Klutzy Incidents—January 2010

January 1—I resolve not to tangle any yarn this y— Crap.

While watching the Twilight Zone marathon this evening, I wound some sock yarn into a ball. It came on a hank, which is a bit inconvenient to knit from since it's spread out and can tangle easily. Thusly I wound the whole thing into a ball the size of a baseball. Naturally, I swore myself I wouldn't tangle the yarn, and naturally, I did. Luckily, it happened near the end, so the waste was minimized. The bit that I gave up on and broke off I was able to use to knit a swatch. The knitted swatch revealed my gauge to be slightly too large, but that can't be helped since I was using the smallest needles I own and any smaller would be ridiculous. Besides, I wanted to knit at a slightly larger gauge anyway. I just hope it's not ridiculously large.

January 10—The Best Way to Get Rid of Unwanted Artwork

After a relatively calm week, my dad made up for my weeklong comparative grace in one go this morning. He and Bolie were playing fetch with his—Bolie's—favorite catnip mouse, and my dad was throwing it from the living room into the front room because Bolie loves to skid over the tile floor. I noticed my dad doing a pitcher's windup before each toss, as if he were deliberately aiming for a specific target in the other room. I smelled trouble but prudently opted not to get involved. I was proven right when, after one particularly vigorous throw, my dad followed Bolie into the other room; therefrom promptly ensued a loud, metallic, spring-loaded crash.

" . . . What was that?" I asked. No answer. I noticed Bolie slinking under my chair with his tail puffed up. "Did you have a disaster with the paper cutter? I told you not to leave that blade up!" Still no answer. I began to worry, but then I began to hear a great deal of rattling, scraping, and tinkering; the kind of noise one usually hears associated with a hasty, guilt-ridden repair job on something expensive.

I paused to close my laptop and set it out of harm's way (although that is a relative term) and stood up to investigate. I was just leaning over to peer around the corner when my dad came into the living room carrying a painting and its frame. Separately. The painting had been on the floor propped up against the wall after having been removed when he put some shelves up. Obviously, his failure to rehang it elsewhere had suffered Consequences when Bolie skidded into it and violently popped the canvas out of its frame.

There followed several minutes of awkward tinkering and near-abandoned attempts on his part to repair it, and of course a great deal of hysterical laughter on my part, followed by my brief regret that Bolie could not have crashed into the other painting on the floor in there since I didn't like it very much.

January 12—Every mechanical monster ever runs the banks in my neighborhood.

Around midnight tonight, I left the house to stop by the bank and gas station so I wouldn't have to worry about that on my way to my date with the Astronomer tomorrow. I went by the bank closest to the house first and approached the drive-up ATM in a state of quiet panic since I loathe drive-up banking. Every time I go during regular business hours, there's always a huge line, or somebody is playing shitty music, or the teller tries to sell me something, etc. And it's not like inside where you can just leave; you're trapped in between other cars. Needless to say, this was not a problem at midnight, but I nevertheless approached the ATM in a state of dread not so much because I feared muggers but because of my loathing of drive-up banking in general. I have rarely ever deposited a paycheck in the drive thru, and it's been a debacle each time. Needless to say, this was no different.

I scanned the machine for envelopes in which to place my paycheck, saw none, and thought, 'Shit!' Then I saw a notice reading "Do not use envelopes." Oh. Okay. So. Now what? I inserted my card and waited for the ATM to thunder, Dalek-like, "Please enter your PIN" as it usually does. Nothing happened. After a moment of fretting that it was broken and had sucked my ATM card into its bowels forever, I realized there was an audio jack into which I had obviously not plugged in any headphones, so I'd missed the roaring cadence and could have entered my PIN already, and the screen was blinking with quiet mechanical impatience. Slightly embarrassed and stolidly ignoring the HAL-like camera pointing somewhere over the roof of the car, I poked uncertainly at the face of the machine, jabbing a bit harder when nothing happened. At long last, it was prepared to accept my deposit—only it wasn't. "This machine cannot accept check deposits at this time," the screen blinked with diabolical smugness. 'What!' I mentally screeched. I sighed and thought, 'Well, at least I can get ten dollars for my date tomorrow.'

