Okay, so this post is mostly for Jennifer, because I know she will love this. She made some comments on the post before this that proves my point.
Wednesday nights are the nights when the knitting group really meets at KenapocoMocha. So I visited.
If you haven't been to KenapocoMocha, it is a coffee shop with a bakery and a soup chef that creates the closest thing I have seen to heaven on earth. Jennifer knows this. And I have mentioned it before. Their soups are so delicious, I think of the Soup Nazi on Seinfeld--only the soup chef lady is nice. Soup for everyone.
She invents these amazing recipes that are totally different from anything I have ever had. So today I was chatting with the girl who was making my hot chocolate (they melt chocolate for this--no powder involved--and steam milk) and she mentioned their website. After the knitting group broke up, I went home and checked it out. Here is the best thing to happen in my life in an age: there are recipes for soup.
In other news, I nearly died again. But I'll save that story for later.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
I Have a New Ringtone! Or, Reasons Why My Cell Phone Makes Me Crazy.
Dad has been pouting for about two or three weeks. He keeps complaining that his phone has no signal, none anywhere. In his basement office at church, he can't get calls. Since the church can't have anything but dial-up like at our house, he is "unreachable" at work.
To make you understand the full depth of Dad's phobia of being "unreachable," I have to explain that Dad is a pastor. He also is on calls 24 hours a day, all year long, and probably more than that, if they need pastors in the afterlife.
Dad is so wrapped up in being available to his congregation that he works on his days off; he preaches on Sunday after a week of being in Guatemala, or Haiti, or Colorado, or even after the week when his dad had heart surgery and Dad was driving back and forth from Elkhart all week long. He is so dedicated to availability that after his heart attack, while he lay in bed, he noticed a member of the church walking down the hallway outside his door and was back "on." He disconnected his heart monitor, got out of bed, and in his flappy hospital gown, he pursued the church member down the hallway, determined that someone from our church was having surgery, and left the floor to go to the church member's bedside.
Mom was at home with me at the time, caring for me after my own major health problem and corresponding surgery. I had only been home from the hospital a day or so. She wanted to be in both places, taking care of us both, so she sat down and called Dad's room to see how he was. Dad didn't answer, so Mom got the nurses station instead and dispatched a nurse to his room. Discovering her patient missing, the nurse conducted a search for Dad, while Mom worried at home. When the hospital staff located Dad, they escorted him back to his room. He then was yelled at by everyone involved in the search and responsible for his care, then also by Mom.
If I hadn't been high as a kite on the same drug Dr. Gregory House eats like candy on every episode of House MD, I would have thought it was as hilarious then as I do right now.
Dad's discovery that his phone did not function as it should alit in him a frenzy of pastoral terror.
He needed to get his phone fixed, to protect his job and his congregation. I had discovered the true depth of the problem when I held his phone next to mine and walked around the house, gauging the level of difference in signal between the two phones. Dad had at least one, if not more than one, less bar than me at all times. We have the same phone, purchased at the same time, from the same wireless carrier.
So Dad went to Centennial Wireless. He showed them his telephone and they told him his problem may stem from the fact he never turns his phone off for any reason, and when you turn your phone off and on again, at some point in there it gets updated. I think I remember Andy telling me something like that at some point, which I took as proof that it was okay for me to let my battery die and my phone sit at the bottom of my bag for weeks in between charging it. It seems to work just fine for me.
The Centennial Guy plugged Dad's phone in and updated it, then told him that if it failed to work, he should return. Mom then asked Centennial Guy how people got ring tones on their phones. New ones. The guy grabbed Dad's phone and pressed the little blue globe thing, and they were on the internet.
Now, I have done that like fifty times. Really. And it always, always fails to connect to anything. Mom knew that and mentioned that it failed to work for us. And Centennial Guy said "oh, you might need something downloaded to your phone, but it should work. Try again."
Mom Called me and told me to do this. I, cynically, maintained that it would not work. So, sitting in McDonald's, I pressed the blue globe. And I was on the intenet. It was the Centennial internet but it was internet and it worked.
