lady who maybe used to work there.

Secondly, the rooms are right there in the middle of everything, not back in a little hallway all on their own. I think this is to help the salespeople help you find jeans that fit you. But really, it just means you walk out to see the mirror in full view of every other shopper, even if you look like a freak.

Thirdly, the doors are the kind that don't fill up the whole door frame. The door starts at about my knees, and ends level with the top of my head. Or my eyes, whatever. That's not important. What's important is that you'd better shave your pale, ghostly legs when you go to try on jeans, because if you don't, everyone will know.

My exacting jean preferences meant that there were tons of jeans draped over my door and more inside for me to try on. Everyone now knew my approximate size, so I had a giant pile I could try on without fear. The jeans, I was sure, would more or less fit me, and I could just examine them in the mirror outside, where I would determine how gross / good I looked in them. Meanwhile, my poor handknitted socks were droopy, and I was afraid to lean over and pull them up, because I didn't want to accidentally bend over too low, and show the whole store my posterior.

One pair of jeans felt not-stretch.

So I pulled them over my calves. I pulled them to my knees. That was when I could tell that these jeans were so not a six. They were more like a double-zero. I had to get them off before I split the seams and had to pay for them!

Did I mention this dressing room had no chair? No stool, no bar to hold on to? Nothing? I was along with a giant pile of jeans and only my balance to keep me on my feet as I struggled out of jeans and discarded them, but this time, my balance wasn't enough.

I don't really know what exactly happened. Maybe I tried to shimmy a little to free up one leg. I may have blacked out. Or maybe my legs, starved of blood flow, had just given out in protest. But as I tried to free my right leg, I fell.

Remember the door? Remember how it stopped at knee length?

Now I was on the ground, with my pants at my ankles. My underwear-clad bum was exposed for all the store to see, and my legs were trapped in pants that wouldn't allow me to leap back to my feet.

I was down, and my undies were on display, and I suddenly realized the wipe-out had given me rug burn on my ~~arse~~ right upper thigh that I was sure would be misinterpreted by anyone who happened upon semi-naked girl, writhing on the ground in too-small pants, trying to free herself so she could conceal her naked shame.

You know me, guys. I was raised in an endless succession of churches. Most of them very conservative. And I was taught that nakedness, especially female nakedness, was evil. And if you were naked in daylight in public, that was extra bad and gave you points on your Punch Card of Sin, and everybody knows the more points you get on that card, the closer you are to an eternity in Hell.

That means that for every second my mini peep show went on, I became more and more horrified and certain that I could never leave the dressing room again. I would have to die there, and I hadn't brought any extra yarn to knit with.

I think the whole thing happened in under 15 seconds. But it didn't matter. God had seen, and I was sure that inside my brain, the eight year-old me could hear Satan laughing and offering up candy and TV a little closer than she'd heard him before.

I stood, in my underwear, and I waited.

No laughter came. No gasps. No screams or shouts. No ominous clicks of cell phone cameras...nothing.

The sound and bustle of the store continued just as it had before I fell.

That made me wonder...had anyone actually seen? Hope swelled inside me. I grabbed the next pair of pants and slipped into them. Then I cracked the door open and peered outside. No one was in my corner!

Yes, when I had been given a dressing room, it was in the far corner of the store. As far from the men's side as could be, as far from the entrance as possible. Indeed, the corner had been empty when I fell, and it was empty still. Suddenly, I started giggling.

Nice Girl Next Door gave me a strange look as she emerged to look at the cute sweater she was trying on in the mirror outside (there was only one mirror). I ducked back into my room. The giggling was quickly approaching hysterical laughter. I grabbed my cell phone and told Twitter what happened.

Just wiped out in Buckle dressing room. Door stops at knee level. And #nopants. #shame #afraidtocomeout

Twitter is always the first to know when these things happen.

I could go on and tell you how exactly I came to recount the wipe-out story to every salesperson at The Buckle, including the sole male salesperson, who happened to be stopping by to help find straight legged jeans. Or I could just show you the picture my mom snapped of me as I recreated the fall.

This is why I hate jean shopping. I just can't be trusted in public.

*I do not care about various washes, although I prefer darker jeans. The jeans I hate are the ones that have been attacked by a pumice stone in spots, or the ones that already have giant holes in the legs or knees. No, thank you.

**That's probably because College Laura didn't have money to buy jeans, so she just used the same two pairs until they fell apart, and begged for another pair at Christmas.

Laura Meets a Ghost and Gives Advice

2011-02-11T12:40:00.000-05:00

We were talking at our staff meeting today about our elevator, which needs a part, and that led, of course, to Projections of What Could Go Wrong with an Elevator in a Library. Naturally, hilarity ensued.

