You know what the goat means...

Ok, so listen to this shit.

I've been sick this week. I've got that stupid cold that's going around. Cough, cough, cough. It sucks. So I didn't go out Monday night, and I rested all day Tuesday, and by the time Tuesday evening rolled around I was going stir crazy. Still coughing, still sick, but stir crazy. Matt was out tearing up the town with Mr. Cabbage, so I was home alone, watching Rachel Maddow and knitting. It actually sounds like a nice night, under normal circumstances. But I was bored. So I called up KT and she said she'd come over and have a glass of wine and entertain me. Then the Science Pirate turned up! So I was rich in buddies.

We sat on the porch chatting. The Science Pirate left, Matt turned up, and so it was KT, Matt, and I having a leisurely time on the porch. Between 4 of us, we killed a single bottle of wine. Sober Sallies. We were on a pretty solid gossip train when a COP CAR rolled up on the corner.

You heard me.

We stared, bemused, from one another to the cop car. The cop just sat in the car for about 5 minutes, looking at his clipboard and talking on his radio, so that we thought he was maybe just doing some paperwork. Finally, though, he got out of the car, walked hesitantly across my lawn, and said, in a rather embarassed tone, "hey, um, we got a call...about noise. Was there anyone else on your street outside making noise tonight?"

We told him no. He continued, "Ok, well, someone said there were people yelling and screaming and laughing loud and stuff out here...so I guess just...try and keep it down?"

We were like, um, ok. And then he left.

The cop spent 5 minutes in his car making sure he was at the right place. Because, you know, where's the wild party? He was actually embarassed to tell us to shut up because we were 3 people talking at normal volume before 1 AM. But here is the kicker, for me: whoever called the cops on us involved the authorities before speaking to us. Which is, where I come from, way, way WAAAAAAAAAAY ruder than hanging out on your porch.

This is the second time this has happened. The first time was the very night we moved in. I think a few things about this.

1. I think the childish, rude asshole who has called the police on me twice, without doing me the courtesy of speaking to me to my face, lives two doors down. I think he is the same guy who is the only one on the block who doesn't say hi. The one who has only ever spoken to me to say, "you can't park there." The one who's wife is really, really friendly. Professor Umbridge friendly. Right after the first noise complaint, she said to me with a saccharine smile "We have to get up really early, so it's nice that it's such a quiet neighborhood. Isn't this a lovely neighborhood? It's always JUST. LIKE. THIS." These people are, just coincidentally, the only people over 35 on the block.

2. I think it might be personal. Because it is not AT ALL unusual for people to be talking and laughing on their porches late into the night. Unless we're all getting the cops called on us all the time, I find it odd that it's happened to me twice now.

3. I think this nefarious douchebag uses the police as a warning. Like, I think that he called the cops the first night we moved in to show us, hey new neighbors, I'm the boss of the neighborhood. I think that he called them last night to remind us, as we enter porch season, that he's still a dick so we'd better stay in line.

4. OH MY GOD it is SO RUDE to call the police on someone without personally speaking to them first. Also, he should get cited for wasting police time. Also, if you're going to live in the city AT ALL, much less less than 2 miles from campus in a neighborhood full of young people, you should maybe learn to live with conversation level noise. Also, WTF?

So anyway, as soon as I get home tonight I'm going around and knocking on all my neighbors' doors to ask them if they called the cops. I am pretty sure I know who it was, but I'd like to individually bitch to everyone on the block about the tyranny of this single dick.

My nearest and dearest are rolling their eyes right now, having seen me riled up like this before.

In these situations, Matt usually says "let me do the talking," because he's Mr. Lawyer, while I tend to get all trailer park on people. But I literally CANNOT RESTRAIN MYSELF. Like the time back in DC when, due to a laundry-room disagreement, I stood outside our neighbor's door banging on it and yelling "I KNOW YOU ARE IN THERE I CAN HEAR YOUR TV NOW COME OUT HERE AND TALK TO ME LIKE A GODDAMN ADULT!!!" While Matt stood behind me with his face in his hands. Heh.

Or the time our roof was leaking in DC and I left a voice mail for our landlord that said something like "CRAIG, this is LIBBY and our roof is LEAKING AND YOU NEED TO BE MORE ACCESSABLE THIS IS AN EMERGENCY AND I WILL MARCH DOWN TO THE ESCROW OFFICE RIGHT NOW you are a LAWYER you know PERFECTLY WELL what your RESPONSIBILITIES ARE as a LANDLORD...." and I kept going until Matt took the phone away from me.

