On The Record

I want to take a few minutes to call some people out, in front of God and everyone, for being HEROES in my life this past week.

I was not sure how I had a right to feel about Jim's passing, when it happened.  I had given up my legal right to have an opinion about a lot of things, but, in the end, I did not give up the respect I had for Jim, and to the other people who also respected him, thank you, thank you, thank you, for stepping up and honoring him as he deserved to be honored.

Steve Young, The Masons, Glen Avon Lodge #306--All of Jim's brothers--words can scarcely do justice to the friendship you demonstrated.  I am forever in your debt.  Even through your own grief, you helped so many others get through this most difficult time.  Thank you for all that you did for Jim and his family while he was alive, and after he passed.  True brothers.

Kim and Marty--you have always been so kind, even when it wasn't fashionable. :-)  Thanks for keeping me connected.

Mike, Sarah, Greg, and Barb--thank you for listening while I vented.  I am not be the type of friend who cries on shoulders, and you get that about me.  Besides, you don't really want to be around when they crying is happening, because it's full-on, box of Kleenex, messy, snotty sobbing, and I think those things are best left for only the cats to witness.

To everyone involved who did not go completely bat-shit crazy, you are a credit to the human race.  When things like this happen, it's like a punch to the gut to all who considered the person a friend.  People react in a million different ways, some predictable, some not.  Relationships are assessed, and reassessed--I think we all, not just ex wives, are searching for answers to how we have a right to feel. Let me just say, you have every right to feel however you are feeling.  I knew Jim pretty well, and during the ten years he and I lived together, I can tell you that he shook his head, laughed, and declared most of you, individually, full of shit, at least once.  Some of you more than once.  Some of you, about once a week.  I'm sure he did the same to me after we separated (and probably before...).  I'll own that.  But you will notice, as I did, that even if he disagreed with something you did, it mostly didn't change the way he treated you.  For the most part, he was very kind to people, accepted them and appreciated them.  So go ahead and feel however it is that you are feeling.  You're not wrong in doing that. 

Having said all of that, my final thank you is to those who have respected my daughters and my right to feel however it is that we are feeling.  You know what?  It's complicated.  It was complicated when he was alive, and it's complicated now that he isn't.  The time he had with my daughters and me was just one part of the big, sometimes messy balancing act of Jim Payne.  It was 13 years out of the 58 he had on earth.  I don't expect anyone to understand the feelings, but sincerely appreciate those who choose not to pass judgement on them.  So thank you.  Thank you all.

Jim Payne

I doubt that I will ever be able to fully describe what is was like to be married to Jim Payne, but I think the most telling tidbit would be in the pet name I had for him, which was....Jim Payne.

I never really fell into the "honey", "sweetie" habit.  He was Jim Payne.  Just, Jim Payne.

Jim and I worked together at a radio station, and some co-workers, Bill and Shelly, I'm told, coerced him into asking me out.  

I'm so glad they did.

What a long, strange trip it's been.  

We had a weird courtship, for which we were both to blame, and an awesome/awful marriage, for which we were both to blame.  We separated in 2008, and the divorce became final...this August.  Two months ago, he sent me an email joking about how I was a "free woman".  It seemed as if as much as we both knew we couldn't live with each other, really ending it came grudgingly, but it almost makes you wonder, considering the timing, if he knew something.

Less than a day after hearing of his passing, the realization that the thing I could never fully bring myself to let go of is gone, is a shock to the system.  A half a box of Kleenex later, I'm writing for my own indulgent comfort-seeking.  Please forgive what will surely be rambling and incomplete.

From February 1999 up until last week, when my phone rang and I saw his information on my caller ID, I would answer the phone with "Jim Payne!" as if to announce him.  He was worthy of the announcing.  After we were married, when I answered the phone "Jim Payne!" he would respond with a hearty "Shelly Payne!"  

It was our dumb little thing.

Around the house, when he came home from somewhere, "Jim Payne!"  "Shelly Payne!"

Attending some event, after losing him in the crowd and finding him again, "Jim Payne!"  "Shelly Payne!"

And recently, when he came to visit at my home away from him, "Jim Payne!"  "Shelly Payne!"