Obviously, the machine had other ideas, ideas like, "Think again, sucker." It would not permit me to withdraw ten dollars, only multiples of twenty. I would have none of it. I canceled the transaction and put my card and paycheck back in my purse. Seething, I revved my engine and sped toward the next nearest bank, grumbling obscenities the whole way. Luckily, considering that my dinky little tin can of a car is an automatic and has only four cylinders, it has pretty good get up and go, making seething exits fairly easy . . . albeit not as dramatic as those my dad used to manage in his muscle cars. Oh well.

I arrived at the second bank and irritably reinitiated the entire process, this time with success, unless you count the unnecessarily long wait for the Dalek ATM to complete its cycle of grinding and computing to spit a receipt at me. Also, I didn't park quite close enough, and my sleeves kept riding up as I leaned out the window, and my arms hurt from leaning on the frame of the door, which I half expected to fall off since that's typically how my car works. Nothing happened, though.

After that, I made a U-turn to go home, realizing the second I turned around that I shouldn't have left the parking lot since the bank shares its parking lot with the gas station next door, and I wanted to get gas before driving down to meet the Astronomer tomorrow evening. I made another U-turn and pulled in, popping the little door to the gas tank and putting my keys in my pocket. I hopped out, ready to swipe my gas card, only to realize I'd grabbed the wrong one, and I had to fiddle around in my purse for the right one. I nearly spilled gas all over my nice wool coat but averted disaster. So far as I know. I mean it could have resembled a scene from Elvira after I left, but I make a point of not looking back.

Arriving home, I stopped at the mailbox and saw something small and red in the street. At first I thought it was a crumpled paper; then I feared it was a dead animal; finally I examined it with the little flashlight on my key chain and saw it was a red hat. 'Aha!' I thought. 'This almost makes up for losing my Nightmare Before Christmas hoodie.' I threw it in the car with my mail and left.

Back at the house, I looked more closely at the hat and realized it was a small child's and couldn't possibly fit me. The tag said it was a size 12–24 months. I was annoyed since I wanted it; it was a vaguely Holden Caulfield-ish hat; it was red with flaps that hung down. Oh well. My conscience won out . . . well, not really, but upon realizing it wouldn't fit me, I no longer had any reason to keep the hat, so I created (in about thirty seconds flat) a sign advertising that I'd found the hat. I drove down the street again and taped it to the mail box. It probably would have been simpler to have just left the hat in the street, just as I wished a month ago on a date with the Astronomer that the person who'd found my phone had left it where it was since I came looking for it pretty quickly. Still, it's supposed to rain tomorrow, and the hat could have been run over or picked up by someone with less honorable intentions than myself. Ahem.

January 13—In the Path of Trouble . . . Okay, so it's not witty today. Like it ever is.

This evening I met the Astronomer at the Flightpath, a coffee shop at 51st and Duval, so named because it is in the flight path of the now-defunct old airport. I guess "The Now-Defunct Flightpath" doesn't have the same ring to it. Anyway, I left the house late and expected to arrive late, especially due to weather, traffic, darkness, and not knowing where the hell I was going. I arrived ten minutes earlier than the appointed time, though, and parked on a residential street one block over. I figured I'd go ahead and walk in so I could straighten my hair and whatnot before the Astronomer arrived. Sadly, he arrived exactly as I did, preventing any primping. I walked to greet him and promptly banged my left knee on the headlight of his car. I don't think he noticed, or else he remembered how clumsy I am and ignored it.

We walked in, my shoes squeaking on the wood floor, and each ordered a latte. I took my coat off and draped it over my arm, milling a bit ostensibly to admire the art but actually to display my tight jeans. Then our drinks were ready, and we sat down. I succeeded in not spilling anything either that time or when we returned for another round. Unprecedented. Hell, I didn't even spill anything on the Yankees hat I presented to him. He was reluctant to accept it, but I insisted on the grounds that I'm not going to wear it myself.

At length, we left, and he walked me back to my car, forgetting to return to me the two plastic dishes he owed me in the process, and I forgot to remind him. Of course. On our way out the door, a crackwhore asked us to do her a favor. The Astronomer kept right on walking. I tried not to snicker as we headed to my car. Then I left, driving past him as he arrived back at his car. He waved. I didn't see him. Ah well.

