Now Norma Knits

Handknits on Parade

A chill is in the air.  And over the few days since the weekend, the handknits have made a very good showing. In the past few days, I've worn three of my handknit sweaters -- Chamomile, Central Park, and Golden Vintage Cardigan; two of my handknit scarves -- one of the Noro striped ones and the recently completed Palindrome; two pairs of fingerless mitts -- the navy blue Natalyas and the Golden Handspun Bitchin' Mittens; my Trekking socks; and my pair of Dimorphous mittens. 

Ya know, I often say, "I don't knit."  And then I look at this and realize oh yeah, I do.

 

Now, however, there is an unsolved mystery that is quite disturbing to me:  My Garter Yoke Cardigan, the one featured in my new banner and made of Scottish Tweed, seems to be missing.  Please send some good sweater-finding vibes.

To The Group of Six Students in the Bailey Howe Library Where I Was Sitting, and Trying to Work, Yesterday:

1. I am not impressed that you say you are pre-med.  (I'll be very surprised if you make it to med school, you obnoxious little twits. And before you do, you'd better sign up for a course that is marked, "GrowTheFuckUp101.")

1.a.  You are obnoxious little stinks, but you are not da shit.

2. I am even less impressed that you brag that two of your mothers are doctors. If you are acting this way in a university library, then your upbringing was defective, regardless of who your doting parents were.

3.  I am not fazed in the least by your liberal use of the words "shit" and "fuckin'."  I could soooo beat you on this one.  I'll teach you a few more if you want -- call me.  srsly.

4.  If you got a 43 on your first exam, NO, IT IS NOT THE PROFESSOR THAT IS CLEARLY FUCKED UP.  YOU are.  (Perhaps you could be using this time to study, instead of trash-talking your profs.)

4.a.  I wonder if you really think that by saying all this stuff increasingly more boldly and loudly and vigorously in front of an adult, that I somehow represent all adults, and this message will miraculously get to someone who you think should hear it, and all your problems will be taken care of so you can just get to the store to buy a new iPhone?   Egocentric101:  Contrary to what your wonderful parents have told you for 18 years, the world does NOT revolve around you.  

4.b.  I am soooo unimpressed with your sense of entitlement.

5.  Where did you grow up?  And where were your highly impressive doctor parents when they should have been teaching you some manners, humility, courtesy, and library etiquette?  

Etcetera.  (That is Latin for "You are over-privileged jerks.")

Bloody hell.  (That is a British expression that means "You are not even good enough to carry the bags of those OFA kids.")

There.  I feel a bit better.  But not as much better as I felt when I purposely overstayed my welcome in "your space" EVEN LONGER once I realized that you were trying to get me out of there.  For that, I had lots and LOTS of patience.  

Plus:  Thank you.  You gave me blog fodder.  

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Love and kisses,

The middle-aged lady who had the AUDACITY to sit in the chair next to you.  

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P.S.  Remind me never to set foot in that library again, where the large painted QUIET PLEASEs all over the place mean absolutely NOTHING AT ALL.  

I Swear, I am a Magnet for The Weird...and other Monday Musings

At 12:03 a.m. Sunday, the entire household was sound asleep, all of our lights were off, and .... what was that?  Mr. Jefferies has bounded off the bed, he is barking, and it seems like we heard something, too.  As the fuzz starts to clear, we wonder, "Was that the doorbell?"  But it doesn't seem possible.  Then we realize there is a car in our driveway, with the lights on.  Yes, we decide we think the back doorbell rang.  And then the front doorbell rings (the back doorbell is one ring, the front is a double ring).  

It's the most disorienting thing, and upsetting.  And Mr. Jefferies is barking, I'm trying to calm him down, and we're both wondering, "Who could this BE at this hour?"  

David's eyes finally adjust to the darkness and the car lights enough that he is able to identify the car as a St. Albans City police cruiser.  Hm. One of David's positions is as the State's Attorney (in other states, this is often referred to as "District Attorney") for the adjoining county.  Once in a while the State Police have to visit, but normally they call first.  S.A. City PD is not within his jurisdiction, but it's conceivable that the Franklin County S.A., who lives on our street, was maybe not available or something, and they might call on David to answer an important question. Not too far-fetched, but STILL.  The doorbell in the middle of the night, when we are clearly asleep?  Do I need to tell you the shivers that were going through my entire body at that point?  This can only be bad news of the most excruciating, gut-wrenching, pulling-fingernails-out-by-their-sockets kind.  I'm nearly throwing up.