But I know that is probably not the best way to be, especially since these people just LOVE to call the police, so tonight I'll try and bite my tongue and let Matt lawyer them up.

But really. Gets my goat.

Bruce

Everything is hard.

Brax,

I am addressing this to you because it is a straight up rant, and I know you will understand when I tell you about my day. Goat: got.

I can't find my keys. They're nowhere.

I will retrace my steps for you: Last night, Matt and I walked up to our local hippie grocery store to buy fake meat products and organic cream because I wanted to make cream of carrot soup. I took only my keys and my phone, which I stuck in the canvas shopping bag. On the way back, I fished out my phone because I am literally physically addicted to it. So there my keys were, under our hippie groceries. We got home. We tried to go in the back door, but then I remembered I'd locked the screen door from the inside for reasons that made sense, at the time. So we went around to the front. Matt unlocked the door. We went straight to the kitchen and started dinner. Matt unpacked the groceries. He remembers seeing my keys in the grocery bag and removing them, but not what he did with them. Logically, he would have handed them to me or sat them somewhere like the kitchen table.

The keys are nowhere. Here are the places I looked, in the order I looked in them:

1. Kitchen table
2. Under the kitchen table
3. Kitchen Counter
4. Grocery bag, purse
5. Behind the coffee maker and all the flour-sugar-coffee canister things
6. Stove area
7. Coffee table
8. End tables
9. Mantle
10. Couch
11. Chair
12. Dining room table
13. Bookshelves
14. Nightstand
15. floor around nightstand
16. in the bed
17. In the laundry pile
18. Husband's desk, chair
19. bathroom window sill, shelf
20. medicine cabinet
21. pockets of my coat, Matt's coat
22. Kitchen window sill (I even opened the window to make sure the keys were not in between the screen and the glass.)
23. refrigerator, freezer, including the drawers and underneath frozen pizza
24. kitchen bookshelf, including behind the cookbook I used last night.
25. dishwasher
26. all kitchen drawers
27. under all cushions in living room
28. under all living room furniture
29. in purses which have not been carried in weeks.
30. inside washing machine.
31. inside dryer
32. underwear drawer
33. dishwasher
34. under apples in fruit bowl.
35. inside TV cabinet
36. mailbox
37. pockets of husband's pants
38. knitting bags
39. pile of clothes on bedroom floor
40. under bed
41. garbage can
42. dumpster. Yes. I went through the damn trash in the dumpster.
43. all of these places again and again. except the dumpster, I only did that one once.

When things like this happen, the lost object is always, always somewhere completely stupid, like underneath a hat you tossed down on the bed. But I didn't toss any hats on the bed. Where are my keys? Where? The kitten is too small to bat my big, heavy keyring very far, and I think I would have heard any key batting. Plus I looked under most things. Oh, balls.

So when I couldn't find the keys, I started calling Matt because I knew he was the last person to see the keys alive. But his phone does this THING. There is a button on the outside of the phone which turns off the ringer, and he puts the phone in his pocket and the button gets hit somehow, and his ringer is off. It always happens when I, like, really need to talk to him. Last time it happened I was supposed to be calling him when I got off work at the restaurant, so he could come get me. I was calling and calling and calling and calling, and he was just sitting at home watching TV, blissfully unaware. Meanwhile I'm sitting at the bar at work, after a long night, with no ride home, and all the boys at work (whom I adore. usually.) are saying things like "MAAAAAAAAAN, Matt is in the DOGHOUSE tonight!!!" and "Hey, Bruce, you gonna tear him up when you get home?" With a little bit of glee, because they love it when someone besides them is in trouble with their lady. I finally called Topher to get dressed and come get me.


So naturally, his phone was doing that thing this morning, when I was running around half hysterical and terribly late. I left him some excellent voice mails. (Eventually I did get ahold of him and he was very helpful.)

Anyway. So I'm making do with borrowed keys today, but I cannot drive anywhere, so don't ask me to. When I get home tonight I'm going to tear the house apart, but I cannot imagine where the keys could be that I haven't already looked. Probably in hiding with my white full slip, which went missing right about the time it got warm enough to wear dresses.