You see, our elevator doesn't have far to go. If it ever fell, it would drop one storey, smash into the ground, but there is hardly enough of a drop to build up any real velocity. Not like if the elevator in the Sears Tower suddenly went. That would be messy. If our elevator fell, it would cause bruises and maybe whiplash, but nothing else, we agreed.

"Yeah, to the little kids and old people in the elevator," Work Rachel* countered.

That made me think. Little kids and old people aren't the only ones who use that elevator.

"When we had the flood," another coworker said. "A woman who used to work here, she always used the elevator, got in and rode downstairs. And when the elevator reached the bottom floor, it splashed."

That made me think about us.

You see, if we were in the elevator, we'd be in there with a cart full of books, which would quickly change from books into projectiles when the elevator fell. And then we would die, because that's what happens when you're brutally beaten by Nicholas Sparks novels.

In the library I used to work in, there was an elevator. It went between three floors. But it didn't always do that, because there wasn't always an elevator. Once, there was no elevator, but people thought maybe there should be. So money changed hands, equipment moved in, and an elevator shaft was constructed. Then an elevator was put in the elevator shaft. Or maybe the elevator shaft was built around the elevator...I don't know how elevators are made. What do you expect? Science? Construction advice? Elevators just exist. And we're all glad they do. Sometimes.

But the new elevator wasn't working just right, so an elevator guy went inside the elevator shaft down in the basement, where the periodicals lived and where I used to work, and he stood there in the elevator shaft, but then the elevator was there too, and that was how I met my first ghost.

Well, maybe not REALLY a ghost, but that's what everyone said, that the elevator guy haunted the elevator. And then the whole library, because why not? It makes for a better story.

You all know me pretty well by now. You know I'm a super-freak-girl who thinks the Pooping Man is coming back for revenge after that less-than-flattering blog post, who thinks that Satan himself is going to drag her down to Hell because it's wrong to play with your shoes during the Children's Sermon when you should be listening, who honestly thought that one wavering lantern was going to burn the entire house down around her and her family, with lots of screaming and mile-high flames, leaving burned-then-frozen corpses for the firefighters to discover the next day, because the family home is in the middle of nowhere and the tiny volunteer fire department is miles away, and they were too snowed in that night to be able to rescue anyone before they died.

Naturally, when I was told a relatively innocent, if sad, story about Elevator Guy and his Potential Apparition, it developed from a tiny anecdote told to pass the time into a full-on belief that my elevator was possessed, just because it didn't work very well.

When I rode the elevator, I would press the down button, and it would do NOTHING. Then I would hit the button a couple more times, until finally it decided to move, and then I would go downstairs.

See the problem? Personifying inanimate objects? It was only a matter of time before the elevator quirk combined with the Story of Gruesome Elevator-Related Death to create the ghost that maybe almost-certainly haunts the library to this very day.

See, when I rode up on the elevator, no problems. And when I rode from the top floor to the basement or from the top floor to the ground floor, no problem either. The only time the elevator didn't work was when I tried to go from the ground floor to the basement, THE EXACT ROUTE THE ELEVATOR TOOK WHEN ELEVATOR GUY DIED.

All of that information sloshed around in my brain for about an hour, and then it spit out this story: Elevator Guy was still in the elevator, and he didn't want anyone else to get hurt the way he did, so he was keeping the elevator from coming down and maybe killing someone.

I read a lot as a kid. You probably can't tell, or anything...

A lot of the books I read were ones popular with fellow kids, only I was reading the books the eighth graders loved when I was in first grade, instead of at the same time my fellow first graders would read them. One of the books was Wait Till Helen Comes by Mary Downing Hahn, another was The Ghost Wore Gray by Bruce Coville**. Great books--you should read them. But they were ghost stories. And I was...overimaginative.*** So, naturally, I picked up a few pointers that I remembered that day in the elevator when all the pieces clicked into place.

1. If there is a ghost, don't freak out.

2. Also, expect cold spots. Bring a sweater, just in case.

3. Ghosts are there for a reason. Usually, they want help. If that is the case, you should probably find a girl between the ages of nine and thirteen, because they usually are able to fix these sort of problems.

4. If there is no girl to be brought in to help the ghost, that means you are supposed to, because someone has to be the protagonist. You've likely been in training for this your entire life.

5. You should dig around in old records and learn about your potential ghost. Then you will find an old photograph, and it will be scary because the face in the picture will look exactly like the ghost you saw and maybe even exactly like your neighbor or the girl you just met. But don't worry, your ghost can't really hurt you. It can only make you need a sweater and move stuff around, maybe.

6. It probably doesn't even want to hurt you.

7. If it did, it wouldn't really be able to. So don't freak out.

8. Freaking out won't solve anything. Also, it will make it harder to accomplish goal #3.

9. Try talking to the ghost. If it can talk back to you, that's handy. If not, look for a diary an old bundle of letters saved in a trunk somewhere. Or talk to the guy you work with or your neighbor or the girl next door, because they are probably related to the ghost in some way, and will be able to help.

