“We’ll only email you once a week,” she said as she stuffed yarn into my bag. “It’s just special offers and coupons and that kind of thing. I shrugged. I might like the occasional coupon to use when I needed something.
That was October.
If you get a call from a telemarketer, it’s best to interrupt them politely as soon as possible and ask to be taken off of the list. It can take up to two weeks for your number to be removed, and a different company might still have your number, so you might have to ask different people several times before you stop getting calls. If you hang up on them, swear or shout at them and then hang up, all that does is puts your number at the bottom of the call list for someone else to call you again. If the list is short enough, you might even get another call the same night.
I know. I worked as a “teletubby” for two weeks. It was not a good time. The only good call I had was a guy that was more interested in flirting with me than in signing up for the credit card I was reluctantly selling.
Email is different. Even if you’ve got the box next to “email me once a week” or “email me once a month” checked on the website, once the holidays roll around, they forget about those boxes and email you every single day.
The only thing to do at that point is to head back to those boxes and hope they stick to their word when you click “UNSUBSCRIBE.”
Some would say that a call while you’re eating dinner is much more invasive than a gigantically full email inbox, but I would disagree.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Monday, December 10, 2012
Friday, December 7, 2012
Time to Crochet! Week 7
I’ll shut up about the crowns now, because I have finally finished one! (And by “finally,” I mean that I finished weaving in the ends about thirty seconds before typing this.)
It looks awesome! When we picked out the yarn, I couldn’t decide between the gold and the silver, and asked my two year old. She, of course, went for the shiny blue one. My mother was standing nearby and informed me that I couldn’t ask her which one she wanted and then not get it for her. So I ended up with a sparkly gold and sparkly blue. I’ve finished the blue one, and trimmed it with gold, and I’m just about to trim the gold one with blue.
I tried to get motivated to finish the ears for the tiger hat I stopped working on a month ago, but the ears that came with the pattern aren’t going to work, so I’ve been searching around for ears that will be cute.
But I got distracted.
I have a friend who knits and crochets and is generally a yarn geek just like me. Whenever I’m befuddled about a pattern, I go straight to her, and she de-fuddles it. Most often, her advice is something like “just follow the pattern and see what happens. If you don’t like it you can always figure out something different.” I could tell myself that, and I’m sure there’s an instant when I do, but that thought always gets disregarded when it comes from me, and when I hear it from her it’s gospel truth.
In addition to project advice, we chat about things we’re working on, giggle about yarn prices on amazon.com (a penny for a skein seems like a good price until you look at the cost of shipping), and share new things. One of the things she distracted me with this week was something called Tunisian crochet.
It’s a very interesting method of crocheting that works with all the stitches at once instead of one at a time. It looks a lot like knitting, since all of the stitches stay on the hook, and the preferred tool is a longer hook with a stopper on the end, to keep the stitches from escaping. I shared it with my mother, and we sat and oohed and aahed at how pretty the finished product was. We both had the same reaction: “You wouldn’t have to use one of those fancy long hooks, would you?”
You don’t. But I’d imagine it’s helpful. I made a little square of the basic Tunisian crochet stitch, and it looks awesome, but one problem I had while making it was my hook, which was not made for Tunisian crochet. Most crochet hooks are not uniformly cylindrical, and often have a little flat part near the middle, so that the makers would have a place to stamp what size the tool happens to be.
My problem was that as I scooted the stitches onto the hook, they crowded over that bumpy middle part, and were larger than I’d meant them to be. That wasn’t a huge problem for me, since I hadn’t meant for my stitches to be any particular size, but it would have caused some difficulties if I’d needed them to be precise.
But Tunisian crocheting is fun! I’m going to try a little project with them and explore the different styles.
Maybe someday my poor tiger hat will have ears...
It looks awesome! When we picked out the yarn, I couldn’t decide between the gold and the silver, and asked my two year old. She, of course, went for the shiny blue one. My mother was standing nearby and informed me that I couldn’t ask her which one she wanted and then not get it for her. So I ended up with a sparkly gold and sparkly blue. I’ve finished the blue one, and trimmed it with gold, and I’m just about to trim the gold one with blue.
I tried to get motivated to finish the ears for the tiger hat I stopped working on a month ago, but the ears that came with the pattern aren’t going to work, so I’ve been searching around for ears that will be cute.
But I got distracted.
