Miss T's Mystery House of Yarn & Horrors

Horror #7: The Chernobyl Family Room

Knitting?  On Saturday?  Oh no.  There was a ceiling to paint. 

Bright and early, we loaded up a nice, new roller with nice, new paint.  The task ahead seemed simple, if messy, and we were unaware that one of the most dastardly evils of the universe was lying in wait for us.

The popcorn ceiling.

I hate popcorn ceilings.  I mean, loathe them.  They’re ugly and stupid and should never have been invented.  Of course, our house was built in the era of popcorn, and every ceiling is infested with it. 

I now hate them even more.  We quickly discovered that this is what happens when you use a roller--a proper, popcorn ceiling roller--on a ceiling that’s never been painted and has nothing on it but its original effen popcorn:

It was either scrape, sand and prime the ceiling of a 26 foot long room--which would take an eternity--or get a sprayer.

We rented a sprayer, and I must say that a more cantankerous, willful piece of machinery has never been hatched.  Spraying a room is one of those things that should only be attempted if the alternative is worse.  Trust me on that one.  The spray shield we bought?

Didn't help much.  Thank goodness we took the sprayer rental man’s advice and covered absolutely everything in the room.

There was a wee bit of overspray.  You can see the contrast between covered carpet and uncovered carpet.

Don’t worry, the carpet was torn out the next day.  Part of the plan.

There was an eerie, toxic pink haze in the air and the room was so spooky and forbidding that we started calling it Chernobyl.

Strange, alien hieroglypics appeared on the floor.

That hideous gray, sprayed-with-pink tile?  It was the next to go.

This all left a few messes to clean up the next day.

So, knitting?  I tried to get caught up on Sunday.

And now here I am, running an air cleaner to get the dust from the bashed-up tiles out of my office, back door wide open to the 35 degree weather to clear the paint smell from the room, thinking about finishing my sock and cutting in the first coat of wall paint.  Any real work that happens today will be nothing short of a miracle.  What about the ceiling, you ask?  The ceiling’s beautiful (aside from the fact that the popcorn is still there, that is).  Our harebrained scheme worked.  We did it!

 

Horror #6: Mystical Disaster

Have you been reading the flap on Ravelry about a certain seller of hand-dyed yarns?  I'€™m glued to it.  Better than drama on TV. 

I can't link the seller, Mystical Creations, for you because her website is down.  As is her Ebay store.  And Etsy store.  Emails were sent to former customers (I got one, but trashed it) stating that Danielle, the seller, was very ill and in the hospital and her family wouldn'€™t be able to complete any recent orders or refund money.  Mysteriously, once the yarn started to hit the fan on Ravelry and folks began complaining to the Better Business Bureau and to the New Mexico Attorney General's office, another email surfaced, stating that Danielle had died.  Now, according to the Ravelry thread, the FBI is looking into her business for alleged online fraud.  Alleged yarn fraud.  Can you believe it?

I can.  I have had the evidence.  Look:

Okay, so those photos are not very helpful.  I figure that what's inside the plastic bag is so evil it defies photography, because I couldn't get a clear shot of it.  I may have taken pictures of this yarn when it first arrived, but I can'€™t find them.  That's probably a good thing--I'€™m trying to eliminate all traces of its bad karma from my house.  I'€™ll describe it instead.

One skein of superwash sock yarn, hand-dyed in several shades of very dark blue.  It looked pretty when it arrived over a year ago.  Pretty enough that I didn'€™t ask questions, didn't undo the skein for a closer look, and set it aside.

My subconscious must have known.  (It'€™s good about things like this.  I trust it.)  I left this skein in a plastic bag, inside another paper bag, segregated from the rest of my carefully preserved stash.  Damn good thing I did.

After reading the Ravelry thread about how much trouble people have had with this yarn, I decided to take a closer look at it.  There have been many, many reports of unevenly dyed skeins, skeins that are felted on the inside, and dye that bleeds like you would not believe when it gets wet.  Some knitters have reported yarn that actually bled onto other things in their stash bins.   

So.  I unwound the allegedly evil skein.  Yep, just as reported by others:  white patches.  An uneven, crappy dye job.  At that point I thought it might still be salvageable.  The blue was pretty, so I contacted a friend who'€™s a talented dyer and asked if I could rinse the yarn to get rid of any extra dye, and then perhaps overdye it to even out the color.  Yes, she said, I could, although it might be pesty.

I was too curious not to.  I grabbed the yarn and a big enamel basin and scurried down to the laundry room.  Washed it.  Rinsed it.  Rinsed it again.  And again.  And again.  After an entire afternoon of soaking and rinsing, perhaps twenty changes of water, that stuff still bled like it was getting paid to do it.  The last change of water was as dark as the first.  Like ink.  Dark blue ink. 