10. If you find a relative to the ghost, be extra nice to them, because they are likely going to be A) Your new best friend or B) Your new boyfriend (or girlfriend).

11. If helping the ghost means you've changed time in some way (Time Windows by Kathryn Reiss, Stonewords by Pam Conrad), your new best friend might not really remember you, or what happened. Also, you might not remember. But that's okay, because you have a new best friend.

12. Fix the ghost's problem, and then have a touching moment where you say goodbye and the ghost goes to heaven. Then go back to shelving magazines, or start your new school because the summer is now over.

Naturally, I started talking to my ghost.

"It's okay," I would say. "No one is working on the elevator today, and I just need to go downstairs."

The creepy thing was this: If I talked to the ghost, THE ELEVATOR WOULD WORK ON THE FIRST TRY.And that was when I decided the elevator was maybe probably really potentially haunted, but it was okay and actually a good added safety feature.

*I know a LOT of Rachels. And a Rachael. Work Rachel is not the Rachael who patiently listens to my knitting rants and obsessive adoration of my glasses and the jam she made me. See the name spellings? Two different people.

**Super-glad Bruce Coville and his wife got out of Egypt safely. I LOVE YOU BRUCE. Please keep writing books, and I will continue reading them, even though my reading level is "too high" to read "kids books." Like I've ever listened to anyone about that sort of thing.

***And I still am. I'd have to be, if I think my house is about to burst into flames, leaving a charred corpse behind, without our neighbors ever noticing. They live, like, fifty feet away! They'd see the flames. I hope.

I CAN HAS NEW GLASSES?

2011-02-09T22:56:00.000-05:00

Oh, yes. Because I have them, and I am wearing them, and I am happy. I also have plum jam, made by Rachael, which I am eating with a spoon. Jealous?

LAURA LOVES HER NEW GLASSES!

2011-02-07T22:24:00.000-05:00

I found new glasses.

Now, it's a waiting game. They have to be made. And shipped. And then I have to drive to Huntington to pick them up. But I can only do that after they've been finished and shipped and delivered. So I have to wait.

I don't do well with waiting.

Also, my head is so freakishly tiny and narrow, I had to get glasses from the Children's or "Youth" section of the eye doctor's office. My new glasses are as grown-up as I am.

Do you like them? Do you?

I really love them. I'll have a better picture when I get them, one without a sticker on the eye, but I wanted to show them off first.

This post is about nothing, and you probably shouldn't read it, because there is no point to it and no reason for Laura to have written it, aside from boredom.

2011-02-04T15:39:00.001-05:00

I keep thinking about Pooping Man. I'll walk upstairs and step onto the carpet and think: Pooping Man was here. I know, because I saw his LEAVINGS.

I'm not going back to talking about Pooping Man, but I think the experience is seared into my memory, so I can't promise I won't have spontaneous blog-flashbacks about him (or what he left behind).

Eww.

Also, I am out of cookies at home. I need to remember to buy more. I keep eating them, and for some reason, the package doesn't fill back up when I put it away in its Super Secret Hiding Place.*

I should have bought cookies last night, but instead I bought dishwasher stuff and corn chips for Paul, because he wanted to eat salsa. Then I bought more ravioli because I really love ravioli, but only the kind in the cream and green box in the freezer section with cheese and spinach inside them. I'm going to eat some of those ravioli for lunch today. By the time I'd collected all the groceries my mother wanted, I gave up on getting fun food for me to eat, partially because I knew I had ravioli, partially because I knew that eating an entire bag of cookies all by myself while sitting in bed taking to Twitter is going to make me so fat, I won't be able to get back out of bed, and I will be on Twitter full time.

That wouldn't be so bad, but it's a long time between Doctor Who seasons. I have months to wait before the next one. Stupid time. Always so...chronological.

Also I think it is divorce season. I've had three people come in today asking for divorce papers. Sometimes when this happens, I wonder if the people are actually spouses, both getting divorce papers at the same time to see who can file first. Other times, like when all of the people are men, I think maybe it was getting snowed in and stuck with each other since Monday was too much for people to take. I would divorce my father, after this week. But only because he's rife with disease and bound to make me sick with his Chronic Lung Fungus / UberDeathVirus which may or may not be Ebola.

Dad is so sick that on Wednesday, I told him he could no longer touch food. I said his food would need to be prepared for him by a third party, like me or Mom or Paul, so he would not leave Germs of Laura's Future Suffering on every surface, infecting me and causing me to have my third sinus infection of 2011. Then I grabbed a handful of tortilla chips and threw them in a bowl, then put the bowl on the table and told him those were his chips, and he couldn't have any from the bag unless he asked Paul to take more out. Otherwise, we would all die.