When we were separating and divorcing, my friends all asked if I would go back to my maiden name and I said that I would not.  This is why.  This precious, precious, dumb little thing that I will never hear again.

Our last conversation, a couple of days ago, was about a receipt, of all things.  Actually that was a fairly normal conversation for us--the man was somewhat pathological about losing receipts.  He used to joke about how his life was "on a million scraps of paper".  Knowing this about himself--how unorganized he could be--he still gave me crap for not keeping a daytimer.  Anytime I would utter the words, "I forgot," he would say, "What do you mean, you forgot?  Did you put it in your daytimer?"

No, he never did find that receipt.

Jim was in poor health from the day I met him until the end.  Heart attacks, high blood pressure, diabetes, heart surgery, a melanoma, MS.  And then apparently, another heart attack that took his life.  When a man survives so many heart attacks and is still as hearty as any 30 year old might be, you figure nothing will kill him.  Of course, that's not true, but he definitely lived as if it was.  It was his defining feature.  You could tell that for him, it was just a body, and didn't have a lot do so with who he was.  He followed whatever doctors orders made the most sense to him, and ignored the rest.  Once, after having a stent put in a vein to his heart, he called me from his hospital bed to try to convince me to sneak him in some Taco Bell at the hospital.  My mother was mortified.  I thought it was kind of funny.  Of course I complied.

This picture of him with a cigarette in his month was taken after three heart attacks and a bypass surgery, by the way...he didn't give a shit.  It was what was so great about him, but also what was so difficult about knowing and loving him.  You knew he probably wouldn't have a long life.  You didn't want to believe it, but, you knew.

Jim often said that he felt like he had many lives.  He had a life as a young single guy, a whole different life with his first wife and their children, a whole different life with me and my children, and of course, the life of the last four years in which he returned to Duluth to continue the pursuit of his passion for radio.  This was a man who did a lot of things, and was loved by many, many people.  It was quite an experience to be married to someone like that, and, knowing how much he was loved by so many, I realize that it was an honor to have been chosen for the level of exclusivity that comes with a wedding ring.  Obviously, I'm not still wearing that wedding ring, so I'm not going to try sugar-coat what it was like in the day-to-day, but I can say without question that he changed my life, and my children's lives, for the better.  

When his daughter called me last night, the words she used were, "He was such a force," and that is as good a summary as I have heard.  The death of Jim Payne leaves a very big hole.  To his sister, friends, and especially his children, I wish you comfort.  Just think of all of the crazy shit he's going to do now that he's free of that broken body.

Cook This For An Instant Addiction

Except for my friend @kazoofus, of course...she should not try to cook....anything.  She knows I say this with love.

OK, here we go--it's pasta, it's vegetarian, and it's ridiculously awesome.  What I have done here, because I am a horrible person, is crafted a version of the Pasta Fresca dish that you can find at Noodles and Co.  What can I say?  I'm devoid of original thought.  Also?  I'm not a chef, so this recipe doesn't have measurements so much as it has...estimates.  Sorry.  You can wing it!  It'll be good!

One box penne pasta

One half bunch fresh spinach, coarsely chopped and washed.  Actually, you should probably wash it, THEN chop it.  Just sayin...

Two roma tomatoes (or...just whatever kind of fresh tomato you have around...not a big deal), cut to about 1/2 inch dices

1/4 cup sliced kalamata olives

1/4 to 1/2 cup of diced onion (depends on how much you like onions, my dear...)

One Tablespoon diced garlic (the amount is also negotiable, but come on...it's garlic.  What's not to love?)

Roasted Red Bell Pepper (the jarred kind)

Good Extra Virgin Olive Oil

Balsamic vinaigrette salad dressing--virtually any will do

Feta Cheese

Cook the pasta according to package directions.  Cook enough pasta so that when you eat this for the first time and notice that it's amazing, you'll have enough for you to come back for seconds.

When the pasta is nearly done, warm a few tablespoons of olive oil on low heat in a high sided frying pan for a few minutes, and add your onions.  Cook on low until the onions are fragrant, adding a bit of salt and pepper as you are cooking them.  When the onions are smelling yummy, add the garlic and continue to cook, stirring occasionally.  Now add the olives and a couple of tablespoons of chopped roasted red bell pepper, along with a couple of tablespoons of the liquid from the pepper jar.  Continue to cook on low for another minute.