I left the yarn soaking so I could show it to the M.E. when he got home.  He immediately got a trash bag and took it to the garbage can; I snapped a couple of quick shots as it was on its way out. 

I just wanted it gone.  As far as I was concerned, it had the hoodoo on it and I couldn't imagine knitting with it.  It was never properly set, or rinsed.  If I had used it, made socks thinking nothing was wrong and then washed those socks, can you imagine what the other things in that load of laundry would have looked like? 

My loss was relatively small.  That skein, plus three of rayon boucle.  Maybe $35 or $40 total.  I consider myself lucky.  Some people, I understand, are out hundreds.  Unusable yarn all around.  Orders never received.  Lots of hard feelings.  Nobody believes she was sick, or that she'€™s dead.  I certainly don'€™t.  Odd, I thought, how both emails recounting her fate were composed in what was exactly her writing style. 

I believe Danielle is out there somewhere, a little nervous when the phone rings, peering through her curtains to see if that car pulling up outside has law enforcement license plates, dreaming up ways to elude the authorities and the hundreds of knitters who are furious with her.  I hope, if the FBI is looking into the case, they'€™re faster than she is.  She deserves her comeuppance, don'€™t you think?

If you have any of this yarn, I would strongly urge you not to use it.  Not to give it away or sell it.  It's just flat-out bad.  Please send it straight to its rightful home--the trash can.    

 

 

Not Done With Me

Somedays, you wake up and realize the universe ain’t done messing with you.

That was my zip drive.  It died with a disc still in it.  The M.E. had to dismember it to retrieve the disc, which probably isn’t too useful anymore now anyway.

I’ve had enough.  No more screwing around with computers--today, I work.  Believe me, if I have to...

...I will!

Lost

Yesterday started out so well.  The M.E. took the day off and we both puttered around, doing whatever we felt like doing.  I went to visit my mom in the afternoon, had a wonderful time, and came home in a great mood.

My mood lasted until I tried to check my email.

The screen was frozen.  The computer woke up when I hit a key, but nothing else would happen.  After a great deal of trying this and that and running the diagnostic program, the verdict had me in tears:  It’s dead.  The logic board is fried.  My stuff is all still there on the hard disc, but I can’t retrieve anything.

The Important Stuff is safe, thank goodness.  I’d backed up my Big Project on a zip disc the last time I worked on it, and saved my entire documents folder on a CD in July.  Although the M.E. tells me I did a pretty good job (the professionals at his office haven’t got client data backed up as well!), I’ve forever lost lots of things which were important to me.  Silly things--until you’ve lost them.

Emails, all of them prior to August 28th, including important things like receipts.  Email addresses.  Lists and ideas and quotations and my most recent photographs.  Little reminders and tips that help me through my work.  On and on.  I kept waking up in the middle of the night, remembering things, feeling the loss.

It may seem ridiculous to love a computer so much, but this is the primary tool of my trade.  I use it every single day, and that iMac had been a faithful friend for several years.  It was beautiful, a sleek design that fit perfectly on my desk and was cheerful to look at.  I’m sad.

So here I am, on the newer model which the M.E. set up for me last night (just happened to have a spare sitting around his office--Ubergeeks are like this).  Instead of doing the work I thought I’d be doing today, I’m setting up my new tool, learning a new word processing program (seems AppleWorks no longer exists--nobody told me!), arranging things the way I like them and attempting to locate addresses for friends and colleagues. 

If you wrote to me on my home email address (not Yahoo) before August 28th, I don’t have your note.  Nor do I have your email address.  So if time goes by and you don’t hear from me, that could be the reason!  Please write again!

Off I go to reconstruct my work life.  With any luck, knitting content will resume soon.
   

Horror #5: The Bat!

All was not giggling and glee Sunday night in the Mystery House.  I returned from driving my mom home to find the M.E. rather worked up--but also quite relieved that I’d missed all the drama.  I’m glad I missed it, too.

It was a nice evening, and the M.E. and Dr. Evil decided to sit outside while they waited for me.  Before long, the M.E. noticed a strange thumping sound, as if a bird was banging into one of the windows.  He checked it out.  No bird.  The M.E. returned to his book. 

Thump.  Thump.  Thump.

The sound was coming from inside the house.

There was something inside which hadn’t been there when he opened the door to go out.  Something fast enough and sneaky enough to slip through the door in a split second, when his attention was elsewhere.  Since I wasn’t there to take photographs, you’ll have to make do with bad, quickly executed drawings.  This is what had been bumping against the glass, and was flying in figure-eights around our family room:

Evidently, this was not a small bat.  The M.E. says it was a big one, about like this:

Now, the M.E. knows exactly what would have happened if I had arrived home at the precise moment an enormous bat was zooming around our house.  He knows how I feel about bats.  He thinks they’re cute--I won’t even look at the ones that are safely sealed behind glass at the zoo.