I have a friend who knits and crochets and is generally a yarn geek just like me. Whenever I’m befuddled about a pattern, I go straight to her, and she de-fuddles it. Most often, her advice is something like “just follow the pattern and see what happens. If you don’t like it you can always figure out something different.” I could tell myself that, and I’m sure there’s an instant when I do, but that thought always gets disregarded when it comes from me, and when I hear it from her it’s gospel truth.
In addition to project advice, we chat about things we’re working on, giggle about yarn prices on amazon.com (a penny for a skein seems like a good price until you look at the cost of shipping), and share new things. One of the things she distracted me with this week was something called Tunisian crochet.
It’s a very interesting method of crocheting that works with all the stitches at once instead of one at a time. It looks a lot like knitting, since all of the stitches stay on the hook, and the preferred tool is a longer hook with a stopper on the end, to keep the stitches from escaping. I shared it with my mother, and we sat and oohed and aahed at how pretty the finished product was. We both had the same reaction: “You wouldn’t have to use one of those fancy long hooks, would you?”
You don’t. But I’d imagine it’s helpful. I made a little square of the basic Tunisian crochet stitch, and it looks awesome, but one problem I had while making it was my hook, which was not made for Tunisian crochet. Most crochet hooks are not uniformly cylindrical, and often have a little flat part near the middle, so that the makers would have a place to stamp what size the tool happens to be.
My problem was that as I scooted the stitches onto the hook, they crowded over that bumpy middle part, and were larger than I’d meant them to be. That wasn’t a huge problem for me, since I hadn’t meant for my stitches to be any particular size, but it would have caused some difficulties if I’d needed them to be precise.
But Tunisian crocheting is fun! I’m going to try a little project with them and explore the different styles.
Maybe someday my poor tiger hat will have ears...
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Exception to the Rule
I’ve changed my stance on bumper stickers.
Well, I haven’t.
I’ve allowed an exception.
I only meant to get the first one, but they come in a set, apparently. The best part about them is that they are removable! I proved it to my husband and brother, who were both looking at me with disbelief on their faces, by putting the ‘honor student’ sticker on the refrigerator, then peeling it right off, and putting it back on again. They’re not magnets that will blow off in a stiff breeze, and they’re not made out of regular bumper sticker paper. They are weatherproof, and as you can see, they are awesome. It’s like having a tattoo that you can peel off when you go to visit your grandma!
Now I just have to overcome my distaste of actually having a sticker on the back of my car. Then there’s the fact that it’ll totally clash with the new Nebraska license plates I just got, which are yellow, for some reason...
Baby steps.
Well, I haven’t.
I’ve allowed an exception.
I only meant to get the first one, but they come in a set, apparently. The best part about them is that they are removable! I proved it to my husband and brother, who were both looking at me with disbelief on their faces, by putting the ‘honor student’ sticker on the refrigerator, then peeling it right off, and putting it back on again. They’re not magnets that will blow off in a stiff breeze, and they’re not made out of regular bumper sticker paper. They are weatherproof, and as you can see, they are awesome. It’s like having a tattoo that you can peel off when you go to visit your grandma!
Now I just have to overcome my distaste of actually having a sticker on the back of my car. Then there’s the fact that it’ll totally clash with the new Nebraska license plates I just got, which are yellow, for some reason...
Baby steps.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Headache (Part 2)
I never (or hardly ever) got migraines when I was a kid. I know people have different experiences with them, but my definition of a migraine is a headache accompanied by (or made worse by) an aversion to light, sound, or smells, and occasionally, nausea.
This particular migraine treated me to half a day of aversion to light and sound, and another whole day of aversion to smells, with nausea the whole time, holding hands with a headache that even Excedrin Migraine couldn’t shift.
When I was a kid, I just had regular headaches. My head hurt, and sometimes it hurt a lot, and sometimes it only hurt a little. I don’t remember that the doctor ever did an allergy test, but I do know that he prescribed ibuprofen. Sometimes the headache went away after taking it, but more often, it didn’t.
The reason we never chased down the cause of these daily headaches was that we moved at the end of the school year, and immediately, my headaches ceased. I got them occasionally like any other normal person instead of almost every day of the week. My dad joked that I was tying my hair up too tight. But I have another theory.