When your pasta is done, drain it and hold on to it--you're not ready for it yet!!  You have some nice tasting stuff on the stove, but we're still building this dish!

Stir in a scant 1/3 cup of the vinaigrette and the tomatoes to your pan and continue to cook on low for two more minutes.  Check seasoning!  Now add the drained pasta and spinach, and stir to combine. Cook until the spinach is just wilted.

Scoop a large portion of this yummy goodness into a bowl.  Top with feta cheese (or parm, if you must) and FEAST!

There....I've done my public service for the month.  You're welcome!

Re-Creep

Because I'm all about me, and read my own writing like it's good or something, I thought you'd enjoy this old post from 2007 

 

 

You're welcome. 

 

 

(Was that bitchy?  Meh...I guess I don't actually care if it was...)

 

 

 

Creep

 

 

There is a guy who lives in my town, who runs a business and is successful and appears to have a lot of friends and all, but...


Something about him is just "not right".


And I don't know exactly what I mean by "not right"--I guess I would have to say that if somebody told me something "shocking" about him,  (ie he spent all of his "alone time" looking at wildly inappropriate materials on the internet) I would not be shocked. 


There is something happening that he's not sharing.


Anyway, even though he and I don't really run in the same circles, I do manage to run into him from time to time.  He is always polite and friendly.  And he always coordinates a seat right next to mine.


A lot of women think that they are Creep Magnets...I just happen to have some doozey stories about this kind of thing, so when sharing Creeper stories with other women, I usually win, trumping with the tale of the guy who hid out in a dumpster of the restaurant across the street from my apartment so he could watch all of my comings and goings.


Perhaps all the stalkerific experiences from my past have simply made me hyper-vigilant about this sort of thing.  Maybe he's a really nice guy who is simply misunderstood.


Or, he's a total Creeper.


Hmmm...


Lets approach from another angle--a bit of perspective...say you're out with friends, and there is a guy who has been staring at you enough for you to notice.  Do you base your Creeper Assessment on whether or not he's cute enough to make you want to stare back?  Be honest...


Anyway....the same Creepy Rich Guy, nice and all, not unbearably unattractive, but not cute enough to make me want to stare back, always manages to find me at any event we happen to be attending together.  The latest was one of those forced-march holiday things where they put you in a room with a bunch of people you can barely tolerate and a couple of people that you genuinely enjoy (Hey Kim and Marty!), so you spend the evening hanging out with the people you genuinely enjoy and make those audible pleasant sounds when the people you can barely tolerate make their "rounds" to wish everyone a Happy Holiday--really, you're just too nice to tell them that you'd really rather be at home right now, snuggling up with a warm cat and a blisteringly-cold martini.


Because Creepy Rich guy is, well, rich, and well known around town, he gets invited to these things, is non-committal about the invite ("...maybe I can make it...we'll see..."), then, when he shows up, it is almost unexpected.  He secures dinner and drinks for himself, and generally gets everything free most of the places he goes since everybody knows him, and gosh, what a surprise to see him, since it didn't sound like he was going to make it when he was invited. 


After all that, he plunks himself down in the chair next to mine and asks me if he can get me anything.  Six or seven times.


There are women, I suppose, who would find this impressive.  As you may have guessed, I'm not one of them.  "Beware of the man buying you drinks," I always say...


It is quite possible that there is some element of imagination in all Creep Magnets--that is, maybe this is all in our heads?  Maybe that guy means no harm, has no other motive than just being friendly, and he's just socially awkward?  I can accept that.  I mean, the guy doesn't hit on me or anything (in the traditional sense), he's just...there.  Creeping me out.


