Whirlwind

Just stopping by to say I may not be stopping by as often for a while. I started a new job on Monday, and may I just say...wow. How do people go to an office all day, every day, and still have time to do anything else? It's been 15 years since I worked full time away from home, and if you do the math, you can see that was before I was married, before I had kids, before I had a house and a community and responsibilities. The past three days I've been taking part in an intensive training program, which has been super exciting and interesting, but also exhausting. I don't want to go into too much detail, so suffice it to say that it is a very fast-paced, formal, professional environment. Virtually everything I am doing is brand new to me. I just got my first assignment, which is awesome, high-profile (think national news), and deadly serious. I'm kind of stunned, actually. I am tremendously excited, because it's a great assignment and a huge opportunity, but I'm also scared sh*tless. And I start...tomorrow morning.

Mr. Yarnhog has been terrific. He is totally supportive and excited for me, and he has really stepped up, shuttling kids and cooking and taking on household chores, but he still has to work full time, even though he works from home. It's a huge adjustment for both of us and it's going to take a while to work it all out. So I need to go do twelve loads of laundry, shovel the house, resuscitate my garden (which hasn't been watered in a week), locate the bathrooms under the accumulated filth, do the grocery shopping, bake bread, walk the dogs, make sure the kids are still alive, and take them to the dentist. Oh, and we're having a birthday dinner for Oldest Son tonight, so I suppose I should figure out what I'm going to make and do something about a cake. Holy smokes. How do you all do this?!

Stuff That's Gone Wrong Lately

Lots of bloggers have regular lists, like "Ten on Tuesday" or "Random Wednesday" or the like. I like this idea, because it seems like a really easy way to whack out a blog post, even if you can't find your camera cable and your last three WIPs are in the fireplace just waiting for a match. But none of the existing lists really capture the flavor of my daily life. I need a different theme. Something along the lines of "Stuff That's Gone Wrong Lately." Consider this the pilot episode.

Stuff That's Gone Wrong Lately:

1) Heidi and Sam are engaged in a pissing contest over ownership of a patch of carpet in my dining room. Actually, I think Sam has dropped out of the contest, but Heidi doesn't seem to care. Half my dining room furniture is currently piled on top of the towels covering the spot on the carpet in a truly futile effort to keep her off of it.

2) The Lysol I am using to keep my house from smelling like a back street stairwell caused Sophie to have a seizure yesterday. (Which, incidentally, made her pee on the carpet. Ironic, that.)

3) I finally got a much-needed pedicure--and immediately afterward caught my big toe on the brake pedal of my car, snapping the nail off halfway down.

4) I'm starting a new job Monday. For which I am not getting paid. I do get to pay for parking, though, so it all balances out.

5) In anticipation of starting the new job, I decided to henna my hair to cover the increasingly prominent grey. I didn't have my glasses on while I was mixing the henna, though, and failed to notice I was using the box labeled "Red" instead of the box labeled "Auburn". There is a really big difference between "Red" and "Auburn". I don't think they're expecting Bozo the Clown, but that's who's showing up on Monday.

6) I also--inexplicably--forgot to wear gloves while applying the henna, so now my hands and nails are also a lovely shade of orange, which is bound to make shaking all those new hands a fun experience all the way around.

7) I decided I was smarter than the designer of the camisole I'm test knitting and "modified" the straps. I now have to rip back black, fingering weight yarn and then pick up several hundred dropped stitches. There's not a bright enough light in the world to make this happen without hair rending, sobbing, and an eventual descent into drunken remorse.

8) Due to a scheduling collision which resulted in fatal injuries to my plans for today, I had the chance to sleep in this morning. To make up for it, I had raging insomnia last night.

Hmmm...I could get used to this list thing. Whining is kind of fun!

Got Money?

Actual conversation with my ten-year old yesterday:

Son: Mom, which one is better, Harvard or Yale?

Me: Harvard.

Son: Huh. How come?

Me: Because I went to Harvard.

Son: You DID?!

Me: Uh huh.

Son: Wow! No wonder you're so smart. I'm going to Harvard, too.

Uh oh.

I'll be accepting donations to his college fund, in case anyone's interested.

