An apology

Dear Janet Jackson;

I am sorry that I ever doubted the authenticity of your legendary wardrobe malfunction. Until a similar event transpired in my car today, I never thought that such a thing could spontaneously and accidentally happen. But it does, and people should know.

Were it not for my engineered-by-NASA foundation garment, I would have been in the same boat as you. As it was, I was merely a little embarrassed and inconvenienced, as opposed to fined by the FCC. Pot-ay-to, po-tah-to.

Yours in malfunctioning straps,

Jasmin

Rules of the universe

On Monday, I ended up with a "bacterial situation" in one of my eyes, that resulted in my right eye being painfully swollen shut and a trip to the ophthalmologist's office.

Sam, kudos to him, came and got me from work, and stayed with me until Andrew got home to take me to the doctor. Andrew, to his credit, offered to come into the exam room with me. I told him that I was a big girl, and if I needed him, I would call for him. (Really, all I needed was a ride to the doctor.)

I almost made Andrew take a picture of it, but he suggested that I do an artist's rendering of it, for the weak of stomach.

Jasmin, on a normal day:

Jasmin, on Monday, with her Freak Eye:

The resemblance is uncanny, right? In any case, the way the universe works, the worse I look, the better looking the firemen/paramedics/ or in this case, ophthalmologist is. Smokin' hot. Seriously.

(He was also incredibly good at his job, and had a sense of humor, which is important when you're dealing with someone like me. It seems that hiring wicked hot, super-good doctors is the trend with Kaiser. It gives all new meaning to "Thrive".)

The exchange went like this:

Dr. EyeCandy: Well, I've got good news for you.
Me: I get to keep the eye?
Dr. EyeCandy: You get to keep the eye.
Me: Sweet.

He then prescribed my FAVORITE prescription to date- to go home and lay on the couch with my eyes shut. I may have professed my undying love for him. Two rest days, a few cold compresses, and some ointment later, my eyes are almost the same size and color again.

(By the way, I love ointment. I love that they're a historic cure, I love that there's an ointment for all that ails you, and most of all, I love to call 'ointment' 'oinkment'. Shades of my pig-loving childhood.)

Dr. B's cure for knitting ennui

If you listened to episode 44 of the podcast, you know that my knitting has taken a nosedive. Into a pile of elephant crap. For three weeks, not only has every project run into a major snag, but the more current issue is thatI lost my will to knit. Very serious. Life-threatening, even, for those unfortunates in my immediate vicinity.

I have been suffering from knitting ennui, which is what happens when Knitter's Block goes untreated. Like an infection that gets worse. By Tuesday, when I had an appointment with the esteemed Dr. B, I was at the point where my knitting mojo was going to go septic. (I'll stop the infection analogy here.)

Our conversation went a lot like this:

Me: So, I can't knit.
Dr. B: Like, there is a problem with your hands?
Me: No. I can't knit. Everything I touch turns to crap.
Dr. B: Are you doing something differently?
Me: Same stuff. Easy stuff. There is something wrong with me. And now, I don't want to knit. I'm Sock Blocked!

(At this point, Dr. B chuckled at my interpretation of crude slang to appropriately fit the situation, and I proceeded to repeat the entire "When Knitting Attacks" segment from episode 44. Then, I said something to the effect of, "I'm sure they didn't warn you about having to deal with crazy knitters in school.")

At the end of my story, I asked for a magic solution. (Every time I go in, I explain my problem, and then request a solution, formula, or list. This works, I swear. He's just *that* good.)

So, Dr. B recommended using mindfulness practices to determine the source of the Knitter's Block. [For a great explanation of mindfulness and knitting, go listen to this episode of Cast-on.] What was I thinking about when I was working on these projects, or thinking about these projects that made them SO difficult or unappealing?

So, I did. I saw my Knit(more)-a-long sweater sitting there, on the table. After a Napoleon Dynamite-esque sigh, I determined that it was stupid to allow a large swath of stockinette stitch defeat me, and I had a movie to watch. Believe me, you don't want to face a cinematic gem like Saw 5 without some knitting.

Somehow, just auto-piloting on the Katarina sweater while watching people mutilate themselves knocked my knittng ennui right on it's ass. If knitting ennui has an ass. Though, maybe my knitting was intimidated by the film; maybe it thought I would take a Jigsaw-esque approach to it's attitude.

(That would be, for those of you who don't like gorey, poorly concieved sequels, "Shape up or lose a sleeve," in order to give the sweater a REAL appreciation for it's life.)