OH YEAH! Speaking of clothes, here is the other thing that happened to me this week. I got home from work at the restaurant on Friday night, and I undressed and found that I had a rash on my knees, ankles, elbows, armpits, and around my waist. I was pretty horrified. The next day I talked to my mom and she suggested that it was a detergent allergy, and when I thought about it I realized that the rash was all in places where my clothes were tight against my skin. Turns out I'm allergic to 7th generation liquid detergent. Sorry, environment, I'm going back to Tide. The rash is already mostly healed.

I guess that is enough bitching for today. Things have turned around. KT and the Science Pirate came to see me and brought me mexican food and a rice crispy treat, and now we're getting some lottery tickets so if we win, drinks are on me!

Luv,
Bruce

P.S. readers, Brax and Cabbage and I are doing an Owl Sweater Knit-Along. Exciting! Excited! Don't be grumpy.

Mr. Rochester!

First snow! Well, the first real snow. Here is how I know I'm really, for really real, back in the midwest.

I love it. I know I'll hate it by February, but shoot, I hate everything in February, so PFFFFFT. The bad thing is, it's hurting business 'cause the traffic is bad and no one wants to go out in it if they don't have to. They're all staying home wearing sweaters and drinking tea. Obviously they should be here buying yarn from me, right? Speaking of which, for those of you who are curious, the big opening went really well, and so far so good with the shop! Still, tell your friends, ok?

Here's the really big news for the day:

This morning I asked Matt, who was out "running errands," to bring me a coffee at the shop on his way home. So he comes inside, hands me the coffee, and says, "AND...I have an early Christmas present for you."

I said, "Early Christmas present?! Why, cause it's snowing?!"

Then he goes outside, and comes back in with........!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

He is my early Christmas present and he is six weeks old and I named him Mr. Rochester, Chester for short. Tiny baby Chester! He is totally chill about not knowing what the hell is going on. Poor kid had been a lost stray momless baby, and then was living with a good Samaritan for a while, and the good Samaritan give him to Matt, and Matt took him to the vet, and the vet poked him and shined lights on him and stuck him with needles, and then Matt tied a ribbon on him and gave him to me, and I pawed at him and cuddled him and wouldn't put him down. So he has had a rough life so far. But he is sort of like "Whatever" about it. He's not asking for any special treatment. He's too cool for all y'all's nonsense. Mr. Rochester is a total badass despite weighing less than a hank of Cascade 220 and having a nerdy English literature name.

Sister and Lucy haven't met him yet. They are quarantined in the basement while he gets acclimated. Matt gave them tuna in an effort to make them associate Chester with delicious tuna.

Oh, hey, City of Columbus, I'd like to tell you that I've been sitting in my shop looking out my giant front windows at the street all day and you are doing a TERRIBLE JOB of keeping the roads clear. You're gettin' my goat here.


People keep sliding around and getting stuck, and I haven't seen a single snow plow. This is getting ridiculous! I mean jeeze, this is High Street. It's the first road you should plow. What the hell?

Hey, wear a scarf, guys, it's cold out there!

Bruce

Jeans. Again. Sigh.

Hey Brax,
Right now I think you're gettin' ready to head to Monday night karaoke. Not me, not tonight. I need to rest and stuff. Also I really can't afford to have one of those dirty Pabst Blue Ribbon hangovers tomorrow, since we need to bustass on the shop.

My mom told my Aunt Jean about our blog and she read it (hi, Aunt Jean!), and then she e mailed me to tell me not to flush Puff's down the toilet because it will mess up the plumbing. I know, man, I was desperate! Anyway, Aunt Jean, as soon as I posted that blog about the kleenex, Brax came over and dropped off a roll each of paper towels and TP, so I'm good.

Tonight I went shopping for jeans. The whole thing pretty much got my goat.

I hate shopping. Nothing makes you feel worse about yourself than shopping. First I tried on about 700 pairs of jeans in the Junior's department. See, I was told I should check Juniors, because they have odd numbered sizes, and I've been having a lot of trouble with the even numbers. I used to be an 8. Then I was a 10. 8. 10. 8. 10. NEITHER!!!!! Now I'm kind of a 9. I do not understand these fluctuations. My lifestyle is pretty steady. My theory is that my weight is affected by stress.

I don't even have a scale, you guys. My target weight is NOT BUYING JEANS.

So anyway, I was shopping for jeans and I was in Juniors, and whenever I'm in that department I'm A) afraid of knocking over a skinny teenager with my ass and B) sort of afraid the popular girls will make fun of me. So I tried on all these pants and found two that were ok, but man, they sure are making jeans ride low. Is this what the young girls are wearing?

