Snip!

Yes.  I did it.  I couldn't help myself.  I cut my sock in half.  I knit a new top and then cut the old top off in the hopes of making my socks a nice uniform pair.  Having invested the time to knit these babies, I decided that anything worth doing, was worth doing well.  Sadly, there are several levels of "well" but that is for my finished these friggen objects post.  For now, I shall show you my fearlessness of the scissor.

Step one, knit a second heel and then make sure the second heel a) matches the heel you are trying to duplicate (a/k/a you read the instructions and follow them), and b) lines up with the half of the dud sock you are keeping.

Step two, cut into that baby.  These are small socks so there was no need for a fortifying shot of rum (also, that is frowned on in the third trimester and I don't want to have Schickabibbles sprout a third ear at this late date).  I did cut all of my old rows on not-per-instruction-cuff which made for several random strings of yarn in the pulling out process.  Mistake on my part.  Perhaps I should have fortified with something.

Step three, spend an eternity pulling out the yarn you cut so that you have two separate pieces. 

Step four, put the keeper piece of sock (in my case this was the foot) onto a set of needles and get the direction of everything all squared up properly.  Count to make sure your number of stitches on your new keeper part is the same as on your old keeper part.  An equal number of stitches on the old sock foot and new heel is needed for proper grafting (she says to herself in a stern DUH voice).  I also likes looking at my old top and knowing it contained my extra yarn cushion.  Should I need such a cushion.  Which since I never make mistakes, hahahaha, I wouldn't.

Step five, line up the old bit on its needles with the new bit on its needles and start to graft.  On the first stitch I (inserted the darning needle like I had) knitted the bottom off and then (inserted the darning needle like I had) purled the top off, which is actually the first, but not final, step for each needle when grafting because I figured at the end when I was back over here I would be doing the other step. 

Step six, graft, graft, kitchner, kitchner.  Over and over again.  Seriously.  There are like sixty or so stitches you are meshing together.  This ain't no eight stitches toe.  Actually, it is not that hard when you chant in your head "KNIT OFF, PURL ON, PURL OFF, KNIT ON." When you have a two year old, sick, snot laden, toddler using you for a jungle gym it does amp up the difficulty level.  And perhaps, with absolutely no knowledge of how, you may end up kitchnering a pearl stitch two or three random times.  Mind you, I could not kitchner a pearl stitch if you paid me, so I am not sure exactly how that happened.  In any event, it is good enough for me and not (I hope) that noticeable when all is said and done.  I'll let you judge for yourself when I do a finished object post. 

Kosher?

You know how they say bad luck comes in threes? Yah know? Right? Well, first I bought some yarn that looks really pretty when it is in a skein.


But looks like dogshit when knitted up. I haven't knitted it up, but I did a Ravelry search and saw some of the projects and well, wow. Just wow.

Second, I knit a hat. An Unoriginal Hat which fits so queerly, that I look like a yard gnome. In fact, I honestly cannot look at either the hat or this picture and not laugh out loud.


Third, I bought some yarn. Some newly released yarn according to the LYS owner. I asked if anyone complained of knots or breaks and she said oh no. Not that. In fact the only problem she had heard of, and it was on the internet, not from one of her customers, was that the tail of the yarn is sometimes woven into the skein, hard to get out, and can tangle.


Are you kidding me? This thing ate up my swift like a fat kid eats cake. RIDICULOUS.

So that is three right? Right? Let it be known that I am cordially requesting that we all agree that this is my three so that my knitting can return to normal.

This is Getting Old

Today I've spilled two large cups of coffee and a gigundo glass of ice tea. It makes me think the Universe is trying to tell me something ... I'm over hydrated??

Blah

I have three (one, two, three) ongoing knitting projects, which is frankly two too many. Unfortunately, I do not like any of them. Which means I am pondering starting yet another project. This is not a good idea. But it is probably a better idea than hitting the Louis Vuitton store or shopping for bras.

I am gestating fetus who never stops moving. She is constantly fussing around in there and this has caused me some angst over just how active she is going to be once she is no longer confined my the limits of my insides. I am trying to ignore this thought process.