January 17—At least I didn't drop the sheets on the floor.

I did my laundry this morning, including washing my sheets. Once they were out of the dryer, I carried the laundry basket upstairs, whereupon I promptly ran the laundry basket into the doorjamb of my bedroom. I caught my hand in between the basket and jamb, and I now have a small cut over a bruise on that hand.

January 18—I almost found out where Bee Cave actually is.

I went to Half Price Books to turn in a job application this afternoon, and I didn't feel like navigating the difficult turn onto 183 outside the parking lot, so instead I turned down Anderson Mill. I decided to take Anderson Mill all the way to 620 to see if there were anything interesting down there, or at least any places that might hire me. I found nothing and turned onto 620 with the intent of taking it back to 183. Regrettably, I turned left instead of right and didn't catch my mistake for several miles. I hadn't been that way in months, thusly it didn't register that all the landmarks were on the wrong side. I'm just grateful I didn't wind up in Bee Cave.

January 19—An Exercise in Futility

I went to bed early last night with the intent of waking up just before six so I could do my exercises. I set my alarm and dozed off, waking up at three o'clock when the alarm went off. I had neglected to reset it after an afternoon nap the other day. I set it to go off at the proper time and went back to sleep, waking up exactly at six, which was a good thing since my alarm didn't actually go off at six. I had reset the time but neglected to actually turn it on.

January 20—Mozart's

This afternoon I met somebody for coffee at Mozart's. I arrived, walked in, looked around, and didn't see him, so I called him. Right at that second, he walked in front of me. I watched him answer his phone and say "Hello?" I laughed and hung up as he realized I was standing right there. Anyway, we sat outside with our drinks and watched the ducks and seagulls. Before leaving, I went to get my laptop out of my backpack so we could surf the Internet, but it was not to be. My backpack flew open, and the shiny new laptop crashed to the deck. Thank God it was okay.

Then I got into my car to head home and got lost. I forgot about the weird intersection at Mopac and 5th street and went down 5th instead of getting onto Mopac north as I intended. I used to work on Lake Austin Boulevard and went that way every day; you'd think I'd have remembered. I found my way back easily enough; I just went up Lamar instead.

January 21—Junk Shops

Today a friend dragged me off to a junk shop on 6th Street. I was underwhelmed with overpricing, kitschy crap, and Western goods. Having said that, there was an awesome fridge and ice box from the fifties, some old shutters and ship's wheels, and a cast iron bathtub. I couldn't afford anything and didn't see much I really liked anyway. Actually there were a few nautical trinkets, such as a brass sextant and spyglass, but I had no cash and no space anyway.

Somewhat predictably, I had many stumbles in the junk shop. I nearly knocked over a few boxes and some wind chimes, I missed a step on the split level, and I damn near plunged down the stairs when we looked around the upstairs of the store. I'm astonished I didn't knock anything down. The real reason I hate overcrowded stores like that is because it was in that very type of place that I did knock down half the inventory and cement my status as a hand-eye dingbat.

January 23—So Ya/Thought Ya/Might Like/to Go to the Show

I went to see the Astronomer's brother's show on 6th Street tonight. I didn't want to deal with parking on 6th on a Saturday night, so I parked at the Astronomer's place and walked to the bus stop. I caught the number 1 downtown, which predictably involved being jammed in the middle of a screaming crowd of UT students. Dear God, they hadn't even started drinking yet. I don't remember my friends acting like that when I was going to UT; some got loud after a few drinks, but even then they didn't scream like that. I guess different crowds have different standards of behavior, or rather, some crowds have standards.

Anyway, I arrived at 6th and Congress, got off the bus, and promptly walked in the opposite direction of my destination. I quickly realized my mistake, swore at myself for adding half a block to my walk in my heels, and doubled back. I arrived at my destination and stood behind a few people outside the door. One asked me the bicycle he were blocking was mine. I said no and asked if they were in line. They said no; there was laughter; I moved indoors. I failed to locate my ID which I needed for my Will Call ticket and briefly panicked, but of course it was in the bottom of the bag under my comfortable shoes.