This solution is much better than my other option, which involved creating an elaborate quarantine unit in the basement, and slipping food into a pressure-sealed tray so Dad could eat. We would visit him at feeding times. He didn't seem too enthusiastic about that idea. I'm hoping the threat of mandatory quarantine will be enough to get him to the doctor's office.

Imagine if he contaminated my cookies! It's a good thing I forgot to buy any.

This weekend, after I buy cookies, I'm going to go pick out my new glasses. If I am tormented by the decision, expect a plea for help. I'm going to take pictures of each possible pair. You see, when I look at myself in the mirror for a long enough time, I stop thinking, "This is a great pair of glasses!" And start thinking, "Wow, this girl is a freak, with freaky glasses on, why doesn't she just wear her contacts all the time like she usually does and leave glasses for people who look good in them," when I should be thinking, "Those glasses are more flattering than that other pair." I might need help determining which is the most appealing.

You can really tell I've been alone all day. It's starting to show. I'm sorry. I bet you regret reading this. It's like I stole something like ten minutes of your life. That's really too bad. I promise I'll try to be funny when life goes back to being funny again.

Which will likely be in the spring.

*I have to hide the cookies, because if I don't I will return home to find that where there were once ten cookies, now there are none. Because my mother has taken some for her tea, despite the fact that she says, "They aren't my favorite," and Dad has taken the rest because he likes to eat crunchy cookies dry--with no milk--and leave the crumbs and spare macadamia nuts and milk chocolate chunks all over the floor for me to find, kind of like Pooping Man did with his Poop, only not as disgusting.

Snow Day(s): A Rambling Tale

2011-02-03T18:10:00.000-05:00

I woke up Tuesday morning, grabbed my cell phone, and carried it on my person for the next hour as I got ready for work. Surely, I thought, looking at the snow outside, we would have a snow day. The night before, I'd been in Walmart. The whole store had been cleared out of all edible food products (for some reason, tons of Ramen remained on the shelves). I managed to grab a package of cookies, then I left before the hordes of terrified country-folk took me as their own.

No call came. I finally got dressed in my work clothing, leaving behind my warm pajamas. I would miss them.

I got in my car, powered out of the driveway through the snow (you can do that when you don't drive a 25 pound Honda), and headed for the library. The roads were still covered with snow. I drove carefully, but once I got to 15, it wasn't so bad. I sped up, sang along to the radio, and barely noticed when my phone rang.

SNOW DAY!!!

(extra punctuation means extra excitement)

I could have turned around in a random driveway and headed back home. But I knew the likelihood of getting out of whatever driveway I chose was...well, low. So I kept going. I was almost to Wabash, anyway.

In Wabash, I grabbed a gallon of milk and doughnuts for everyone. Because I am nice like that. Then I drove back home.

All day, the snow fell. All day, wind blew against the house, right into my bedroom, which grew increasingly colder. Then, at about 9:30 p.m., the power went out.

Nooooo....I thought. We had all hoped that the power would last a little bit longer. Maybe through the night. Something! But this would leave us shivering all night, then through the next day, because even more snow was coming! And ice! We were supposed to get ICE, and the last time that happened, we had no power for DAYS.

Where I live, out in the country, no power means no lights, no heat, and no water, because the well doesn't work. No water means we have to cart water up from the river to make the toilet flush. The First World becomes the Third World real fast when we lose electricity. Suddenly, we're shivering in front of a fire, and we've stopped all liquid intake, because no one wants to be the one to use the toilet next.

Right now, the river is frozen solid. Yeah. SOLID.

"I'm not going down to break that ice," Dad announced.

"You don't need to this time," I told him. "We can use snow."

"You can't flush snow!" Dad insisted. I stared at him.

Did I mention my dad's IQ drops by something like 100 points the second the power goes out? It does.

"Snow melts," I said as Dad stormed out of the room. He gets angry, too, because we all are trying to cope with his drastically reduced intellect, causing us to talk to him as if he's five, not 56. (Yeah, that's his real age. You think I would lie to you? Or protect his feelings? Do you even know me?)

At this point, we were using one candle for light. Dad had a flashlight, and was in search of more. He also was looking for oil lamps, but he believed they were somewhere other than their actual location. Mom had moved them into the basement, because she was sick of dusting them.

We have a lot of oil lamps. Also tons of (unscented) candles. Why? Because my parents like buying things that light up. Send them on vacation, and they will return with only different things that light up--candles, oil lamps, rustic-looking lamp things...it's endless. There are no places for these things. But Mom shuffles things around, and we have different ones seasonally.

While Dad dug around in every room for lamps Mom had put in the basement, Mom and Paul rigged an elaborate curtain device over the door to the living room, so we could keep as much heat as possible in the room with the gas fireplace, which was the only thing heating the house. I plopped down in front of it, because I had no flashlight or lamp to use, and I didn't have a job to do anyway, so why bother.