Welcome to Motherhood: Crazy Hair Day Edition

Sometimes motherhood isn't all it's cracked up to be. Waking up in the middle of the night to a child crying, "Mommy, I just barfed in the bed," for example, is not one of those Hallmark moments. Neither is walking in on a giggling toddler who is supposed to be napping but is instead finger painting on the walls with the contents of his diaper. And I, for one, will never forget the feeling of horror at opening the dryer after prewashing an entire new winter wardrobe for two small children to find that someone left a pack of restaurant crayons in his pocket. [Did you know, if you dial 1-800-CRAYOLA, you will hear, "For instructions on how to get crayon out of clothing that has been through the dryer, press 1"? It involves large quantities of WD-40 and paper towels. And it does get the crayon out. Nothing in the known universe, however, will get out the WD-40.]

One of my least favorite motherhood experiences is Crazy Hair Day--an annual event at the elementary school which involves several of the things I like least: doing hair, sticky substances on my hands, and a child with serious OCD issues and a hair obsession--he routinely bursts into tears when faced with the prospect of a haircut, because he absolutely can't stand having his hair look "stupid"--who has a picture in his head of exactly how he wants his hair to look that is about as realistic as my mental image of my perfect body.

Last night (at bedtime, of course), said child announced that today was crazy hair day, and did we have hair gel and colored hair spray? Um. No. And it's bedtime. We're going to skip crazy hair day this year (said with forced nonchalance in the vain hope that this would end the conversation). Which eventually led to Mom flatly refusing to go out in search of crazy hair supplies at 9:00 pm.

Mom, however, failed to convey to Dad to importance, the utter necessity, of not going to get crazy hair supplies--not when Mom is the one who has to get up and deal with child in the predawn hours.

So my morning went like this:

Son: Did Dad get crazy hair gel?

Mom (staring with dismay at the tube labeled "Hair Glue"): Uh...yeah.

Son: Good. Can you spike my hair? [This would be the hair that is down to his shoulders and would give an English Sheep Dog hair envy.]

Mom: Um. I'm not sure. I can try. But this stuff is pretty sticky, so it's going to be really hard to wash out. Are you sure you want to do this?

Son: Of course! It's crazy hair day!

Mom (sighing, because she knows where this is leading): Okay. We have to get your hair damp first. Stick your head under the faucet.

Son: Wait. I need a towel for my shoulders.

Mom hands him a towel.

Son: Wait. I need a washcloth to keep the water out of my eyes.

Mom hands him a washcloth.

Son: Wait.

Mom: What?
'
Son: Nothing.

Finally sticks his head under the faucet.

Son: Mom! You're getting my hair all wet!

Mom: Yes, I know. That's the point.

Son: But it's going to be all wet!

Mom: Um. Yeah. The directions say "use on damp hair."

Son: But it's wet!

Mom: Okay. Stand up. Let me dry your head a little.

Son: Ow! Ow!

Mom: Time for the gel. How do you want it?

Son: All spiky.

Mom: All over?

Son: Yeah. All over.

Mom rubs large quantity of axle grease into Son's hair and attempts to pull six inch long clumps of damp, sticky hair into spikes. Half a tube later, she sends Son to look in mirror. Son gets that "trying not to cry" look, and Mom's breakfast settles heavily in her stomach.

Mom (tentatively): What do you think?

Son: No. No. No.

Mom: Okay. What do you want me to do?

Son: Cover up my forehead!

Mom: Ah. Well. I don't know if I can do that. The hair is all sticky and clumpy now.

Tears well in Son's eyes.

Mom (grabbing a comb and silently cursing the elementary school): Come here. I'll see what I can do...there. How's that?

Son (starting to sound a little hysterical): Can you make it more poofy?

Mom messes with hair for a little while.

Son (voice going up an octave): Can you make it less poofy?

Mom (starting to show the strain): You just said more poofy!

Son: I know, but I want it less poofy!

Mom messes with hair some more.

Son (clearly losing it now): NO! That's not it! Push it to the side!

Mom: Which side?!

Son: Not THAT side!

Mom: Show me!

Son: I CAN'T! No, just put it back the way it was!

Mom (taking a deep breath and looking surreptitiously at the clock): Okay. We are just about out of time. You have two options. You can leave it like that, or you can go wash your hair. But you have to decide quickly because we have to leave in five minutes.

Son: Just put stuff in my hair!

Mom (puzzled): What stuff?

Son: Chapstick. Rubber bands. Stuff!

Mom (completely baffled now and way past exasperated): I don't have any stuff and we don't have any more time. Go wash your hair. Fast.

Son stomps upstairs to the bathroom. A couple of minutes later, Mom still doesn't hear water running.