So I headed over to the women's department and found these jeans that fit me perfectly except they were mom jeans. They came up to my neck and ballooned out around my thighs. I kind of wanted to shoot those jeans with a gun. If only I'd had a gun in my handbag.

In the end I bought two pairs of jeans, from the Junior's department, one a size 9 and one a size 11 (Why? How? Hate pants.) but I'm not really in love with them and I may take them back.

After the jeans I headed to the bra department and I do not even want to talk to you about it.

nataliedee.com

All I know is that I meandered around the bra department for a really long time trying to find the Playtex Thank Goodness It Fits Bra, which has half sizes. Everywhere I looked, all I could see were all these signs that said "full figured." I know that it is hard for girls with big 'uns. I want y'all to be able to find nice bras. I like that there are lots of "full figured" bras, clearly labeled. I just want equal treatment! I want to see the giant sign that says TITLESS. Then I could just waltz in and grab my little half-sizer and get the hell out.

Here's the problem, though, when you finally find the Titless bras, they're all padded to oblivion. Padded to full figured. Que? I just want a holster for my girls, you guys. I don't want a whole microfiber fake girls setup.

It was just really stressful. And the moral of the story is, I hate shopping when I need something. Shopping is only fun when you are bored and have some extra money and decide to pop in to see what's on sale. Shopping for something is pretty much the worst.

Ok, I am going to go watch Charlie Brown Christmas now.

Luv,
Bruce

Yarrrrrrghhhhh!!!

Bruce!



Seriously, what is the deal with all the bad luck going around? It really Gets My Goat!

Okay everyone. Here is a (probably incomplete) list of the crazy stupid stuff that has been happening.

1. Our dear friend Cabbage wrecked her scooter and broke her wrist. Terrible fate for a knitter!!


2. Hurricane Ike hit Columbus, OH, followed by a week without power.


3. On Saturday, Libby's cat Sister had a seizure and had to be rushed to the e-vet's.


4. While monitoring Sister to make sure she doesn't have another seizure, Libby smacked her head, resulting in a concussion.


5. I woke up Monday morning somehow having pulled my back/neck in my sleep and couldn't turn my head.


6. The same day, I left the apartment and returned to find that my door was hanging open, so my cats had gotten out. Oscar was just hanging out in the hallway, but Fred took about a half hour to find. I wandered around the neighborhood for a half hour tearfully calling his name before I thought to check the basement.


7. The next day, I realized that in my haste to find the cat, I had somehow lost my purse. My purse contained my wallet and my beloved half-finished cable scarf on my beloved 26" addi turbo 7.


8. That same weekend, our friend Tome went to Cleveland. Upon checking into a hotel, he realized he had left his wallet in Columbus. His mother overnighted it to him, and he proceeded to lose it at a bar the next evening.

Apparently, our friend group has a poltergeist that is stealing our wallets, fucking with our cats, smacking our heads, and so forth. Fortunately, most of the above problems turned out to be mere annoyances. Having no lights for a week sucked, but it really broke Bruce and I of our embarrassing daytime TV habit and got us reading and biking more. All the cats have been fine since their harrowing ordeals, and I think Fred's disappearence made me WAY less stressed out about losing my wallet. Now if only I could find my birth certificate so I can replace my license.....

In conclusion, I think we all need to just laugh about our terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad week. And maybe move our trash cans out of our luck corners.

Love,
Brax

Sit on the toilet.

Brax,

Get ready, cause my goat done got got.

Today I went to pee in a public toilet. It was a bathroom in a restaurant. It was perfectly clean.

When I got to the stall, the woman who had peed before me--this careful person, whose concern with the spread of communicable diseases should earn her some sort of medal from Lysol--she was so worried about germy germy germs that not only did she put toilet paper down on the seat, she also refrained from sitting down on the toilet-paper-covered seat. So that her pee went all over the seat. AND because she wanted to further protect herself, she left the toilet paper liner behind her, sort of hanging half off the seat onto the floor.

So I had to go get paper towels, use them to PICK UP HER BUTT-PROTECTOR and flush it down the toilet, then I had to WIPE HER PEE off the seat, and then make my own toilet paper toilet-seat-liner because I knew her pee had just been there. (Naturally, my toilet-seat liner did NOT end up halfway in the toilet, halfway on the floor. Plus I sat on it.)