Dad, meanwhile, had finished lighting a candle in his empty bedroom and had left it unaccompanied.* Now he decided that the lanterns Mom had found, lit, and placed on the dining room table were in fact actually in the shed. So he needed the shed key.

"Does anyone know where the shed key is?" Dad asked.

Mom looked at Paul. Paul looked at Mom. I looked back down at my cell phone, where Twitter was working hard to keep me from committing patricide. I could tell neither Mom nor Paul knew where the key was. And neither cared.

"Dad," Paul said. "We can't find the shed key on a normal day. How do you think we'll find it when we have no lights?"

"Where is it?" Dad repeated.

"Kel," Mom said. "Even if you had the shed key, you can't open the shed. There's snow in the way of the door. It would never open. You'd have to have to dig it free and have help opening it. And none of us are going to help you."

I really liked the way she ended that, don't you?

Dad stormed off to the garage, where he located several oil lamps. He lit them, then dug around for more. While doing this, he took an oil lamp and hung it up from the outside of the house, on the hook where the wind chimes usually are. It was very windy outside, did I mention?**

I drew you a picture.

Now the lantern was swinging back and forth, back and forth, coming ever closer to the house. The lantern, of course, was filled with oil. Firefighters would call that "an accelerant."

"That lantern is going to smash into our house," I announced. "It's going to light the house on fire, and then the fire department won't be able to get to us because there's so much snow."

As with many stories I make up in my head, it quickly became more plausible to me. Indeed, this WOULD happen, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

"And then," I continued, "The house will burn to the ground with us inside, because that's the only other exit since the garage door won't go up or down anymore because the power is out. And we'll try to put water on the fire, but it won't work, because we don't have water anymore because we have no power. And they'll find our charred corpses, frozen, tomorrow when the roads are cleared."

I drew you another picture.

"That's an uplifting story, Laura," my brother said.

I decided not to press the issue. Paul decided to go tell Dad to take down the lantern, before it proved me right.

Then Dad started to worry about heating the other half of the house. He opened Mom's new curtain. Mom told him to close it, because we were conserving heat. He told her no, because we had to heat the bathroom, in case we needed to use it.*** That was when I decided I'd had enough, so I went to get a book and my iPod, which still had a charge. As I rounded the corner, I glimpsed the bathroom door. Which was closed. I opened it. There was a lantern inside, which was burning unsupervised.**** My parents' bedroom still had a candle burning, as well, despite the fact that both rooms were empty.

"Dad," I called as I walked back into the dining room. "I know you want to keep the bathroom warm, but leaving the curtain open isn't going to help if you also want the bathroom door closed. Do you want me to open the bathroom door or close the curtain?"

Dad, who had apparently been arguing the curtain issue with Mom while I was getting my supplies, had heard enough. He stormed down into the (unheated) basement with an oil lamp, where he played his Irish whistle to drown out the sound of the rest of us having fun.

Mom and Paul were playing Hearts. Then they tried playing Poker. Then they discovered that they'd managed to combine the two games into a new game. Paul called it "Parts." When the sounds of hysterical laughter became too much, Dad came back, leaving the lantern burning downstairs.*****

The three of them decided to play Poker, for REAL. Dad got out pennies, which they renamed Doubloons. I was surrounded by pirates. Playing Poker. Pirate Poker. They even did voices.

This is what it looked like:

Shortly after Mom cleaned everyone out, the lights came back on. And the next day, to our joy, our neighbor came to plow our driveway for us, so we didn't have to use Paul as a slave to shovel it. I knew I should take pictures, but I was very lazy and, frankly, it was hard to walk around in, so I took this video:

Feel free to mock my drawing, photography, and video-making skills in the comments.

*This is the first of many fire safety rules Dad violated that evening.
**This is the second fire safety rule Dad violated.
***Of course, we wouldn't, because we'd all stopped liquids the second the lights went out. We weren't stupid, and we knew it would take a long while for our giant tubs of snow to melt.
****This is the third fire safety rule Dad violated.
*****Yeah, it's a wonder we made it through the night, with all these fire hazards.

Oh. My. EZ.: A Fangirl Moment

2011-02-01T01:07:00.000-05:00

(Did you like how I substituted Elizabeth Zimmerman there? Because I did. She's one of the knitting gods, my friends. If you don't know her work, you should. And it was kind of foreshadowing because--well, you'll see.)

I was about to fall asleep when I randomly checked for comments on my mitten post. You know, the one with all the mitten pictures that I took after night had fallen, making them super-dark and sort-of blue tinged. That one.

Have you looked at the comments? Oh, you should. You really should.

I almost died right here in my room.*

Stephanie said...

Well, you know what? I'd totally take the blame for those. They're lovely. And you're persistent. And that's probably not my fault. That part.

Go ahead. Click the link. See?**

Did you faint when you clicked it? I did.