He had to get rid of the bat, and he had to do it fast.

Dr. Evil, a fast and able hunter by nature, did not want to get rid of the bat.  He wanted to catch it, and was jumping as high as he could in an attempt to reach the ceiling.

By this point, the bat had decided to explore other territories.  As in the entire rest of our house.  Imagine my screams, if I had seen this.  Bat molecules everywhere!  Actually, I screamed just hearing about it.  I may scream again, writing about it.

The M.E. grabbed a big towel to catch it in, then realized that would likely harm the bat’s delicate bones.  Perhaps a plastic bag?  He got one and cut it open so he could hold it up like a sheet.  This did not work.  The bat’s radar was working very well.  It flew straight at the sheet of plastic and veered off at the last instant, every time.  To compound the insult (and get Dr. Evil even more riled up), the bat squealed and made creepy bat faces.  At this point, the only thing missing from our usually cozy home was Bela Lugosi.

The clock was ticking.  The M.E. knew he was in trouble--I’d be home soon.

Thinking fast, he ran to the garage for our fishing net.  Echo location might not work on a fishing net.  I could go out to the garage to take a picture of it for you, but since I’ve started with the lousy drawings I might as well keep on:

Chasing the bat through the house, the M.E. swiped the net through the air and caught it.  Dr. Evil hopped for joy--the bat was finally down at his level! 

And then it was gone.

Slipped out of the net.  Zooming around the house again.  Not good. 

Imagine one of those action movie clocks here:  the hands move doubletime through about thirty minutes of stuff, then slow down so that the last two minutes on the clock take forty-five minutes of screen time.  Our hero was sweating it--surely I was almost home.  Drastic action was called for.  One more try with the net, and this time he couldn’t let the bat get away.

Chase bat.  Catch bat in net.  Grab bat through the net so it can’t escape.  (I mean touching the bat--this would have been worth several horror-movie screams from me.)  Avoid bat teeth and claws.  Run outside with trapped bat and hysterical dog.  Release bat.  "Be free!"

Away it flew...only to return immediately and start zooming around our yard again, headed towards the house.  Heedless of the neighbors’s sentiments that he’s probably flipped his lid at last, the M.E. stood in the backyard yelling at it.  There was a whole speech, but a couple of lines will have to suffice:

“Will you go away!  You’re the stupidest bat ever!”

Dr. Evil was peeved.  He wanted the bat to come back.



Quickly, when the bat was far enough from the house, the M.E. slipped inside.  Closed door quickly.  Checked for bat.  Put away net.  Washed hands (I hope).  Just in time...

At that moment, the garage door started going up.  I was home.

 

Horror #4: Worrisome Name

These places are all over Iowa and Nebraska.  (It’s a gas station convenience store.)  Does this disturb anybody besides me?

Horror #3: A Knitting Injury

Knitting?  Dangerous?  Oh yes, very dangerous in the right hands. 

I’m not talking about sore muscles or strained eyesight or repetitive stress injuries.  No, if one is talented at wounding oneself, it’s possible to come up with a previously unheard of knitting injury.  Yours truly is just such a talented and creative sort.

Here’s how it went:  Friday afternoon I decided to knit a few rows on my sock while watching the local news.  All went quite well until the phone rang.  While launching myself from the sofa to go and grab it, I somehow managed to get tangled in my yarn, and trip and stab myself with a dpn in both my right calf and that little spot between the first two toes on my left foot.  Simultaneously.  Two injuries with one needle!  Only a skilled and experienced klutz can do that, and my klutzitude is well-known to be of Olympic quality.

The guilty needle, post-stabbing (it’s a size 2, in case anyone’s checking):



I may have sounded a bit distressed when I answered the phone.  Wounds! Blood!  Imminent bruising!  A bent dpn! 

Being good at hurting myself, I’m used to blood and bruises.  I might carry on about it at the time but really, I expect these things to occur regularly.  My primary worry was the fate of my sock.  I was wearing my new Jitterbug socks when this happened and the needle went right through one of them.  If I tore those socks a week after finishing them, all hell was going to break loose.  I mean, drama.

After a quick and breathless, “Hello? Hang on!” I put down the phone, wrapped my toes in a tissue and performed a sock inspection.

It was okay.  My sock is fine!

That bent dpn?  It's fixed.  The Magical Repairer of All Things took care of it when he got home.  Worried that I might continue injuring myself and destroying property (often one of these productions of mine is a harbinger of more to come), I put my Jitterbugs back in the drawer where they’d be safe and spent the rest of the evening with my bandaged toes tucked into an old pair of the Repairer’s socks.  And I worked on a much less risky project:  I finished knitting the body of my to-be-felted purse, with some very non-threatening Addi Turbos. 