In any case, not only is my mojo back online, but I've also cast on a "Coachella" top, in the Tess Microfiber Ribbon. Luscious! Ignore the fact that I have done the front three times, since I managed to misinterpret the directions incorrectly the first two times. I have; the consensus is that it's going to look HOT on me.

(By the way, for your own dose of Dr. B-esque strategies, go give Dr. Gemma a listen.)

Adventures in sheer stupidity

My weekend was fun, but long. It started with a guy trying to sell me perfume (out of a moving vehicle) because the packaging matched my hair, a Silicon Valley Rotarian asking me if *that* was my real hair, my knitting failing me, and ending with leaving my driver's license at a winery.

Upside: I got some spinning done, took a great nap, had a great date-day with Andrew on Saturday, despite my rampant stupidity.

I'll have pictures up shortly, but my poor laptop was decidedly unhappy with the workload I heaped on it this weekend, so I thought I would give it a break and upload my pictures tonight.

In which I find a fart less funny

Friday, Chloe graciously drove me to the airport to head out for my Nerd-tastic birthday extravaganza in Los Angeles. Since I hadn't had time to edit the audio for the podcast (which you should listen to, since it's the one with the Yarn Harlot), I took my laptop with me.

While I waited for my plane to board, I tweaked audio. This guy walks up, sits next to me, releases a nuclear fart, and walks away.

Ew.

Adventures in Pink Hair: Part Three

On Thursday, while I was playing with the Exceptional Ellie at Purlescence, a Shop-Hopper said, "Were you in Downtown Campbell yesterday?"

I answered that I was, and it turns out that she saw me. As The Karen once told me, "You're not so Secret, Squirrel."

Adventures in Pink Hair: Part Two

I was in Campbell, between work and a pedicure, and this Starbucks has free Wi-Fi and a veritable parade of unusually attractive people who come through between 3PM and 5PM. I parked on the street, and walked down to the Evil Empire to work for a bit beforehand.

Now, I worked in Campbell for close to eight years. I've never been particularly subtle, but with the pink hair, it seems I'm much more visible.

The line was a bit longer than usual, which was fine, and the guy in front of me turns to me and says, "I saw you pull into the spot, and your license plate frame says '[insert appropriate Hanna Barbera cartoon character here]'. I don't think you're old enough to know who that is."

Ok, the first part of this is that I was a little freaked out that he WATCHED ME park, observed my license plate, and had thought about it all enough to formulate an opening line.

My answer?

"I'm a big fan of the classics."

I sat down to work, and he sat down next to me (the first of his group of friends), and asked if he could take the spare chair (of course), and then said "Thanks [Hanna Barbera cartoon character]."

Adventures with Pink Hair: Part One

I'm a horrible blogger. I know. Pictures are sparse, and so is content for the time being. Go with it, I promise the photo situation will be resolved soon.

Yesterday, for work, we went bowling for a goodbye party. Beer and bowling go together like rama-lama-lama-ka-ding-ka-ding-ka-dong, and once beer goes in, beer must come out.

I wandered over to the restroom (which smelled like Port-a-Potty, ew), did my business, washed my hands, and walked back to the opposite end of the bowling alley, where we were.

An older man, about seventy or eighty years old, followed me over. He was drunk as a skunk, and the conversation went much like this:

Old Drunk Guy: WOW! I saw you comin' out of the bathroom and I thought 'That's got to be a wig!'. But it's your real hair.
Jasmin: Yep. [Smiling politely]
ODG: Do you do it yourself?
J: No, my hairdresser does it for me.
ODG: It's so BRIGHT!
J: That's the goal. Oh look, it's my turn.

This conversation went on while six of my co-workers were standing there, slack-jawed. This confirms to me that (a) not all people have a crazy magnet like min, and (b) my co-workers will never save me from an assailant. They'll stand there and watch. Useful to know.

If you haven't seen me yet, my hair is not only pinker, but also exponentially more FIERCE. It's short in the back, longer in the front, and asymmetrical. I LOVE it. I stole it from a waitress in a bar in Maine.

I'll post pictures as soon as I can convince someone to take them.

I'm damaged

Dear Girl at the hair extensions booth;

While I appreciate your concern for the health of my hair, please bear in mind that I am keenly aware of the damage that hot pink highlights do to my hair. But, my hair has done loads of damage to me, so turnabout is really fair play, in my opinion.

I'm pretty much counting myself lucky that my hair hasn't all fallen out, so by comparison, brittle hair is a coup.

Oh, and I'm not going to buy your gross hair extensions just because you tried to lecture me about hair health.