So David pulls himself together and gets dressed and goes to the back door.  I had opened a window and the police officer said, "Hi, sorry to bother you so late.  City Police," which then sent Mr. Jefferies into paroxysmal barking, understandably so -- cripes, *I* was nearly barking at that point, and I'm not even a canine. 

David talked to her for a while, and then comes back upstairs.  I ask him what was THAT all about.  "Well," he said, "she said that there's been some vandalism in the area.  The State Police called the City Police to say that they saw some kids spray-painting mailboxes, and she wanted to assure us that they were investigating it."

I kid you not. 

a) That must be one very bored police department;

b) How inSENSITIVE can they be?  A visit in the middle of the night from a police officer should be reserved for something like "Your son was killed in Iraq."  "Your spouse was in a horrible automobile accident."  "Your house is on fire." "There is a bomb in your mailbox, but don't worry -- our crack team is going to disarm it."  Even, "There is a homicidal psychopath on the loose.  Keep your doors locked."  NOT "Somebody spray-painted some mailboxes in your neighborhood."  

I made a written complaint to the Chief of Police.  David made me sanitize it by editing a lot of what I wanted to say out of it.  

Fucking lawyers. 

That's one reason I'm glad I have the blog.  Nobody censors me here. Nobody'd better even DARE.

So, first the black cat incident, and then this.  

And then yesterday Mr. Jefferies was sick all day.  I was forced to lie low myself, taking care of him, and we're going to need to see the vet today, I fear. 

Why I've Harangued You For Comments

It's official:  The blog is my favorite hobby of all my long list of hobbies.  Of course, it's nice that it can be the outlet and clearinghouse, as it were, for all -- or most, anyway -- of my hobbies and interests.  And you, my dear readers, are important to me.  

But for a while, it appeared that readership was drastically down, commenting was drastically down, and I started to wonder if it was because I had become a terrible, obnoxious bore.  If that is the case, then it's time to hang it up.  That is the last thing I want to be.  Then again, I don't want the pressure -- and know I could never live up to it -- of always being "on," and always being entertaining.  

Of course, I could tell from my blog stats that readership was not REALLY down -- it's just that the hits to the blog were down -- to the tune of 50%! -- since I allowed the full posts to be readable in the feed readers.  That means that of course it's more convenient and faster to read it in the reader, but people were not then clicking through, and not commenting.  I had a little bit of a crisis of confidence over all of that.  I always think I'm not into the popularity thing, but being ignored can shatter the confidence of even the most thick-skinned, I suppose.  

Not really, but really, if that makes any sense.  I knew you were there, but many of you were awfully quiet.  And it's not a good feeling, as some of you delurkers have acknowledged you realized, to feel like one is talking either to oneself or to the mirror, or writing into a vacuum.  One wonders if one has become redundant.

I'm a terrible hypocrite, because my own ability to read and comment on my friends' blogs and new blogs has taken a nose-dive what with all my responsibilities, trying to get enough exercise, keeping up on the studying I am doing, and keeping up with my own blog.  

In addition, in the last couple of years with the blogging every day, I have abandoned the practice of answering every comment like I used to do in the old days.  I just can't do it all.  I read them and relish them -- usually on my BlackBerry whenever I have a minute in my day to check it -- but can't always respond.  So it's a terrible one-way street, and I wish I could do something about that, but I can't.  Well, of course I COULD.  It's all about choices and priority-setting.  Oh, and I do need to get some sleep once in a while.   

So thank you for understanding, and thank you especially to those who have come out of lurkdom to make an effort.  I appreciate it sooooo much.  Of course I don't expect you to comment ALL.THE.TIME, but it is lovely to hear from you on a semi-regular basis.  And for those people who say they don't comment because they can't think of anything clever to say, cleverness in the comments is not required.  A simple, "Hi, I'm here reading because I enjoy your blog" once in a while is very much appreciated, though.  

All right.  Enough of that.  

Lookie:  There hasn't been much time for knitting, but I have started a scarf in the gorgeous tomato-red Blue-Faced Leicester yarn AnnaMarie gave me for my birthday.  

The pattern is the lovely Palindrome, which I like to characterize as the ever-popular Irish Hiking Scarf......

.... only reversible.  I'm pretty sure this one is going to belong to me.  

The poor tweed sweater has not had any progress made on it since we last spoke.  

Speaking of red scarves and me haranguing you (nice segue, hm?), you can start shipping your scarf for the Red Scarf Project starting September 1, which is right around the corner.  The deadline is not 'til December 15, so there's plenty of time for you to finish a scarf or two or three.  Just do it. You'll be glad you did.  