I no longer have to figure out what to do about my one pompom socks. A trip through the washing machine took care of the remaining pompom. Actually, I guess I still need a plan. I can wear them, have my shoes eat them, and get pissed. Or, I can buy another ball of the yarn to make two new pompoms. Or, I can give them to a smaller footed person in the hopes that her shoes won't eat them.

I am craving pumpkin bread but am trying to be good and watch my sugar and carbs (emphasis on trying). Being that pumpkin bread is all sugar and carb, I really shouldn't make any. I did search the internet for a lo carb recipe and found two. Both sound ... interesting? But I suspect that if I make them and they suck, well then, what? The world will come to an end? Probably not. But still. Traditionally the stuff I make from scratch is better than the pre-mixed boxed stuff, so that would lead one to think, hope, suspect, delude one's self into believing, that the lo carb from scratch recipe won't be too bad. We'll have to see.

I am no longer wearing my gimp shoe and had grand plans of celebrating the gimp shoe's life span with a photographic tour of all of the hand knit socks I wore with it. Mind you I wore that shoe for almost six weeks and only have six sock pictures to show for it. Not exactly good follow through on my part. And NO, I DID NOT ONLY WEAR ONE PAIR OF SOCKS PER WEEK! I am not THAT dirty. Anyway, I have the six pictures sitting in the computer, so I am gonna post them. Forgive me.




My cherry (or grape, I can't remember) tomato plants turned out not to be total duds. The one I planted months after buying it gave me four tomatoes. Not bad considering the neglect. The other one, the topsy turvy one, gave me ten thus far. I have another five sitting on it that are green. I'm not sure if I should leave them on the vine and hope they ripen despite the colder weather. I don't think they would ripen if I plucked them and brought them in, which is I why I am leaning toward letting them sit on the vine. In any event, I have a grand total of fifteen tomatoes which is better than nothing I suppose. LB ate fourteen of them so that is kind of cool. Unless she develops a third arm. In which case, I am a terrible parent!

My basil rocked this season and I still have a tiny bit left I can harvest, if I get off my butt. I must have somehow redeemed myself in the Basil JuJu department.

The dill weed? Total fucking dud. Enough said.

Overkill

On Sunday I fractured the fifth metatarsal in my right foot, which is a fancy way of saying I broke my foot. It was rather lame as I slipped on the last step/carpet and careened into a baby gate. Yes, a baby gate which is suppose to protect people (well little people) from injury, was the thing that injured me. Had the gate not been there the only thing hurt would have been my pride. Instead, after several hour at the ER, I ended up with a splint, a walker, and hurt pride.



The ER referred me to an orthopedist who looked exactly like Elvis Costello. Two days after visiting the ER, I saw Elvis and he decided that considering my lifestyle, swinger and celebrity extraordinaire (or pregnant mother of a toddler), and the type and location of the fracture, I could make do with a fracture shoe and stock in Tylenol. I could go on and on about how great the shoe is compared to the walker, which I still use when my monkey, I mean my daughter isn't around. But in reality, the shoe and situation still kind of suck since I can't drive and the monkey and I are trapped in our house, alone together, for hours and hours. We can't even go out in the yard because if she decided to bolt, well, I couldn't catch her. But I am not going to complain about the foot (for now), because this post is not about the injury, it is about adding insult to the injury.



Yes, not only is my foot broken, SO ARE MY PLANTS! We had a few storms over the last two days which seem to have knocked over or broken my poor little plants. And, since I am gimpy, I can't do squat to fix 'em! Okay, maybe it's not because I am gimpy, maybe it is because I am Plant Plague. For whatever reason, the plants are giving up. I tried to prop them back upright but every single last one fell right back over. Not only that, the tomato plant that I cut way back to save is still going belly up, with two unripe tomatoes on the vine no less. I'm not sure what to do now, and even if there was some solution, I actually am somewhat encumbered by the fact that I am gimpy. So instead of doing anything I am throwing my hands in the air and giving Mother Nature the double fisted, digital salute. It's just not right, my foot AND my plants? Really?

