SO happy to see that the "not found"-ing of the entire Diaryland site I experienced yesterday morning was only temporary. I would hate to lose this spot so soon after making use of it again...
Last night found me at our lovely neighborhood $tarbucks, as most Wednesday evenings do, knitting with Kate and Heather. Heather appeared with a gift for me--discs one through four of Veronica Mars Season Three (she's still watching five and six), in the hope that twenty more hours of Veronica would supply me with some much needed knitting time here at home. Maybe then I can finish the Black Hole Socks. We'll see if that works, but either way the gift was truly appreciated.
Just as Kate was leaving, this woman came over and sat down with us. She was older, probably in her 60's, very tanned, wearing lots and lots of gold jewelry. As her butt was hitting the chair, she started on an oil price diatribe that went on for a good ten minutes. Apparently, she owns an apartment building in Cleveland Circle, for which she is buying the most expensive oil ever at $4.19 a gallon. We soon learned more about her apartment building and its tenants, including one who moved in three years ago but whose name she just finally agreed to put on the lease, as long as her father agreed to guarantee her rent, since her credit rating was so bad. And the psychopath (because apparently one person in every 22 is a psychopath, and she has the book to prove it) whose tenancy was her father's doing and who is her only eviction ever out of 300 tenants, and whom she's still fighting in court. And she has a condo in Naples, but they don't like her down there and tried to get rid of her with some trumped-up hit-and-run charges, and she went to court to find that they'd found some one-armed geezer who claimed she'd hit his car, but who was willing to settle if she'd pay his deductible, so she wrote him a $300 check but it turned out his deductible was only $100 so he'd stolen $200 from her right in front of the judge. And she'd met this woman who seemed cool, but when they went to Nantasket Beach together she'd turned into a giant backseat driver, except that her car is a little sportscar, so there is no backseat, but she had to drive anyway because Backseat Driver has only one eye, so she doesn't feel safe with her driving for real...
There was more, but it made my head spin too much to even recount that. Oh, and there were the F-bombs she kept dropping, along with the numerous "pecker" references she made, too, to take into consideration when calculating just how much crazy had joined us in the comfy chairs.
Heather, who will talk to anyone, I think, decided to fight crazy with crazy, and in the course of our "conversation" told the woman that we were sisters who bake pies for a living out of the industrial kitchen I built onto the back of my house. We also apparently have two brothers, one who is a chicken farmer and the other who is a dealer in Atlantic City, neither of whom are very much in the looks or the personality department. Though if they got married, it would mean more sisters for us, but none of them would be as wonderful a sister as I am, especially since I had Heather's baby for her when she couldn't have kids.
I mostly just kept my mouth shut and my eyes on my knitting needles.
It's so sad that we can never go back to $tarbucks again...
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