Horror #2: Heightened Security Measures

Do you feel safe today?  Really, really safe? 

You should.  The U.S. Postal Service delayed my mom’s Valentine candy so you would be safe.

My husband and I don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day, but I always send a Valentine to my mom.  It’s tradition.  This year, I decided to send a little something extra along with the usual card and bought her a pound of Godiva chocolates.

Obviously, when you pack a pound box of something, plus a card, in a cardboard box it weighs slightly more than a pound.  I looked on the Post Office website and calculated postage for two pounds, just in case my scale didn’t agree perfectly with theirs.  Taking no chances, you see, since I wanted Mom’s box to arrive exactly on Valentine’s Day.  Tradition again.  I’m never late with Mom’s Valentine, even though I’m late with a lot of other things.

$4.20.  No problem.  I couldn’t get to the post office on Tuesday but I easily had enough stamps.  Packed up the box, papered it with twelve stamps.  Handed it to my husband who dropped it in a mailbox on his way to work.  All this seems foolproof so far, right?

That’s what I thought.  Until the mail was delivered yesterday.  Valentine’s Day.  There was my box, back where it started.  Not at Mom’s house where it belonged.

A bright green sticker had been slapped over the address label, informing me that due to heightened security measures, any package over one pound had to be taken to the post office and properly dealt with by a U.S. Postal Service employee.  Not simply dropped into a mailbox, even if it’s a really small box addressed to somebody’s mom.

There was a second sticker, which informed me that my box was to be delivered by ground transport only.  It was emblazoned with a very serious image of an airplane with a big black slash running through it.  As if I expected them to charter a special plane to deliver something from my suburb into the city.  Mom and I are in the same metro area, people.  This shouldn’t be all that difficult.

The green sticker (I wish I’d photographed it, but I was too mad to think of it at the time) promised that I could reuse the same stamps if I went to the post office.  So off I went, furious, but realizing I’d have to jump through the hoops if I wanted this box delivered.  See, the Valentine is supposed to arrive in the mail.  That’s part of the fun.  Tradition, you remember.  It’s just not the same if I drive it over there myself.

I’ll decline to identify either the postal branch I went to or the clerk who helped me because he was, fortunately, the most sensible postal clerk I’ve ever encountered and heaven only knows how the U.S. Post Office would react if they discover someone sensible is working for them.  He not only took care of my box, his good humor dissipated my snarly mood.  Here’s how it went:

Me:  “I got busted.  My mom’s Valentine candy is late because this is supposed to go through heightened security.”

Clerk:  “I don’t know what these people are thinking.”  [Pulls off very serious airplane sticker.]  “It’s just going to the city.  Of course it’s not going in a plane.” 

He then removed the green security sticker, weighed the box, counted the stamps, printed out a postage label that said $0.00 and stuck it on the box.

No x-ray machine, no sniffer dogs, no Men in Black materializing out of the back room to inspect (and possibly vaporize) my package.

Me:  “So what was this heightened security?”

Clerk:  “That was it.  That’s all you needed.”

Get it?  The clerk touched my box.  Heightened Security is a laying on of hands.

So here’s how it works, this Heightened Security, as best as I can determine it:

•Anything under one pound is, by definition, not dangerous.

•Media mail is not dangerous, no matter how much it weighs.  (I dump packages labeled “BOOKS” or “MEDIA” in mailboxes all the time and they never bounce back.)

•If a postal clerk touches your box, it’s safe.  So if, say, it’s actually a pound of venomous snakes instead of a pound of chocolate, the laying on of hands will render the snakes harmless and they won’t burst out of the box at any point hollering “Booga booga!” (in snake language) and bite anybody.  Postal hands are powerful.

•Exception:  The hands of the postal clerk who processes the package and puts a bunch of “You’re Doing It Wrong” stickers on it after it’s taken out of a mailbox where it has been improperly dropped are not powerful, and cannot neutralize dangerous snakes or anything.  It doesn’t count if one of those postal employees looks at it.  Only the ones in the post office can guarantee our safety.  They must have passed an extra civil service test or something.

I’ve been chastened.  Foolish me for not realizing how this worked before, and for not understanding the importance of Heightened Security.  We should all be more secure today, because I learned my lesson and followed the rules yesterday.  And with a little luck--okay, a lot of luck--my mom will be happily munching on chocolates later today.

Horror #1: Dead Bonsai

My very first dead bonsai. 

I bought this sweet little Cotoneaster Thymefolia at the Minnesota Bonsai Society  auction a year ago.  It had the itty bittyest leaves, and cute red berries, but wasn't tough enough to withstand the wicked heatwave we had this summer.  It limped along until late October, then was declared dead by the bonsai master who's storing some of my other trees for the winter.  RIP, little guy.  I'll miss you.