Pavarotti

Today was a day of errands, which, in and of itself, not very noteworthy. It
was a day of errands which I ran with child in tow, which is also not very noteworthy, but pertinent to the story.

So after several hours and many stores, LB and I found ourselves at Lowe's looking at stuff for the bathroom re-model. She was at the end of her rope having run a lot of errands but she was trying to keep it together. We had picked out our medicine cabinet and a few other doodads and I was thinking it was about time to get her out of the store when it hit me. And by it, I mean the overwhelming need to go to the bathroom RIGHT NOW! Do not stop, do not pass go, go NOW! Something had broken and needed immediate evacuation if you get my drift. Which, had I been home would have been no problem. Had I been at Lowe's by myself, or with LB and Boo, unpleasant, but still not a problem. But no, I am there with my infant, who is hermetically sealed into our shopping cart with some hippiedippie keep my kid germ-free seat, and a boatload, or cartload, of unpaid merchandise. Now there was no way I was going to be able to do what I had to do with LB on my lap which meant she had to come in with me. Which also meant that the cart was coming in too. But my cart was FULL and there was a big red sign saying not to bring "unpaid merchandise" into the loo. Unfortunately time was of the essence and there was no handy dandy table to load up with my unpaid merchandise, so me, I'm a badass. I looked right at that sign and I laughed, oh yes, I laughed as I pushed my unpaid merchandise laden cart right through that restroom door. Which you would think would be the end of the story ... Ha! Ha! Jenna pulled a George Costanza and brought stuff into the can. But no, there is more!

So into the loo we go and I am hurrying and I wheel us down into the handicap stall with the fervent hope that the kid and the cart will fit in the stall. Which, thankfully, they do. So, in we go. Everything goes smoothly and I am doing what I went in there to do, but while I am doing it I am talking to LB. Or, rather, I am providing her with commentary, via song. And she is not saying anything. Being that she was in the cart and I was, well, seated, we were at eye level and she is just staring at me with her "Dance for me Clown!" face. And I know that if I don't perform well the kid is going to lose her shit. So I am singing and I am making stuff up as I go, but it is hard to sing about things of a certain nature so maybe, just maybe, when I was finishing up, there might have been a verse which was something along the lines ... "Tee hee! I farted! Toot! Toot!" And that would be when a toilet a few doors down flushed.

Apparently in my hurry to get to the handicap stall, I neglected to notice that there was someone else in there. Needless to say, I felt a little dumb. But, being a mature adult, comfortable with the fact that I am human and do what humans do, I didn't say anything. No, instead, I waited (hid) until I heard the random woman open the main door to exit my stall. I figured she would never see us and I could escape unseen, if not unheard. Unfortunately my timing was off, as was my luck, and so time slows down and this woman looks over her shoulder towards my stall as she is exiting and she sees this huge, filled to capacity cart, emerge from the handicap stall. Then she sees the kid in the front. Then she sees me. And, what does she do? Does she keep going and leave? No! Does she, having made eye contact, totally inappropriate eye contact, smile and then leave? No! She stops, coos at LB and then says to me, "What a beautiful little girl!" Lady, I just committed some sort of crime against nature in that stall, and I sang about it, OUT LOUD, to my kid and you want to talk to me? Seriously?

Fortuitous

It's a good thing my boobs are real ...



... it would have stunk if I had popped one!

Obvious

You know your life is taking a downward turn when you actally have "do NOT wreck car ... AGAIN" on your to-do list.

I is for ...

Sanity saving Infant formula.



You may have noticed that things have been pretty quiet here. If you chalked it up to having a new baby, you'd be right. Sort of. Until this week, things were kind of grim as Lady Bean was CONSTANTLY screaming and I was losing my mind. Though she was thriving as far as weight gain, Lady Bean was not a happy baby, and I was not a happy mommy. For the first three weeks of her life, Lady Bean didn't sleep and when her eyes were open, so was her mouth. From the beginning we had had problems with my milk supply which left us supplementing my milk with formula. It also had me attached to a pump every two and a half hours and taking herbs and prescriptions trying to up my supply. I was pumping, adding formula to the pumped milk, and praying Lady Bean would be full and soothed. Initially we thought that Lady Bean was so unhappy because she was starving. Later we figured out she had reflux. Reflux that made her every meal painful and sleep impossible. It also made our stress levels skyrocket.