Mom: Son? Are you in the shower?

Son: NO! I don't have time! I'll be late!

Mom: You will be if you don't get in the shower right now!

Son: There! I fixed it!

Stomps out of bathroom with hair looking pretty much the way Mom first did it.

Mom: That's how you want it?

Son: Duh! Why couldn't you have just done that to start with? Would that have been so hard?

Mom swallows sharp retort in the interests of moving child toward the door.

Mom: Grab your stuff. We're late.

Son picks up backpack, pulls door shut.

Son: Ow!

Mom: What?

Son: I just shut the door on my finger!

Tears well up in his eyes again.

Mom: Are you okay?

Son (wiping eyes and pushing at sticky hair on his forehead): Yeah.

They get in the car.

Son: This gel is going to be really hard to wash out.

Mom (biting tongue): Mmmm.

Son: It's going to hurt.

Mom (biting tongue harder): Mmmm.

They pull up in front of the elementary school. None of the other kids walking in have crazy hair.

Son (rising hysteria in his voice): Mom? IS today crazy hair day?!

Mom (supply of motherly patience exhausted): Don't know. Hurry up; you'll be late. I love you. Have a great day!

Mom roars out of the parking lot and heads for the coffee.

I fully expect to be getting a phone call from the office in the next hour, asking me to please come pick up my hysterical child so that he can come home and wash his hair.

Motherhood. Yup.

Thanks to my HMO...

...I got this much sock knitted waiting at the doctor's office today. I am not a fast sock knitter, so you can imagine how much time this represents sitting in the waiting room. Thank the good lord for knitting, and Mountain Colors for my new BFF, Mountain Colors Bearfoot.

(I should also thank my HMO for the $1200 per month premium, the visit to the primary care physician for a referral to the specialist, the copay for the primary care physician, the mandated specialist, the additional co-pay for the specialist, and the six month wait to see the specialist, but at least we don't have government-run health care. Because that would be inconvenient and expensive, and we wouldn't be able to choose our own doctors. Sorry. My sarcasm is showing. Hey, Canada, wanna trade?)

You Asked For It

Okay, here it is:




Whaddya think? Pat Benatar or Keith Partridge?

The Newest Partridge

My husband thinks I got it wrong. He says my hair really looks just like Keith Partridge:


I think he's right.

It's Bread. Really.

This is what happens to dinner when you're busy playing with puppies.

It was worth it.

"Elvis is Alive!..."

"...I just found him in my backpack!" (actual quote from Older Son).

I had my kids clean out their school backpacks to use for daycamp this week. This is just the trash from Older Son's backpack. No wonder it weighs 40 pounds.

Guests

We have some unexpected guests in the garden. Only one is visible. Do you see her?


How about now?

She has several eggs incubating in a nest in that hanging plant, just a few feet from the back door, and hanging over the pool, which is always packed with noisy kids and dogs. She seems undisturbed by the chaos.

Although I'm not sure anyone would be intimidated by these...

Legobamaland

Last week we took the kids to Legoland. We had free tickets and it's only about half an hour from our house, so even though we just went a couple of months ago, we thought, why not? We wandered, as we always do, through Miniland, where you can see some of the great cities of the world rendered in Legos, in remarkably accurate detail.

It was all very familiar, until we reached Washington, D.C., where there was definitely something different in the air. Can you tell what it is?

How about now?

Whatever side of the political aisle you side with, you have to admit this is some impressive Lego building!

Check out the realistic details:

I wonder if those limos are bulletproof?

And of course, what would an inauguration be without police?

But really, I was dying to look inside one of those portapotties (notice the realistic line) to see just how detailed the builders were!

The Joys of Modern Banking

A couple of weeks ago, I got one of those balance transfer offers from my credit card company (0% interest! Fixed APR!), complete with handy-dandy pre-printed checks (Use them now! Buy that big screen! You know you want to!). As I always do, I shredded the checks and threw them out. A few minutes later, as I was paying the monthly bills, it occurred to me that I have a loan that I'm currently paying off at a significantly higher variable interest rate. I could actually use one of those handy-dandy checks, pay it off, then finish paying the loan at the lower, fixed rate. This seemed like a good idea. But alas, I had shredded the checks. No problem, I thought, I'll just call the credit card company and have them send me some more.

There's an unwritten rule of modern life: if you call customer service, and you get someone in India, things are not going to go well for you. Unfortunately, there is generally no alternative to slogging through what is bound to be a confusing, irritating, and lengthy "customer service" experience. My experience with my new BFF (we'll call him "Sam") was no exception.