Here's the address:

Orphan Foundation of America 
The Red Scarf Project 
21351 Gentry Drive 
Sterling, VA 20166

Norma('s)(es)

I'm a little touchy right now.  Use my name, and bump me out of the top three hits in Google, and you'd better at least be good: 

This Norma I like, and she actually had the name before I did. My name is Norma with middle initial J., for my maiden name. Two judges I worked with for many years always called me Norma Jean. Though I tried, I never was able to sway them from their mistaken belief that Jean was my middle name.

No, some new Norma Knits character has not entered the scene and stolen my name.  Just a new slew, apparently, of overpriced restaurants with the name Norma's.  WHY, all of a sudden, is the name Norma's so in vogue for restaurants?  From what I can glean, the one in Manhattan is not new, but it is only just recently showing up on Google when searching for "Norma," so it must have just recently gotten a website or somehow padded the numbers so it shows up high under not just "Norma-apostrophe-s" but plain "Norma" as well.  Still not higher than the friggin' ammunition company with the same name (WTF?) and now a pipe coupling group?  HONESTLY!  Who the hell visits a pipe-coupling group's website?  Numbers are clearly being fudged here.  

But the restaurant in New York, and the fact that hardly anyone is reading my blog anymore, has bumped me down to about sixth on the totem pole.  I used to be able to brag, "Just Google Norma and there I'll be, about the third hit."  Not anymore.  My star has burned out.  Pfffffft.  Fizzzle, fizzle, sputter.  

That's all right.  Must be it's time to reinvent myself again.  Stay tuned. 

But I was intrigued.  We'll be going to New York soon, and while there, we will dine at Bobby Flay's restaurant Mesa Grill again, as we enjoyed it so much last time.  I thought, "Well, maybe we should go to Norma's, since I can't seem to avoid it, and see if it is ALL THAT."  

So I looked at some reviews.  They're mixed, except they all agree on one thing:  It's expensive.  But I did enjoy the following exchange that I read in a blog.  The blogger wrote that the restaurant didn't treat his/her child very well.  Even made the poor tyke drink o.j. from a paper cup!

(I apologize for the formatting issues, but it just.will.NOT.format correctly when I cut and paste it here, and Typepad will NOT allow me to indent it without in turn indenting my entire post, and it makes everything fugly as all get out.)  [FIXED due to Rachel's help.  Thanks, Rachel!]

But my big issue with Norma's? As their website claims...

Do we like kids? More than whipped cream.

Thing is, they sure don't act like they like kids (but judging by the menu, they sure like whipped cream). My 20-month old was given a rickety high chair, a paper cup from which to drink her juice from, and kind of brusque, disinterested service from our waiter. Generally, we found that in other restaurants that claim to be kid-friendly - Blue Smoke, Landmarc - the staff tended to be, well, friendly towards the kid; at Norma's the service was indifferent at best, and the maitre d' was especially chilly (perhaps because I wasn't in a suit-and-tie, although I think it was because his tie was too tight).

One of the blog's readers commented:

I love Norma's, but only when I'm in the mood to have a ridiculous, sweet, cavity-inducing breakfast (although I do like their foie gras french toast also). It's not gourmet food by any stretch, but I found the pricing pretty fair for what you get and the neighborhood, etc. I don't have kids, so I can't speak to the child-friendliness of the place, but knowing how crowded it can be I wouldn't think of it as an ideal place to bring a child that needs a high chair. As for the staff's indifference, well, I doubt that the management can dictate just how effusive their staff has to be when in the presence of children, and basic politeness is probably all that's "required." Not everyone likes kids (I SURE don't), and though I'm sure there are people that would have gone gaga over your little one, you may just have run into a few that are child-haters like me.

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That just cracked me up and made my day, because, you see, we've recently had some abysmal experiences with children (and their clueless parents) in restaurants.  They ought to be banned.  Seriously.  They've banned smoking, and I often find that less offensive than people and their kids. 

We did, however, have one relatively charming experience with children in a restaurant.  And believe it or not, it was at another overpriced restaurant named Norma's.  I kid you not.  They're everywhere!  They're like locusts!  (Kids AND overpriced restaurants named Norma's.)

I don't have a lot of effusive praise about Norma's at the Topnotch.  Their cold soup sampler was interesting, cute (read: teeny) and pretty, but I didn't order it -- David did -- and he doesn't love cold soups much, not to mention big flowers floating in his food, the way I do -- so he would have a different review to offer, I suspect.  (The menu did not state that the soup sampler was cold, and none of the names were dead giveaways that it would be cold, so that part was a surprise.)  