Now I've dealt with stress. And, I think I've done pretty well with it. I grew up with alcoholic parents who didn't get sober until I was 12 years old and divorced shortly thereafter. Then I buried both of those parents, as well as my aunt, my FiL, my second mom, cousins and friends. I think I handled the stress of these events pretty well. I feel like I am someone who rolls with the punches for the most part and don't lose my shit in an untimely manner. Not that I don't lose my shit, but I wait until after I've dealt with the crisis. In any event, this is why I never thought the stress of having a baby would knock me off my keel. Would I be stressed? Absolutely. Would there be rough times? Bad times? Hairy times? Sure. Would I lose my mind and suffer from postpartum depression? Nope. No way. I suspect it was this mindset that kept me from realizing that what I was feeling was not the normal baby blues or new parent stress but instead was postpartum depression.

After ten days of herbs, I started taking the milk supply prescription. Lady Bean was constantly awake and constantly screaming, even though she was no longer starving. Reflux was kicking her itty bitty ass and her prescription wasn't helping. I figure the angst, the insomnia, the sadness, the desperation, the soul sucking ickness, the inability to get a deep breath, the desire to just go away, these things that I was feeling, they were from being overwhelmed and over-tired. This was life with a fussy baby. I mean, you can't sleep when the baby sleeps, if the baby doesn't sleep. So I took each day minute by minute, sometimes second by second, chanting "keep her alive," and forced myself to do the things I needed to do.

I figured that I was just feeling the new parent stress and disregarded the big fat warning all over the milk drug and it's instructions that said that rare side effects include (both bold and underlined or basically saying "pay attention dummy") anxiety, agitation, depression ... or difficulty breathing. So for seven days I took the milk drug and slipped further and further into myself. I felt less and less engaged in my life and more and more agitated at the thought of spending another second alone with this little screaming person. I didn't want to pump. I didn't want to feed her. I didn't want to cuddle with her. I didn't want to change her. I just wanted to be alone. I counted down the time until Boo came home and I could give the baby to him. I was introspective and gave some thought to how I was feeling since Boo would ask me multiple times a day if I was okay. I figured, I didn't want to hurt Lady Bean, I didn't want to hurt myself, I just wanted to be left alone so I was overwhelmed and not depressed. I convinced myself, my husband, and my friends that I was okay, just tired. Even feeling totally incapable of getting ready for guests to come meet Lady Bean seemed normal-ish to me. It wasn't until I found myself sobbing in the shower for no apparent reason and unable to stop that I realized that I was not normal and something was really, really wrong.

I am lucky that I have a husband and friends who care about me and were able to step in and help when I said something along the lines of, "Um, I think I might be fucked up." When I walked into the family room wearing a towel and tears Boo knew that I was not okay. So with his, and some really good friends' help, I talked to my doctor and the pediatrician and worked on fixing me and our baby. I stopped taking the milk drug and Lady Bean started taking a special formula for reflux babies. Now Lady Bean is no longer awake twenty hours a day, screaming and inconsolable. And, with the drugs out of my system, I've been able to regain me. With the help of friends, I have been able to rest. I'm still not one hundred percent. I still have some anxiety (after all, if Lady Bean isn't screaming she must have stopped breathing since screaming was her modus operandi for three weeks) and some insomnia. But, I can breathe. I can laugh when I flick the air bubbles out of the baby medicine dropper like a heroin addict getting ready to shoot up. I can pick up Lady Bean and snuggle with her. I can sit her on my lap while I surf the internet and laugh with her about the latest celeb gossip. I can leave the house with Lady Bean knowing that if she has a melt down, I won't.