The community that we lived in was small enough to have a consolidated school. That means that kids from both towns are put into the same classes in order to save space and money. After all, it’s cheaper to pay one third grade teacher than two, right? When I was there, they were still paying two third grade teachers, because until sixth grade, a child attended school in their own town. After that, students from both towns were squished together in the same classes. Senior high school students got their learn on in the same building that I was taught my multiplication tables, but junior highers attended school in Elmwood, the neighboring town. And I’m not sure why, but... the school in Elmwood smells funny.
Some people love the smell of old books. You know the smell I’m talking about: the slightly moldy but (for some) delightful scent of history. And I agree that it is a nice smell, but it gives me a headache.
What a ridiculous affliction for a historian. I looked stupid while researching for my senior paper in college: wrapping a scarf around my face before diving into the stacks at the library to get the right volume of The Letters and Papers of Henry VIII. I got a strange glance from a curator while volunteering to cataloge items in the basement of the Denver Museum of Miniatures, Dolls and Toys, and had to explain the mask that I was wearing over my nose and mouth.
When I was in seventh grade, I stayed over at my friend Hannah’s house in Murdock and rode the bus to school with her the next morning, for a visit to my old school while my new school in Lincoln had a day off for parent-teacher conferences. While hanging out with a few old friends in a study hall in Mrs. Roth’s classroom, I heard my favorite teacher Miss Haefle say to my former science teacher, “Did you know Tricia is here today?” “I saw her,” Mrs. Roth responded, “how is she?” To which Miss Haefle replied, “she has a headache.”
The smell of old books isn’t the reason for all of my headaches, but I think it was a factor in most, if not all, of the headaches I had while attending school in a building that reeked of it.
Thank goodness for the internet, which I can use to do historical research without having to deal with my body’s rejection of my chosen career. It’s not a substitute for holding a first printing of Foxe’s Book of Martyrs in my hands, but it’s not like I can do that on a random Tuesday, anyway. So thanks, internet, for existing so that I can be a historian without having to scarf ibuprofen.
Except on the days when the light from the computer's screen bothers my migraine.
This particular migraine treated me to half a day of aversion to light and sound, and another whole day of aversion to smells, with nausea the whole time, holding hands with a headache that even Excedrin Migraine couldn’t shift.
When I was a kid, I just had regular headaches. My head hurt, and sometimes it hurt a lot, and sometimes it only hurt a little. I don’t remember that the doctor ever did an allergy test, but I do know that he prescribed ibuprofen. Sometimes the headache went away after taking it, but more often, it didn’t.
The reason we never chased down the cause of these daily headaches was that we moved at the end of the school year, and immediately, my headaches ceased. I got them occasionally like any other normal person instead of almost every day of the week. My dad joked that I was tying my hair up too tight. But I have another theory.
The community that we lived in was small enough to have a consolidated school. That means that kids from both towns are put into the same classes in order to save space and money. After all, it’s cheaper to pay one third grade teacher than two, right? When I was there, they were still paying two third grade teachers, because until sixth grade, a child attended school in their own town. After that, students from both towns were squished together in the same classes. Senior high school students got their learn on in the same building that I was taught my multiplication tables, but junior highers attended school in Elmwood, the neighboring town. And I’m not sure why, but... the school in Elmwood smells funny.
Some people love the smell of old books. You know the smell I’m talking about: the slightly moldy but (for some) delightful scent of history. And I agree that it is a nice smell, but it gives me a headache.
What a ridiculous affliction for a historian. I looked stupid while researching for my senior paper in college: wrapping a scarf around my face before diving into the stacks at the library to get the right volume of The Letters and Papers of Henry VIII. I got a strange glance from a curator while volunteering to cataloge items in the basement of the Denver Museum of Miniatures, Dolls and Toys, and had to explain the mask that I was wearing over my nose and mouth.
When I was in seventh grade, I stayed over at my friend Hannah’s house in Murdock and rode the bus to school with her the next morning, for a visit to my old school while my new school in Lincoln had a day off for parent-teacher conferences. While hanging out with a few old friends in a study hall in Mrs. Roth’s classroom, I heard my favorite teacher Miss Haefle say to my former science teacher, “Did you know Tricia is here today?” “I saw her,” Mrs. Roth responded, “how is she?” To which Miss Haefle replied, “she has a headache.”
The smell of old books isn’t the reason for all of my headaches, but I think it was a factor in most, if not all, of the headaches I had while attending school in a building that reeked of it.