Me: "Yes, I received some balance transfer checks in the mail and shredded them by mistake. Could you please send me some more?"

Sam: [insert unintelligible accent here] "No, ma'am, I am sorry, but we cannot send checks in response to a telephone request."

Me: "Um. Okay. How do I get some then?"

Sam: "I am sorry, ma'am, but we cannot reissue checks."

Me: "Um. All right. Are you going to be sending any more any time soon?"

Sam: "I am sorry, ma'am, but I cannot give you that information.

Me. "Oh. Okay. Ah. Is there some other way I can make a balance transfer?"

Sam: "Yes, ma'am. I can handle that for you over the phone."

Me: [Resisting the urge to point out the sheer idiocy of refusing to MAIL checks to my ACTUAL, REAL ADDRESS, but accepting authorization for the transfer of large amounts of money over the phone] "Oh. Okay. That will be lovely."

A lengthy and tedious conversation followed, which I will not repeat verbatim for fear of losing those of you who have stuck with me this far. Suffice it to say that bank account numbers were given, credit accounts were listed, names were named. Finally, Sam put me on hold for, oh, a day or two. When he came back, he said,

Sam: "Ma'am, is the balance you are transfering an account from ******** Bank?"

Me: "Why, yes. Yes it is."

Sam: "I am sorry, ma'am, but we cannot transfer an account balance from ******** Bank."

Me: "Why is that?"

Sam: "Because ******** Bank is owned by [our company]. We cannot transfer our own accounts."

Me: [Resisting the urge to point out he could have saved us both a lot of time by asking me this question 12 hours ago] "Uh."

Silence.

Me: "Well. Um. Thanks for your help."

Sam: "But I can make a transfer into your checking account and you can use it to pay off the loan. The transfer fee is also only half that for a balance transfer."

Me: [Flatly dumbfounded, because, really, who WOULDN'T choose this option if it were actually presented to begin with?] "Really. Well. Right to my checking account, huh? And it'll only cost me half as much in transfer fees? Yeah. Okay. Let's DO THAT."

After another lengthy process, Sam assured me that everything was done and I should look for the money via wire transfer in "three to five business days."

I, foolishly, believed him.

That was two weeks ago, or, in banking terms, TEN business days. I have seen neither hide nor hair of the money, nor of any reference to a transfer. Today, I decided, I would brave the customer service line and try to figure out what had gone wrong.

The credit card company saved me the trouble. There was a letter from them in today's mail, informing me that they have tried to contact me about a balance transfer request, but since they have been unable to get ahold of me, they have cancelled the transfer. If I wanted to make a transfer, I should call [oh, yeah] customer service.

Unable to get ahold of me? I have three land lines. I have a cell phone. I have two email addresses. I have lived at the same address for more than ten years. The credit card company has all of this contact information. Unless they were trying to reach me by smoke signal, I can't imagine what trouble they could possibly have had getting ahold of me.

So I sucked it up and called customer service. I got an agent who sounded exactly like the first one I talked to. Maybe it was. So we'll call him Sam.

Me: "Yes, I set up a balance transfer by phone a couple of weeks ago, and today I got a letter saying you have been unable to reach me and have cancelled the transfer. I'd like to try again."

Sam: "Yes, ma'am, I can help you with that. I see here you had a balance transfer and it was cancelled. You want to transfer the money into your checking account?"

Me: "Yes, please."

Sam: "Can you give me the routing number and account number, please?"

I do.

Sam: "I must place you on hold while I check this."

Me: "No problem."

Quite a while later:

Sam: "I apologize for the lengthy hold. What is the name of the bank for this routing number?"

I tell him.

Sam: "I am sorry, but this is an incorrect routing number."

I repeat the routing number. Twice.

Sam: "I am sorry, but there is no record of this number."

[At this point I reminded myself rather forcefully that it is not a good idea to lose one's cool with Sam in India who has his fingers poised directly over one's credit rating, no matter how much one might like to make some sort of nasty comment.]

Me: "Well. I am looking at the check. That is the routing number printed on the check. That is also the routing number I use every month when I pay my bill on your website. I use that routing number every time I make a payment from that account, which is pretty much every day. And, actually, it's your bank. I'm not sure what to tell you."

Sam: "Oh. Okay."

And he continues to process the request. Or so I think. He could just be putting me on at this point, and I'd never know it.