So, I is for infant formula. Infant formula has saved my sanity. Infant formula got me off the milk drug. Infant formula feeds Lady Bean in a way that soothes her reflux, allows her to sleep, and when she is awake, allows her to act like a baby and not a writhing, screaming banshee. Infant formula got my mind back in a place where I can say yes when people offer to help because I am not worried about me or the baby driving the helping person nuts. Don't get me wrong, I aspire to having a breast fed baby. I may not be able to feed her fully with my milk supply, but I have hopes that Lady Bean and her wicked reflux will be able to tolerate my milk in the near future. I am still pumping. I have storage bags of the stuff in our crisper waiting for a chance to be her dinner. But, I also have perspective. If she can't tolerate the breast milk in the next week or so, if she is a formula fed baby forever, well, it is okay. Some people might disagree. Some people might see me as a failure and instant death for my baby, but to them, I am enough of my old self that I can say fuck off. And, for good measure, kiss my ass. Lady Bean being formula fed doesn't mean that she is going to be sickly. It doesn't mean that I am a failure as a mother.



It does, however, mean that on those days when she is fussy, a normal fussy baby, and I need a break, I can pass her off to my husband, call a friend and share a bottle of wine (preferably while eating sushi) without worrying about Lady Bean getting loopy. Silver linings, if you will.

NaBloPoMo, vii

My pants don't fit well. This in and of itself would not be the end of the world, had I not discovered the unfittingness during my drive to work when it was way too late to change my pants. You see, my pants, they fit fine when I'm standing up. When I sit down, it's NO GOOD. So when I got dressed and was messing around the house, they were great. By the time I got to work, breathing was a challenge. Add in the fact that I am trying to breathe through gallons of snot and well, life here is not pretty.

In fact, it is so unpretty that I have found myself unable to sleep, unable to read, unable to knit, and unable to watch tv. Put these things together and you have a very boring Jenna. I am (probably) on the mend, so let's hope that by tomorrow I'll have something to tell you about other than my snot. Otherwise this will be a really long NaBloPoMo for everyone concerned ... and I may resort to telling you stories about the old people trying to learn how to vote using those high tech things called "scantron forms" which is only funny when you are sick as hell and slightly delusional. And, maybe also funny when the 80 year old man who was complaining that he wants the "simple, common sense" lever system reinstated causes you to reflect back to when you relocated to a new state and had to give up hanging chads for the lever system, a system that made NO SENSE, and that you needed to have explained to you.

NaBloPoMo, vi

Sometime between yesterday afternoon and this morning, I contracted the plague. Surprising since I just got over the plague from last month. I guess my immune system really is busy working on other stuff. I knew I was sick when I decided that my dinner could consist of three of the gawdawful banana Reese's things that had been left on the end table next to the couch for some unsuspecting fool. So in the end, I spent last night with kleenex jammed up my nostrils and cough drops chilling in the back of my throat. I sat there for hours thinking of sleep instead of actually sleeping. It was truly lovely. Lovely like being stretched on the rack or poked in the eye with a stick.

Speaking of sticks ... or not, my husband was able to remove the carpet and the tack strips from the guest room floor. Now we have a slightly holey, slightly dirty, hardwood floor. Should the planets realign and my head drain, I hope to get the room done by Thursday so I can do some more work on my sweater. If not, well, there still are those three banana Reese's cups.

Mixed Bag

I have a cold and I feel like ass. Which totally, totally sucks. I'm no good at being sick. I don't handle it gracefully. I tend to whine, "I don't feel good." A lot. I prefer not to take anything for my colds, which is fine when you only get sick once every few years but suckey when it's that time once every few years when you are sick. In any event, I feel like crap and my brain is somewhat mushy right now. But that is not going to stop me from reporting that ...

I. The yellow thing is in fact "a shawl like rich people wear to the country club" and NOT an apron. Which is totally lame. Turns out the gift giver and another guest at the shower make these ... things ... and sell them. It is good that BeFri didn't call the number on the label and say, "I received this weird ass wrap/apron/sweater thing as a shower gift and I was wondering, what the hell is it?" as she probably would have been talking to the gift giver herself!