Thank goodness for the internet, which I can use to do historical research without having to deal with my body’s rejection of my chosen career. It’s not a substitute for holding a first printing of Foxe’s Book of Martyrs in my hands, but it’s not like I can do that on a random Tuesday, anyway. So thanks, internet, for existing so that I can be a historian without having to scarf ibuprofen.
Except on the days when the light from the computer's screen bothers my migraine.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Headache (Part 1)
I had a headache every single day in sixth grade. I went to the doctor several times, but we never did chase down the cause.
My mom and I had to start making use of a scale to describe pain. It was a simple 1-5 rating system, one being “yes I acknowledge that it is there, but what else is new, let me get on with what I’m doing” and five being “let me lay in bed alone in the dark, undisturbed, and do battle with this beast in my mind.”
Yesterday evening I had an 8.
(To be continued... if the migraine allows)
My mom and I had to start making use of a scale to describe pain. It was a simple 1-5 rating system, one being “yes I acknowledge that it is there, but what else is new, let me get on with what I’m doing” and five being “let me lay in bed alone in the dark, undisturbed, and do battle with this beast in my mind.”
Yesterday evening I had an 8.
(To be continued... if the migraine allows)
Monday, December 3, 2012
Siren
It’s hard for me to focus on my own creativity if it’s already been distracted by someone else’s. If I read something, watch something, or listen to something new before I’ve gotten a chance to think about what I want to write, it tends to be harder for me to think of something interesting to convey. Sometimes even the ideas crowding social media websites push out the ones trying to sprout in my head.
But it’s especially hard to focus when there’s a really good reason for me to want to get back to those things. Like a new book featuring the latest adventures of my favorite private investigator/wizard for hire.
My kindle is calling me from my bedside table. “Forget about your responsibilities,” it calls. “You can do the dishes whenever. The laundry in the washing machine isn’t going anywhere. Breakfast is over and your kids just want to play. Come and find out what happens!” I can just ignore the dishes for a while. I really should swap the laundry over, though, and if I do curl up with the kindle, it should be near the kids so that I can make sure that nothing gets destroyed and no eyes get gouged out, accidentally or otherwise.
As much as I want to devour the book whole, part of me wants to take it slow and savor it. After all, it’s not like I’ll be able to read the next installment until it comes out next year, so there’s no reason to put off my life just to find out about someone’s fictional life.
In addition to that, my husband is in the middle of reading a different book series, and plans to get back to this one when he’s finished, starting either at the beginning or several books back from the current one. I love to discuss ideas about what we think is going to happen as I read. But since he can’t stand spoilers, I have to censor myself whenever I get the urge to share something, whether it’s exciting, confusing, or heartwarming.
I’m sure I’ll calm down once I finish reading it, and be able to more easily do the things that need doing. Or I’ll at least find my responsibilities less intrusive. I definitely will after I’ve reread it. And it’ll be super easy to ignore the siren call of my kindle once I’ve started from the beginning of the series and read all the way through them again.
But for now, I’d better go get back to reading doing the laundry.
But it’s especially hard to focus when there’s a really good reason for me to want to get back to those things. Like a new book featuring the latest adventures of my favorite private investigator/wizard for hire.
My kindle is calling me from my bedside table. “Forget about your responsibilities,” it calls. “You can do the dishes whenever. The laundry in the washing machine isn’t going anywhere. Breakfast is over and your kids just want to play. Come and find out what happens!” I can just ignore the dishes for a while. I really should swap the laundry over, though, and if I do curl up with the kindle, it should be near the kids so that I can make sure that nothing gets destroyed and no eyes get gouged out, accidentally or otherwise.
As much as I want to devour the book whole, part of me wants to take it slow and savor it. After all, it’s not like I’ll be able to read the next installment until it comes out next year, so there’s no reason to put off my life just to find out about someone’s fictional life.
In addition to that, my husband is in the middle of reading a different book series, and plans to get back to this one when he’s finished, starting either at the beginning or several books back from the current one. I love to discuss ideas about what we think is going to happen as I read. But since he can’t stand spoilers, I have to censor myself whenever I get the urge to share something, whether it’s exciting, confusing, or heartwarming.
I’m sure I’ll calm down once I finish reading it, and be able to more easily do the things that need doing. Or I’ll at least find my responsibilities less intrusive. I definitely will after I’ve reread it. And it’ll be super easy to ignore the siren call of my kindle once I’ve started from the beginning of the series and read all the way through them again.
But for now, I’d better go get back to reading doing the laundry.
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