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Ahhh. It’s the weekend. My weekend, that is. I slept late this morning (till eight), and I’m now sitting in the living room with the blinds drawn, eating apple pie that Kira made, and drinking strong Italian coffee. I’m going to blog, pack, and get the hell outta Dodge, so I’m not even bothering to open the blinds. I’d just have to draw them again in an hour. And even with the blinds closed, this new apartment is still so light. I adore it. I’ve always considered myself something of a mole, having always lived in places with very little natural light. I thought I liked it that way. But I like it this way, too. It’s a happy sun-dance kind of place.

Anyway, this morning I’m off for a drive down the coast to the little mama’s house. She’s doing super, for those of you keeping track. A couple of weeks ago the endocrinologist determined what Mariko’s wonderful friend had already figured out – she had had a virus attack her thyroid, causing the thyroid dump which then led to the five months of being so terribly sick. Now she’s just getting better and better…. And she was better enough to watch my kitties while I moved! I had hoped for a two week break from them, but actually got a three week one – what with moving, visitors, and DMV woes, I haven’t been able to leave town until today. I miss those stupid cats soooo much. I’ve been sleeping like a rock, no Adah to claw my lip at three in the morning when she wants food, no Digit to howl at the windows at five, but I miss them like CRAZY. I’m a little worried about moving them into the new place, but hey. They’ll adapt. Right? All their stuff is here (and a new scratching post, too!), and everything’s unpacked…. The only trauma they’ll have to deal with is adjusting to the space itself. And one of my favorite things in life is to get to Mom’s after the kitties have been visiting, if I’ve been out of the country or somethin’, and to walk to the back door, calling Digit. He gallumps gallumps gallumps all the way up from the back yard, tearing up to me as if I’m The One. Then he brakes, skids, takes a pet to the ears and saunters away, all cool again. But those little thumping feet, racing toward me….. I love that.

But before I leave, I have to take a shower. When I moved in, the water pressure out of the shower was pretty bad, but in the last week, it’s become just too horrible. I stand every morning under this drip of water, half the time skipping washing my hair because it just takes too damn long to get all the soap out. Last night after work, I went to the miracle all-night Longs and bought a shower head. I looked at the four dollar ones, which looked just fine. Matched the one I already had. Then I looked at the Cadillac, the WaterPik Adjustable Mister Spa Handheld. Yup. I got that one. AND put it in by myself, thank you very much. When it comes to knitting tools, I’m no slouch. Real tools, eh. I could take ‘em or leave ‘em. This required a wrench, which I don’t believe I own. But my hand and an old washcloth seemed to get it tight enough, and it worked on its trial MistTheTub experiment. And oh, the pressure!

In fact, I have to go now. The Mister’s calling. And I ain’t talking ‘bout no mister.

(I put up some Bethy pictures….)

Jon’s a founding member of GMADK (Gay Men Against Drunk Knitting). Hee. And he has a great new New York knitting site. His reg’lar blog is cool, too. Go say hey.

What not to do:

After two beers, sit on the dim couch, watching previously TiVoed Airline episodes with sister Christy, knitting Cromarty. When you suddenly and very unexpectedly come up a stitch short in one of the patterned areas, don’t fret! Just make one, purl it as you should, and go merrily along.

I didn’t think I was that affected by beer – after all, I’ve been drinking it for years and years and knitting under its influence at Stitch’n’Bitches for a long time. When I woke up the next morning, before I even got out of bed, I though, oh shit.

I found that dropped stitch, yes, I did. Worked it back up the seven or so rows and fixed the problem, but I’m amused at how blithely I just whipped up that extra stitch without even THINKING that a missing stitch might be something to worry about. Lord.

And while we’re praying, please help me with the dyelot problem. I got the yarn from the BoyWonder Rob (and another slew of Noro 55 – I mentioned to him that it was a good thing he didn’t sell drugs – he laughed his evil laugh and inferred that the skeins might be laced…..) Koigu Kersti is one of the best yarns I’ve ever worked with, but one of its magical properties is the color – it’s hand dyed, and I knew this dyelot might be a little different. But it’s quite a lot different:

It’s the difference between a coffee with a splash of cream and cafe au lait. In certain lights, it’s not very noticeable. In others, it is. So. Now. Help me out.