II. Lately it seems like several people I know have gone, or are going to be going, to England. And every time I someone mentions England, I beg (rather shamelessly) for the person to keep a look out for black currant candy/pastilles. To which I get a smile and a nod and a look of, "Uh, What??" So I try to explain how Joan is evil and introduced me to the wonder of the hard chewy black currant goodness which lives everywhere but America and then I move on to how she'd get them in England when she visited and how she sent me black currant goodies from abroad, like the Black Currant Life Saver. And at Life Saver my fellow Americans say, "Oh!" Because we know the Life Saver. But then people go and travel in England and have fun and they can't find them and they think I made this candy up. But look!



Photographic evidence to show all you doubters that they do in fact exist. It just seems that they only exist in Australia. So my bad for using them as an example of the black currant delights available in Great Ole Britain. That's not to say there aren't other, better, black currant candies in London. Because there are. I just know it.

III. I worked on the Kangaroo Duo sweater at SnB the last few weeks and I even worked on it last night in between nose blows. And you know what? I am really sick of that sweater. And I am not even onto sleeve island. Hell, I even have hood island to contend with, and that totally makes me shudder. What is so annoying is that there have been hours and hours of knitting and hardly any progress to show for it.





I tried to get all creative on ya and pin it out so you could get an idea of the huge amount of boringness going on, but I had some issues. For starters, I had to use thumbtacks for pins and the floor kept rejecting the thumbtacks and sending them flying. It did add a little adventure to the photo shoot as I was forced to duck and weave. The other issue was all the movement of the colors in the sweater and all of the movement of my office carpet mixed together to make it seem like a three dimensional optical illusion picture. Either that or you might just feel motion sick. In which case, my bad, didn't meant to make you wanna hurk! Overall the photo shoot was a bust, but I figured I should share share the joy that is my work in progress.

I do have a bunch of traveling coming up ... a flight to Florida for BeFri's wedding, a drive to The Cape for Girls Weekend, a drive to New Jersey to see the MIL ... and all this traveling lends itself to knitting. So I should be able to make my Rhinebeck goal. But the thought of knitting that sweater, and all of the knitting that is left, well, it is killing me. I know if it is the only thing I have with me to knit, I'm not going to have a choice, but man am I tempted to start a sock or a scarf or a Clapotis, something small and fun, for my travels.

IV. I dreamed about knitting socks last night. Very specific socks. I even dreamed about buying the yarn, Fleece Artist yarn, a yarn I've never used but hear lots about, to make the socks. I blame this dream on my lackluster sweater interest/progress (see supra III ... and what the hell as that?? I just Blue Booked my blog. Jizzy Crizzy I need help. I think I am embarrassed by this. Well not so embarrassed that I am deleting it, but still embarrassed enough that I feel I must make amends for my dorkdum by sharing said dorkdum with the world). Anyway, I dreamed about knitting Fleece Artist socks which is kinda weird for me ... Fleece Artist socks on a nekid Bruce Willis, oh yah, knitting Fleece Artist socks, not so much.

V. The Cuisinart saga has come to an end in that Cuisinart will not do squat for me, despite my best (and repeated, at the urging of Williams-Sonoma Awesome Sales Associate II) efforts. At some point in the future, I will have to make a decision, but for now I'm doing nothing. Which means that you can not throw a party in which people need to bring food. I mean, you could, but then you wouldn't want to invite me since I would be bringing a veggie plate or something else equally boring. And not inviting me, well that would be mean. I'm sick. Don't kick the sick girl when she's down.

For anyone interested, Consumer Reports rated food processors in December 2006, and rated the Kitchen Aid ones slightly higher than the Cuisniart ones. The top three choices were Kitchen Aid models KFP750, KFP740, KFPM770 with Cuisinart's DFP-14BCN and ProCustom II DLC-8S coming in a couple of points behind. Also, Williams-Sonoma has a new policy where it guarantees any appliance type things you buy there for life. So if your Cuisinart craps out 30 years from now and Cuisinart won't repair it or help you out with a discount, Williams-Sonoma will either fix or replace your machine, or give you the money back that you paid for it. I couldn't find this policy on the Williams-Sonoma website, but it is hanging on the wall in my local store and Awesome Sales Associate II explained that this was a new policy recently enacted.