LADY, WHEREVER YOU ARE, I JUST CLEANED UP YOUR PISS. I think that makes me a lot more likely to get a disease than you would from sitting your stupid butt down on the toilet.

Here is what sends me into fits of rage: Whenever you sit down in a public bathroom and realize "ewwwwwwwwww oh man I just sat in pee," it is because the asshole who peed before you was afraid to put the backs of her precious thighs on the public toilet seat. Not only is this inconsiderate and disgusting, it is also incredibly unsanitary. Way more unsanitary than, say, sitting down on the toilet seat.

What is more, these people do not care that someone else then has to cope with the piss they left laying around. What does it matter--the staff will clean it up, and they don't mind piss, right? I mean, they're poor. It's their job to deal with my golden, beautiful piss. It's just my job to keep the backs of my prissy, milky-white thighs sanitary.

Have you ever, in your whole life, ever heard of someone getting sick from a public toilet? EVER? No. No, you haven't. If you have it was either A) a friend of a friend of your mom's college roommate's cousin's dog, or B) one person once, in the vast number of people you've ever met in your life.

People don't get sick from public toilets, you guys. What do these people think they're going to catch? A head cold in their vagina? I bet they don't even know. I bet if I said "what are you worried about catching in the public bathroom?" to one of them, they'd say "umm....germs! diseases! pee is gross!"

And I would say unto them: Sit your whiny princess ass down on the toilet and pee like a regular person. Then wash your hands. Jesus Christ.

-Bruce

the late-sleeper inferiority complex continues, PLUS: mosquitoes.

Brax,
I woke up this morning at around 9 and started reading my book, and the little girl in my book gets up extra early every day so she can take care of her chickens before school. Then I thought, my grandpa used to go to breakfast every day before work. Then I started thinking about how the Gilmore Girls go to breakfast. And isn't it nice? They go to breakfast together every day! Before work and school! I got sort of enchanted with the idea of getting up early enough to do stuff before the stuff you have to do. There are people out there who get up every morning, like, waaaay before they need to, just so they can do stuff in the morning.

Well.

I wish I could be like that. It seems so goddamn wasteful to sleep til 8:30 or 9 every day (if I've been drinking, 11:30). It's my natural cycle to wake up at 8:30 or 9, and I feel the happiest and the healthiest when I do this. Still. I was thinking about how nice it would be to have your day start all early-like. My mom gets up and takes the dog to the barn and visits all the animals and gives them treats. Then she reads the paper--all before work! I, on the other hand, when I had to be places in the morning (which I don't anymore) used to barely get up with enough time to shower, and I was usually 15 minutes late anyway. And I HATED IT. Hate. Ed. It.

So. Anyway, I am obviously not going to be one of those people, but wouldn't it be cool if I was? I'd wake up naturally at 6, and then have a cup of coffee and shower, and then I'd go to breakfast at Nancy's or something and I'd meet all the breakfast people there, because you know, the breakfast crowd at a restaurant is always a chummy group. I'd read the paper, and then I'd go to my job, which in this scenario is in New England in the autumn. My job is, obviously, something I wouldn't hate. Maybe I'd be a woodworker! Yeah. I'd take my dog with me to my wood working workshop. After breakfast. In New England. In autumn.

OK, back to the real world. I have 52 mosquito bites. No shit--52.

This seriously Gets My Goat.


The mosquitoes are really bad this year because of all the rain in June (12 inches! 3 times the usual amount), plus living by the river. I am a mosquito magnet. Instead of a bug zapper, just take me to the picnic with you. They always eat me alive. I've read somewhere that certain people have a yummy, yummy pheromone that makes mosquitoes want to eat them. I have this pheromone. I would say I got about half these bites on my parents' front patio on Wednesday night when you and Zach and I drank wine until 4:30 AM and you guys wouldn't believe me that that light in the east was the sun. The other half, I believe, I either got at Osprey Lake or on the patio of our Cheers.

Wherever they came from, I hate them. I've been all ate up all summer, but this here takes the cake. I don't like to use OFF or whatever because I just plain don't like chemicals. So I went ahead and got some of the Burt's Bees Natural Insect Repellent. It's a bunch of stinky oil that bugs don't like, like castor oil, rosemary oil, citronella oil, cedar oil, and peppermint oil. Yes--I personally smell like a giant citronella candle. I don't give a shit, I'm wearing this crap every single day until the first frost. I'm bathing in it. Those little jerks are going to have to eat someone else for a change. I'll let you know if it works.