So I got a new ring tone, for fun. It took three tries, but it didn't matter. I didn't know most of the music they had, but I recognized a song Ellen likes to dance to, and I got that because it makes me happy.
And I realized as I did this: I have had the internet, some of it, on my phone for over two years and never used it, not even once. This proves again that I have the inability to understand my phone. This is not the first time my phone and I have had problems. I have held it, pressed buttons, and I still don't know how to set speed dial or voice dialing, or anything other than taking of pictures and making phone calls.
The phone is a mystery. The two of us are physically incapable of working together. We can't do it. I hate this phone. I have hated it for two miserable years and I have to wait another six months before I can do anything about it. It's a good thing I got that ring tone so the rage building up within me would not bubble over every time I got a call. I would mutter and seethe as I walked to the front window, the only place our cell phones work, answering the phone as a duty, no matter who was calling.
Dad got a new phone, the same make as our old ones. This to me is insane. Who would ask for more suffering? Granted, he could easily use his old one even though he couldn't get mine to work any easier than me, but still--he is flirting with disaster.
And he has four bars at the window, and he can talk on the phone all over the house, in his basement office at church. That isn't right. You can't just talk on a cell phone without pressing your face against the glass of the picture window. It isn't possible. I have the psychological torture device stapled to my side, and he can just stroll around and chat.
I want a new phone. Now.
Maybe I'll just get another ring tone, for the joy.
To make you understand the full depth of Dad's phobia of being "unreachable," I have to explain that Dad is a pastor. He also is on calls 24 hours a day, all year long, and probably more than that, if they need pastors in the afterlife.
Dad is so wrapped up in being available to his congregation that he works on his days off; he preaches on Sunday after a week of being in Guatemala, or Haiti, or Colorado, or even after the week when his dad had heart surgery and Dad was driving back and forth from Elkhart all week long. He is so dedicated to availability that after his heart attack, while he lay in bed, he noticed a member of the church walking down the hallway outside his door and was back "on." He disconnected his heart monitor, got out of bed, and in his flappy hospital gown, he pursued the church member down the hallway, determined that someone from our church was having surgery, and left the floor to go to the church member's bedside.
Mom was at home with me at the time, caring for me after my own major health problem and corresponding surgery. I had only been home from the hospital a day or so. She wanted to be in both places, taking care of us both, so she sat down and called Dad's room to see how he was. Dad didn't answer, so Mom got the nurses station instead and dispatched a nurse to his room. Discovering her patient missing, the nurse conducted a search for Dad, while Mom worried at home. When the hospital staff located Dad, they escorted him back to his room. He then was yelled at by everyone involved in the search and responsible for his care, then also by Mom.
If I hadn't been high as a kite on the same drug Dr. Gregory House eats like candy on every episode of House MD, I would have thought it was as hilarious then as I do right now.
Dad's discovery that his phone did not function as it should alit in him a frenzy of pastoral terror.
He needed to get his phone fixed, to protect his job and his congregation. I had discovered the true depth of the problem when I held his phone next to mine and walked around the house, gauging the level of difference in signal between the two phones. Dad had at least one, if not more than one, less bar than me at all times. We have the same phone, purchased at the same time, from the same wireless carrier.
So Dad went to Centennial Wireless. He showed them his telephone and they told him his problem may stem from the fact he never turns his phone off for any reason, and when you turn your phone off and on again, at some point in there it gets updated. I think I remember Andy telling me something like that at some point, which I took as proof that it was okay for me to let my battery die and my phone sit at the bottom of my bag for weeks in between charging it. It seems to work just fine for me.
The Centennial Guy plugged Dad's phone in and updated it, then told him that if it failed to work, he should return. Mom then asked Centennial Guy how people got ring tones on their phones. New ones. The guy grabbed Dad's phone and pressed the little blue globe thing, and they were on the internet.