Sam: "So you want to have $X transfered into your checking account?"

Me: "No. I want to have $Y transfered into my checking account."

Sam: "I'm sorry,ma'am, but I cannot transfer that amount."

Me: "Um. Why not?"

Sam: "Because I cannot make a transfer for the same amount within 25 days of a previous transfer."

Me: "But, um, there was no previous transfer."

Sam: "You got a letter approving a transfer."

Me: "No. I got a letter telling me the transfer I requested had been cancelled." This seemed like an important distinction to me.

Sam: "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I cannot make a transfer for the same amount."

Me: [After a moment's careful thought] "Can you make a transfer for a different amount?" [You've got to ask the right questions. I'm slowly getting the hang of this, I think, and I'm starting to get excited as I see the possibility of bringing this transaction to a close sometime before my head explodes.]

Sam: "Yes, ma'am. What amount would you like me to transfer?"

Me: "Just change the amount by $50."

Sam: "$50 more or less?"

Me: "I really couldn't...$50 less. Make it $50 less. Please."

Sam: "Yes, ma'am. That will be $Y-50 at X% interest fixed for the life of the loan with a transfer fee of $Z. Once I submit this, it cannot be changed. Do I have your approval to submit it?"

Me: "Yes. Yes, you do. Please submit it." [Submit it NOW! Before I totally lose it and start screaming at Sam in India who's probably not to blame but who is about to feel the full force of my annoyance and that would be a BAD thing, because as we've already established, he has his fingers waaaaay to freakin' close to my credit rating, and...]

Sam: "The transfer will be made by wire transfer in the next three to five business days. If there is any problem, someone will contact you by phone within the next three days. Is there anything else I can help you with?" [Yes, actually. You see, I've heard all this before, and it didn't work out quite that way. Could you possibly arrange for me to speak to someone who actually has some AUTHORITY, or better yet some ACCOUNTABILITY? Or maybe I could talk to that guy who decided to outsource customer service to India, along with all the jobs that used to be in the U.S. I'd really love to talk to him. I have a few questions for him. What's that? Monaco? He's living it up in Monaco because the unemployment rate in the U.S. was bumming him out? Yeah, I can see how that would get a person down. That and all those foreclosed houses. Oh, and the vacant commercial spaces are kind of a downer, too...]

Me: "No, thank you. That's all. Thank you so much for your help."

Any bets what happens next?

Ten Things

I saw this meme at On The Needles, and it made me think, so I decided to participate (spurred on, I must admit, by some tough work days that haven't left much time or energy for knitting or blogging). The photo mosaic was my own addition.

The rules? List ten things you can't do without. Tag [pick a number] people and let them know they're tagged. That's it! Easy, huh?

Ten Things I Can't Do Without


Credits (from left to right, top to bottom): 1. My own, 2. My own, 3. The Color of Crema Coffee, 4. My own, 5. Entering Hyperspace, 6. llibreria - bookstore - Amsterdam - HDR, 7. Jaz, 8. Pequeños Placeres / Little Pleasures, 9. Sugar Lips, 10. blessing of nature

1. My family, of course. That's almost cheating, isn't it?
2. Yarn and needles. Yeah, yeah. Still cheating.
3. Coffee. Enough said.
4. Dogs. They are so much easier to relate to than humans. Why, yes, I am antisocial. How did you know?
5. Internet access. How could I ever survive without you all?
6. Books. Yes, I did notice this somehow came in below internet access. This is disturbing to me, particularly since I have a degree in literature, but still true.
7. My alarm clock. I'm not a morning person, but morning comes all the same.
8. Privacy. I am naturally introverted and need time alone every day to recharge.
9. Sugar. There is no chance at all that I will ever do a low-carb diet. Or, well, any diet, actually.
10. Plants. I love the way they look. I love the way they feel. I love their constant, silent, living presence. Emphasis on silent. I did mention my family, did I not? They are not silent. At all.

And despite the mental image I have now created of a fat, sluggish, caffeine- and sugar-addicted, antisocial, knitting bookworm digging in the dirt surrounded by dogs, I'm happy to share my list with you! I won't tag anyone, so no pressure, but I would love to read your lists, too (and see your pictures), so if you're inclined to play, please leave a message to let me know when you post, and I'll come visit.

Resistance is Futile...

...you will be assimilated.

Thanks to California's new "Hands-Free" Law, I have officially joined the Borg Generation.