••• Saturday, January 14, 2006

The Woodchoppers* are Coming! 

A few times a month, I have cause to stop at the 7-11 near my workplace, for coffee. For a couple of years, the morning drive coffee jockey was a middle-aged woman I affectionately referred to as Bronchial Betty.

Bronchial Betty was a really nice lady, with a really bad cough. A deep, hungry, wet cough. Chronic. The sort of cough that wracks and shudders the body, sending a quiver through anyone within lugie-shot earshot, and prompting Catholics in the vicinity to cross themselves and mutter a prayer. Or a curse.

Despite her being gimp of lung, Betty was a quality commander of the coffee cache. Whenever I came into the store, I was sure to find a fresh pot or two brewing and the stainless countertops still moist from a recent cleaning. ::At least I hope that's what it was. Cough.::. And I especially appreciated that Betty was always chipper and friendly, despite her inability to finish a sentence without stopping to yak up a kitten.

Some time last fall, Bronchial Betty disappeared (I heard she ran off with the plumber who was treating her cough.) and was replaced with Buy a Boundary, Bob. BBB is friendly. Too. And intrusive. And strange. Obnoxious. Even.

And he doesn't keep the coffee brewing, and pays no attention to the sprinkles of sugar on the counter or the Slurpee and coffee lids fraternizing in the same bins. But the worst part about Bob is when he waits on you at the register.

How's your day been, so far? ::6:50 a.m.:: Can you believe this warm weather? You look real nice today. Did you get that jacket at Valu-City? It almost looks like real leather.

However, with the help of my silent but deadly internal mantra "Shut-up you fucking moron.... Shut up you fucking moron...." I can usually make it to my 7am meeting with a hot cuppa, and no one getting hurt.

So yesterday, I'm at the cash register with Bobnoxia. He's blathering the usual dumbass shit. I'm thinking the usual fucking moron thoughts. Waiting for my change. Suddenly, he breaks rank from his usual banality and says "Is that a banana in your purse?"

No, I'm just happy to see you. I say, before I can stop myself.

Is that Russian? He says.

My banana?

No, your accent. You have a Russian accent.

Downtown Gra*nd Rap*ids, sorry.

No, we have lots of Russians living around here. I know Russian. That was Russian, says Bob, in an increasingly edgy voice.

Suddenly, I felt just a wee bit uncomfortable. So I grabbed my coffee, purse (with banana) and fled the scene.

After a quick mental debriefing in my car, I looked up to see Bob watching me from inside the store. I smiled. And fought the incredibly powerful impulse to put my banana to my ear and put in a call to the Motherland. To make my final report. On Bob. The Woodchopper.

*A couple of months ago, The Cakers came home from daycare, and said to the dog "Cheddar, you Woodchopper!" What's a woodchopper? I asked. It means craaaazy. She said. With her eyes all big. It's now a favorite term of endearment around here. Go ahead and try it. Ya Woodchopper.

A Knitting Knevent Knaught
I've been trying to post on the same knitting project since New Years, but could never quite get it done. Then I would progress on the project, which made the current un-post in progress obsolete. So I'd start over with a new draft, then knit some more, and take new pictures, and on and on.

In the meantime, I've been really busy in the rest of my life, so in the evening hours (my only blogging/knitting time these days. Remember, I work full time. The life of a Woodchopper.) I chose knitting and sleeping over blogging. Therefore, I fell further behind.

So, Wednesday night, I was almost done with the post and ready to bring her home. Yes, the post that was not to be, on the project that nobody knows. And along comes Ms. Bella, the cat, who climbs up on my lap and commences to make mad passionate love to my nostril, with her nose, and otherwise annoying the hell out of me.

But I really needed to get the post done, so I give her some lovin',with the hope that once satisfied, she'll run off for a smoke and a nap. ::No honey, I never think that way about you. You are my beloved. My orifices are your orifices. Any time.::

After a fairly lengthy session with the cat, I open the saved draft post::I really did save it. Really.:: to find only this:

It's a self-portrait gone coolly bad, of me in my finished, untold project. Before ya get all creeped out, I did upload this picture, along with several clear ones of the project. And I had text. Lots of text. All gone.

And yes, I usually type in Word first, then transfer, but for some reason, I like to do my final editing in Blogger, which this time, was extensive. And now gone.

Yesterday I had the special encounter with Bob,which took all blog content precedence, of course. All that being said, there's still no knitting content. Today. But it's coming. Soon. I just have to reupload the pictures and try to remember all the fascinating details of what was probably my best. Post. Ever.

In the meantime, I'd like to bring a special joy into your lives...

I married the first man I ever kissed. When I tell this to my children, they just about throw up. - Barbara Bush


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