Now, I have done that like fifty times. Really. And it always, always fails to connect to anything. Mom knew that and mentioned that it failed to work for us. And Centennial Guy said "oh, you might need something downloaded to your phone, but it should work. Try again."
Mom Called me and told me to do this. I, cynically, maintained that it would not work. So, sitting in McDonald's, I pressed the blue globe. And I was on the intenet. It was the Centennial internet but it was internet and it worked.
So I got a new ring tone, for fun. It took three tries, but it didn't matter. I didn't know most of the music they had, but I recognized a song Ellen likes to dance to, and I got that because it makes me happy.
And I realized as I did this: I have had the internet, some of it, on my phone for over two years and never used it, not even once. This proves again that I have the inability to understand my phone. This is not the first time my phone and I have had problems. I have held it, pressed buttons, and I still don't know how to set speed dial or voice dialing, or anything other than taking of pictures and making phone calls.
The phone is a mystery. The two of us are physically incapable of working together. We can't do it. I hate this phone. I have hated it for two miserable years and I have to wait another six months before I can do anything about it. It's a good thing I got that ring tone so the rage building up within me would not bubble over every time I got a call. I would mutter and seethe as I walked to the front window, the only place our cell phones work, answering the phone as a duty, no matter who was calling.
Dad got a new phone, the same make as our old ones. This to me is insane. Who would ask for more suffering? Granted, he could easily use his old one even though he couldn't get mine to work any easier than me, but still--he is flirting with disaster.
And he has four bars at the window, and he can talk on the phone all over the house, in his basement office at church. That isn't right. You can't just talk on a cell phone without pressing your face against the glass of the picture window. It isn't possible. I have the psychological torture device stapled to my side, and he can just stroll around and chat.
I want a new phone. Now.
Maybe I'll just get another ring tone, for the joy.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
The Color of My World
The snow has melted; the temperture having peaked to above -15 F. It is merciful, the cold being so torturous to us.
The ice began to melt over the weekend, and Sunday evening before the Grammy Awards, the thicker ice from upstream broke free and swept downstream, with a crash and churn of water. We walked outside to watch it. The peices would slip underneath each other and pop back out. Others crowded along the bank only to be lifted over the edge by the rising water.
When we woke up the next morning we found piles of ice at the river's edge.
However, it has turned the world to the color it reaches as we near the spring, the bland grays and browns of March before the grass grows.
Everywhere I walk, the ground squelches as if I stood on a sodden sponge. It is unpleasant.
There is the footprint of Darcy, my dog, and a racoon left much earlier.
The ice began to melt over the weekend, and Sunday evening before the Grammy Awards, the thicker ice from upstream broke free and swept downstream, with a crash and churn of water. We walked outside to watch it. The peices would slip underneath each other and pop back out. Others crowded along the bank only to be lifted over the edge by the rising water.
When we woke up the next morning we found piles of ice at the river's edge.
However, it has turned the world to the color it reaches as we near the spring, the bland grays and browns of March before the grass grows.
Everywhere I walk, the ground squelches as if I stood on a sodden sponge. It is unpleasant.
There is the footprint of Darcy, my dog, and a racoon left much earlier.
I had wanted the Malabrigo so much, and my need for color was so great, that I went to Warsaw today and grabbed a skein as quickly as I could. Pausing only for it to be wound into a ball, I left.
Here is the sun.
And now I feel better.
Digitessa Dilemma
Dear goodness.
I think it took some time for the full gravity of what happened to me in the last 24 hours to hit me.
Do you realize that I ripped back my sock, one Digitessa sock, at least six times for no reason?!