I ordered a pomegranate martini which tasted like a cough drop and cost about 13 million dollars. I couldn't finish it.  Then again, every time I have ordered a flavored so-called martini anyplace (a Lemon Drop, for instance) I always think they taste like cough drops (and not in the good way), so I think it's possible that I just don't like martinis.  I say "so-called martini," because honestly, does anyone really believe that sweet chocolate-mint concoction (or whatever the latest iteration is) is really a martini?  But for the shape of the glass they are in, they bear absolutely no resemblance to martinis.  But I digress.

At Norma's at the Topnotch, I ordered a local heirloom tomato salad, and it was horrid.  Under-ripe, tasteless, pulpy tomatoes, cut in big chunks and piled up on the plate in what was an attempt at artful.  It has been just an awful year for tomatoes in Vermont, and I get that, oh yes I certainly do.  But then cut your losses.  Make it into soup or sauce or don't serve it.  Especially if you put a huge, hefty price tag on it.  The restaurant makes a large claim that it relies on local ingredients in season, but that salad was the only "local" thing on there, and for an outsider, it would not speak well of "local Vermont cuisine."  

The bread basket was awesome, and included some amazing cheese scones, but I shouldn't eat any of that (though I sure as hell did, for those prices).  Because the prices for everything else were so exorbitant, we ordered burgers.  Like $25 burgers.  (I actually can't be sure of that price, but whatever it was, it was way, way too high for a burger, especially in Vermont, even if it is in chichi Stowe.)  

Literally just down the hill from there, Abigail and I had stopped at a snowboarder-bum's burger joint a few days previous, and for $4 or thereabouts, we had the best burgers on homemade buns and the best fries and coleslaw ever -- easily up there in the top 5 burgers and fries I've ever had.  I overheard the guy behind the counter say he'd been schooled at the New England Culinary Institute, and it seemed entirely plausible, dude. You just gotta love Vermont.  

Norma's should be ashamed to charge what they do for admittedly a pretty nice burger, but at a steak price.  The steak on the menu, it wasn't even filet mignon OR local, and the price was blasphemous.

Anyhoo, how did I get distracted into giving a full restaurant review?  That wasn't the intent.  It was all about the kids.

While we were there, a couple arrived with two children, and were seated two tables over from us.  I groaned, because we had not long ago had to make a complaint when we took my mother out for dinner and the kids they seated next to us not only made it impossible to talk with each other, but came and got into my purse and nearly made me crazy.  That night we made a pledge to each other that from now on when we went to a restaurant, we would ask the host/hostess to not seat any children near us.  But there we were at a sort of fancy resort in Stowe, so it didn't occur to us that kids would show up.  Little did we know.

(Google "Norma's Sign" image, and this is one that comes up, taken at some other place called Norma's that I might actually like.)

One of the kids with the family was school age, and one clearly going through Terrible Twos.  But much to my surprise and pleasure, the mother was having NONE OF IT.  The mother refused to allow that child to act like an ass, and she wasn't embarrassed to discipline him (no, it was not abuse) until he stopped pounding his knife into the table and throwing things and grabbing things and knocking things over.  She got him under control and he acted like a civilized human being for the rest of the evening.  Imagine that.  I could almost die happy now.  

I knew something very plainly in a flash, and I said to David, "They're not Americans." (between the lines:  And thank GOD for that.) They were French or French Canadian.

Of course, the glowing moment took a different turn when, in the middle of the meal, the mother took the kids to the bathroom and the father started making eyes at me.  Yep.  French all right.  

Is Anybody Really Stupid Enough To Open A Suspicious-Looking* Email Attachment on April Fools Day?

It was ALL OVER THE NEWS last night:  "Tomorrow is going to be another computer virus doomsday." 

But honestly, [read the title of today's post].  *and the suspicious ones are not that difficult to identify.  For FUCKsake.  How stupid are people?  I mean, we've all had it happen (at least I did, once), but that was in the Paleozoic Era of the internet, before we all knew better.  BUT EVERYBODY SHOULD KNOW BETTER NOW.  And/or is this just made-up news?  Srsly. Just don't.

Speaking of viruses, mine of the rhino variety is getting better.  I did have a fever of 101F, as confirmed by a highly accurate thermometer, but I didn't have other influenza-like symptoms of the old "seems like you've been hit by a truck" description.  It just seemed like I'd been hit by a smaller vehicle, like maybe a family sedan.  My neti pot is my best friend, and I made generous use of all the other parts of my anti-virus arsenal -- steam and throat spray and chicken soup and zinc and tea and myrrh capsules and salt-water gargles, and like that.  I bundled up in my polarfleece robe, got under the covers and sweated it out when I was shifting back and forth from shivering to HOT.  I've still got little remnants of crud-production in my head, but I'm doing much better, and actually feel mostly like a person again.  The main aim in these situations (well, in addition to just plain getting over it as fast as possible) is to try to avoid letting it go to my chest and becoming bronchitis, which used to happen every spring before I learned how to stop it.  Thanks for the well wishes!  They helped!