Love,

Jasmin

Unintentional radio silence

Sorry folks. This has been a crazy week. I know you love the lunacy (why else would you be here?), so:

Monday (3/24): My partner in crime at work is scheduled to go to the UK on 3/25. Picking up extra work was done. Go home, clean for six hours for Tuesday’s event.

Tuesday (3/25): Sign off on the closing papers on the condo. Work, work, work. Chaos started at 8AM. Purlescence Booth Bunny dinner at the house. (This was a raving success. Chloe’s husband barbequed, there was much in the way of good food, good wine, superior company. Andrew was shocked that the house was as tidy after they left as it was when they arrived.)

Wednesday (3/26): Migraine. Slept all day, went to Purlescence for a chair massage at 7.

Thursday (3/27): Condo closes, officially. Crazy work stuff. Coffee with an old friend from HS. Knit night at Purlescence. Partying in the parking lot. Get home about 10:30PM.

Friday (3/28): Doggie playdate. WFH. Dexter marathon. Food, coffee, donuts. Dinner at Forbes Mill with Tika to celebrate the closing of the house. Small world experience after dinner:

We were stopping at the Apple Store in Los Gatos so that Tika could get a case for her nano. The sales clerk helping us looked suspiciously like my First Crush Ever- and I know that FCE has two younger brothers.

So, I said, “Are you FCE’s, younger brother, D?”

He was, understandably, confused and a little worried. I explained that our moms had worked on volunteer stuff together, and we got caught up. It doesn’t feel small worldy when you live in the town you grew up in, but I know that FCE is married and living in Oregon now.

Saturday (3/29): Oversleeping. Exchanging the intermittently ringing phone for a new one. Plying at Purlescence. Niece’s 13^th bday party. Twister. Candid speech:

Ok, as my readers, you will appreciate this. Or, I hope you will.

I have four sets of in-laws, and two sets were at the bday party. The kids range from almost 16 down to 8 years old. The older girls were baiting the youngest, who flounced over to me and asked, very clearly:

“What is a virgin?”

“A what?” I thought I had heard her incorrectly.

“A VIRGIN. What is it?” Nope, I heard that right.

“It’s someone who hasn’t had sex yet. Why?” I answer honestly, and then follow her back to where the girls are sitting, discussing the very interesting topic of sex and virginity.

The conversation goes a few places, and one of the SIL’s is there, and we’re answering their questions. Halfway through this Q&A session, I realize that my other SIL (#2) is going to murder me for being honest with her kids.

Oh well. I’m of the opinion that children should get their information early so that it has maximum impact on them. Be honest, clear, answer their questions, and hopefully they won’t become parents before they intend to (or contract any nasty diseases).

My SIL2, on the other hand (the not-present one), is of the opinion that not talking to her kids about sex will keep it off of their radar. So, I quietly told her kids that they should ask their parents about these things, and if they still had questions, they could come and ask me. Kids should have someone who is going to be honest with them about the important stuff.

Sunday (3/30): Pedicure at Le Spa, Campbell. Relaxation. Reading. Pretty toes. Spinning and laundry at home. Helping Humanity charity ball at the Decathalon Club- with the in-laws. Terrible food, good music. The “sex talk” comes up in conversation. I prepare for a swift and terrible death.

The SIL (who was the other adult participant in the sex talk) and I start telling SIL2 about the previous night’s discussion. SIL1 paid me the highest compliment by telling SIL2 that I answered the kids’ questions “very anatomically and academically”. Score one for me!

We left the ball a little early, watched Superbad, folded laundry, and spent a couple of hours of necessary prep-work.

I'm hoping to get back on the blogging-more-regularly-about-good-stuff wagon. Stay tuned!

Tales of Waiter Woe

In celebration of Andrew's 28^th year, we planned a super-fun filled day at the Monterey Bay Aquarium. But before I tell you about that, I have to tell you about the dinner from HELL. (Truly, if I could have the made the letters appear flaming, they would be.)

I had arranged a dinner with the in-laws so that they could partake in the celebration of Andrew. We arranged to meet at a restaurant in downtown Los Gatos (closer to them, but not far from home). We were all seated, and ordered our drinks. That part was fine.

About five minutes into our evening, our waiter brought out the drinks, and promptly dumped a virgin pina colada all over my Youngest Niece (eight years old). All over her crotch and lap. Stop and think for a moment. It's a shock of cold and it's sticky. She, like any reasonable person, dissolved into tears.

(I would have done the same. It was a long day for all of us.)