That is shocking, just shocking. I am sitting here, looking at the sad little half-sock of the first, pretty Digitessa I took of the needles for its own protection and holding the Digitessa made of crap yarn I could rip back a billion times and never care about and---
All of it was unnecessary. I can't believe I didn't give up on this mess. I can't believe I didn't log on to Ravelry and buy a shot glass with their logo and "Frogged" written across it. I would have bought two. Then I would have gone outside and filled each with some kind of liquor, whatever we have in the house. If nothing, I would have gotten a little bottle of something elitist from the liquor store, because La Digitessa is an elitist sort of sock. Listen to the description taken from the pattern by Yarnissima: "She is demanding. She certainly has a will of her own. She is elegance in person." Yep. Digitessa is the popular girl that wouldn't look at me, at all, even when she spoke to me (asking for homework help). That's her. Only prettier.
Then, I would have taken the sock and placed it next to one of the glasses. Take in mind that this is the Digitessa made of the crap yarn; I have spent more time with this one. I would have saluted the sock, taken my shot, coughed repeatedly, gasped for air, wiped my watering eyes, perhaps I would have run for water or lay on the floor, grasping my burning throat. When I had finished, I would have poured out the shot onto the ground in front of my sock. Or onto my sock, depending on how mad I really was at it. If I poured it onto the ground, I would have gotten some wood, soaked it in water overnight, then I would have dipped the sock in kerosene and placed it on top of the wood. I would have placed the sock and wood into the water, then lit the sock afire. Singing a dirge, or something, I would have watched the burning sock go down the river like the Vikings of old.
If I poured the alcohol on the sock, I would have stood over it, moving my hands over the flame to encourage its growth. Like a rock star who had just lit his guitar on fire after slamming it on the ground and breaking it into pieces.
I know it sounds like I have really thought this through.
I think it took some time for the full gravity of what happened to me in the last 24 hours to hit me.
Do you realize that I ripped back my sock, one Digitessa sock, at least six times for no reason?!
That is shocking, just shocking. I am sitting here, looking at the sad little half-sock of the first, pretty Digitessa I took of the needles for its own protection and holding the Digitessa made of crap yarn I could rip back a billion times and never care about and---
All of it was unnecessary. I can't believe I didn't give up on this mess. I can't believe I didn't log on to Ravelry and buy a shot glass with their logo and "Frogged" written across it. I would have bought two. Then I would have gone outside and filled each with some kind of liquor, whatever we have in the house. If nothing, I would have gotten a little bottle of something elitist from the liquor store, because La Digitessa is an elitist sort of sock. Listen to the description taken from the pattern by Yarnissima: "She is demanding. She certainly has a will of her own. She is elegance in person." Yep. Digitessa is the popular girl that wouldn't look at me, at all, even when she spoke to me (asking for homework help). That's her. Only prettier.
Then, I would have taken the sock and placed it next to one of the glasses. Take in mind that this is the Digitessa made of the crap yarn; I have spent more time with this one. I would have saluted the sock, taken my shot, coughed repeatedly, gasped for air, wiped my watering eyes, perhaps I would have run for water or lay on the floor, grasping my burning throat. When I had finished, I would have poured out the shot onto the ground in front of my sock. Or onto my sock, depending on how mad I really was at it. If I poured it onto the ground, I would have gotten some wood, soaked it in water overnight, then I would have dipped the sock in kerosene and placed it on top of the wood. I would have placed the sock and wood into the water, then lit the sock afire. Singing a dirge, or something, I would have watched the burning sock go down the river like the Vikings of old.
If I poured the alcohol on the sock, I would have stood over it, moving my hands over the flame to encourage its growth. Like a rock star who had just lit his guitar on fire after slamming it on the ground and breaking it into pieces.
I know it sounds like I have really thought this through.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Look!
I found this on Ravelry, in a knit along group dedicated to Yarnissima patterns.
Here is a quote:
"For anyone who is wondering about the front…
Because the central front pattern is a different number of repeats from the side cables, your front section may not line up as per the chart 6. Mine doesn’t. No big deal…by the time you have reached that far, you should have the hang of the diagonal cables. Just continue the front pattern as it goes and carefully run the diagonal cables across it.