VI. Guess who is last in our football pool? Not me baby! I am in a tight race for first. It's neck and neck I tell you! (Or in plain English, I am in second place.)

Personification

Or, How Cuisinart Broke My Heart

Many many years ago, or exactly 30.5 years ago, my aunt received a Cuisinart food processor for Christmas. And she loved it, and she and my mom played around with it and then my mom loved it.


Here I am, having just turned three years old, sitting on my aunt's lap as she perused her brand new Cuisinart instruction manual.


She read and I stole her bracelets. A good time was had by all!

So the following year for my mom's birthday, my aunt bought my mom a Cuisinart. My mom loved her own Cuisinart food processor as much as she loved my aunt's and let me tell you, she used the hell out of that little machine. She had a dozen or so fancy blades as well as the regular ones and she basically used it every night. And yes I remember her using it every night because the dish washer, that would have been me, had to wash the parts by hand since they weren't put in the dish washing machine. Anyway, when she died, the Cuisinart came to me where it did not get much use for several years. And by much use I mean no use. It sat on a shelf, collecting dust. But then I got into the whole "cooking" thing and the Cuisinart came out more and more often (as did the KitchenAid mixer, but that is a whole 'nother story).

So, the Cuisinart and I were friends. We made many things together, many good things like chicken croissants and spinach dip. And a couple of months ago, we were making one of these very good things, chicken croissants, when my little Cuisinart gave a gasp and quit working. I gave a gasp too.

I contacted Cuisinart and the woman told me I could send my machine in for repair but she wasn't sure about the details of costs and things like that, so I did nothing. I figured the shipping on this thing would be an arm and a leg being that it weighed just under four tons and couldn't decide what to do. A friend told me to send it in and see what Cuisinart would do. She thought as a loyal long time customer, they would repair it for free or send me a new one if it couldn't be repaired. She was an optimist and it was contagious.

So I called Cuisinart and said, "Yes sign me up! Fix my machine!" And Cuisinart said, "Okay, give us the serial number." And I said, "I have no serial number, it is a CFP model nine." And Cuisinart said, "No, no, silly, all machines have a serial number." And I said, "No really, no serial number!" And Cuisinart said, "Liar!" And I said, "Nu-uh!" And they said, "Uh-huh" And I said, "Listen to me, this is a CFP model nine, it is like 20 years old, There. Is. No. Serial. Number." And Cuisinart said, "Let us speak amongst ourselves." And they did. And they decided that maybe I was not in fact a liar and that they gave me a random number to use and told me to mail it in. And so with my random number, I went to UPS and paid thirty friggen dollars and sent off my little baby with a kiss and a sob letter explaining that it was my mom's machine and I've treasured it and loved it and used it and my dozen blades and could they please fix it, pretty, pretty please with sugar and a cherry on top, oh and give it kisses while I wasn't there to do so.

Well yesterday Cuisinart called me and left an obscure message about a thirty year old machine and how I should go look at new machines and then please call them back. And I was confused, but did as asked and then called Cuisinart this morning. Cuisinart said, "Dumbass, your machine is twenty-five to thirty years old, what the hell are you doing sending this old ass shit to us. We no fix." And I said, "What?" And Cuisinart said, "Yes, we don't know why you were told to send this machine in, must be the stupid people in Florida's new call center. Anywho, we haven't done repairs on this machine in at least ten years. And I know this because I, Customer Service Representative, have worked for this fine company ten years and when I started we did not fix machines this old." And I said, "But ... but..." And Cuisinart said, "We'll make you a deal, we'll sell you a refurbished machine for $100." And I said, "Pardon?" And Cuisinart said, "We realize you can get a brand new machine for around the same price, but that is our offer. And just so you know, I personally wouldn't recommend taking the offer, but it is there none the less."


Here are a few of the Cuisinart's blades. I'm not quite sure what they all do.