The brown sweater project continues apace, if by "apace" you mean I screwed up the waist decreases and had to rip back 8 rows.  No big deal, really.  The yarn is such a pleasure to knit that I might just purposely knit 8 rows, rip 'em back, knit 'em again, rip 'em back, knit 'em again, and on into the next decade or until I wear out the yarn, whichever comes first.

 

Just in case I ever do continue beyond that phase, I went to the shop yesterday and bought two more skeins of the luscious Rambouillet yarn so I'd have enough to complete the jacket.  While there, I saw that there is another color that I had not noticed the first time there -- a lighter brown/gray natural color.  (OMG.) I didn't buy any, but I might just have to go back and get some.  Then again, I also saw more colors of Kathmandu tweed DK, which is the same yarn, under a different name, as the blue Jo Sharp yarn used in the gift sweater I made earlier this year, and I'm spurred on to stop just knitting the same 8 rows of the brown over and over again so I can get on to some of that. 

This is the shop we hate to love, because the owner is rather cantankerous at times, but man, does she have some great stuff. I picked up some special locally made buttons that just shouted out someone's name to me, and that someone (who reads this blog) will be receiving a package in the mail soon.  And that's all I'm going to say about that.

Sunday Ketchup* Post

*Because I don't like playing catch-up, but I like condiments.  Ha. 

As Cookie made me realize, I was a dope, and should have made Abigail and her friend Liz take the camera yesterday and do a guest post for today.  It was open sugarhouse weekend in our county, and they went to one of the really great ones.  I couldn't go, because I had to go to work after my yoga class, but they said it was wonderful.  Those lucky girls had a fab weekend -- they flew home (because flying via JetBlue was by far the cheapest mode of transportation they could find, including car rental!), they hung out, they went to Maple Sugar Open House, they had a hugely successful shopping trip and wardrobe enhancement at Abigail's favorite second-hand clothing store, they watched movies, they had a couple of great meals, they came to see Jon Stewart with an added bonus of seeing me work (ha again) and this morning they flew back.  Ahh, the life. 

Last night at the show, I saw a couple of lawyers I hadn't seen in a couple of years now.  It's a sweet thing.  In the freelance world you can literally go several months without seeing a particular lawyer, and then basically pick up where you left off -- at least that's the way it was with me.  Other reporters always told me they had a different experience -- i.e., people would forget their names or mix them up with other reporters.... but I'm apparently not forgettable.  Ha ha ha again.  But they were surprised to see me there, both said, "Ohmygod, I haven't seen you in forEVER!  Where have you been?!" and wondered why I was there.  One of them asked in his characteristic sarcastic manner, "What, do they need a TRANSCRIPT of this?!"  I explained to them that I do this pretty much full time now, and again, the misunderstanding:  "Transcribe comedians' shows?"  Then I explained further.  Again, ships somewhat passing in the night.  Whoa.  "You're going to MEDICAL SCHOOL?"  "Well, vicariously."  Abigail came over and I told them she's going to go to law school.  One queried her, "Didn't you learn ANYTHING in that expensive education of yours?!"  Both guys look at me and say, "You are always doing something interesting with your life," and I can see the almost sadness and ... not really envy, but something like it.  They're happy for me.  I ask one of them, "Is everything still the same?"  He answers, "Everything is still FUCKING THE SAME SHIT."  He meant "not in a good way."   Heh.

They give me hugs and kisses, and take their respective seats.  As they're leaving after the show, they both come by and again say things to the effect of: "This is a hell of a lot more fun than another deposition about a car accident!"

Right. 

If I were the least bit religious, I would say I'm blessed.  But that would be to say that I am not in charge of making my life interesting, which I am.  And so is everyone else.  I wonder why people don't.  A lot of it really does have to do with my childhood and young adulthood.  There was a lot of sadness and frankly a lot of horror and a near-death experience at the hands of violence.  And you know what?  That in itself is a blessing.  I wouldn't wish it on anyone else, but I am thankful for it.  It sounds weird, but it is a very freeing thing.  It makes me fear nothing and appreciate everything. 

Fuck.  Who knew I was going to get all deep and revealing today?  You'd better read this quick, before I have second thoughts and delete it...