You will notice that on CHART 6 for the front foot cross, there are a couple of increase stitches on the left side of the pattern and a decrease on the right. These increase/decreases are necessary as the diagonals are not centered with the front panel pattern. The increases/decrease will help to center the diagonals. You don’t have to be on the exact same center pattern repeat in order to do them. Just place them directly inside the diagonal cables as per the pattern and on the same row number as indicated on Chart 6 and all will be well."
This was advice from Knitpickin on Ravelry. Knitpickin is my hero.
Here is a quote:
"For anyone who is wondering about the front…
Because the central front pattern is a different number of repeats from the side cables, your front section may not line up as per the chart 6. Mine doesn’t. No big deal…by the time you have reached that far, you should have the hang of the diagonal cables. Just continue the front pattern as it goes and carefully run the diagonal cables across it.
You will notice that on CHART 6 for the front foot cross, there are a couple of increase stitches on the left side of the pattern and a decrease on the right. These increase/decreases are necessary as the diagonals are not centered with the front panel pattern. The increases/decrease will help to center the diagonals. You don’t have to be on the exact same center pattern repeat in order to do them. Just place them directly inside the diagonal cables as per the pattern and on the same row number as indicated on Chart 6 and all will be well."
This was advice from Knitpickin on Ravelry. Knitpickin is my hero.
La Digitessa, Laura's Bane
I don't know what the heck is the matter with me.
I have been knitting this pattern, ripping it back, knitting some more, ripping it back, switching yarns, ripping, knitting, ripping, knitting--you get the picture. I have been doing this systematicly, observing what my issue was and taking notes in order to prevent a repeat of the disaster. I finally thought, as I mentioned in earlier posts, that I had figured out my problem.
I hadn't.
You see, when the knitting gets to a specific point (the end of the gusset) there is no mention for what row of the main cable pattern one should be on. In fact, there is no mention of what row one should be on before starting the gusset. The side, lesser cables that evolve to become the gusset should be on the fourth row, but other than that? Nothing.
I had in the past had problems ending up on the right row of the lesser cables because I had never knit a toe-up sock and was making the same newbie mistake again and again, causing me to laugh and tear out the gusset. However, I was sure that once I had conquered this mistake, I would have been able to knit until the end of the sock, the cuff, without much trouble.
However, I realized that even though I was on the "right" row all the way up to the end of the gusset (on the main cable pattern) I had big problems when knitting chart 6, the front of the leg. This section has a section of travelling stitches that wrap from the gusset, crossing in the back, around to the front where it meets in the middle of the front, bringing an end to the main cable pattern.
I would give you pictures, but I don't have a nice, completed sock. I have a pile of frogged yarn (again) all crinkly on my floor.
I do not suck as a knitter. I am an awesome knitter. I have knit fancy lace. I have knit complicated cables. I have knit sweaters, socks (more than I will admit), gloves, mittens, scarves, hats, microbes, whistle cases, i-pod sleeves, cell phone cases, purses, and fungus. I have knit it all, designed a bunch, and I have never had problems like this.
That is because I am reasonably smart. I know how to figure out a knitting pattern and I know how to say to myself: "this isn't me, maybe there is a pattern error." And when I say that, I jump online and check it out. That lets me fix the issues I have, like with my cardigan (I love my cardigan) that had an issue with its pattern. It wasn't me. And even the patterns of some of my socks, most of which I caught and corrected by myself. I am Smart.
Several weeks ago, when I ran into this Chart 6 pattern problem for the first time, I went online and checked for errors. There were none. I am Dumb.
I am Very Dumb, because when most people would go for help, ask questions, post a topic on Ravelry...and I didn't. Instead, I switched yarn so I could figure it out myself without causing permanent damage to the sock yarn I care about. I can waste the bad yarn and work on the good yarn when I had it figured out. Good idea, yeah. But I was still Supremely Dumb because even as I read the pattern for the billionth time, I failed to recognize my problem, which is a big one.
