Note to self:

Dear Norm,

You have small, uncooperative veins. When you mention to the phlebotomist at the church's blood drive that you are difficult to stick, and she looks at you with a little bit of fear in her eyes and says, "we'll be fine", stop. Do not pass go. Do not say to yourself, "I'm sure the reason that she has her name written on a piece of tape stuck to her lab coat is due to forgetfulness, and not at all a sign of someone in her first week on the job."

No, what you shall do in the future is this:
1. politely stand next to the chair.
2. ask for the expert in the room, preferably someone who has taught phlebotomy to others in the past (that's a pretty good sign, in my experience)
3. refuse to let them tell you that it will probably be okay.

Trust me, it's not worth it to get stuck in two arms by two people to try to get one pint of blood, because you don't want to hurt the newbie's feelings. Better to just have someone do it right the first time.

Love,
Norm

P.S. Today's Red Cross hero was named Steve Stick. Remember that name-- and ask for him if he's there next time.




Note to others who might be reading this note to myself: I take much pride in the fact that my Grandma Bug was apparently often "the expert" in her years working for the Red Cross, with the blood mobile. I bet she would have gotten my my petite veins to cooperate on the first try. She had beautiful hands.

So much to post, but so little devotion

I'm in a slump here. Every day something happens that causes me to say to myself, "you should put that on the blog." But every day, I reply, "I'll do just that later tonight." But it pretty much never happens. But it stops here. I am now making a concerted effort to actually document the interesting stuff, instead of procrastinating. Procrastination is really only acceptable for yucky stuff like calling the dentist or paying bills or scooping the cat litter, not fun things like playing on the internet.

So here's a big catch-up post.

First off, we have a little example of Norm's insane obsession with old crap. A tricycle from my Grandma's barn. About 25 years ago, Grandma Bug decided she wanted a tricycle to use for exercise. So she got one. It was yellow and big and heavy and had a big white basket on the back. We kids loved it, but it was too hard for her to pedal up the hills on their road. Enter bright idea #2, the electric trike. It is red, powered by a motor on the front and a car battery mounted between the back wheels. We kids loved that trike, too-- nothing like pedaling down the road, and then pulling the power-assist lever on the hills. Zoom! I remember it like it was yesterday.

Fast forward to a couple of weeks ago, when I saw a thread on Bikeforums about resurrecting an old trike. Suddenly visions of bicycle restoration pop into my head. A phone call, a flashlight, and a lot of dirt later, I came home with this:

The original yellow tricycle had been sold many years ago, but the red DeSoto was there, waiting for me. It needs a lot of work, but is in amazingly good shape for something played with by preteens and then stored in a barn for the last 20 years. If all goes according to plan, I'll remove the motor and put a big basket on the back.

I'd like to take a moment, here, to mention that Mr. Deplume never said a word. He helped me load it into the truck with only one little question, "why are we bringing this to our house?" And when I gave him my answer ("so I can fix it up and ride it, of course") he didn't even give me a funny look. He's a good egg, I tell ya.

Next post that should have been made last week:
I actually finished something! I've been working on this prayer shawl for months and months. I will never again use that pattern. It's too mindless and too tedious all at once. And it felt like the shawl refused to grow. But I persevered and got it done. This is my first object made from a recycled thrift store sweater. You can see the original sweater on the Ravelry page for this project.


And lastly, I made meatloaf on the grill this week. Well, Mr. Deplume was in charge of the actual grilling part (we like to keep our gender roles archaic, thankyouverymuch). I didn't take a picture of it, though, as meatloaf is ugly. But it tasted great. I started with a recipe on someone else's blog, but changed it considerably as I am incapable of following a recipe (or pattern, for that matter). It didn't really resemble the author's recipe at all when I was done with it. I remembered what I did differently, so if anyone wants my take on grilled meatloaf, let me know and I'll post it here for you.

So that's all I have for today, but promise to be back soon with more madcap adventures.

Roses and Roller Rinks

I read a blog today about my friend taking her daughter to a skating rink. Roller rinks are smelly, loud, and really boring for anyone not in skates. I opined that I just might not love my kids enough to take them to go skating-- the two hours of watching a child go round and round the floor it more than I could bear. I then suddenly teleported back in time to the many Saturdays I spent at Washington Skateland. It had a portrait of our first President on the outside, and carpeted benches and neon lights inside. The "pro shop" would sell you fluorescent laces and fuzzy pom poms for the skates. The disco music was loud and tinny. And of course there was a mirrored ball in the center.

And who took me? My Grandma Bug. My sister and I spent lots of weekends with them. So many fond memories of those weekends; Grandpa would pick us up after work on Friday afternoon, and drive us to their farm in his big red Chevrolet, no air conditioning, Cubs game on the AM radio. If we were really lucky, he'd stop by the KFC on the way home. Grandma worked for the Red Cross, and wouldn't usually be home until late that night. Then Saturday, we'd do farm stuff, that is, until I turned about 10, when I learned to roller skate.

So Grandma would drive me there Saturday morning, and sit for two hours straight (sometimes more), in the noisy stinky blinky rink, watching me roll around in circles. I don't remember her bringing a book, but I certainly hope she did. I still don't think I love my children enough to routinely take them to a place like that (I've already vetoed the chance of ever taking the kids to Chuck E Cheese again), but I hope that when I'm a Grandmother, I'll have such a close relationship with my grandkids. I'm truly grateful that I knew them so well for so long.

Speaking of Grandma, I recently took this picture of an afghan she crocheted back when she was a home-duty nurse, and have been meaning to post it. I love this throw. It proudly sits on the back of the sofa she gave to me last year. I love the sofa too-- it has become known around here as Mommy's Special Couch.

"Don't climb on the back of Mommy's Special Couch."
"Put the cushions back on Mommy's Special Couch."
"No markers within 10 feet of Mommy's Special Couch!"

Anyway, enough of the reminiscing. Here's the throw, and the couch. I'll get back to yarnier content tomorrow. I hope. ;)