My BlackBerry Saga -- It's A Long Story -- You've Been Warned.

Since my ground is still frozen solid as a lumberjack's mustache in January and I don't have cheery crocuses coming up like some people, all I've got is a long (possibly boring) story. 

You may remember when I got my spiffy new BlackBerry last June or thereabouts.  Everything has been fine with it, but my wireless service at home has gone from not-too-great to truly horrid.  I can't keep a call from dropping.  Many of them don't go through.  Initially the problems were just for the phone calls.  Eventually the problems extended to the emails, and then even text messaging, as well.  Browsing, fuggedaboudit. 

I like Verizon.  I'm starting to think that I have a personality disorder, in that I like and am loyal to these companies that keep treating me like shit.  I wonder what the DSM-V is going to say about people like me. Surely there will be a diagnosis code, or perhaps it will simply fall under masochism, unspecified. But knowing that nothing is perfect in this world, I think they have great good-enough customer service, they answer the phone in a timely manner, and they are very polite and helpful. And dare I say it, they are understandable on the phone. 

So I started making my calls to Verizon to complain about the crappy service at my home.  After many hours of them trying to fix things over the phone, they finally put in some sort of a Help Ticket, which is a verra BIG DEAL, apparently.  The way the guy on the phone explained it to me, they send engineers out -- people with weird little antennae and satellite dishes.  All I can picture is them in a 2001, A Space Odyssey type of deal, around my home and the nearby tower to try to find out WTF has gone wrong.  He said he'd been with these guys when they did their thing in one of those "I" states in the middle of the country, and he described it as quite impressive. 

This was the second such complaint I had made.  They got back to me after the first one and said, "Yes, they were having some equipment issues in your area, but they're fixed now."  Of course you know it:  Nothing changed and nothing was fixed at all.  I'm guessing the guys in the astronaut garb just drank Dunkin' that day and said, "Aw, fuck it. I'm not climbing that hill. Nobody lives around here anyway."

This second guy seemed to have a good sense of humor, so I told him that what I really thought had happened is that the tower had fallen down and nobody had bothered to go put it back up.  He thought I was serious and started to tell me that, "Well, those towers are pretty big.  SOMEone would have noticed if ...."  I cut him off to assure him I was kidding, explaining that I'm pretty sure I know where the tower is -- that I can walk to it and often do when I'm doing my hikes on the hill behind my house.  Sure enough, they have some spiffy software (probably just Google Earth or whatever), and though he was in Arizona (or so he said), he was looking down on my roof and the tower, and he started to say, "I just don't understand it.  The tower is just about two blocks from you."  I repeated that yeah, I've been there.  Many times.  What he couldn't discern, I guess, from his satellite image, is the topography, but whenever I tried to tell him that my house is on the hill below the tower, and that maybe that's a problem, he seemed to deny or not understand that I could actually be sitting sort of UNDER the signal.  The signal, as we all know, does not go EVERYwhere, right?  Like at the foot of the mountain on top of which is the tower? 

Anyhoo, but I still think, given their adverts on the teevee, I should get at least marginally acceptable service, especially since it was marginally acceptable before, but it has deteriorated.  So I called again.  And again.

I did not take them up on their offer to buy a gizmo to improve the signal in my home, for the low-low price of $250.  Actually, that suggestion, cheerfully given, rather stuck in my craw.  Especially since later that day I saw another one of their ads on TV that talked about how GREAT their network is, and especially since the firkin' tower is within spitting distance of my house, and especially since my monthly charges for the BlackBerry are not peanuts either.

Eventually they decided, in their infinite wisdom, that it's got to be my handset.  This makes zero sense to me, since it works everywhere else, but I'm guessing they thought this would appease me.  "Let's give her a new handset.  It's still under warranty, so it's no skin off our nose, but off BlackBerry's, and it's a hell of a lot cheaper than fixing the tower or putting up a new one. Maybe she'll go away."

Yeah.  Right.

So of course nothing has changed, except I have a new handset and I feel very unGREEN because I've got more plastic and more crap to send back and still no service.  They wore me down for a while.  Part of it is because I was on vacation for a while so it was not in the front of my mind.  Then I got really busy at work again, so had no time to deal with it... and reminder:  It works great away from my house.

Until Thursday morning.  On the way to work, suddenly the thing stopped receiving emails.  I did all the service tricks I've learned over time -- take the battery out to reset it, sign out and sign back in to the email service, blah blah blah.  Nothing helped.  Email was dead as a doornail.  Thankfully the phone and texting were still working.  We wouldn't want me to be COMPLETELY cut off from the world, now, would we?!