Now as I sit in the mass of frogged yarn, I realize the error of my ways as I consider counting back rows so that I end up on the right repeat for sure. That is Galactically Dumb. The kind of Dumb that leads to a girl getting caught in a garage door in the Scream movies (Which were bad, especially because they led the way to the Serial Killer Training Videos we see advertised every day).
I am checking Ravelry again. Not for errors, but to check and see if someone has posted a "Hey, just in case you want to know, I was on Row X of Chart Y when I started the gusset!"
I won't find that.
When I have finally fixed my issues, I will frame the solitary sock I have knit out of The Crap Yarn that has lived in my drawer that holds the random bits of yarn. It was the only skein big enough to knit from that I had never worked with. I hate this yarn, it feels like sandpaper. But it will not tear the skin from my legs if it is framed above my bed where I can look at it and smile, knowing I have conquered this pattern. I will conquer this pattern.
In case you want to see the sock, you may take a peek at it here.
I am concentrating on not going insane. I am focused on that singular goal. I affirm that having a problem with a pattern does NOT make me a bad knitter. And even if I were a bad knitter, that would not reflect on me. I can be a good person and a bad knitter at the same time. That wouldn't matter to me, though. Because I am still a good knitter.
This is a challenging pattern.
It says so in the instructions.
I have been knitting this pattern, ripping it back, knitting some more, ripping it back, switching yarns, ripping, knitting, ripping, knitting--you get the picture. I have been doing this systematicly, observing what my issue was and taking notes in order to prevent a repeat of the disaster. I finally thought, as I mentioned in earlier posts, that I had figured out my problem.
I hadn't.
You see, when the knitting gets to a specific point (the end of the gusset) there is no mention for what row of the main cable pattern one should be on. In fact, there is no mention of what row one should be on before starting the gusset. The side, lesser cables that evolve to become the gusset should be on the fourth row, but other than that? Nothing.
I had in the past had problems ending up on the right row of the lesser cables because I had never knit a toe-up sock and was making the same newbie mistake again and again, causing me to laugh and tear out the gusset. However, I was sure that once I had conquered this mistake, I would have been able to knit until the end of the sock, the cuff, without much trouble.
However, I realized that even though I was on the "right" row all the way up to the end of the gusset (on the main cable pattern) I had big problems when knitting chart 6, the front of the leg. This section has a section of travelling stitches that wrap from the gusset, crossing in the back, around to the front where it meets in the middle of the front, bringing an end to the main cable pattern.
I would give you pictures, but I don't have a nice, completed sock. I have a pile of frogged yarn (again) all crinkly on my floor.
I do not suck as a knitter. I am an awesome knitter. I have knit fancy lace. I have knit complicated cables. I have knit sweaters, socks (more than I will admit), gloves, mittens, scarves, hats, microbes, whistle cases, i-pod sleeves, cell phone cases, purses, and fungus. I have knit it all, designed a bunch, and I have never had problems like this.
That is because I am reasonably smart. I know how to figure out a knitting pattern and I know how to say to myself: "this isn't me, maybe there is a pattern error." And when I say that, I jump online and check it out. That lets me fix the issues I have, like with my cardigan (I love my cardigan) that had an issue with its pattern. It wasn't me. And even the patterns of some of my socks, most of which I caught and corrected by myself. I am Smart.
Several weeks ago, when I ran into this Chart 6 pattern problem for the first time, I went online and checked for errors. There were none. I am Dumb.
I am Very Dumb, because when most people would go for help, ask questions, post a topic on Ravelry...and I didn't. Instead, I switched yarn so I could figure it out myself without causing permanent damage to the sock yarn I care about. I can waste the bad yarn and work on the good yarn when I had it figured out. Good idea, yeah. But I was still Supremely Dumb because even as I read the pattern for the billionth time, I failed to recognize my problem, which is a big one.
Now as I sit in the mass of frogged yarn, I realize the error of my ways as I consider counting back rows so that I end up on the right repeat for sure. That is Galactically Dumb. The kind of Dumb that leads to a girl getting caught in a garage door in the Scream movies (Which were bad, especially because they led the way to the Serial Killer Training Videos we see advertised every day).