Once indoors, I worked my way through the crowd, looking for the Astronomer but not finding him. I watched a few songs of the opening act before eventually spotting him off to one side. Just in the nick of time, too, since three guys near me had been taking turns eyeing me. They weren't creepy as far as I could tell, but I didn't want to talk to them. I scooted toward the Astronomer, said hello, and promptly nagged him for not spotting me and greeting me. Anyway, he introduced me to a few people and we talked, absolutely none of which I heard.

Throughout the show (which was awesome, by the way), I kept losing track of my jacket, which was a lightweight thing I looped over my purse. I brought it less for warmth and more for modesty since I had on a backless shirt and didn't think it wise to walk back to the car after dark in it. Luckily I did not actually lose it, nor did I manage to spill anything when the Astronomer bought me a whiskey. I didn't even knock over anyone else's drink.

Then it happened. A creepy guy at the bar began trying to hit on me, asking what I thought of the show and if I were a big fan. I glanced at the Astronomer a few feet away, saw my out, and ran with it. I said I was at the show because I'd come with him. "Oh, is that your guy in the hat?" asked the barfly. "Yep." He asked three separate times. I glanced toward the Astronomer with increasing frequency and soon ducked toward him, saying, "Please for the love of God help me there's a creepy guy at the bar who won't leave me alone." "What do I have to do?" he asked. "Nothing really, just make sure he doesn't come over here." Seconds later, I glanced over my shoulder and saw the barfly had already moved on. Nevertheless, I stuck by the Astronomer till I lost sight of him.

Then we left. The Astronomer, his brother, two groupies, and I all went to the Astronomer's car to head to the after party at the booking agent's house. The Astronomer of course forgot which lot he parked in, and we all had to scurry after him, which was a real bitch since it involved running in heels. How I managed that without clobbering anyone other than the Astronomer's brother once (oops) I'll never know.

Finally, we arrived at the booking agent's house, or rather bungalow, for the after party. We immediately split into two groups, I noticed; the booking agent, his wife, the Astronomer, and I; and the Astronomer's brother and his groupies. Adults and kids, I thought. Fairly quickly, though, I decided to leave and called a cab. It did not come. The Astronomer gave me a ride back to my car instead, and we talked for a bit. I shall not be seeing him again. *sigh*

January 29—Who needs camouflage when nobody's looking for you anyway?

My dad and I went to the grocery store tonight. On the cat food aisle, I realized I'd forgotten lasagna noodles and said, "I'll be right back." I retrieved the lasagna noodles and returned to the cat food aisle, but he was no longer there. I shrugged, popped around the corner, and picked up a new kind of air freshener. Meanwhile, my dad was still missing. I walked up and down every aisle a couple of times, but there was no sign of him. I gave up and returned to the cat food aisle to wait. I remembered him teaching me, as a child, that if I got lost, I should stay where I was till somebody found me. I leaned against the end cap of the aisle with my noodles and air freshener, wondering where the hell he was. I hadn't seen him anywhere in the store, and surely he should have seen me looking for him. I mean, with a red coat, a beret, and a limp, I couldn't possibly be that difficult to spot. At length, he showed up, asking, "Where have you been?" "Waiting," I said. "Wandering off," he said. "I said I'd be right back," I said. He'd already checked out and loaded the car without bothering to find me first, so he had to go through the checkout again to pay for the lasagna noodles and air freshener.

January 30—You get what you pay for, and this vacuum was reduced from several hundred to fifty dollars. I doubt I could get that much for it now.

This afternoon I vacuumed the whole house, starting with the living room as I always do. Right away, I ran into trouble. I moved the vacuum up to a footstool with a blanket draped over the edge, and the vacuum abruptly came to a screeching halt. I switched it off and pulled it away from the footstool, flipping the vacuum upside down to see what I'd done. One of Bolie's catnip mice, which had a string attached to it, had been under the edge of the blanket. The vacuum had sucked up the string, which was wound around the bristles of the vacuum. I pulled it out, hit the reset button on the vacuum, and restarted it. It worked, but it's a bit noisier now than it used to be.