Stephanie Pearl-McPhee is one of my writing heroes. She's the sole reason I started blogging in the first place, and she came here. Not only did she COME, she also COMMENTED, which makes me feel special on all sorts of levels.

When I woke up yesterday morning, I was going to write a post about how miserable winter was making me. Instead, I'm ending the day on an almost-gleeful note. That's what knitting can do.

*Dying right now would complicate things, because we're snowed in and the coroner wouldn't be able to pick up my body until the roads are clear.

**It was foreshadowing because the Yarn Harlot is one of the knitting gods. No, I don't think the fact that no one else got my cunning joke is cause to remove it and leave this as a humorless fangirl rant. No. We're keeping the semi-funny, sort of boring feel. That's what this blog is about.

The Post That Time Forgot

2011-01-31T10:52:00.000-05:00

I wrote this post several weeks ago, but waited for pictures to post it. So, I have added responses to my earlier thoughts on the subject, which will look like this. The parts I wrote ages ago will look like this.

I think I will never be finished with these mittens. I am.

Obligatory Mitten Picture.

I purchased the pattern and yarn months ago, right after I finished my Strawberry Mittens. I decided that now I had conquered color work, I could have a color work project hanging around for the days when one ball of yarn wasn't enough. Yeah, I have those days. Don't you?

I worked the cuff. Then I started stranding, then I frogged it. My problem was simple. I was using double pointed needles, and the ladders were horrific. Never mind. I was used to them now. No need to switch to a long circular. I started the chart again, and promptly frogged again--too tight. Such is my curse. In attempting to make the ladders between needles disappear, I had prevented my floats from floating. Oops.

I began again. This time, the color work looked great. Then I tried it on. HUGE. It looked like I'd grabbed a mitten designed for a much-larger man. I could have fit three hands in that one mitten. I frogged it. Then I wound the yarn back up all neat and nice, rammed it into a zip lock bag, then threw it back in with the rest of the stash. It's a wonder the stash didn't swallow the mitten yarn whole. It ate a sweater once. I only just found that sweater again. Am I working on it? Not anymore.

That was months ago. And it's cold now. Cold enough that knitting a pair of mittens starts to look mighty good. Really? Is that what I thought? Yeah. I started knitting the mittens again because I was sick and wanted to feel like I was accomplishing something other than blowing my nose repeatedly.

I began again. I had my lovely Blue Sky Alpacas ebony needles, size two, and my yarn and my chart spread out before me. I started knitting. What I failed to mention here is that I would knit one round of the mittens, than a few on Olive, then back to the mittens. I was sick. And indecisive.

Then, later that day, I tried on the mitten, resisted yelling something profane regarding the lineage of sheep from which the yarn originated, then frogged it. There may have been tears.

You see, when you knit something, realize there's a Big Change you need to make, then frog your project before putting it away, it's easy to think you can just follow the pattern and you'll be fine. You forget that you have freakish E.T. hands with long, skinny fingers, or that the width of your palm is roughly the same as your wrist. In short, you forget that you are a human sideshow attraction. I have nothing to add to this.

I frogged again. I dragged out my size one needles, and I started again. My size one needles were bent in a half-moon shape. It was like knitting with the letter "U."

I could sit here beating myself down, thinking I am a terrible knitter and that the knitwear gods have cursed me. Instead, I am going to do what my countrymen here in the U.S.A. do best. I am going to blame someone else.

I would never have picked up these mittens again if not for Stephanie Pearl-McPhee. That's right--I blame the Yarn Harlot. She made me cast on for this project again with her Startitis post. She made me choose to knit this SpillyJane pattern I had sitting next to its required yarn in a zip lock bag. She made it impossible to resist the call of fair isle, when I saw the lovely floats she displayed in this post. Clearly, I would never have picked up another project without her interference. I'd be finished with Olive right now, or finished with the rapidly dwindling supply of yarn for Olive and praying there would be more yarn in a similar dye lot at Knitting Off Broadway so I could actually finish. It's Stephanie's fault I have been stabbed repeatedly by these accursed bamboo needles, size one, that have been overused, bent into curves, and sharpened enough that they could double for torture devices. Oh, I did mention those needles. They really are sharp, too.

If not for the Yarn Harlot, I would be free. Yeah, whatever Laura. If not for Stephanie, you'd just have started knitting something else. And you'd be begging Twitter to do math for you again, since you refused to take remedial Algebra.*

Another Obligatory Mitten Picture

One Last Obligatory Mitten Picture

Visit the mittens on Ravelry!

Pattern: Polska by SpillyJane
Yarn: Knitpicks Palette in Cream, Marine Heather, Autumn Heather, and Verdant Heather
Needles: Size one double points

*Yes, I did just mock myself in the third person. No, I don't see any problem with that.

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

2011-01-27T15:30:00.000-05:00

There came a time, before the sermon but after Joys and Concerns and some singing, when all the children had to leave their pews and walk all the way to the front of the sanctuary, sit on the ground, and listen to someone tell us a story.