I am checking Ravelry again. Not for errors, but to check and see if someone has posted a "Hey, just in case you want to know, I was on Row X of Chart Y when I started the gusset!"
I won't find that.
When I have finally fixed my issues, I will frame the solitary sock I have knit out of The Crap Yarn that has lived in my drawer that holds the random bits of yarn. It was the only skein big enough to knit from that I had never worked with. I hate this yarn, it feels like sandpaper. But it will not tear the skin from my legs if it is framed above my bed where I can look at it and smile, knowing I have conquered this pattern. I will conquer this pattern.
In case you want to see the sock, you may take a peek at it here.
I am concentrating on not going insane. I am focused on that singular goal. I affirm that having a problem with a pattern does NOT make me a bad knitter. And even if I were a bad knitter, that would not reflect on me. I can be a good person and a bad knitter at the same time. That wouldn't matter to me, though. Because I am still a good knitter.
This is a challenging pattern.
It says so in the instructions.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
What Hurley Said.
Saturday was another one of those days when I looked death in the face and said, "Whatever, man."
I was driving to Jen's apartment, as I do on Saturday evenings when we have nothing better to do, which is nearly every Saturday. I stopped at a light, one of those lights that has a little green arrow for those of us turning left in the left turning lane. So, you see, I was doing what I should where I should. Because I am a good driver. Yep. A very, very good and safe driver.
Another driver, the person in the right lane who still had a red light, was pulling up to the light. Pulling up without the intention of stopping. Even though he had a red light. Not stopping, I could tell. So I stayed in the lane I had no intention of staying in, the left lane. I wanted to be in the right lane. I had a turn to make, at the next light. A right turn. But I did what I had to do. I stayed in the left lane.
But, unfortunately, so did the crazy turning guy. He widened his turn, entering my driving zone and missing me by a few inches. He would have rammed me. Like in Star Trek.
I did the only thing anyone can do in those situations. I slammed the palm of my hand into the horn and held it down until I felt good and vindicated. As I did this I muttered profanity. Then I went into the lane I had wanted to be in, and I went to Jen's, walking in the door and saying, as Hurley said when he found the van and fixed it and took Charlie for a ride in it: "Sometimes you have to look Death in the face and say, "Whatever, man.'"
And for me, that was Saturday night.
[For my computer, it was moments ago, when it randomly showed me this freaky blue screen, all zoomed in. It had writing on it that said there was a critical error of some kind. I have to take it to the doctor. Best Buy, here I come.]
I was driving to Jen's apartment, as I do on Saturday evenings when we have nothing better to do, which is nearly every Saturday. I stopped at a light, one of those lights that has a little green arrow for those of us turning left in the left turning lane. So, you see, I was doing what I should where I should. Because I am a good driver. Yep. A very, very good and safe driver.
Another driver, the person in the right lane who still had a red light, was pulling up to the light. Pulling up without the intention of stopping. Even though he had a red light. Not stopping, I could tell. So I stayed in the lane I had no intention of staying in, the left lane. I wanted to be in the right lane. I had a turn to make, at the next light. A right turn. But I did what I had to do. I stayed in the left lane.
But, unfortunately, so did the crazy turning guy. He widened his turn, entering my driving zone and missing me by a few inches. He would have rammed me. Like in Star Trek.
I did the only thing anyone can do in those situations. I slammed the palm of my hand into the horn and held it down until I felt good and vindicated. As I did this I muttered profanity. Then I went into the lane I had wanted to be in, and I went to Jen's, walking in the door and saying, as Hurley said when he found the van and fixed it and took Charlie for a ride in it: "Sometimes you have to look Death in the face and say, "Whatever, man.'"
And for me, that was Saturday night.
[For my computer, it was moments ago, when it randomly showed me this freaky blue screen, all zoomed in. It had writing on it that said there was a critical error of some kind. I have to take it to the doctor. Best Buy, here I come.]
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