So Friday morning I got up extra-early and called them at 6:45 a.m.  After spending an hour-plus doing all the things I've already done a dozen times before, the woman on the other end of the phone asked if perhaps I could go somewhere else to make the call, because clearly we were getting nowhere at my house, and we're not sure now if it's the handset or the signal or both.  Well, you have to be on another phone line in order to make these tech calls so they can try to fix settings on your BlackBerry. The only thing I could think of was to go to the Verizon store in Burlington, 30 minutes' drive on a day when a cattle truck has not overturned.  She checked to see if they had a tech onsite, and they do, so she agreed that would be a good idea.

I went to Burlington later in the day and stopped in to see the nice people at the Verizon store.  I didn't get the guy I got before who insisted that I needed to change my number when that in fact was not true at all, THANK THE LORD.  Instead, I got a really great, really helpful guy.  At first I did not think it was going to be so good, though.

When I said, "We tried everything," he smugly grabbed my handset and took out the battery, saying, "Except you didn't try THIS."  Hahahahaha, I nearly peed my pants.  Riiiiight.  We did not try to take out the battery.  A trick that every cell phone user knows.  A trick that certainly this BlackBerry owner knows, since the BlackBerry goes kaflooey on a fairly regular basis and needs to be reset by taking out the battery.  "Criiiiipes," I thought, "Great.  Here we go.  Another dufus who thinks I'm a ditz.  This is going to go well.  NOT."

Sigh.

So I stood there biting my tongue, after my acerbic response, "Oh, yes, we did. About six times."

Then it was great.  He took a hands-on approach.  He started clicking things and changing settings and doing all kinds of crap that I really didn't care what it was, as long as the thing worked in the end.  After exhausting all his tricks, he then pulled out a computer and started doing stuff there.  Eventually he asked me again how old this unit was.  Uh, about two weeks.  And when did I get my original one?  Last June.

He had reached his limits.  He said, "Yeah. We're going to get you a new one.  I've never seen a handset that is so.... (he hesitated) .... temperamental."  I leaned in closer and lowered my voice (the store was jam-packed with people).  I said, "It's OK.  You can say it.  I would, and I have:  'so fucked up.'" 

More on the ongoing saga tomorrow. There is some good news -- I hope.

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And the winner of the blogiversary contest is:

Discussion Corner

Well, now that we've established that we're all a bunch of dirty old ladies.... Perhaps I should just speak for myself. 

Anyhoo, a change of pace:  Knitpicks.  Discuss. 

I am sort of out of the loop on a lot of these things. I have been a low-volume user of Knitpicks because, well, mostly I don't need anything, and I usually like to see what I'm buying before I buy it.  As with most things, I prefer to support local as much as possible, though it's not always possible.  (And acknowledging, of course, that Knitpicks is local for a good number of people in the Pacific Northwest.)

I have bought yarns from KP before -- some Swish Superwash for Red Scarf projects -- and been sort of satisfied, but quite underwhelmed.  I find the balls so small and the yarns splitty and not exciting (I feel like they'll pill like a mofo), and the colors badly represented on the monitor. (For example, Merlot Heather is absolutely nothing like red wine, as I expected.  It's brown.) My last shipment included nice colors, though I have not used them yet.

An aside: I'm not much of a lover of superwash yarns anyway, but if I have to use superwash, the best one I have come across so far is Cascade 220 superwash. It is truly different from the rest.

I am mostly suspicious of KP's super-super-super-super low pricing.  Is that weird of me?  I can't understand how their stuff can be priced so low.  They are the Wal-Mart of yarns?  Do they really deal with that much volume?  Their stuff fell off a truck?  Children are producing it somewhere in the world for 2 cents a day?

And then there was that debacle when they squashed Knit Pixie's name, which wasn't even remotely a similar business or a similar name, and that kind of stuck in the craw. 

Am I going to get hate mail from this?  I'm really not trying to provoke; I'm simply curious what other people think. 

I just got their latest catalog, and I love the cover sweater, "Blue Pine Jacket."  Love it.  Most of their patterns that I've seen before have been "meh" and rather shapeless and lacking oomph, to my mind.  But that one is a beauty.  Then it goes, "Prices (for the completed project) starting at $39.06."  You're KIDDING!

Well, that's a bargain, for sure.  Will it hold up?  Will it pill and be disgusting?  And then their socks.  "Starting at $2.99" or something.  My GAWD.  Really?  These are yard sale prices.  How can they produce a catalog and have the stock and run a business with these prices?  Is it a front for organized crime?  (I'm being hyperbolic on that one.) 