Bruce

the news of the day

Brax,

Part of my job is reading the Washington Post, the New York Times, and the Wall Street Journal every morning. The news usually ruffles my feathers, but I think this week I’m feeling pretty crotchety, and two things, one vastly more important than the other, made me mad. Here’s some comments on both of them.

1) Meghan McCain: I know that a lot of blogs are being mean about her, and I don’t want to jump on some sort of train of people who wish she would please put on a classy suit like Chelsea and just stand there behind her dad like a good girl. On the other hand.

I am just TIRED of seeing her pretty little face everywhere. For one thing, it is gross that that old grandpa, who was probably 105 when my dad was born, has a daughter younger than me. For another, it is quite irrelevant to me, to you, and I suspect, to the soldiers in Iraq, the people about to lose their homes, the polar bears, people without health insurance, and people waiting for their unemployment checks what a rich, privileged 23 year old thinks about anybody’s shoes. I don’t mind that she has a blog and her own life and stuff, but I really, really wish the nation’s major news outlets would stop telling me about it.

2) Nukes to Taiwan : You guys. DOD accidentally sent a bunch of nuclear missile parts to another country and then they didn’t notice for two years.

In fact, they never actually noticed. Eventually Taiwan was like, “um, this box you sent us says “secret” on it. We thought it might be important.” (I'm paraphrasing.)

How, how in Holy Hell, do you accidentally send nuclear missile components—some of the most dangerous and, theoretically, strictly controlled objects on the planet—overseas?

The department of defense gets the single biggest chunk of our tax money, you guys. They are supposed to be protecting us.

This has really restored all my faith in the government. I totally believe that all nuclear weapons are secure and there’s no way a terrorist could possibly obtain one, and I think we all owe DOD our gratitude. Thanks a lot, DOD. It’s a good thing that YOU GUYS get all the money instead of schools or parks or roads or food stamps or health care. You’re obviously putting it to good use and I don’t know why us liberals don’t just shut up and trust you.

Grumbles,
Bruce

I like beans hey hey hey I like beans every day

Brax,
I know you'll agree with me on this...I think it's bullshit that they won't ever put Cartoon Planet out on DVD. The whole Adult Swim thing grew out of the little seed that was Cartoon Planet. According to Wikipedia, there are no plans for a DVD release!

It's crap.



So all we got is that tape I made in high school, and some bits and pieces that are on You Tube.

Just sayin. I guess you could say it gets my goat.


-Bruce

Whoa Man!

Warning: this blog post contains close-ups of feet and other disturbing images.

Hey Bruce!! Sorry about the unintentional blogging hiatus. My computer at home totally crapped out on me, so things have been hard. I think I've also been letting the crappy weather get the best of me. But no more!

In knitting news, I joined Karida's sock club! I know, right? Me, a sock knitter. Well, despite my gague issues, I find it quite relaxing! I'm almost done with my 1st sock out of the January color!The pattern is called "Monkey" from Knitty a few issues back. Man! The color is beautiful. I wish my crappy pictures could do it justice, but hey! It's hard to take a picture of your own foot using a cell phone camera. Here's a closeup:

So! That's pretty much what I did with my weekend. That and watch Heroes. I'm totally addicted to that show now! But I'm only on the 1st season, so no one tell me what happens!

I also did find time to bake some of that bread that Micah's been goading me into making:
It's delicious! I ate way too much of it yesterday.

So, that's what I did this past weekend. I also bought that new Pipettes CD, and it is Changing My Life. I've listened to it at least twice a day since it came in the mail!

You know, while I'm here, I'd like to slip in a small "gets my goat" segment.
He's just a little guy!
I went into Target on, like, January 2nd. I just wanted to buy a black cardigan because I had left mine somewhere. Instead of finding the women's section filled with sweaters and pants and jackets as per usual......

Holy Bermuda Shorts, Batman!!!! Yes, it is swimsuit time once again. Right after New Year's, before the last glittering piece of confetti has even hit the ground, Target rushes out their selection of Spring Breakwear: teeny tiny junior's sized swimsuits, coverups, and band-aid sized shorts dominate the women's clothing section! I did find some long-sleeved and -panted items, all crammed together on the clearance rack. However, it was obvious they hadn't placed an order for winter clothes in some time, because everything was either a size 2 or 22. (I fall somewhere in the middle, just fyi)

All I can say is, this kind of irresponsible marketing is exactly what leads to millions of 15 year old girls dressed inappropriately for the weather. The next time you see some teenager walking down the street wearing flip flops and a sundress and no coat in February, you have Target to blame!

