Thursday, July 8, 2010


Dear Bank Employee Who Called Me At Work,

I didn’t answer my cell, because I didn’t recognize your number. Your urgent, “Ms. Shannon, please return my call as soon as possible, I have something very important to discuss with you” voicemail did put the fear of God into me, though. Had I somehow managed to spend all my money without even realizing it? Was I sleep-spending hundreds of dollars online? My sleeping pills do make me groggy, these things could happen! Maybe someone suspicious was trying to access my account, or someone had stolen my credit card number and had surpassed my limit!

So I’m sure you understood my panicked call to your secretary, and my even-more panicked feelings when she told me you were helping another customer, and I would have to hang up and wait for your call back. So I sat at my desk worrying my ass off, visions of slimy identity thieves spending my hard-earned money plaguing my every thought. When my cell finally rang 15 minutes later, I snatched it up and blurted out a panicked, “HELLO THIS IS SHANNON”, my anxiety reaching its pinnacle.

Imagine my surprise when you greeted me with a cheery, “Ms. Shannon, you have a VERY important decision to make about protection from overdraft fees!” In case you couldn’t tell, those seconds of silence on my end were due to my overwhelming urge to reach through the phone and strangle you. I managed to control my irritation through your whole gratingly cheery spiel: “OMG LIFE WITH OUR OVERDRAFT PROGRAM IS AWESOME!! IT IS MADE OF RAINBOWS AND GLITTERY UNICORN FARTS OMG!” I will admit, I took vicious satisfaction in the disappointment in your voice when I turned down your omg-super-awesome (but not so awesome for me, thank you very much) plan. Next time, don’t put me on the defensive before I even call you back, k?

No love, from your grumpy, slightly disgruntled customer,

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Temporarily defeated

I have been knitting for years. I have tackled everything from lace shawls to cabled items to color-work to socks. I happily tackle new techniques and usually do very well at it. But sometimes, even the simplest things bring me to my knees.

I have been working on the Central Park Hoodie for ages now. I blew through the back and fronts with no problem at all, all three pieces turned out gorgeous. But the sleeves… I have knit and frogged, knit and frogged, knit and frogged TWENTY FIVE MILLION TIMES. Because even though I’m a fully-functioning adult and, I like to think, a relatively clever knitter, I’m apparently unable to count to 8 and differentiate between right and left at the same time. So what were supposed to be simple but beautiful cables marching up the sleeves of my sweater, turned into a clump of mis-crossed nonsense that looks like I might possibly have had a seizure while knitting. So I spent 10 minutes frogging half the sleeves, blurting out obscenities with each row ripped out. “*Tug* goddamit. *Tug* Shit! *Tug* SHITDAMNSHIT!” (This is why I don’t go to knit nights in public, they tend to frown on sailor language). So the offending sweater has been stuffed into the closet, because who in their right mind works on a woolen sweater in this kind of heat anyway? I haven’t been defeated by a non-sentient pile of wool, I’m just being practical. Yeah, that’s it. Practical.

You may be cocky now, CPH, but you will get yours. I will make you my bitch.

(This is the only picture I have right now, which is the beginning of the back of the sweater. I need to get some updated shots to keep track.)

Monday, July 5, 2010

Helloooo (echo)

Why yes, it has been a long time since I've updated this, thanks for noticing. So I will remedy that now (I will try to keep this updated, promise). I will begin with tales from last night.

Over the years of having a fucked-up subconscious that produces horrifyingly realistic dreams, I’ve learned that upon waking, a startled, sleep-addled brain can lead one to do a multiple of odd things (hauling ass across the room to sit in the closet and hide before I regained my wits being an example of this). Having sleeping pills that keep my brain fuzzy and half-dead for a good chunk of time after waking exacerbates this issue. Last night was another prime example.

Before waking, I was trapped in a dream where I was stranded in my home (which had grown the size of a mansion, apparently) in an alternative universe, where crazy people splattered with blood tried to chase me around, into areas of the house that had fireballs floating about them. I assume these were evil death-by-fire chambers. Also, I was inexplicably without my pants, wearing only a shirt and underpants, as one does while trapped in an alternative universe, apparently.

As I was racing about trying to escape, I was rudely jerked out of sleep, I assume by one of the exploding firecrackers that have been going off ALL NIGHT OMFG. I jerked up in bed, face covered in drool, and still trapped in a dream state. My brain went, “evil people chasing! Flee!” and then “OMG HUNGRY.” My brain assessed the situation and came back with the solution of, “you in danger, bitch. Haul your ass out to get sustenance, then hurry the fuck back” (my brain has terrible language). So putting aside my previous fight-or-flight instinct of “get the hell out of here”, I scurried into the kitchen to procure vittles, while still encompassed in an adrenaline-fueled sleep haze. Seeing as how I was absolutely starving for some reason, I grabbed whatever my grubby little paws touched, and hauled ass back to the perceived safety of my locked bedroom.

As I sat on my bed munching away at my pilfered bounty, with the DVD I had fallen asleep to quietly replaying in the background, I assessed what I had grabbed to apparently refuel for my daring escape of the alternative universe. Already my brain was starting to come back to earth, and I had the wherewithal to be amused by my quickly-grabbed treasure: a plastic picnic cup I had dumped some tortilla chips into, the homemade spinach dip I had made earlier the previous day, and a sourdough bread round to scoop the dip up with. The entire bread round; I hadn’t taken the time to slice it or anything (what part of “being chased by blood-thirsty crazies while in my underpants” are you not grasping? Time is of the essence). Now that my brain was fully awake and aware and my gnawing hunger was satisfied, I stashed the evidence of my late night snack on my bedside table, and passed out asleep again. I woke later to an unhappy, churning stomach and a mouth that tasted of onions and death.

Having a fucked-up-dream-producing subconscious and sleeping pills that leave me slow to return to full consciousness never fails to be entertaining.