** Here’s where I originally had a long What I Could Do entry. But then Marvellous Rob emailed me, saying, Oh, I have some of the darker, too. Send me your old one and we’ll match it.

See why I love him? I want to marry him. Although Matt might not like that. And you know this pesky country of ours won’t let gays marry.

Heh.

I *heart* Rob.

Got this from Bethany — hers was totally her, and this is totally me. Gotta love a stupid quiz.

You are a neurotransmitter. You believe in the
good-naturedness of man’s biology and soul.
You’re happy, everyone’s happy, and no one will
ever take that away from you. Or else you’ll
make them go insane.

Which Biological Molecule Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

With all the news on TV lately about the sub zero weather and snow that the east coast and upstate NY areas are experiencing, we shouldn’t forget that Southern California has its share of devastating weather also. I’ve attached a photo illustrating the excessive damage caused to a home from a west coast storm that passed through the Los Angeles area a couple of days ago. It really makes you cherish what you have, and reminds us not to take life for granted!!!

* Don’t know where this originated — my sister Christy forwarded it to me in my email. Love it.

DMV. Oy. Where do they find them? I understand that their job is to deal with unhappy people. But come on, that’s my job, too. No one calls the police department when they’re ecstatically happy.

But I needed to pick up my plates (I YARN). I had an appointment last week to pick them up. Appointments rock. If you have one, you usually wait less than an hour. But when I went to remove the old plates, right before the appointment, I couldn’t get them unscrewed from the car. It was like those stupid bolts had rusted right to the car. I sat in the driveway, in the rain, after being up working and moving for 30 hours straight, crying because I was skinning my hands on the damn screwdriver. There was a gardening crew working across the street, and when I started disgusting myself by hoping that a big ole gardener would come help me I gave up, went inside and sat on the couch. I breathed.

So earlier this week, after getting a friend to remove them for me, I went to DMV without an appointment on my day off. (Appointments take about three weeks to get, and plates are cancelled and returned if not picked up after 30 days, so I had a time crunch.) I waited in line for about thirty minutes to get my slip of paper that said I would be number B140. The wait time on the scrolling marquee said I had a two hour wait. So I left and had lunch. Came back an hour and a half later — they were up to B40. I went and ran errands for an hour. When I came back, they were at B55. Two hours later, I gave up and just sat there for another hour, working on Cromarty. Basically, six hours later, they were only up to B95, and I had to be somewhere and left. Frustrated out of my mind. And it smelled funny in there. Hot and stuffy. Way too much hair product.

Yesterday, I went back for my last attempt. I arrived at 7:30, half an hour before it opened. There were only about a hundred people in front of me. When the doors opened, there were at least two hundred behind me. We waited in the ticket line, which took till 8:30 to navigate. Then I sat down to wait my turn. I watched an elderly man with limited English skills deal with the woman who was going to issue him the driving test.

She said, “You’re late. I can’t help you.”
He said, “But I wait in line.”
Loud, exaggerated words. “You’re late! Your appointment was at eight. It’s eight-thirty. Make another appointment.”
“But I take day off work for this.”
“I CAN’T HELP YOU.”

Luckily, he had a friend who advocated for him, who pointed out that he had been in line since 7:15, and it was only the sluggishness of the lines that had made him late. She still insisted that there was nothing that she could. She was SO rude and SO curt. His friend asked for a manager who said to let him take the test. Oh, that chapped her hide, all right. I was so pleased.

But the pleasure left when they called my number at 9am. Yep. The plate was wrong. It said “IYARN,” no space between the words, and it was all grouped over to the right. So the second half of the plate was blank. I even thought about accepting it for a minute. I couldn’t bear thinking about dealing with this all over again. So I asked the woman helping me. “How does this look to you?” She raised an eyebrow and said without hesitation, “Stupid.”

All right. I waited another hour for them to cancel the plate and re-send my corrected request. So in six to eight weeks, I’ll be doing this all over again.

https://rachaelherron.com/dmv_oy_where_do/