Be sure to check back this weekend for Brax and Bruce: live from Amish country!

Lylas,
Brax

Gets My Goat!

Bruce,

I decided to get sushi today at lunch. Such a big mistake! Last time I ordered from them, they gave me a california roll instead of a spicy tuna roll in my vegetable tempura lunchbox. I asked the guy at the bar to double check everything, and he said that yes, indeed, this time they had gotten it right. Spicy tuna roll! Totally in there!


It was in there all right. I guess they decided to go crazy with the tempora-ization of my food. This sushi is fucking DEEP FRIED. mmmmm, seaweed, raw tuna, and rice.....deep fried! Sounds delicious, right?
Seriously, what the fuck. Sakura, on Monroe street in crappy crapville Toledo Ohio, you are dead to me.
They also forgot the wasabi. Which would have been a problem, I guess, if they had not deep fried my sushi and rendered it inedible.

Love,
Brax

Gets My Goat!

OK, Brax and I decided some time ago to introduce a regular feature to our blog. We decided it would be called "Gets My Goat" and that, on some kind of regular schedule, we would write about what gets our goat and accompany it with a funny picture of a goat.

Well, we never really got around to it.

But today, something totally Got My Goat. So I am starting the feature.

If you see my mail carrier around, punch him or her in the head. I can't tell you if my mail carrier is male or female because I have never actually seen him or her. He or she usually doesn't show up until 8 or 9 PM. One time I saw a guy in a Washington Redskins Jersey and jeans delivering the mail around 9:30 PM, but I am not sure if it was the mail carrier or not. I sort of suspect that my carrier is contracting out to crackheads and spending his or her days watching Passions.

On no less than 7 occasions, I have not received a package for no discernible reason. Correctly addressed packages have disappeared into the ether for 6 weeks and then arrived back at the sender's house. Often, if I track a late/missing package online, the tracker will say that the carrier "Attempted delivery, left note." This has happened when I was home all day waiting for the package. Whoever this person is doesn't even bother to knock on the door.

On the 11th, I ordered some items and paid for express delivery because I had an express kind of need. NOTHING! I called the vendor, he says it was shipped but he got no delivery confirmation and he can tell me nothing else. He apparently doesn't bother to get tracking numbers when he sends out his merchandise. So now I have to take time off work to go to the post office and ask them at the little door where the hell my package is.

I have had to do this multiple times. Let me tell you about the last time.

I waited for 20 minutes for a 19 year old who couldn't even be bothered to take off his headphones to tell me unapologetically that my package didn't exist, in fact he'd never heard of these packages I kept going on about. Some time later the package, correctly addressed, arrived back at the sender's house. So I am not really excited about this little journey.

Especially since I no longer need this item at all! I needed it last week!

So the people at the customer service desk at my local post office had better get ready, because I am about to eat all their faces for breakfast and then MAIL the faces back to them. Then they'll have to track the package and try and get the mailman to deliver them and they'll have to holler over the music in that kid's headphones, and they'll probably have to yell at themselves just to get their faces back.

And that's what Got My Goat today.

Love,
Bruce

Phrases that must leave the crafty vocabulary

Brax,
I guess this would be an opinion piece.

Here are the dudes who need to leave and never come back:

1. Knitwit

2. Knit Happens

3. Not Your Mama's...whatever. Not your mama's woolwash, not your mama's cross stitch, not your mama's lace knitting, not your mama's quilting, not your mama's tea cozy. Anything with the phrase "Not your mama's/mother's/grandmother's" needs to stop.

4. Friends don't let friends knit drunk (that phrase is a slap in the face to the writers and readers of this blog)

Furthermore, I am sad to say that although the skull and crossbones with the knitting needles under it is really cute, the whole skull and crossbones/pirate thing is now totally out of control. It has been completely hijacked and is no longer an emblem of counterculture. So I really think we should stop using it for a couple of years. Eventually Ralph Lauren and Target will hijack something else, like, um....I don't know. Tight plaid pants with band patches for butt-flaps? That would be OK, they can have that one. And then maybe we can have the skull and crossbones back.

I'm just sayin'.
Bruce