But when this sort of thing happens, I tend to run through the Creeper history in my brain and remember Creepy Dumpster Guy, Creepy Bus Stop Guy, Creepy Guy In The Parking Lot After Work At 2:00AM, Creepy Dude Trying To Get Me Into His Car, Prominent Creepy Guy Who Told All My Co-workers That He Was Madly In Love With Me (I never met him), Creepy But Nice Guy Who Never Took No For An Answer, Creepy Guy Who Tried To Get Himself Invited To Thanksgiving Dinner At My House, Creepy Guy From The Hotel Who Followed Me Around, Random Crazy People who always seem to find me in a crowded room when I'm trying  not to be noticed and insist that I "party" with them, along with other, less aggressive types, and I just sort of throw the Creepy Rich Guy in on the growing pile.  After doing the math, I realize that there have been a LOT of people who have wanted hang out with me who would never be admitted into the fortified inner circle.


*sigh*


The reality is...I'm such a weirdo.  Meaning, I actually have a Fortified Inner Circle--you can practically see the line on the ground.  I'm such a social idiot that I can't even imagine having a large group of friends--seriously, if I don't know you, the chances of me speaking to you at all are slim to none.  Mindless banter makes me twitch.  If I do happen to speak to someone who doesn't know me, I always feel like I made a complete ass of myself because they maybe just wanted to talk about the weather, and I, of course, have a STORY about the weather, which is long and may be damned funny, but, they don't have the time to hear the whole thing, so they walk away in the middle of it, leaving me smacking myself on the forehead and proclaiming myself a complete moron for trying to stuff a monologue in a hole the size of a "Yup".


Ultimately, the people who eventually become my friends have taken a fair amount of time out of their lives to dedicate to this purpose.  Believe me, I appreciate it.  They are also, like me, story-tellers.  Weird, Bizarre, or Cool things happen to them and they call me and they start off their conversations with "You would not BELIEVE what happened to me today..." and I perk right up because I love listening to stories, even more than I love telling them.


I think the difference between Creeps and Friends is the story.  Creeps don't tell a lot of stories about weird, bizarre, or cool things that have happened to them.  It makes you wonder what they are hiding (ie hours and hours of "alone time" looking at wildly inappropriate materials on the internet).  And they also hear stories differently from other people.  Usually, people just smile or laugh and move on with their day when you tell them a funny story.  Creeps hear a story and internally determine that you have now invited them over for Thanksgiving Dinner, then they get pissed when you act surprised.


Anyway...considering the fairly large number of Creeps in my life and my bizarre ability to rattle them off from memory (On Comet, On Cupid, on Donner and Blitzen!), I think that I might be, maybe, a bit of a Creep Magnet.  Just a little. 


But, like anything else, Creeps make for some (hopefully) interesting stories.  Like this one.  Which I will someday use to make an ass of myself at a party.  Where I will be seated next to someone who is, all the while, thinking:  How come I always get stuck next to the Creeps?

Talk It Out, M-Kay?

The sheer volume of catching up that would be required between the Paula Deen no-longer-an-announcement-anyone-is-talking-about thing and now will require some editing--not that I've been doing all sort of exciting things lately and don't have the room, but just because...meh, you'd be bored.

What?  You're already bored?  Oh....OK...

Here's the briefest of brief versions:

Dear Daughter #1 got a boyfriend.  He's hot and dangerous.  Well, probably not actually "dangerous" but he likes to portray that persona where, if someone told you he was in an Asian street gang, you'd find it plausible.  Which makes him hot.  He drives a BMW.  Normally, I don't care much what kind of car a guy drives, but if you're all, I-could-be-in-an-Asian-street-gang, it's appropriate that you drive something stylishly sort of expensive.

Dear Daughter #2, got a job.  Not to worry, she already had a boyfriend.  Boyfriend also has a job, at the same place.  Everyone but me warned her away from working with her boyfriend.  I dunno...I tend to like my work people more than I like my home people.  It's all business, very few tears shed.  Just...work.  Makes you mind clean, and if you're doing it right, makes your body dirty.

Which reminds me, I really need to check into getting a gig digging ditches.  My work?  I could use the distraction of a boyfriend, is all I can say about that.  BTW?  The lovely Vikki at uppoppedfox.com thought she'd like to join me in the ditch digging biz, and she even thought up a company name:  Bitchez Diggin' Ditches.

I like it.