And I said, "But my blades, all of my glorious blades!" And Cuisinart said, "Yah you're screwed. They won't work on the new machines, and we don't recommend you try to make them work." And with tears streaming down my face because I am a sucker who personified her poor little machine into an orphan in a far away city by its sad little self wondering why it was sent here so very far away without its family, tried to wheel and deal. Although, with all the sniffling I was probably not at my top level of wheeling and dealing performance. And Cuisinart said, "No. No coupons or rebates or discounts or bupkis. We don't do that kind of thing." And I said, "Well could you at least send me my little baby back?" And Cuisinart said, "Sure." And that was the end of that.

So in the next week or so I expect to get my sweet little Cuisinart back and I'm not sure what I'll do at that point. Per Cuisinart's message, I had gone into Williams-Sonoma and spoke to an Awesome Sales Associate who showed me all the new machines. Awesome Sales Associate feels like there should be a solution to my issues and asked me to bring in some of my blades to see what, if anything they fit on. She was kinda intrigued that my blades had the stems affixed on them. Even though I know it is not going to work, I'm going to bring the blades in anyway. But from there, eh, I don't know what to do. The Cuisinart customer service rep was really nice when she was bursting my bubble, destroying my hopes and telling me to go screw. But nonetheless, she did tell me to go screw. So, do I by a new Cuisinart knowing that the company won't do squat for long time customers? But at the same time knowing I may not need squat for thirty years? And also, would it be weird to bury my poor dead machine in the back yard? You know, a proper burial and all that.

Yippie-Kay-Yay

Didn't I say something about only needing to have my label cloud fixed to set my blog back to rightness? Well guess what? I did it! Yah baby! So if you are having label cloud issues and you used this to set up your cloud, I'd say look in the comments here for the answers or at least inspiration.

You'd think with all this blog repair I wouldn't have had much time for knitting, but you'd be wrong. Actual knitting content tomorrow? Maybe! In the meantime, how about some animal yumminess?






The title to this post is a tribute to my boyfriend, Bruce Willis. Know which movie it's from?

Oy!

If this whole attorney things doesn't pan out, maybe I have a future in web design. NOT!

Nonetheless, I, who knows squat about computer programming web code stuff, was finally able to get new progress bars. Mind you, my old ones are still gone. I have no idea what happened to them. Blogger, the internet, fate, or the meter man, your guess is as good as mine. I ended up contacting several strangers with knitting blogs and asked what they did; reading so many source codes my eyes started to bleed; and, actually trying to write my own code. Ha! In the end I used the information from this site. The instructions made sense to me - I "got" it. So there you go. Progress bars fixed or replaced? Check.

Now if I could just get all of the labels in the Label Cloud centered I'd be golden.

I Don't Get It

Dear Blog,

You are screwing with my sidebar. Yesterday you had percent bars, the ?^%$@! side way socks under bad knitting karma, and my labels nice and pretty, but today? All gone. I don't get it. Can I please have my stuff back?

Sincerely,
Me

Evil

Dear Stairs,

You suck big hairy mutilated monkey balls.

Love,
She Who Can't Stop Falling Down You And Now Has A Pain In Her Knee And A Swollen Purple Toe Which Is So Not Cool Especially In The Summer When I Want To Wear Sandals But Can't Because Hello Big Swollen Icky Toe.

Doddering

I cringe as I type this ... but somehow I have managed to hurt my hip. I know! My hip! When did I become a senior citizen? Something happened last night when I was ... wait for it ... sitting on the couch. Yes folks, the rigors of sitting on my ass and watching NCIS (I love you Mark Harmon) some how injured my left hip. I can't even claim a cool injury like hang gliding, no I get sitting. Now I know the left side of my body is all gefilte and broke, despite my gall bladder's weak ass attempt to even the score. But still, my hip? How old am I? Yes, yes I know, I don't really wear high heels any more and I lost my napping mojo. I figured that those were a sign of aging, not a sign that I was one foot in the grave. Or is it that I have one foot in the grave? Distance or body part? Whatever, apparently the mental synapses are shot too. The next thing you know, I'm going to be shunning 50 Cent (who has a new song Straight To The Bank. I dare you to listen to it and not get the Ha HaHaHaHa Ha part stuck in your head) in favor of Lawrence Welk. I suspect that I am going to be getting my honorary membership in AARP an minute now.