It's just going to be a knitterly week. Last night was one our our Stitch n Bitch meetings. It turned out to be just Jen and I. It was fun. She was wearing her newly finished Stria cardigan. (I suggest you pop over and take a gander.)
Honey moon is finished.
pattern: from Knitty
yarn: SW Trading CO Oasis in candy.
Today I met Tara for lunch, and we caught up a bit. She works right around the corner from the local coffee house, so we've decided to meet there for lunch whenever we feel the need to.
Anyway, on my home, after stopping off to pick up some cotton-ease for a top I want to make, I went to the post office. I needed to send off the Bead It package to my "buddy".
I'm standing in line, and I can already see trouble. Two people in front of me, is an obnoxious bleach blonde who is carrying a large box and boring us all with details of her upcoming wedding. Like how much it's costing (You don't want to know), how many invited guests (nearly 200), blah blah blah. At this point I'm reciting in my head the states in alphabetical order, and their respective capitals.
The line is inching along because, although there are three clerks, only one is manning a window. The bleach blonde finally approaches the counter, and I realize it. The box she is holding is not a package. She opens it to reveal the invitations for her "nearly two hundred" guests. *aw snarkies!*
It seems that each envelope is a bit heavy, and Miss Bleach Blonde feels that several stamps on her beautiful hand-lettered invites would look "tacky". She requests that the clerk, THE ONLY WORKING CLERK MIND YOU, print out INDIVIDUAL postage stickers for every invitation.
At this point, I'm trying to console myself with the idea that there is a special level of Hell awaiting this woman. I just want to mail a stinkin' package for Cripe's sake. If the vending machine hadn't been out of order, I would have just bought a mess of stamps to stick on the thing and be done.
Finally, after the working clerk reaches his 37th envelope (Yes, I counted them. What else was I to do?) One of the two other clerks chatting FIVE FEET from the counter decides to take a moment from her engrossing conversation about where she should get her nails done, to wait on the patrons who have now formed a line to the friggin' door.
Sorry, I had to unvent on someone.