One of my friends from college passed away last weekend.  When I say "friend" I do want to qualify that by saying that I hadn't spoken to him in a long, time--could be as long as 20 years--so I'm not going to go all, "I lost my (sob!) friend!" on you or anything.  He was an extremely memorable person, Stan.  We met at the college radio station, where I suppose he was our version of Dr. Johnny Fever.  He was ten years older than me, and I thought him very wicked, mostly in a good way. He was also a serious alcoholic who would occasionally show up at my house, wanting to talk, and he would end up talking to me about how wrong I was about everything, but mostly about abstract things, like, God and Heaven.  After he became sober, which he was for over 20 years, all the way through the rest of his life, he still managed to be right about everything, so, you know...he was obnoxious.  

But, he was cuddly obnoxious, if there is such a thing.  

Stan, I know you're up there, wherever the hell "up there" is, and I bet I'm more right about where "up there" is than you were, you bastard.  Besides, my "up there" is way nicer than any "up there" you ever imagined, so ha!  Suck it!  And...enjoy a little peace of mind, for once in your life--take a fucking vacation before you come back to Earth as another difficult person, sent here to teach me how to be tolerant of difficult people.

Yeah, I said it!  Reincarnation!  

I bet now that you're there, you're glad I was right, aren't you, Stan? 

Love you, man.

The rest of what I have to say is about the cancer.  

Not my cancer, my father's cancer.  

My father, 74 years old, has been diagnosed with lung cancer.  He has a two-inch mass in his left lung.  

I firmly believe that it is not the cancer that will kill my father.  If he should die any time soon, the ones I will blame are the craptacular doctors dragging their feet and telling him that he's "no spring chicken" as if they're not going to bother doing a fucking thing about the cancer.  I'd like to just take this opportunity to tell those doctors to fuck off.  No pussy footing around this one.  Get off your fucking asses and treat him.  Don't say, oh, you need an MRI and then tell him that the soonest he can get one is April 30th.  Fuck you.  74 is old, but it's not that fucking old.  He could do another 10 years, easy, if you'd all stop being such a bunch of bitches.

Here's the thing...although my father has a fair amount of skepticism toward these oncologists and surgeons telling him "it's serious" while simultaneously telling him to cool his jets, he's of a generation that still thinks doctors are some kind of gods.

I'm not.  I talk to doctors as a part of my work, and although most of them are great, really care and bust their asses, some of them are lazy, period.  They're just like you and me--in your job, you have the one guy who sort of sucks a little, right?  Maybe they're not quite as good at it as some of the other people at work? (If you don't have one, then maybe it's you...)  Well, doctors have the same thing.  Most of them?  Great?  Some?  Well, the reason they are accepting new patients is  close to the same reason the Phillip Morris company is accepting new smokers.

Problem is...exactly how does one insert themselves into this situation?  Or, does one insert themselves into this situation at all?  I mean, yes, my impulse is to say, "Dad, I'll be driving you to your next doctor appointment," but his doctor appointment is 400 miles away from my house.  So...I'm a little frustrated and pissed off.  

Well, obviously, I'm more than just a little pissed off.  

But I wonder if I'm pissed off because I'm thinking what I'm normally thinking, which is, "oh for the love of gawd, just LET ME DO THE TALKING!" , a statement usually followed by my stomping in and living my motto, If You Want Something Done Right, Do It Yourself.

Should I just....let them handle it without making a scene?  I mean...it's fucking cancer.  Not some dumb shit that will go away if you ignore it, but quite the opposite of that.  Cancer.  It could be the very worst time in my life for me to suddenly develop self control.  I'm going to have to meditate on this one, although, I know that's not what Stan would have done...

In Defense of Paula Deen...Sort Of...

I'll just jump right in and say it because I feel it needs to be said:

America, Paula Deen did not make you fat. 

Sorry, but, she didn't. 

She also didn't give anyone diabetes (except herself, apparently…)

Paula Deen did not (that I know of…) prevent anyone from exercising, did not force anyone (that I know of…) to eat fried butter and did not keep anyone (that I know of…) from attending regular doctor visits in which someone whose job it is to help a person make healthy decisions can give them advice about eating and exercising.

And now that we've got that out of the way...