The family all jumps to the rescue, all napkins were swiftly passed to YN's mother while our waiter MOSEYED away to get stuff to clean up with. He MOSEYED. There was no hustle in his step, and all he did when he spilled it was make excuses ("Oh, there was a menu there. Oops."). By the time the waiter MOSEYED back, YN was pina colada free, just sticky and unhappy.

YN is a really easy-going and reasonable child, "I want to go home and change."

Her mom explained that by the time they went home, changed and started back towards the restaurant, dinner would be over. As an alternative, YN's mom offered to walk two doors down to Gap Kids and pick up a new pair of pants. YN said that would be fine. The pants were obtained and changed into in about ten minutes. Crisis averted.

When the food FINALLY showed up, the waiter couldn't figure out who had ordered what. Taquitos had been substituted for flautas (ahem, big difference), and other dishes were just as wrong. We ate the food and managed to salvage the evening.

Just a side note; nothing was comp'ed on the bill, and we didn't even get an apology from the moseying waiter.

World Conquest- One Egg At A Time

I got a message on MySpace hitting me up for some Middle Eastern eggs. That's right. Ovum.

Completely ignoring the fact that donating eggs is an INCREDIBLY uncomfortable process- you earn every penny of that $6k with your suffering. They pump you full of hormones and at the end; you have to give yourself injections. This young woman claimed to have done it SIX TIMES.

I'm fairly certain that given a life-or-death option of either giving myself injections or dying, I would do it. But for fun? Forget it.

There is also the Genetic Material Issue. I have no qualms with donating stem cells to save a loved one, but just having my ovum out there? To be fertilized by a complete stranger? I'm a little uncomfortable with that, especially with people getting curious about their biological parents.

How awful would it be to meet your egg donor, only to find out that she did it for the money? Is there legal recourse the child could take to demand that you support it? Send it to college? Buy it a pony?

Then there is this side of it:

I'm not using my eggs. I will, eventually, but currently, they're in storage (if I understand my specific form of family planning correctly). I don't really need all of them, since we're only planning on having two. Why not help an infertile couple have a child that they obviously want fairly desperately.

Let's face it, deep down, we're all narcissists and most people want their OWN baby and taking a genetic material donation is one step away from forsaking your own lineage completely, genetically speaking.

When it comes to family, I truly believe that the people who raise your and love you are your parents, not the biological matter donors (whether through conventional means of donation or otherwise). Making a baby doesn't make you a parent, raising it does.

Then, my inner megalomaniac piped up and pointed out that there could be dozens of little Jasmins running around the world; more specifically, California.

Couldn't you just see it? Yarn shops pillaged, a global shortage of imported chocolates, and all that hair. Could the world handle that much hair?

The world may never know.

Civic Duty

I went to vote on Tuesday, as I hope everyone did. The line at my polling place was relatively long, but since I travel with both a book AND knitting, I was prepared in the event of a long wait.

[Before I start writing what happened, I would like to remind you that all of the people in the polling place are my neighbors. Not my next-door neighbors, but these people live in my neighborhood.]

As I walked up to the line to get signed in, I saw an animal control officer walking a pit-mix out of the school's office. She was very gentle with the dog, and took her time putting him in the kennel. This was a nice thing to see (her being gentle, not the dog getting hauled away).

It was probably about 60 degrees outside [freezing] and close to 80 degrees inside [boiling]. The woman two people ahead of me in line looked like a trashy, over-tanned, drag-queen makeup wearing version of Geena Davis.

GD had- apparently- not only never voted before, but felt that she should argue with the poll workers (who were all 80 + years old, except for one woman, who was about 40) about everything- including why the sign-in book was upside-down. This took at least fifteen minutes, to get her signed in and ready to sit down and wait her turn.

I get signed in, and go sit down. A woman sits down across the table in front of me, and she smells of three- count them, THREE- separate bodily functions. I try to ignore it, and read my book and knit, but it was truly gag-worthy.

Since they were slammed, it was an on-your-honor system as far as determining who went next. Basically, this means remembering who was in line ahead of you- pretty simple stuff.

GD is reading the ballot while we're waiting, making her selections on the cheat sheet- and she's up next. She asks if someone can go ahead of her, since she wasn't ready, which caused CHAOS. Well, old people chaos.

The woman ahead of me goes, which is fine, but Bodily Functions decides that she is TIRED of waiting, and totally takes my turn. At first, I was relieved, because I didn't have to smell her anymore, but then the woman who was supposed to go after Bodily Functions gets up.

I hopped up and made sure that I didn't get bumped out of place even further. My issue is this; what is up with people? Didn't they ever learn the age-old adage?

"No cuts, no butts, no coconuts."