I was never a normal child.

Even at eight, I knew the reason these stories were told was not to entertain the children. If the church had been looking to entertain us, they would have had half as much talking and twice as many video games. No, we were brought up for a story so the adults could stare at us, note how cute we were in our Sunday dresses and slacks, and then watch us listen to the story while feeling as if something was being accomplished, because we were good little boys and girls and not heathens destined to roll and boil in Hell for all eternity.

Knowing the grown-ups and their secrets, I attempted to create various ruses to escape the children's story. I would dart out to use the restroom moments before the story was to begin. In the bathroom, which was new, spacious, and very bright, I would make faces in the mirror, wash my hands very carefully, try to make my hair look like Brandi's always did (less flat, more blonde), and then slowly sneak back out to join my family in their pew when the story was finished.

Maybe it was my utter lack of stealth that made my parents get wise. They stopped letting me leave the pew and started forcing me to walk up, sit down, and listen.

But I wasn't going to take that. I hated the stories, mostly because they were boring, but also because they involved strange old people I didn't know or trust, the kind of old people that smell like powder and wore shoulder pads. I never trusted shoulder pads. Shoulder pads are made of lies.

The next Sunday, I developed a severe stomach ache, right before the story was set to begin. I clutched my stomach, folded myself in half, and stared at the ground.

"It hurts!" I whispered to my mother. She stared at my father.

"Are you going to be sick?" He asked me.

"I don't know..." I said. I had not mastered the skill I knew some children had, of vomiting on command.

"When I was a little boy," Dad began. "One Sunday my stomach hurt. It hurt so bad, I asked to stay home from church. My parents told me that, unless I threw up, I was going to church. I did throw up. And do you know what happened?"

"What?" I asked.

"My parents took me to church anyway, because there was nothing left for me to throw up. My stomach was empty," Dad said.

Now, I may have been eight, but I knew Dad was calling my bluff. A compromise was reached. I could sit in the pew this Sunday, but next Sunday, I had to go up front with Paul. It was my job, my parents told me, to make sure Paul sat still and listened.

Stupid Paul.

He was ruining my escape plans. Thanks to him, the next Sunday came and I had to cart myself up front with all the other children. I was sure most of them were four or five years younger than I was. Next to them, I looked freakishly old. It was like if my friend Bryan's much-older brother Tim had gone up with us. He was in high school, I thought. He had to be about to get married. And that was what people saw when they looked at me, a bizarre woman-child who would at any moment start drooling from the corner of my mouth, rocking back and forth, and soiling myself.

I flopped down on the rough carpet and stared at my shoes.

That day, I was wearing a pair of shiny black mary janes with my scratchiest lace-edged socks. My mother had planned this in order to ensure the greatest level of discomfort. One of the shoes was buckled wrong.

I slowly undid the buckle and stared at the shiny black strap. Then I undid the other buckle.

At that moment, something clicked in my brain. Both the straps were the same. Both the buckles were the same. What was there to stop a person from fastening one strap to the opposite shoe's buckle?

Naturally, I did just that. I was amazed to see that it actually worked. You really could buckle your shoes together! I quickly buckled the other strap on the opposite shoe.

Now my feet were strapped together, my ankles crossed, and I had done something I was sure no other child had ever thought to do. I was a genius. This was the best discovery I had made in my life.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder.

Yes. You know what was happening, right? You've figured it out. I regret to say my child-self was still utterly clueless.

When I looked up, all the other children were gone. I saw my brother's shoe as he walked around the pew and headed down the aisle. They had left me behind, and now, to put it delicately, I was screwed.

My feet still securely buckled together, I tried to stand up. I fell down. Untwisting my ankles, I tried again. But now there was no slack between my feet.

I inched one foot forward, the other forward, one, then the other. But I was moving so slowly! I tried to go faster, but again, I fell.

Now the congregation was starting to notice. I reddened. They couldn't see my feet; they had no idea what I was doing. They just thought I was being silly. They couldn't see how difficult this was.

I was only inches from where I had begun and already precious time was running out. The organ music had begun. Soon the pastor would appear, and I knew that if I was still stuck up there when the sermon started or even still hobbling to my seat when the pastor started talking, Hell would open right up inside the church and it would swallow me whole.

"LAURA," The Devil would boom. "COME DOWN TO STAY AT MY HOUSE! WE HAVE MARSHMALLOWS, CANDY FOR BREAKFAST, AND WE WATCH PG-13 MOVIES EVERY NIGHT!"

Terror growing within me, I did the only thing I could do. I started hopping.

Like a rabbit, I sprang high in the air and came back down, jumping as far as I could as I raced back to my seat. Now the whole congregation was laughing, loudly. But they didn't understand. My mortal soul was up for grabs, and the only way I could keep myself from cavities and adult situations was to get back to my seat before my lace-swathed ankle ended up in the rough grasp of Satan.