Anthony Bourdain, I love you. I truly do.  I just don't think that the guy who smoked cigarettes on television on so many occasions is really the one to comment about anyone poisoning America.  The leg breaker comment, though, was f*cking brilliant—more on that, later.

As a grown up, I just don't get it.  I don't get the whole "Paula Deen Is The Devil" business.  I've been making my own decisions for an awfully long time now and I must tell you, neither Paula's cooking nor Tony's smoking has ever inspired me to do anything I didn't want to do.  I may be a sucker to some of the more subtle advertising messages that I see in the media, but with the giant, overt "isn't this yummy?" stuff, I've managed to maintain some level of control.  I like to think of myself as typical.  Don't we all?  And I don't think you'd find too many people in this country who would say that they do only what they see people do on television.  When we do find those people (there are a few out there…) we call them what they are:  Idiots.

If I want to eat fattening food and spend sickening amounts of time on the couch, guess what?  That's my doing.  Am I stupid to do that?  Duh.

Just like I was stupid to smoke cigarettes, which I also did and somehow managed to not blame Anthony Bourdain…

The notion that we don't have enough healthy role models in this country is ridiculous.  Anybody check their email around the New Year?  I personally had Eleventy Billion businesses offering to help me get healthy and lose weight.  Every grocery store in town had their "healthy diet" stuff on sale, and every Walmart/Kmart/QuickyMart had closeouts on exercise equipment.  I got so many emails from Jillian Michaels, I figured her next step to get me to sign up for her web site would be to reach through the computer and drag me in--and she was just one of dozens of such people touting fitness.  We have so many people telling us how to be healthy, we actually have to devote additional hours of television and other media to helping people sort which of the healthy information is the most healthful for their personal needs.  We're choking on information about healthy lifestyles.  For that reason I say, if you can't find healthy lifestyle role models in the United States of America, then you're not looking. 

And what I'm ultimately saying is, we're not fat because of Paula Deen.  We're fat because we choose to eat poorly and not exercise, even though we know better.

Does that make us stupid?  Duh.  Now stop pointing at "bad guys" and look in a mirror, fatty.

Now then….about the leg breaker.  In what can only be described as an incredibly bad PR move, Paula Deen has chosen to become the spokes person for a line of pharmaceuticals geared toward diabetics.  Yep, along with her many other products, the woman is out there shilling insulin.  In response to this announcement, Mr. Bourdain tweeted: "Thinking of getting into the leg-breaking business, so I can profitably sell crutches later."

Which is funny as hell…

I don't subscribe to the "we have a pill for that" attitude in this country—never have.  It used to drive my doctor crazy—I'd tell him if he diagnosed me with some random crap for which there was a convenient, accompanying pill, I'd fire him.  We came perilously close to a fibromyalgia diagnosis in the early days of the Chiari saga, but I put my foot down.  Whatever we could do that didn't involve a pill, we'd do that first—that included, among other things, traction (Woo!), quitting smoking (Didn't work!  Go figure!), neck braces and a host of "at least it's not a pill" methods.  Eventually, it was a combination of things, all of which involved changing my life, that brought me to a level of relief that was tolerable.  Also worth mentioning?  It took years to figure all this out, and figure out what kind of Chiari patient I would be.

If I had chosen the pill route, this post would probably have been written (or more likely not written…) by someone addicted to narcotic pain relievers, because that's about the only "cure" for Chiari malformation that the medical community has up their sleeve--except for surgery, which is not a guarantee of pain relief.

I see Paula making baby steps toward "lighter" meals and the possibility of maybe admitting to a thing or two about the food.  She appears next to her son on his show "Not My Mama's Meals" while he dissects her fatty recipes, makes lighter versions of them and gives her a grief about it, right there on TV, in front of everybody.  Baby steps.  She's no different from any other woman that age, including my mother, who was diagnosed pre-diabetic and faced a change in her life, too.  It's hard.  It sucks.  No other way to say it—having to change what you've known your whole life, sucks.

The best PR move for Paula would have been to take the three years she's been on TV not talking about diabetes and use that time to slowly lighten up—people would have hardly noticed you were serving steamed veggies after a 36 month lead-in.  Unfortunately, she didn't go that route, but again, she's not so very different from any other woman receiving that same diagnosis—how would you have reacted?  How long would it take you to change everything?