Maybe I'm just crazy.

On the other hand, I recently relented, after resisting for a long time, to getting a set of Options needles, and I LOVE them.  I would buy them again in a heartbeat and would recommend them to all my friends. Overall, they are far and away the best needles I've used, and suitable for a wide variety of yarns and projects.

So what is up?  Tell me your opinions and your stories and your thoughts.  Do they mesh with mine, or am I all wet?  Am I a snob for thinking this is just too cheap to be good and true?  Or is this a Pandora's Box I am opening? 

Now remember, in this day and age, it will take a millisecond and a half for this post and all its comments to be made known to someone in Knitpicks.  I don't intend to be mean.  I've mentioned the things I love about KP and just have some questions that can't really be answered by the simple, "We've traveled the world looking for the best yarns at the best price."  That answer just suggests to me maybe something not so attractive, along the lines I mentioned previously.  I'm wondering if I'm just nuts for thinking that, and would like to hear what you all say and think.  Try to keep the comments civil.  I don't want this to turn into one of those blog wars some of us have witnessed in the past.  I'm too fragile right now, and can't take it.  Ha. 

 

265. Best-Laid Plans

As I said Sunday, I knitted practically the whole day Saturday, and I had hoped to Sunday, as well.  Instead, I only managed to do a few rows.  I was fighting to get along with my new computer.  I can see that the Vista love is not going to come easily.  Friggin' thing keeps saying I have limited internet connectivity, and keeps cutting out, even though I'm about five feet from the router. A quick Google search revealed that this is a common issue with Vista. Microsoft, bah!  I had hoped that by this time, all the Vista bugs would have been worked out.  Such an optimist, I am. It's probably a relatively easy fix, but it will require some calls and I'm just not up for the calls and the waiting on hold and the frustrations.  Why isn't it FIXED right out of the box, I ask you?  I am so totally in love with those Mac commercials with the bloated stupid bumbling Microsoft guy talking to the totally cool, relaxed youthful Mac guy.  They are SPOT ON.  Well, I have no experience with a Mac, but I can confirm that PCs are bloated stupid bumbling guys.

Believe you me, if my court reporting software would work on a Mac (but it doesn't), I'd be switching.  I've read of some computer-savvy court reporters cobbling together a system, but I am not up for cobbling together systems.  That is way more trouble than it's worth. Court reporting software is a huge power and space hog, and very proprietary and all-around snobby and egocentric.  Hey, I just realized so am I...maybe that's why we get along so well. 

I grew tired and cranky (Well, I was cranky as soon as I got up, as evidenced by the poison-pen diatribe that my poor friend Willem fears may have cost me some friends -- please put him at ease, my friends, will you?  He worries about these things, apparently.) of the computer crap, but I was also paying the price for having overindulged in wheaten cinnamon bun goodness the day before.  It was not even the good kind of homemade cinnamon buns, such as I might have got at the Waitsfield farmer's market, which would have made all the pain worth it.  When will I ever learn? The same friend alleged yesterday that I have no self-control. That is just SO WRONG.  I have tons of self-control.  I just don't choose to use it much of the time.

So I was achy and weak and tired and pretty much useless the whole day.  I did manage to make a visit to my wonderful farm stand which I discovered last week is now carrying lots of local meats and chicken at very good prices, and got enough chicken and beef to last us a good long time. Of course I added insult to the wheat-intolerance injury by buying a pumpkin pie there.  See? Same syndrome at work here:  I have lots of smarts.  I just don't choose to use them all the time.   

I also got a little bit of garden cleanup done.  I tried to set up a new double-length grow bed I bought, which I intend to plant up in garlic when the seed garlic arrives in a week or so, but I didn't have the patience or the heart for it once I realized it was quite a bit more complicated (requires an electric drill!) than the standard grow beds that practically put themselves together.  So I became disheartened until I found the Seckel pears, which quickly brought me out of my funk.  Such a little thing, but so powerful. 

In the end, my spirits were lifted, but the new computer sits on the desk in time out.  I need to be "all there" before I tackle loading more software on it and try to get that internet connectivity issue resolved.  I don't need the internet for my work, per se, but since I have grown to feel incomplete as a human being without the internet always at my fingertips, I won't even go there.  Well, that, and the fact that a brand-spanking-new computer should DAMN WELL HAVE THE ability to connect to the internet.   

So, while I'd hoped to have a completed second mitten to show you by now, I pretty much have bubkes. 

I do have a 2nd mitten cuff under way, and the start of a Denim Silk scarf.  At least it's something.