I fell, I got back up, still I hopped. When I finally reached my seat, my mother had gone pale, my father looked as if he might explode.

"I'm sorry," I said desperately. "I was stuck!"

Then they noticed my shoes.

For the next six months, the shoe story was all my parents could talk about to everyone they knew. They told my grandparents, my cousins, my aunt and uncle, our neighbors and friends. My mother particularly enjoyed telling it.

Finally, when I heard my mother recounting the story to my grandmother for the second time, I burst into tears.

Through my tortured wails, I begged her to stop.

"Towa mamo omy lyyy!" I cried. "Iwa vogeee!" This meant, "It was the worst moment of my life! I want to forget it!"

Mom, of course, understood every word.

And I never had to go up and listen to the children's story ever again.

Chaotic Implosion Day

2011-01-26T22:42:00.000-05:00

After the Pooping Man, a person would think my day couldn't get any more exciting?
I present to you my evening:

A 30 minute detour around the town as I tried to get past the train stopped on the railroad tracks behind the library.
Dad in the emergency room with chest pains, first at our tiny local hospital, then at the much-larger Parkview hospital. No heart attack (or so we've been told), just an inflamed liver and / or GALLBLADDER.
I missed Criminal Minds.

And you thought inexplicable turds on the library carpet were as wild as life could get.

The Mark on the Library Floor

2011-01-26T13:59:00.000-05:00

A Note for the Squeamish: What follows is a story of horrific horrificness. Those with weak stomachs are advised to go back to yesterday's post and watch the Alan Rickman video again, or Google "cute kitten pictures" and stare at them until I write another, less disgusting post.

Someone asked me for a book, and it was upstairs, so I went upstairs to the shelf where the book lives. On the way, I noticed an odor, but I kept walking because I work in a public library in a building that was constructed over a hundred years ago, and that means smells.

But when I rounded the corner on my way to the shelf, I encountered the source of the smell. Footprints marred the otherwise immaculate carpet. Yellowey, brownish orange footprints. Someone had tracked what I imagined to be dog crap through the library.

There are lots of dogs in the world, and lots of feet. It's only understandable that human feet will meet dog waste at some point in history, especially when dogs and humans spend so much time around each other. So, dog poo on feet. Sadly, in this instance, the foot had not noticed the transition between Foot and Dog Poo Foot. That happens. It's unpleasant, but it happens.

"Oh," I said as I discovered the footprints. "Someone tracked dog poo..." I pointed.

"Ugh!" said our director. "Ewww!"

I agreed. He emerged from behind the circulation desk. We stared. I grabbed the book and went downstairs as the director followed.

I handed the book to the patron who had wanted it. This was the priority: The patron I was helping. The director grabbed a key to the server room to grab various solvents to clean the mess. One of my coworkers joined him, leaving me to help the patron in the Children's Room. This meant I could not leave the Children's Room, which I thought was awfully lucky.

Cleaners obtained, my coworker and the director went upstairs. I watched the scene, which to me, seemed more akin to a prison movie execution sequence than just two people walking up a flight of stairs.

Time passed.

Suddenly, my coworker was back, asking for air freshening sprays. I handed her all we had. She vanished.

Time passed.

Now I was beginning to worry. Had the mess been so much bigger than what I'd originally seen? Was it so deeply embedded in the carpet that the two could not be separated, forcing us to change our name to That Library that Always Smells Like Dog Poo?

My coworker returned. She looked at me. "That wasn't dog," she said darkly.

Not...dog? It was too smelly to be mud, I thought. Too smelly, and too not-mud-colored. Certainly it was feces. It had to be feces. Cow? Too yellow. Sick cow? Maybe.

"That was human," my coworker said.

Human?

"No," I said.

"Somebody couldn't make it to the restroom," she said.

"Weren't they wearing pants?!" I asked.

"It fell out their pant leg," she replied. "He went into the restroom, came out, and tried to get on the computer."

Now, if I had accidentally had a bowel movement inside a public building, and the results of the bowel movement were such that said movement was liberated from my pants, I would flee. If I chose to flee into a restroom, I would never leave. They would have to remove the door from its hinges and arrest me. Otherwise I would just stay right where I was, so my face would never be associated with my leavings.

This guy? Not so much. He just cleaned up a bit (not his shoes) and went over to the computers and checked Facebook. They found him by following his tracks

The carpet is clean now. The building now smells like evergreen lemons, because those were the two scents of Oust they sprayed upstairs. The man was asked to leave. But the question remains: What would cause a person to care so little about soiling themselves in public that they'd sit down and check Facebook moments after a warm, yellowey brownish orange friend rolled down their pant leg and hit the carpet?

And that leads us to our question of the day. What would his status update be?