While her missed opportunity is a bummer, and it's a little boneheaded from a business standpoint, it certainly doesn't make her a bad person—nobody's forcing you to eat bacon, so lighten up, America.  We're all responsible for our own choices—we always have been.

Neither Bored Nor Wealthy....Damnit.

I hate yarn stores.

 

I mean, I don't "hate" them, I just....*sigh*....I.....well.....I sort of do hate them.

 

I don't hate people who have yarn stores--what's not to like about a person who sells yarn?  Honestly, I think I'm a little nuts not to like yarn stores but hear me out--there are a couple of things that yarn stores tend to do that you don't see in every retail establishment and those things are huge consumer turn-offs.  I'd dislike any place that lapses into bad habits, no matter what they were selling.

 

Number one is....you have to put prices on things.  Yes, I know, I know...you're a small and friendly shop and gosh, if people want to know how much something costs, they can ask you because you're a nice person and have no problem talking about yarn because you love it so much and you love helping people and you can't imagine why such a little thing would ever be a problem.

 

It's a problem.

 

While I am certain that you are a lovely and helpful person, the truth is, I walk into your shop with a dollar amount in mind--that dollar amount is virtually always under $50, and sometimes it's under $30.  I'm not in the position to come in and clean you out of all of the chunky alpaca you have on the shelves, not that I don't want to.....trust me, I want to.  If I see something beautiful and perfect and I want it and I know that I will need three of them and I don't see a price tag so I ask, and you tell me that they are $21.95 each and I was hoping for something more in the $10-$12 range, I'm going to be disappointed.  Do you take some delight in disappointing me?

 

I say, if you're going to have a "If you have to ask, you can't afford it" yarn shop, please post a sign on the door so I can skip you entirely and go back to the internet to buy stuff.

 

Number two, and, I know that this is highly subjective, but I'm just going to say it:  I can't tell, walking into a yarn store, if the people who work there assume that I don't know what I'm doing or if they are afraid that I know more than they do.  I tend to assume it's the former, and I realize that might be a personal problem.

 

I'm a person who goes with their gut on most things. I don't invest heavily in the outcome because I enjoy the journey.  This is especially true in my knitting.  Sure, maybe I thought I would make an X in a specific way, but as I designed it and solved the various problems that occurred along the way, my X turned into a Z.  So what?  I'm OK with that.  I still made a really spectacular Z, but more importantly, I learned HOW to make a Z, all by myself.  That experience is immensely satisfying to me.  It's more satisfying for me to make something that is uniquely mine than it is to be able to exactly follow a pattern.  So when I say that I'm going to make a thing, and that I'll need around 600 yards of "something chunky, I'll know it when I see and touch it", you don't have to ask how many stitches per inch or what kind of needles I'll be using, then cluck when I say that don't really know and I'm not worried about it.

 

I know you're trying to help.  I get that. 

 

I also know that I have dozens of pairs of needles—full sets in every style—and if the 15's don't work on the swatch, I'll try something else.  I know that I am ridiculously stubborn, too.  As such, I'll just keep working with that yarn until it turns into something cool.

 

So relax, would ya?  I got this.  I'm old…been doing this forever.

 

The other, really important thing that I know is that it is my money that I'm spending, and while advice is welcome, judgment can go f*ck itself.  Ultimately, it's none of your business what I do with that 400 yards of OH-MY-GOD-THAT-STUFF-IS-SO-SOFT-I-IMUST-HAVE-IT!  If I'm going to go home screw up my design and project because of my poor planning and/or thought process, what's it to you?

 

 

There.  I feel better.  I've wanted to say those things for a while now, I just happened to have been in a few yarn shops over the weekend and was reminded of why I "hate" yarn shops, so there you go.  If you are a yarn shop owner, please know that I say these things with love.  I want very much to love your store, I'm just too much of a starving artist to shop at a place that seems to be geared toward bored, rich hobbyists.  Clearly, that type of shopper is much better for your bottom line than I am, so I don't blame you one bit--it just isn't me.  Damnit.