KIP-ping (Knitting In Public)

Some knitters are of the opinion that Knitting In Public (KIPping) is alienating. As in "Oh, it makes you uncomfortable that I'm sitting here knitting during [activity]? I'll just put it away. Is that better?"

I feel that these are the same people who conform in every aspect of their lives in order not to ruffle anyone's feathers. I won't sacrifice my own comfort for the comfort of strangers, and although I have been approached by a number of crazy people when KIPping, that hasn't been enough to stop me.

I knit in the movie theater (sans the dorky/cool light-up needles). In fact, at V for Vendetta, I found that I could do all of the tricky parts of a sock in the theater. Woo! I knit through my "optional" lunch meeting, which spurs conversations of all kinds before/after the main topic of the meeting is discussed. I knit my way through high school and college, finding that it helped me concentrate on the lecture.

Why hasn't it been an issue for me? Because I can maintain eye contact, and participate in the conversation while I knit. Not normal eye contact either. The "staring contest" kind of eye contact, which is a little creepy. But the point is made, and I only do it the first time my ability to participate in a conversation while knitting is questioned.

I usually knit socks in public, since they're super-portable. However, I found that while I was watching Carnivále and working on my Peaseblossom socks, I goofed up a couple of times on the mitered squares. There was some profanity involved while I frogged; There is nothing more frustrating than screwing up something so simple because of the riveting subject matter that the show deals with. These are not "meeting appropriate" socks, simply because of the potential for both swearing and showing my co-workers that I rip things out.

(Ripping= not being super-amazing, like they believe me to be. It's like seeing Superman trip on his cape. Completely undignified and it just doesn't fit expectation. My readers/friends in real life know me better than that- blasts of profanity, ripping and all.)

The most awkward KIPping experience I had was when I was dating Zak- after his truck had died. I had driven him to SCVC Rehearsal, and instead of spending the whole time driving home and back, I took an aran sock that I had been DYING to start- but hadn't had the peace to get familiar with the pattern.

Memory Montage Sequence

I found a Starbucks near the corps hall, got my latté and a table, and started knitting. For about ten minutes I was grooving and in a very Zen knitting place.

A woman parks herself at my table and starts chatting with me about knitting. I was polite (but had to put down what I was working on, since it required my undivided attention at that point), but the conversation went like this:

Crazy Woman: * talking at the speed of light about how she knit while she was high because it made her head feel good*

Jasmin: * Trying to pack up without her noticing, because you don't want to make a crazy person think that you don't want to be around them. *

(45 minutes passes in this fashion)

Crazy Woman: I have to go outside and have a cigarette now or I'm going to choke you to death.

Jasmin: * Throws everything into the bag, runs to car, locks door, drives like mad to corps hall, where she pulls in just in time to pick Zak up.*

My Brush With Scientology

Andrew and I were watching CSI Miami, I'm relaxing on the couch, when the doorbell rings. Since we weren't expecting anyone, I got a little annoyed, paused CSI, wrangled the dogs behind the gate, and went to see who was trying to sell us what.

I'm going to segue briefly; within the first month of owning our home, a 20-something real estate agent showed up on my doorstep at noon asking if we were interested in selling our house. I thanked him for asking, and let him know that we had bought a month prior. He asked how much we paid. I told him that was a matter of public record and he was free to look it up if he so chose.

Other solicitations: Three different unsavory looking [male] magazine subscription sales guys. Niki made his scary face, which helped me get rid of them. Oh, and they came by around noon, and I happened to be home for lunch. But seriously, how many people are home around noon or one? We've also had the evil neighbor children came begging for donations for softball.

So, anyway, Andrew answers the door, and it's a woman. He steps outside to keep Niki from going nuts, walks back in the house and asks me if I'd like to take a book survey.

"A book survey? Sure!" I say, thinking that this is pretty cool.

Now, I would like to say that I assumed that she was a student conducting a poll for research. I step outside and I see a copy of "Dianetics" surreptitiously tucked under her clipboard.

Nooooooooooooo!!! screams a voice inside my head. However, because my mother raised me better than to run back in the house and slam the door in her face, I smile and try to end this little encounter quickly.

She begins by asking me what kinds of books I read. I answer that I'm an eclectic bibliophile. She asks if I ever get stressed. I tell her that I have a couple of outlets for stress management, thanks for asking. She asks if I ever read self-help books.

All of her questions are aimed to show her that I have low self-esteem. One after another. I start to fidget at look back at the door pointedly.

"I'm sorry," she half-apologizes, "Do you have somewhere you need to be?"

"I have dinner on the stove," I say, "I need to get back to it. Have a nice evening."